note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) skinner's dress suit by henry irving dodge with illustrations [frontispiece: "i won't take your order unless you throw in that trout dinner"] toronto thomas allen publisher copyright, , by the curtis publishing company copyright, , by henry irving dodge all rights reserved to my wife contents i. skinner asks for a raise ii. how skinner got his raise iii. skinner's dress suit iv. skinner's dress suit begins to get in its fine work v. the operating expenses of the dress suit vi. dodging a magnate and what came of it vii. skinner and the "gold bugs" viii. chickens coming home to roost ix. skinner fishes with a diplomatic hook x. skinner lands a curmudgeon xi. the ostrich feather illustrations "i won't take your order unless you throw in that trout dinner" . . . . . . _frontispiece_ "it's come at last! skinner's asked for a raise" "the general effect doesn't seem right!" "there," she cried, "you can credit your dress-suit account with that!" "mrs. skinner, daughter of the late archibald rutherford, of hastings-on-the-hudson, accompanies her husband" "why can't _i_ go with those people," she sniffled _from drawings by f. vaux wilson_ skinner's dress suit chapter i skinner asks for a raise skinner had inhabited the ironbound enclosure labeled "cashier" at mclaughlin & perkins, inc., so long, that the messenger boys had dubbed him the "cage man." to them he had become something of a bluff. skinner's pet abomination was cigarettes, and whenever one of these miniatures in uniform chanced to offend that way, he would turn and frown down upon the culprit. the first time he did this to mickey, the "littlest" messenger boy of the district, who was burning the stub of a cigarette, mickey dropped the thing in awe. but jimmie of the postal said, "don't be scared of _him_! he's locked up in his cage. he can't get at you!" so the sobriquet "cage man" was evolved from this chance remark, and the wit of the thing had spread until everybody had come to think of skinner as the "cage man"--a fact which did not add greatly to his dignity. but on this particular morning the "cage man" was even more harmless than usual. there was n't a frown in him. he sat at his tall desk and stared abstractedly at the open pages of his cash-book. he did n't see the figures on the white page, and he paid no more heed to the messenger boys, whose presence he was made aware of by the stench of burning paper and weed, than he did to the clicking, fluttering, feminine activity in the great square room to his left, over which he was supposed to keep a supervising eye. skinner had stage fright! he had resolved to ask mclaughlin for a raise. skinner was afraid of mclaughlin--not physically, for skinner was not afraid of anybody that way. he was afraid of him in the way that one man fears another man who he has hypnotized himself into believing holds his destiny in his hands. if skinner had been left to himself, he would never have asked for a raise, for no advance he could hope to get could compensate him for the stage fright he'd suffered for months from thinking about it. no one knew how often he had closed his cash-drawer, with resolution to go to mclaughlin, and then had opened it again weakly and gone on with his work. the very fact that he _was_ afraid disgusted skinner, for he despised the frightened-rabbit variety of clerk. it was his wife! she made him do it! skinner's wife was both his idol and his idolater. he 'd never been an idol to any one but her. no one but honey had ever even taken him seriously. even the salesmen, whom he paid off, looked on him only as a man in a cage. but to his wife he was a hero. when he entered their little house out in meadevllle, he entered his kingdom. all of which made it imperative with skinner to do his very utmost to "make good" in honey's eyes. the skinners had a little bank account for which they had skimped and saved. honey had denied herself new gowns, and skinner had gone her one better. if she would not spend money on herself, then he would not spend money on himself. he had gone positively shabby. but skinner did n't mind being shabby. the sacrifice he was making for honey and the bank account, the self-denial of it, had exalted his shabbiness into something fine,--had idealized it,--until he'd come to take a kind of religious pride in it. skinner and his wife had watched their little bank account grow, bit by bit, from ten dollars up. it had become an obsession with them. they had gone without many little things dear to their hearts that it might be fattened. surely, it was a greedy creature! but, unlike most greedy creatures, it gave them a great deal of comfort. it was a certain solid something, always in the background of their consciousness. it stood between them and the dread of destitution. thus it had become a sacred thing, and they had tacitly agreed never to touch it. but what made it imperative for skinner to ask for a raise was, he had been bragging. skinner was only human, and being a hero to his wife had made him a little vain. he was a modest man, a first-rate fellow, but no man is proof against hero-worship. he had bragged--a little at first--about his value to the firm, which had increased the worship. he had given his wife the idea that he was a most important man in mclaughlin & perkins, inc., that he had only to suggest a raise in order to get it. they could n't do without him. several times honey had hinted to skinner that the firm was slow to show its appreciation of his indispensable qualities; but on such occasions skinner had urged that the psychological moment had not yet arrived, that the wave of prosperity that was spreading over the country had not up to the moment engulfed his particular firm. but one evening, he ill-advisedly admitted that the waves of the aforesaid prosperity were beginning to lap the doorstep of mclaughlin & perkins, inc. that was enough! next morning honey gently urged that further delay would be inexcusable, that the bank account was n't growing fast enough to suit her, that he must ask for a raise. now that honey had put it up to him to "make good,"--to act,--doubt entered skinner's heart. he argued that, if the firm had considered him worth more money, they would have advanced him. but on the other hand was the well-known meanness of the partners. nothing short of a threat to quit by one or another of their valuable men had ever served to pry them loose from any cash. presently skinner stepped out of his cage and locked the door behind him. as he entered the long passageway that led to mclaughlin's office. skinner felt like a man who had emerged from a bath-house and was about to traverse a long stretch between himself and the icy water into which he was to plunge. within a few paces of the great glass door marked "mr. mclaughlin," skinner hesitated and listened, hoping to hear voices, which would give him an excuse to retreat. but there was no sound. skinner tapped at the door, turned the knob, and took the plunge into the icy water! when he came to the surface and partially recovered his senses, he found himself facing mclaughlin, president of mclaughlin & perkins, inc. mclaughlin sat at his desk, rotund, red-faced, and pig-eyed, his stubbly hair bristling with chronic antagonism. those pig eyes and that stubbly hair were a great asset to mclaughlin when it came to an "argument." they could do more fighting than his tongue or his fists, for that matter. "hello, skinner," he said; then waited for the cashier to state his business. skinner had outlined a little argument, but he forgot it, and to cover his confusion he dragged a chair close to his employer's desk, a proceeding which rather puzzled the boss. "what's the row?" he asked. on his way down the long passageway that led to mclaughlin's office, skinner had made up his mind to "demand" a raise. then he thought it might be better to "ask" for a raise. then he decided on second thoughts, that to "demand" would be a little too stiff, while to "ask" would put him in the suppliant class. so he compromised with himself and concluded merely to "suggest" a raise. "mr. mclaughlin, i came in to see how you felt about giving me a little more money." mclaughlin flushed and swung around in his swivel-chair with a ready retort on his lips; but, meeting the quiet, gray eyes of his subordinate, he said simply, "raise your salary?" skinner nodded. "i just wanted to know how you feel about it." "you know how we feel about it. we have n't done it, have we?" skinner saw that the "merely suggest" scheme did n't work. he might have urged as a reason for his demand his value to the house, but, like most men, he was a good advocate for others but a poor advocate for himself. besides, if he did so, he would give mclaughlin a chance to depreciate his services, which would be very humiliating. at the mere thought of it he became nervous, and decided to plead rather than argue. "my expenses are increasing and--" but mclaughlin cut him short. "so are ours." the boss was going to add his customary excuse when tackled for more money, "and times are hard with us, our customers don't pay up, and our creditors--" but he suddenly remembered that he was speaking to his cashier. he turned away and looked into space and drummed on his desk with an ivory paper-cutter. thus he remained, apparently pondering the matter for some seconds, while hope and fear chased each other up and down skinner's spinal column. then the boss turned to his papers. "i'll talk it over with perkins. stop in on your way home, skinner." mclaughlin did n't even look up as he spoke, and skinner felt that somehow a chasm of antagonism had yawned between him and the boss, that their relations had suddenly ceased to be harmonious, that they were no longer pulling together, working against a common competitor, but were scheming against each other. "why the devil does he want to keep me on the rack for seven hours more?" thought skinner on his way back to his cage. "why could n't he say 'yes' or 'no'?" well, anyway, the die was cast. he was n't going to worry about it any more. let mclaughlin & perkins, inc., do that! the "cage man" opened his cash-book and went to work. after skinner had gone, mclaughlin rang the bell on his desk, and when the boy appeared, he said, "ask mr. perkins please to step in here." the junior partner, immaculately dressed and twirling his tawny mustache with a proper harvard affectation of poise, entered a few moments later and found mclaughlin with his feet on the desk, staring ahead with humorous intentness. "well," said mclaughlin, "it's come at last!" with true irish dramatic instinct, he paused, then plumped out, "skinner's asked for a raise!" [illustration: "it's come at last! skinner's asked for a raise"] he turned to note the effect of his words. "what?" said the junior, taken by surprise, then hastening to suppress any suggestion of emotion. "that great, big, long-eared, over-grown rabbit? did he dare come in here and beard the hound in his kennel?" "he did that same," said mclaughlin, who had never quite lost his california vernacular. "that hair of yours did n't scare him?" mclaughlin grinned. "i guess it's lost its power." he got up and looked in the mirror over the mantel. "it _is_ fierce, ain't it? i think i'll let it grow." "don't, mac. it's your best asset as a bluffer." he shrugged his shoulders languidly. "you'd look like a philanthropist. they'd _all_ be asking for a raise!" "wonder why he asked just _now_? he does n't know about that new contract with the hudson & erie people, does he?" "even if he did, he would n't dare to hold you up on it." "he _ain't_ that kind, is he?" "no, mac, it just occurred to him, that's all--it just occurred to him." perkins paused, looked out of the window, then turned. "what do you think, mac?" "we can't start in raising salaries just now, perk. if one gets it, the others 'll want it, too. they 'll all be dissatisfied." "don't do it--that's all." mclaughlin reflected a moment. "did you ever hear of such a thing as a worm turning?" "yes, but a worm does n't turn very fast. there'd be plenty of time to see the indications and head it off." mclaughlin drummed with his paper-cutter. "somehow, i 've always been afraid of worms. they 're so damned humble," he said presently. perkins laughed. "i believe you're afraid you 'll lose skinner." "somebody might have got after him--billings or humphreys." "nobody's after a man that dresses like that!" "but he might get after them." "he does n't want to change. he has no ambition, no initiative. take it from me, mac, any man that wears such clothes has resigned himself to permanent, innocuous, uninteresting mediocrity." "but--" mclaughlin protested. perkins cut him short. "any man that wears clothes like a doormat will let you make a doormat of him!" "that's just what puzzles me. a good-looking man--fine eyes and a figure. the only thing that stands between him and one of your harvard dudes is a first-class tailor. perk, why _does_ he dress like that?" "he began by skimping for that little house out in meadeville. then he got used to going without good clothes and he did n't care." "it's notorious," mclaughlin commented. "nobody cares much whether a cashier in his cage is well dressed," said perkins. "you can't see him below the waist-line. he might not have on either trousers or shoes for all the public knows or cares." "what kind of a wife has he got?" "she's just as thrifty as he is. they've got the poverty bug, i guess. don't worry about skinner, mac. the fear of the poorhouse has kept many a good man in his place." mclaughlin turned to perkins. "but we can't afford to lose him. he's too honest, too faithful, too loyal." "i know his value as well as you do, but we don't want to put wise goggles on him." "we've got to raise him sometime," mclaughlin urged mildly. "yes, but we won't do it till we have to. if he were a salesman, he'd make us do it. but a man in a cage--why the very fact that he stays in a cage--can't you see?" "then you would n't do it?" "of course not!" "but how?" "bluff him--in a tactful way. let him think we've nothing but his welfare at heart; that we love him too much to stand in his way; that it's breaking our hearts to lose him. still, if he can better himself we'll have to stand the pain. you're an old poker-player, mac; you know how to handle the situation." "but supposing you're mistaken in skinner? supposing he hangs out for a raise?" "if he does, we'll have to give it to him. offer him ten dollars a week more. but remember, mac, only as a last resort!" so when skinner stepped in at five o'clock, mclaughlin made the bluff. skinner did n't call it. instead, he bowed submissively, almost with relief, and without a word left for home. everything contributed to the drab occasion for skinner. the weather was bad, the ferryboat steamier and smellier than ever. as he took his seat in the men's cabin, he was full of drab reflections--disappointment, deep disgust. abysmal gloom surrounded him. his thoughts were anything but flattering to his employers, or to himself, for that matter, for skinner was a just man. they were the cussedest, meanest people that he'd ever known. but what was the matter with him, skinner? why had n't he made a fight for the raise? it was that old, disgusting timidity that had been a curse to him ever since he was a boy. others had pushed ahead through sheer cheek, while he held back, inert, afraid to assert himself. by gad, why had n't he made a fight for a raise? they could only sack him, hand him the blue envelope! sack him! the thought brought back the days when he had wandered from office to office, a suppliant, taking snubs, glad to get anything to do. the memory of the snubs had made more or less of a slave of him, for skinner was a proud man, a man of very respectable family. perhaps he ought to be glad that mclaughlin had n't done any worse than refuse him a raise. skinner did not stop to think that it would be easier for him to get a job now than it had been in those suppliant days. he was now experienced, skillful, more level-headed. his honesty and loyalty were a by-word in the business district. his thoughts took another turn, and he looked at himself in the mirror. gad! he had all the earmarks of back-numberhood. his hair was gray at the temples and he was shabby, neat but shabby. but he was only thirty-eight, he reflected,--the most interesting period of a man's life; he was wise without being old. and he was not bad-looking. he studied the reflection of his face. the picturesqueness of youth was lined--not too deeply lined--by the engraving hand of experience. what was the matter with him, then? why was he not more of a success? was it because he had been a "cage man" too long, always taking orders, always acquiescing subserviently, never asserting? he looked out of the window. the river was gray, everything was gray--nothing pleased him. but the river used to be blue, always blue, when he first crossed it, a buoyant youth. the river had n't changed. it was the same river he had always loved. then the change must be in him, skinner. why had he gradually ceased to enjoy things? who was to blame for the drab existence he was suffering? was it the outside world or himself? as a boy, things were new to him--that was why the river was blue. but there were many things new to him to-day--peoples, countries, customs--yes, a thousand things new and interesting right in new york, close at hand, if he'd only take the trouble to look them up. why was his ability to appreciate failing? other men, much older than he and only clerks at that, were happy. he sighed. it must be himself, for, after all, the world had treated him as well as he had treated the world, he reflected, being a just man. unfortunately, on the train skinner got a seat in the very center of a circle of social chatterboxes, male commuters, and female shoppers. some talked of their machines and rattled off the names of the makers. there was the pierce-arrow, the packard, the buick, and all the rest of the mechanical buzz-wagons. there was an inextricable mass of phrases--six-cylinder, self-starter, non-puncturable, non-skiddable. but he did n't hear any such terms as non-collidable, non-turnoverable, or non-waltz-down-the-hillable. nor did they spare him the patriarchal jokes about the ubiquitous ford. they talked about the rising cost of gasoline which brought john d. in for a share of wholesome abuse. at the mention of john d. everybody turned to golf and skinner got that delightful recreation _ad infinitum, ad nauseam_. skinner felt that this talk about machines was only to impress others with the talkers' motor lore. for familiarity with motor lore means a certain social status. it is part of the smart vernacular of to-day. any man who can own a car has at least mounted a few steps on the social ladder. the next thing to owning a car is to be able to talk about a car, for if a man can talk well about a machine everybody 'll think that he must have had a vast experience in that line and, therefore, must be a man of affairs. girls chattered about autos, not to give the impression that they owned them, but that they had many friends who owned them, that they were greatly in demand as auto companions--thus vicariously establishing their own social status. there was something fraternal about it, skinner thought, like golf. the conceit occurred to him that it would be a good scheme to get up a booklet full of glib automobile, golf, and bridge chatter, to be committed to memory, and mark it, "how to bluff one's way into society." it might have a wide sale. skinner suddenly realized that his thoughts were a dark, minor chord in the general light-hearted chatter, for he cordially hated the whole blooming business of automobiles, golf, and bridge. he was the raven at the feast. everybody seemed to be talking to somebody else. only he was alone. he wondered why he had not been a better "mixer." several of the boys in meadeville that he knew of had got better positions through the friendship of their fellow commuters, because they were good "mixers," good chatterers. there was lewis, for instance, who was just going into the pullman with robertson, the banker. lewis was nothing but a social froth-juggler. he had n't half skinner's ability, yet he was going around with the rich. cheek--that was it--nothing but cheek that did it. skinner detested cheek, yet lewis had capitalized it. the result was a fine house and servants and an automobile for the man who used to walk in the slush with skinner behind other men's cars and take either their mud or their gasoline stench. skinner wondered if lewis and others like him could afford their way of living. he had always looked forward with a certain satisfaction to the time when the smash would come to some of these social butterflies, with their mortgaged automobiles, and then he, skinner, with his snug little bank account, would be the one to laugh and to chatter. this reflection greatly consoled him for wearing cheap clothes. he'd rather have his money in the bank than on his back. but the smash had n't come to any of them as yet, he reflected. on the contrary, the more money they seemed to spend, the more they seemed to make. he wondered how they managed. chapter ii how skinner got his raise presently, wilkes, in the seat just ahead of skinner, folded his newspaper and turned to his neighbor. "are you going to the reception to the new pastor at the first presbyterian?" "am i going? you bet i am. we're all going." the remark brought skinner back to the things of the moment with a jerk. by jove! honey was going to that reception and she'd set her heart on his going with her. she'd been making over a dress for it. it seemed to skinner she was always making something over. he had made up his mind that she'd buy something new--a lot of new things--when he'd got his raise. but now--well, it was a deuced good thing she _was_ handy with her needle. he could see her waiting for him at the door with her customary kiss. hang it! how was he going to break the news to her? if he had n't been so asininely cock-sure!--a "cinch," he thought contemptuously. he'd talked "cinch" to her so much that he'd almost come to believe it himself. but, after all, must he tell her to-night? why not temporize? say mclaughlin was out of town? also it would never do to tell her that he'd been afraid to go to the boss. but she'd have to know it sometime, why not right away? like having a tooth out, it was better done at once. the thought of honey's disappointment was overshadowed by an awful realization that suddenly came to skinner. how could he square the fact that mclaughlin & perkins, inc., had turned him down with the way he'd bragged about his value to the firm? skinner frowned deeply. mclaughlin had no business to refuse him--a percentage of the money he handled was his by rights. somehow he felt that he had been denied that which was his own. what would honey think of him? he could n't bear the idea of falling in her esteem. he pondered a bit. by jove, he _would n't_ fall in her esteem. he sat up straight from his slouching position and squared his shoulders. he would n't disappoint her, either! everybody had disappointed him, but that was no reason why he should disappoint _her_! he suddenly laughed aloud. if they would n't raise his salary, he'd take things into his own hands. he'd be independent of the firm. he'd raise it himself. if he were going to lie to honey, why not lie to some effect? he sat back, chuckling! why hadn't he thought of it before? it would be dead easy! he'd raise himself five dollars a week! all he had to do was to take it out of his own bank account. every week he'd cash a check for five dollars in new york. he always kept his personal check-book in the firm's safe. when he handed honey his salary, he would give her the "extra five" to deposit to the credit of their account in the meadeville national. it would work out beautifully. nobody would be any the wiser and if nobody would be any the richer, surely nobody would be any the poorer, and--he would not have to disappoint honey. skinner began to look at the scheme from various angles, as was his custom in every business transaction. was there any danger of honey finding him out? no. she never saw the check-book, only the bank-book, and when he had that balanced he'd be careful to attend to it himself. she 'd never even see the canceled checks. surely, there was no sin in it. he had a right to do what he liked with his own money. and he was n't really doing _anything_ with it, after all, simply passing it around in a harmless circle. but would n't he be deceiving her, his best friend?--putting her in a fool's paradise? well, by jingo, he _would_ put her in a fool's paradise and let her revel in it, for once in her life, and before she had a chance to find out, he'd make it a _real_ paradise--he did n't know just how, but he would! skinner stepped off the train at meadeville and threaded his way between the glaring, throbbing automobiles to the slush-covered sidewalk. he no longer felt his customary resentment of these social pretenders that whizzed by him in their devil-wagons--leaving him to inhale the stench of their gasoline. in a way, he was one of them now. by his ingenious little scheme of circulating his own money, strictly in his own domestic circle, he had elected himself to the bluffer class, and he felt strangely light-hearted. besides, he was no more of a "four-flush" financier than most of the automobile contingent, at that. when he reached his house, he ran up the steps with a radiant face. honey was waiting for him at the door, her lithe little figure and mass of chestnut hair, done up on top of her head, silhouetted against the light in the hall. she kissed him, and in her eagerness literally dragged him into the hall and shut the door. "dearie, you've done it! i know by your face you've done it!" "eh-huh!" "now, don't tell me how much till i show you something!" she drew him into the dining-room and pointed to the table where a wonderful dinner was waiting. "look, dearie, oysters to begin with, and later--beefsteak! think of it! beefsteak! and, look--those flowers! just to celebrate the occasion! i was so sure you'd get it! and, now, dearie, tell me--how much did they appreciate you?" skinner was swept off his feet by her enthusiasm. he threw caution to the winds--that is, after he'd made a lightning calculation. it would n't cost any more, so why be a "piker"? "ten dollars," he said with affected quiet. honey came over to dearie, flung her arms around his neck, put her head on his shoulder, and looking up into his face, with eyes brimming with happiness, sighed, "dearie, i'm so happy! so happy for _you_!" and skinner felt that the lie was justified. he put his hand up and pressed her glossy head close to his breast and looking over her shoulder winked solemnly at the wall! "and now, dearie," said honey, when they were seated at the table, "tell me! you actually bearded that old pig in his pen--my hero?" "eh-huh!" "you told him you wanted a raise?" "eh-huh!" "and what did _he_ say?" "first, he said he'd see perkins." "and he _saw_ perkins, and what then?" skinner threw his hands apart and shrugged his shoulders. if he had to lie, he'd use as few words as possible doing it. "was that all?" "eh-huh!" "it _was_ a 'cinch,' just as you said, was n't it, dearie?" skinner imperceptibly winced at the word. "eh-huh!" "i knew you'd only have to hint at it, dearie!" "if i 'd hung out, i might have got ten dollars more," said skinner loftily. honey was silent for a long time. "well," said skinner presently, "what's going on in that little bean of yours?" "i was just figuring, dearie. let's see--ten dollars a week--how much is that a year?" "five hundred and twenty dollars." "five hundred and twenty dollars a year--that'd be more than a thousand dollars in two years!" "yes," skinner affirmed. "and in four years? think of it--over two thousand dollars?" "better not count your chickens, honey,--i'm superstitious, you know." skinner began to see his ten-dollar raise growing to gigantic proportions. he had visions of himself at the end of four years hustling to "make good" "over two thousand dollars." for the first time he questioned the wisdom of promoting himself. but he could n't back out now. he almost damned honey's thrift. he would be piling up a debt which threatened to become an avalanche and swamp him, and for which he would get no equivalent but temporarily increased adulation. how could he nip this awful thing in the bud? he did n't see any way out of it unless it were to throw up his job and cut short this accumulating horror. but at least he had a year of grace--two years, four years, for that matter--before he would have to render an accounting, and who could tell what four years might bring forth? surely, in that time he'd be able to get out of it somehow. however, he had cast the die, and no matter what came of it he would n't back out. if he did, honey would never believe in him again. his little kingdom would crumble. so he grinned. "i think i'll have a demi-tasse, just to celebrate." so honey brought in the demi-tasse. then honey took her seat again, and resting her elbows on the table, placed her chin in the cup of her hands and looked at skinner so long that he flushed. had her intuition searched out his guilt, he wondered. "and now, i've got a surprise for you, dearie," she said, after a little. after what skinner had gone through, nothing could surprise him, he thought. "shoot!" said he. "you thought i got you to get that raise just to build up our bank account--did n't you?" "sure thing!" said skinner apprehensively, "why?" "you old goosie! i only got you to think that so you'd go _after_ it! that is n't what i wanted it for--at all!" skinner's mouth suddenly went dry. "we've been cheap people long enough, dearie," honey began. "we've never dressed like other people, we've never traveled like other people. if we went on a trip, it was always at excursion rates. we've always put up at cheap hotels, we've always bargained for the lowest rate, and we've always eaten in cheap restaurants. have n't we, dearie?" "yes," said skinner. "but what has that got to do with it." "as a result, we've always met cheap people." "you mean poor people?" said skinner quickly. "goodness, no, dearie,--i mean _cheap_ people,--people with cheap minds, cheap morals, cheap motives, cheap manners, and worst of all,--cheap speech! i'm tired of cheap people!" "what are you going to do about it?" said skinner, his apprehension growing. "we're not going to put one cent of this new money in the bank! that's what i 'm going to do about it! instead of waiting a year for that five hundred and twenty dollars to accumulate, we're going to begin now. we'll never be any younger. we're going to draw on our first year's prosperity!" "what the deuce are you talking about?" said skinner, staring at honey, wild-eyed. "what do you mean?" she clapped her hands. "now, don't argue! i've planned it all out! we're going to have a good time--good clothes! we 're going to begin on you, you old dear! you're going to have a _dress suit_!" "dress suit?" skinner echoed. "why dress suit? why dress suit now at this particular stage of the game? why dress suit at all?" "why? for the reception at the first presbyterian, of course. i 'm tired of having you a sit-in-the-corner, watch-the-other-fellow-dance, male-wallflower proposition! you old dear, you don't think i 'm going to let you miss that affair just for the sake of a dress suit, now that we've got a whole year's raise to spend--do you?" "how much does a dress suit cost?" skinner murmured, almost inarticulately. "only ninety dollars!" skinner reached for his demi-tasse and gulped it down hot. "i see," he said. then, after a pause, "couldn't we hire one? it's only for one occasion." "my dearie in a hired dress suit? i guess not!" skinner pondered a moment, like a cat on a fence with a dog on either side. "could n't we buy it on the installment plan?" "we might buy a cheap suit on the installment plan. but remember, dearie, we're not going to be cheap people any more!" "one can see that with half an eye," said skinner. "now, dearie, don't be sarcastic." "i think i 'll have another demi-tasse," said skinner, playing for time, and held out his cup. "it'll keep you awake, dearie." "if i don't sleep, it won't be the coffee that keeps me awake," said skinner enigmatically; so honey brought in the second demi-tasse. when dinner was over, the skinners spent the rest of the evening in front of the open fire. honey put her arms about dearie and smiled into the flames. skinner looked at her tenderly for a few moments, pressed her soft, glossy hair with his lips, and began to realize that he 'd have to do some high financing! that night, as skinner lay staring at the ceiling and listening to honey's gentle and happy breathing, he reflected on the beginnings of a life of crime. ninety dollars right off the bat! gee whiz! he had not included any such thing in his calculations when he had hit upon his brilliant scheme of self-promotion. great scott!--what possibilities lurked in the background of the deception he'd practiced on honey! he 'd heard of the chickens of sin coming home to roost, but he'd never imagined that they began to do it so early in the game. he no longer felt guilty that he had deceived honey, for had n't her confession that she had deceived _him_ about putting that money in the bank made them co-sinners? and one does n't feel so sinful when sinning against another sinner! ninety dollars! gee whiz! but, after all, ninety dollars was n't such an awful lot of money--and he'd see to it that ninety dollars was the limit! chapter iii skinner's dress suit honey went to the city with skinner the next day, and during the lunch-hour a high-class tailor in the financial district measured skinner for his dress suit. honey had sensed from dearie's protest the night of the "raise" that it would be hard to pry him loose from any more cash than the first ninety dollars, so she did n't try to--with words. she would let him convince himself. so, when the wonderful outfit arrived a few days later, and skinner put it on, she pretended to admire the whole effect unqualifiedly. "beautiful!" she cried; "perfectly beautiful!" but she chuckled to herself as she noted the look of perplexity that gradually came into skinner's eyes as he regarded himself in the mirror. "these clothes are very handsome," he said presently, "and they're a perfect fit--but the general effect does n't seem right." [illustration: "the general effect does n't seem right!"] honey remained discreetly silent. presently skinner turned to her with a suggestion of trouble in his eyes. "say, honey, what do dress shirts cost?" "i don't know exactly. four dollars, perhaps." "four dollars!" there was a suggestion of a snarl in skinner's tone, the first she'd ever heard. "four dollars!--the one i've got on only cost ninety cents." "but that is n't a dress shirt, dearie." "no, you bet it is n't! but it's good enough for me!" then with a touch of sarcasm in his tone, "i suppose a certain kind of collar and tie are necessary for a dress shirt?" "a dollar would cover that." "how _many_ collars?" he almost shouted. "one." another pause; then, "i've got to have studs?" honey nodded. another pause. "and, holy smoke, cuff-buttons? say, where do we get off?" "they 're not expensive, dearie." "but have you any idea how much?" he insisted. "four dollars ought to cover that." "by gosh! well, i guess that's all," he said quietly. just then he glanced down at his shoes. "it is n't necessary to have patent leathers, too?" he appealed. "it's customary, dearie, but not absolutely necessary." "people don't see your feet in a reception like that," he urged. honey smiled. "they might without difficulty, dearie, if you chanced to walk across the floor in some vacant space. remember, you're not in the subway where everybody stands on them and hides them." "don't be funny," said skinner. "mine are only in proportion. how much? that's the question, while we're at it--how much?" "you know the price of men's shoes better than i do, dearie." "i saw some patent leathers on cortlandt street at three dollars and a half." "those were n't patent leathers--only pasteboard. they'd fall to pieces if the night happened to be moist. and you'd reach the party barefooted. think of it, dearie, going in with a dress suit on and bare feet!" her giggle irritated skinner. "it may be very funny to you but--how much? that's the question!" "not more than six dollars for the best." "i see," said skinner, making an effort to be calm. "silk hosiery?" "a dollar will cover socks and garters both." "garters?" skinner snapped. "garters are a luxury. besides, i never had any success with garters. safety pins for mine." "my dearie a safety-pin man--in a dress suit--not much!" "thank goodness, i don't have to have a high hat!" "if there's anything that's really funny," honey observed, "it's the combination of a fine dress suit and a cheap hat. six dollars will cover that." "that's a darned sight more than the hat'll cover if i don't stop spending money! but why a hat, anyway?" he continued; "you don't wear it in the house. that's the only time your dress suit shows. when you're out of doors you wear it under an overcoat." he paused abruptly. "an overcoat! great scott! have i got to have a new overcoat?" "you seem to _think_ you have, and, honestly, i agree with you. it would never do, dearie, to be fine at both ends and shabby in the middle." skinner grunted. "an overcoat will cost forty dollars! do you hear?--forty dollars!" "i did n't say anything about an overcoat, dearie. it's your own suggestion." "you did n't say anything about it--oh, no--you only said enough to cinch my suggestion! forty dollars," he repeated, "and a hat--six dollars more! well, by thunder, i 'll _get_ a hat! gee whiz! what have you let me in for, anyway?" "_i_ let you in for, dearie?" honey's baby-blue eyes stared at him. "you let _yourself_ in for it when you got your raise." skinner said nothing for a moment, then burst out, "say, i have n't got to get new underclothing, have i? now, don't you even admit that i have! don't you dare admit it! people can't see my underclothes unless i take my coat off and turn up my shirt-sleeves or roll up my trousers as if i were going in wading." "of course, you have n't got to get new underclothes, dearie. but there's a psychology to it. if you don't _feel_ well dressed, you won't _look_ well dressed. you don't want to be a fraud, with a beautiful dress suit and cheap underneath--and my old dearie's no fraud." skinner passed quickly over the remark. "how much?" "you can get the best for four dollars a garment." "gosh!" for a moment skinner pondered; then abruptly, "say i 'll be hanged if i don't buy new underclothes. for the first time in my life, i 'll be well dressed all through--hide, hoofs, and horns!--socks, drawers, undershirt, shoes, trousers, waistcoat, coat, hat, overcoat! is there anything else?" he shouted. "let me think." "yes, think hard!" skinner retorted. "don't leave a stone unturned to make me the one, great, perfect tailor's model!" "there are gloves and a monocle chain. you can get them both for three dollars," honey added sweetly, affecting not to notice skinner's reproachful irony. "a monocle chain?" skinner shouted. "what's that? something to lead me by? am i going to be a monkey?" "don't be silly, dearie!" skinner laughed with deep disgust. "why be a 'piker,' skinner? you got your raise, did n't you? damn you, you got your raise! why be a 'piker'?" "piker?" honey exclaimed. "it'll be a regular debauch in clothes!" "debauch!" skinner cried. "it'll be a riot!" honey clapped her hands delightedly. "is that all? are you through with me? are you finished with me absolutely?" honey nodded. "you're not holding anything in reserve to spring on me? if you've got anything to say, say it now while i 'm in my agony--you can't hurt me any more!" "my love, you're the finished product!" "good!" skinner paused; then with quiet, grim resolution: "now, we'll begin on you!" "me?" honey cried. "yes, you! you don't suppose i 'm going to be the only one in this outfit to be decked out in gay attire? what would they think if they saw a resplendent individual like me and a shabby little wife? it would be as bad as the man that went on his wedding trip alone because he was too darned mean or too darned poor to take his wife along!" "but _me_! i'm all right!" "what have you got?" skinner insisted grimly. he had borne the gaff--now it was his turn to do some of the punishing, and he enjoyed it. "what have you got?" he repeated. "the beautiful pink dress i made over." "get it," said skinner. already his tone was taking on an unaccustomed authority, and honey hastened to do as she was bid. she got the pretty, home-made thing and laid it on the table. "put it on," skinner ordered. honey got into the dress as quickly as her trembling fingers would permit. skinner stood off and inspected her. "that's a beautiful little dress for the house," he said finally, "but it does n't match this dress suit. incompatible is n't the word." "would n't this humble dress set off your clothes by contrast?" honey said, affecting meekness, her sense of humor getting the uppermost. "yes, but these clothes of mine would also set off that humble dress by contrast, and that i won't have for a minute! you're the beauty spot in this outfit, my dear," skinner said tenderly, "not i. i 'm not going to do the peacock act. i'm the quiet, dignified one. that's what i affect. it rests with you to keep up the pulchritudinous end of it. that's it! you've got to dress up to _this_!" he smiled fondly at the shrinking honey. honey began to tremble. dearie had no idea of the cost of women's clothes! "look here," skinner went on, resuming the imperative, "i got this dress suit at a first-class tailor's--you go to a first-class dressmaker and get a gown to correspond with it. to correspond with my patent leathers, you get evening shoes at a first-class bootmaker's. to correspond with my overcoat, you get an evening cloak. piece for piece, you must do just as i do. we'll be a symphony in clothes! silk stockings, long gloves, silk underwear, and all the rest of it--that's what you're going to have!" "but silk underwear? no one can see it, dearie," honey protested. "there's a psychology to it, remember. i want you to _feel_ well dressed." honey's face went white. "have you any idea what these things will cost?" "no!--and i don't care!" skinner burst out. "it's all on me! _i_ got the raise, did n't i? you did n't, did you? very well, _i'll_ take the consequences--and be damned to 'em!" then skinner swung around and shook his finger at honey. "and i want you to understand, we're going to _ride_ to that reception--in a cab! for one night in his life skinner will not be a walk-in-the-slush man!" chapter iv skinner's dress suit begins to get in its fine work meadeville was a suburb once removed--a kind of second cousin to the big city--the only kind of a suburb that could really be aristocratic. meadeville was populated considerably by moneyed new yorkers and the first presbyterian was the smartest church in town. the men who passed the plate all belonged to the millionaire class. but no church congregation was ever made up entirely of aristocrats. it needs a generous sprinkling of the poor and the moderately well-to-do to keep up the spiritual average. this was the case with the first presbyterian. its gatherings were eminently democratic. it was the only occasion when the "upper ten" felt that they could mix with the other "hundreds" without any letting-down of the bars. the ultra-fashionable rarely attended the church gatherings. but this was a special occasion. a new pastor was to be introduced. so, prompted by curiosity and a desire to make a good impression on the future custodian of their morals, the smart set attended in full force. skinner knew every one of the smart set by sight. but the smart set did n't know skinner, for he was only a clerk, and no clerk ever had individuality enough to stamp himself on the memory of a plutocrat. there were a large number of clerks present, fellow commuters, and skinner noticed with some embarrassment that a considerable number of these gentlemen were not in evening dress. as like attracts like,--on the same principle that laborers in a car foregather with other laborers,--so skinner began to foregather with the dress-suit contingent. their clothes attracted his clothes. he felt that he belonged with them. furthermore, he had a painful consciousness of being conspicuous among the underdressed men. he also wished to escape a certain envy which he sensed in a few of his fellow clerks, because of his dress suit. while this was a novel sensation to skinner--the walk-in-the-slush, sit-in-the-corner, watch-the-other-fellow-dance, male-wallflower proposition--he did n't like it, for he was a kind-hearted man, always considerate of the feelings of others. and for the moment it threatened to check the pleasure he was beginning to take in his new clothes. as skinner aligned himself with the dress-suit contingent, he realized that many of these were clerks who had risen in the world and owned their own machines, while the under-dressed men still belonged to the bicycle club. many of the newly rich men were old acquaintances of skinner's who had passed him, left him behind, as it were, years before. to these, his dress suit was a kind of new introduction. they seemed pleased to see him. they clapped him on the shoulder. it struck his sense of humor that they were like old friends who had preceded him to heaven and were waiting to welcome him to their new sphere. he thrust his hands into his pockets--as he saw the others do--and strode, not walked or glided pussy-footedly, as became a "cage man." and he began to feel a commiseration for the men who were not in dress suits. skinner found himself taking a sudden interest in the social chatter about him. it did not bore him now. why had he always hated it so, he asked himself? probably because he had never taken the trouble to understand it--but he was a rank outsider then. he began to wonder if social life were really so potent of good cheer, physical and mental refreshment. he began to realize that he had permitted himself to dislike a great institution because of a few butterflies whose chatter had offended him. but he now saw that important business men were social butterflies, at times. surely, they must see something in it. and if these clever and able men saw something in it, then he, skinner, must have been something of an ass to deny himself these things. when mclaughlin came up and greeted him cordially, mclaughlin seemed a changed man. his eyes were genial, and even his hair was conciliatory. and social intercourse had done that! "gee whiz!" said skinner to himself. and honey! skinner took a brand-new pride in her. she was radiantly happy, radiantly beautiful in a gown designed by a clever dress-builder to exploit every one of her charms. she was blooming like a rose whose bloom had been arrested by the sordid things of life. honey had been "taken up." she was now the very center of a group of some of the "best" people there. by jove, mclaughlin's wife had thrust her arm through honey's and was leading her off to another group. as he watched her, skinner felt that even sin--when undertaken for another--has its compensations! "who is that very distinguished man over there?" said mrs. j. smith crawford, the wife of the senior deacon of the first presbyterian. miss mayhew adjusted her lorgnette. "_what_ very distinguished man?" "there's only one," replied mrs. crawford. "the man over there who looks like a cross between a poet and an athlete." "oh, that's skinner, of mclaughlin & perkins, inc. the skinners are great friends of ours." as a matter of fact, miss mayhew had never taken the trouble to notice the skinners, but now that skinner had made an impression on the exclusive mrs. crawford, that altered the case. "i'm glad," said mrs. crawford. "go get him." skinner found mrs. crawford most engaging. she was neither haughty nor full of the pedantry with which social leaders try to disabuse the mind of the ordinary citizen that the rich must necessarily be dubs. twenty minutes later, deacon crawford came up and skinner was presented. "i'm mighty glad to know you, mr. skinner," said the deacon. "some views i heard you expressing just now were quite in accord with my own." skinner left the crawfords presently with his head in the clouds. but he was brought down to earth by some one plucking him by the sleeve. "gee, skinner, where did you get it?" said allison, who stood there in a sack suit, grinning. "like it?" said skinner, pleased. "you bet! it's a jim lulu!" "my wife made me get it," said skinner, winking at allison. "well, i hope you'll continue to recognize us," said allison--and skinner again felt the touch of envy, but he did n't like it, for skinner was no snob. as skinner and honey were departing, lewis touched him on the arm. "we'll drop you and mrs. skinner at the house," he said. "we've plenty of room in our car." the lewises and the skinners bade each other a very cordial, if not affectionate, good-night when lewis's car pulled up at skinner's door. "can you beat it?" said the "cage man" as they closed the door behind them. "lewis has scarcely noticed me for two years." "it was the dress suit, dearie." "it's earned a dollar and a half already." "how?" said honey, surprised. "cab fare! say, i'm going to keep an account of what this dress suit actually cost me and what it brings in," said skinner. "and to think of it, dearie,--it's all because of your getting that raise." honey laid her head on dearie's shoulder, as she always did when she felt sentimental. "eh-huh," said skinner absently. "i'm so grateful to think you got it--i just couldn't help telling mrs. mclaughlin--" "huh?" skinner interrupted. "you did n't mention that raise to mrs. mclaughlin, did you?" "why should n't i?" "but _did_ you?" said skinner, with apprehension. "why, no. i simply told her i was so grateful for the mark of appreciation they'd shown!" "and what did mrs. mclaughlin say?" "she asked me what i meant." "and what did _you_ say?" "i told her her husband would understand and i wanted him to know just how i felt about it." "the devil you did," said skinner. true to his word, skinner proceeded to keep a little book marked "dress-suit account." he was probably the only man, he reflected, who had ever done such a thing, and he did it at first more as a joke than anything else. but he found that the "dress-suit account" developed serious as well as humorous possibilities. he first entered carefully, item by item, the cost of the dress suit and its accessories. _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ dress suit ......... $ . dress shirt ........ . tie ................ . collar ............. . shoes .............. . gloves ............. . studs and cuff-links . hat ................ . overcoat ........... . hose ............... . garters ............ . underwear .......... . monocle chain ...... . -------- total .............. $ . to that he added the cost of honey's outfit: _debit_ _credit_ gown ............... $ . underwear .......... . hose ............... . corset ............. . slippers ........... . wrap ............... . gloves ............. . -------- total .............. $ . explanatory comment: honey's outfit not directly descended from, but collaterally related to "dress-suit account"--an inevitable expenditure. skinner noted that everything was on the debit side until the night of the first presbyterian reception. then he put down:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ beginning of social education. and he did n't neglect to add the relatively unimportant item:-- _debit_ _credit_ cab fare saved: $ . . from that time on, both debit and credit items were put down as they occurred to skinner. while skinner was thus directly concerned with the dress-suit account, that potent affair was rapidly developing ramifications in an unsuspected direction. "i say, perk," said mclaughlin to the junior partner, the day after the reception, "i saw skinner and his wife at the first presbyterian affair in meadeville last night, and, by jingo, they were all dressed up to the nines." "there's nothing startling in that." "no--but what do you suppose skinner's wife said to mrs. mac?" perkins sighed heavily at the bare suggestion. "what the deuce has that got to do with me?" "wait till i tell you. she almost wept on mrs. mac's neck while she told her how grateful she was--grateful for the way we had shown our appreciation of skinner!" perkins pricked up his ears. "the deuce you say!" "i thought you'd come to," said mclaughlin. "what did she mean by that?" "don't know. mrs. mac asked her what she was driving at--and she said i 'd understand. she wanted me to know how she felt about it--that's all!" perkins's only comment was, "curious!" "say, perk," mclaughlin went on, "do you reckon she was trying to be sarcastic--trying to give us a sly dig for turning skinner down?" "he'd never tell her that." "then what _did_ she mean?" perkins shrugged his shoulders. mclaughlin knitted his brows. "i don't understand it." he drummed on the table with the paper-knife. "i told you i was afraid of worms," he said after a pause. "he has n't begun to turn yet." "how do you know? hang it! a worm is always turning. there's no telling when he begins. he crawls in curves." "oh, rats!" was perkins's only comment. "rats, eh? skinner asked for a raise, did n't he? he did n't get it, did he? right on top of it he comes out in gay attire--both of 'em! you ought to have seen 'em, perk. no hand-me-down! the real thing!" mclaughlin paused longer than usual. he looked troubled. "say, perk," he said presently, "somehow, i'm afraid this particular worm of ours is pluming for flight." "that's a dainty metaphor, mac, but it's a little mixed." mclaughlin glared at perkins. he hated these petty corrections. "ain't a caterpillar a worm, my harvard prodigy?" "i grant you that." "don't he turn into a butterfly? don't he plume for flight?" mclaughlin nailed each successive argument with a bang of his fist on the desk. "ain't skinner getting to be a social butterfly? get the connection? my metaphor may be mixed, as you say,--which i don't understand,--but my logic is o.k. say, ain't it?" "your metaphor, mac, suggests a picture. imagine skinner with wings on--those long legs drooping down or trailing behind him--like a great jersey mosquito!" at which they both laughed. "well," said mclaughlin, resignedly turning to the papers on his desk, "it beats me, that's all!" skinner had accurately reckoned that mclaughlin's wife would repeat honey's cryptic remarks to the boss, and so, next day, he felt a natural constraint when in the presence of the senior partner. constraint in the one reacted upon and caused constraint in the other, until it looked as if mclaughlin and skinner, who had once been quite sociable as boss and clerk, would be little more than speaking acquaintances, after a time. at any rate, that night skinner jotted down:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ a certain constraint on the part of mclaughlin. "have _you_ noticed anything in skinner's conduct, perk?" said mclaughlin, two days later. "you're getting morbid about skinner, mac." "no, i ain't, either. but he acts--somehow, i can't get it out of my head that his wife meant--you know what!" "you think skinner told her we raised him?" "that's it!" "suppose he did," said perkins; "what of it?" "how could he square it with her?" said mclaughlin slowly. the partners looked at each other with a certain understanding, not too definite--just a suggestion. "you think i'm morbid, perk. you think i see things that ain't so. just you keep your eye on him. see how he acts to you." but skinner had more than any constraint on the part of mclaughlin to worry him. his real concern found its source in the domestic circle. at first, he was exuberant, intoxicated with the vision of social possibilities. but now a reaction had set in, a reaction promoted by the attitude of honey. honey, too, was now constrained. skinner persistently pressed her to tell him what was the matter. she finally admitted that she was frightened by the plunge into extravagance they'd taken. they had made a big hole in their bank account. to her, it was like blasting a rock from under the foundation of the wall which for years they had been building up, stone by stone, to stand between them and destitution. at times, when skinner allowed his mind to dwell on it, he was shocked. but being the chief sinner in the matter, he felt it incumbent on him to bolster up the faltering spirits of honey. he would not for a moment admit to her that they had acted unwisely. even so, he was protesting against the conviction that was gradually deepening within him that he'd made something of a fool of himself! invariably, it was during these fits of abstraction, superinduced by the doubt that was broadening in skinner's consciousness as to the wisdom of his scheme of self-promotion, that either mclaughlin or perkins encountered him--so curiously does fate direct our affairs with a view to promoting dramatic ends. once, in the depths of abstraction, skinner actually passed perkins in the passageway without so much as a nod of recognition. "by jove," said the junior partner to mclaughlin later on, "i believe there _is_ something in your talk about skinner. he actually passed me in the passageway just now without speaking!" and because they had begun to watch him, every little thing skinner did took on an artificial significance--was given undue weight. chapter v the operating expenses of the dress suit skinner's feelings were not of the most amiable when on saturday he drew his first check on his own private bank account to pay himself his first week's raise. and he swore lightly as he realized that this would be a weekly reminder of his folly, perhaps for years to come. but honey chirked up wonderfully when he handed her the "extra ten." "i'll deposit this the first thing monday morning," she cried. "i'm so glad we're beginning to put money back into the bank--we've drawn so much out. and we 'll do it every week until we've paid back every cent we took out!" and skinner was glad that she was glad, although he reflected that her process of putting money back into the bank as fast as he drew it out would be about as effectual as the efforts of a squirrel in a little wire treadmill! at dinner the skinners opened their hearts to each other. dearie took out his little book containing the dress-suit account and read off the items to honey. the balance seemed to be heavily on the debit side. "well," said skinner, "there won't be any more debits, anyway. we've spent all we're _going_ to spend--and don't you forget it! i promise you that!" "we don't _need_ to spend any more," said honey. "we have our clothes." "yes," said skinner, "so we have." "cheer up, dearie. there's one thing you forgot to put down to the credit of that dress-suit account. it has made your little wifey very, very happy!" honey put her head on dearie's shoulder. "for that reason," said skinner, "and for that alone"--he winked solemnly at the wall over honey's shoulder--"it has made _me_ very happy!" he stroked honey's glossy hair and held her close. "no," said honey, resuming her place at the table, which she had left in her exuberance to give dearie a hug, and knitting her brows, "there's no way of spending any more money. we've made our original investment." "the initial cost," dearie corrected. "we've invested in ourselves," honey went on. "yes, and we've bought our own bonds," skinner added. "and they'll pay better than any old bank," cried honey. then quickly, "but we won't buy any more!" "there are other financial stunts besides putting money in the bank," observed skinner. "look at lewis. he invested in himself." "just as we're doing," honey broke in. "er--not precisely," skinner qualified. "but his investment has already returned self-respect, social opportunity, enhanced efficiency." "and he has n't half as much brains as you have!" "i don't know about that," said skinner, rather dubiously. "anyhow, what he's got are live ones." then, after a pause, "look here, honey, we don't need to worry. we've already invested so much. it's going to continue to bring us in good things--and it is n't going to cost us any more." "no, indeed, it isn't, dearie. i'll see to that!" said honey with firmness. "and i 'll see to it that you _see_ to it. that'll double cinch it," said skinner. honey held up a finger; then turned and listened. "that's the postman's whistle. i'll go." a moment later, she burst into the room, her face radiant. "there," she cried, throwing a large, square envelope down in front of skinner, "you can credit your dress-suit account with that!" [illustration: "there," she cried, "you can credit your dress-suit account with that!"] it was an invitation to a dance at the j. smith crawfords' on the fifteenth--just two weeks off. "i'll put it down in my little book. it is n't exactly tangible, but you can bet your life it may _lead_ to something tangible." "tangible?" echoed honey. "it's a social triumph!" in his fine, round hand, skinner inscribed in the little book the following:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ one social triumph. he passed the record over for honey's approval. "and, oh, goodie," honey cried, "we're all prepared for it! not a penny to spend! now, don't you dare to think of anything!--is there?" "you're right, honey, you're right," skinner almost shouted. he paused abruptly; then, in a hoarse whisper, "say, honey, you know how to dance?" honey stared at him wide-eyed. "why--ye-es--i waltz." "that's archaic. do you know the new things, those cubist proposition dances where you glide and side-step and pause and back up and go ahead again and zigzag like an inebriated politician?" "you mean the turkey trot and the tango and the one-step and the fox trot and the hesitation?" honey rattled off glibly. "is it necessary to learn them all?" said skinner. they looked at each other for a few moments without a word. "no use--we've got to do it, honey." "but that means money. we've only got two weeks, and that means private lessons! and private lessons mean lots of money!" "honey," said skinner solemnly, "we've invested in this dress-suit engine of conquest. it's no good unless we use it. we must learn the most effective way to use it or all the first cost will be wasted. besides, it won't cost much to learn to dance. there are places on sixth avenue--" honey held up both hands. "mercy, dearie, if you learn to dance on sixth avenue, you'll have the sixth-avenue stamp to you. the men who dance on sixth avenue hire their dress suits on third avenue--it all goes together. heavens," she sighed, breaking off abruptly, "have we built up a frankenstein monster? is that dress suit of yours going to prove as voracious as the fabled boa constrictor?" "this dress suit is going to get all it wants to eat," said skinner with finality. honey was frightened at dearie's newly developed stamina. skinner, the acquiescent one, putting his foot down like that! "but, dearie," she urged, "it isn't absolutely necessary for us to learn to dance. and, remember, you promised not to spend any more money." "i told you my dress suit was our engine of conquest--plant! you buy your machinery--your plant. that's the initial cost. then you have to learn how to run it." he took out his little book and put down:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ operating expenses. "but you _promised_," honey persisted. "that was before we got this invitation. things have changed. _promised_ not to spend any more money? what about my being a sit-in-the-corner, watch-the-other-fellow-dance, male-wallflower proposition, eh?"--and honey was convicted by her own words. "but, dearie, what _will_ this dress suit get us into?" "debt!--if we don't look out!" honey crossed to dearie, put her head on his shoulder, and began to cry softly. "there, there," said skinner, stroking her glossy hair, "don't you cry, honey. there's nothing to worry about." she lifted her face and smiled. "there _is n't_ anything to worry about, is there? we have n't anywhere near spent that five hundred and twenty dollars, have we?" "no," said skinner grimly, "not yet!" he disengaged himself from honey's reluctant arms and slowly mounted the stairs. once inside his room, he turned and locked the door, still smiling grimly. he strode to the closet, flung the door open, lifted his dress suit from its peg, and held it at arm's length where it swayed like a scarecrow. "my god, you're a nemesis!" he growled. "there's one for you--there's another!" he punched the thing hard and fast. "that's you, skinner--that's you--for being an ass--a blooming, silly ass!" when he rejoined honey in the dining-room he was smiling, not grimly now, but placidly. "what is it, dearie?" she asked. "just got something off my chest, that's all." the words suggested something to skinner; whenever his exasperation at his folly was too great for him to bear, he'd go upstairs and take it out on the dress suit. and the idea comforted him not a little! so the skinners put themselves in charge of a first-class dancing instructor just off fifth avenue. for two solid weeks, every day honey met dearie after office hours and they practiced trotting the fox trot, stepping the one-step, and negotiating the tango and the hesitation. skinner was thorough in his dancing, as in everything else. he was quick to learn, light on his feet, and soon was an expert and graceful dancer. at the end of the brief term skinner wrote down in his little book:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ instruction in dancing a certain stimulation for two, since the dress- due to dancing which suit engine of conquest quickens the mental needs two to run it ... $ . forces and makes one happier and more alert at his work. the two weeks' loyal devotion to the art of terpsichore made skinner at the crawford dance no less conspicuous as a dancer than as a man of distinguished presence. he found himself greatly in demand, and he made the quick calculation that this new enhancement of his value was due to his dancing--which, in turn, was due to--the dress suit! early in the evening mrs. crawford, the hostess, introduced skinner to mrs. stephen colby, the magnate's wife, and skinner asked for a dance. and as he led that lady to the ballroom, he formulated the following entry in his notebook to be jotted down at the first opportunity: "credit, dress-suit account, one dance with the wife of a multi-millionaire--a social arbiter. an event undreamed of, even in my most ambitious moments! what next, i wonder?" mrs. colby had a way of commenting upon other persons present with a certain cynical frankness--as became a social arbiter--that amused skinner, and he took a genuine fancy to her. the wine of the dance got into his blood, and when the music ceased, he begged for another dance. "certainly," said mrs. colby, "two, if you like. that's all i've got left. anything to get rid of that devilish bore, jimmy brewster. he's coming over here now." the doubtful nature of the compliment struck skinner's sense of humor, and he laughed outright. "what's up?" asked the social arbiter. "of two evils--" skinner began. "but you're a devilish good dancer, and you don't chatter to me all the time." later in the evening. skinner made the following entry in his little book;-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ two more dances with a social arbiter. that's what's next! going some, i reckon. between dances, young crawford took skinner by the arm. "come into the den and have a wee nippie." in the den skinner found a group of millionaires and multi-millionaires, smoking, drinking casually, and talking in quiet, good-natured tones. for the first time in his life, he was really mixing with the rich. no one there knew what skinner's position in the business world was. nor would they have cared if they had known. but skinner was not trumpeting the fact that he was only a "cage man." skinner had many original ideas, which, because of a certain lack of assertiveness, he'd never been able to exploit. mclaughlin and perkins had always looked upon him only as a counter of money and a keeper of accounts. but now he was out of his cage. he talked with these men as he never knew he could talk. as a "cage man," skinner had always dealt with men of small caliber, who were ever in a hurry. if he chanced to meet one of these on the street or in a restaurant and undertook to exploit his ideas, the other always seemed bored. his attitude was, "skinner is only a machine--what does he know about real business?" but the men he was now mixing with in the den seemed to have the leisure of the gods on their hands. they were not bored. they listened with keen interest to what he had to say. skinner observed that these men were good listeners and later noted the fact:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ important discovery! big men of affairs better listeners than talkers. but when they did talk at all, they talked in big figures--millions. and later skinner jotted down:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ one new experience. heard much big talk that was not hot air! there was a fascination to it all. skinner felt that somehow he was sitting in a big game--sitting on the edge, perhaps, but rubbing shoulders with some of the men who actually shaped the affairs of the business world. the realization stimulated him, lifted him up. and when he went to claim his next dance with the social arbiter, he felt more of an equal with "bigness." when skinner that night put the dress suit away, he patted the coat fondly. "sorry, skinner, old chap,--you know what for," he murmured. then he made the note in his little book:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ one important lesson! never prematurely vent spleen on an inanimate object. only silly ass does that. chapter vi dodging a magnate and what came of it next morning, good commuter that he was, skinner made his customary dash for his train. honey was used to this, but she was not prepared for what followed on this particular morning. skinner had only got halfway down to the gate when he saw stephen colby's car coming down the road. here was the multi-millionaire, with whom he had talked on terms of equality the night before, making for the pullman end of his train--here was he, skinner, in his shabby old clothes. would colby recognize him or would n't he? first, skinner was afraid he would n't, then he was afraid he would. he decided not to chance it. he darted back into the vestibule, drew the door half to, and waited until the magnate's car had passed; then he emerged from his hiding-place and made one of his characteristic heel-and-toe sprints for the depot. when he got there, he hurried into the smoker--the laboring man's club. skinner repeated this somewhat eccentric advance, retreat, and quick dash maneuver for three successive days, dodging the formidable car of the magnate, and hoping that honey might not be at her customary place at the front window to watch him off to his train. at first, he was amused. it was a joke on himself, he thought. but repetition presently dulled the edge of comedy. on the fourth occasion of this apparently unaccountable behavior on skinner's part, the "cage man" began to meditate the matter. would he have to do this dodging act every day, like a fugitive, he wondered? it was dawning upon him that his shabby clothes had made him a fugitive from respectability. by jingo! he sat up straight as he realized for the first time that he was the only poorly dressed commuter of whom meadeville might boast. he had prided himself that he'd never given a cuss what other people thought of his clothes, so long as his bank account was intact. by jove! perhaps he'd never known what they thought because they were too polite to tell him! if he'd had no one but himself to consider, skinner would have made the plunge and bought a new business suit right away--even in the face of what that might entail. and his experience with the dress suit had taught him that every purchase was fraught with complex possibilities. but how could he spring it on honey--chief guardian of the bank account? honey, too, pondered skinner's curious dash out and back, the first day he did it. she had her suspicions, but said nothing. she simply waited until the following morning to confirm them. and when the whole combination of circumstances--skinner's advance, colby's car appearing down the road, skinner's retreat--was repeated, it was as plain as an open book to the perspicacious little lady. dearie was shabby, and for the first time in his life he had realized the disadvantage of it. she was secretly glad, for she had always felt that dearie's thrift with regard to clothes was misplaced. but she could never get him to see it that way. the mere flashing by of stephen colby had done more for skinner in that particular than years of affectionate solicitude on her part. "really," she mused, "some men have to be blasted out of a rut with dynamite!" from recent experience, honey deduced that skinner would shy at any new purchase, with its ramifying possibilities. then how to prepare the way? honey was an arch diplomat--and--honey was a great cook. honey met skinner at the door the evening of the fourth day and gently drew him into the dining-room. "look!" she cried, pointing to the table. "oysters!--and later--beefsteak! think of it! beefsteak!" skinner noted with some relief that it was the same formula she had used on a previous memorable occasion. what could it presage? was it possible that his soul and her soul had but a single thought? had he betrayed himself by his shuttle-like performance of the past four mornings? had she observed him, and was she "wise"? the matter of the business suit was upper-most in the mind of each. but as it was something that involved a further assault upon their financial stronghold, it was a subject that must be approached with great tact. each, dreading an avalanche of reproach, waited for the other to speak. and it was not until skinner had finished his second demi-tasse that he began, using the suggestive rather than the assertive form of speech, a form frequently used in the "feeling-out" process. he knew that he could tell by the way honey received his suggestion whether to go ahead or gracefully to change the subject and save his face. "i notice, honey, that colby and crawford and the rest of that bunch wear dark business suits," he ventured. "dark, but generally with a fine, threadlike stripe, and ties to match always," honey said softly. "and the simplest jewelry," she went on,--"inexpensive jewelry!" then they both fell silent. "i know what you're thinking about," skinner ventured again, not unwilling to shift the burden. "what?" "you want me to get a new business suit. now, don't deny it." he made the "don't deny it" suggest a warning, almost a threat. but now that the ice was broken, honey did n't take the plunge. instead, she felt her way in. "you have n't had one for ever so long--and that was only a _cheap_ one." "i would n't need one now if i did n't have to live up to that darned dress suit you made me buy." honey sighed. "think of the cost," skinner went on, still using the suggestive form and leaving himself an avenue of escape, if necessary. honey threw her head back and looked resolutely into skinner's eyes. "cost or no cost, you must have one!" skinner had accomplished his purpose and had at the same time avoided the odium of doing so. but honey had no such scruples. she had taken the initiative and she was going to see the thing through to the limit. "but we must be very careful about the socks and ties--for, of course, you know, dearie, you must get socks and ties," she went on. "i have figured it all out." "you have, you fraud?" said skinner. honey pouted reproachfully, and he hastened to add, "i, too, have figured it all out." "you fraud!" honey came over and put her head on skinner's shoulder. "are n't we the great little conspirators, you and i?" said dearie, as he stroked honey's glossy hair. "yes, each one conspiring all alone by himself against the other." next day skinner bought a new business suit, and accordingly jotted down:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ extension dress-suit plant! one business suit! .... $ . the first morning skinner wore his new suit to business, he left the house for the depot with head erect. he did n't give a rap whether colby saw him or not. but good luck always attends the indifferent in spirit. colby's car flashed by and the multi-millionaire nodded genially to the "cage man," which elated the latter, for he liked colby--felt that in a way he was a man after his own heart. but skinner was too wise to attempt to force himself on the magnate. if there were to be any further cultivation of mutual acquaintance, he resolved to let colby take the initiative. he would wait. as skinner entered the office of mclaughlin & perkins, inc., conscious of his new clothes and suffering somewhat from stage fright, he sensed something in the air of the great room that was devoted to the fluttering femininity of the concern, something humorous. but as he was a man of authority there, there was no outward manifestation of the same. the messenger boys from outside, however, were not subject to the rules of mclaughlin & perkins, inc. "gee," skinner heard mickey, the "littlest," whisper to jimmy of the postal, "pipe de new glad rags on de cage man!" and postal, duly impressed, admonished, "you better not burn any wood in here now 'cause he'll git after you." then, in a whisper, "he never did before 'cause he never had any breeches on an' he did n't dare to run out." "how do you know dat?" "you never seen him below de middle of his vest, did you?" "from down here, lookin' up, wid dat winder in de way, i never seen him much below his collar," whispered mickey, the "littlest." "well, den, you never knew whether he had breeches on or not," pursued the young logician. skinner's lips trembled as he overheard, but he took no official notice. instead, he frowned hard at his cash-book. but when the boys had gone, he turned his face away from the fluttering femininity in the big room and his form shook with emotion. after a bit, he took out his little book and wrote:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ the best laugh i ever had--in this or any of my previous existences. later in the day, skinner crossed to the office of ransome & company, on a matter of business for the firm. there was no one there when he entered but the office boy. but the youngster, from force of habit, when he saw skinner, the acquiescent one, said, "mr. ransome's very busy this morning." "so am _i_ very busy," skinner jerked out. "just tell him i'm here." the boy looked at skinner in surprise, then without a word shambled into the inside office. presently, a tall, pompous man entered and looked about for somebody to take his name to ransome. as the boy emerged from the private office, he caught sight of this gentleman and darted back. in a few moments he returned and spoke to skinner. "mr. ransome'll see _you_ just as soon as he's finished with this gentleman," indicating the pompous one. but the new business clothes had knocked all the acquiescence out of skinner. in their spic-and-spanness they fairly shrieked for respect. "see here, boy," skinner exclaimed angrily, "you tell mr. ransome that i was here before this gentleman and that i want him to see me now or not at all!" "but--" "go!" said skinner. "my firm is important if i'm not," he muttered as the boy disappeared. and as ransome was seller to, instead of a buyer from, mclaughlin & perkins, inc., he came out immediately, rubbing his hands. "why, mr. skinner, i did n't know you were in a hurry." "personally, i'm not," replied skinner, "but my firm's time is valuable." "of course--of course--come right in." when he got back to his cage, skinner jotted down in his little book:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ one victory over detested office boy! good moral effect. shan't waste any more time hereafter just to accommodate pompous individuals! "say, mac," said perkins at luncheon, "did you notice our skinner's brand-new attire?" "yes, perk," said the senior partner, "and i 'm mighty glad of it. i was always ashamed of him--the way he dressed." chapter vii skinner and the "gold bugs" a new and unforseen, but perfectly logical, development from the purchase of the new business suit awaited skinner a few days later. it came about in this way. he was making his customary heel-and-toe sprint for the depot when stephen colby came bowling along in his h.p. that gentleman nodded to skinner, pulled up, and took him in. "you're late," he said genially. "i am, by jove, and thank you for the lift," said skinner. "i've been wanting to tell you a story," said colby. "i had it on my list the other night, but somehow i did n't get to it. you know, you can't always follow the list you make out. stories have got to be apropos of something somebody else says, so my list always gets mixed up and i miss telling some of the best ones." it was one of the multi-millionaire's pleasures to regale his friends with anecdotal matter of his own experience. but before he had finished this particular story, they had reached the depot. the train had already pulled in and colby, still talking, led the way into the pullman. skinner hesitated on the threshold of that unaccustomed domain, but he felt that the magnate expected him to go in with him, and he followed. in the "cage man" colby found a fresh audience. all the way into town he talked about his past efforts, from the time he slept under the grocery-store counter until he reached the presidency of the steel company, and skinner, fascinated and sympathetic, "listened" his way into the magnate's esteem. quite a number of the other "gold bugs"--as skinner had dubbed them--whom he had seen at the crawford affair were in the pullman. they nodded to skinner in a cordial way, which put him at once at his ease, and he soon felt quite as much at home in the pullman as he had in the smoker. that night he told honey all about it. "it only costs twenty-five cents extra," he said apologetically. "that's nothing. i'm glad you did it, dearie. you must do it every day." "very well," said skinner. a few days later skinner said to honey, as he stretched his long legs under the table and sipped his second demi-tasse, "well, honey, i've joined the pullman club for keeps. it only costs a dollar and a half a week." "it's well worth the money," said honey. skinner regarded his beautiful little wife through half-closed eyes. he was puzzled. what curious change had been wrought in this exponent--this almost symbol--of thrift that she should actually encourage him in the pursuit of the ruinous course into which he'd been thrust by the wonderful dress suit! he said nothing, but he jotted down in his little book:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ to operating expenses: $ . a week. the trip into town in the pullman each day was a social event with skinner. he looked forward to it and what he learned was each night a subject of gossip at the dinner table. "it's a regular 'joy ride' and i'm getting all kinds of good out of it," said he enthusiastically one evening. "by jove, clothes are a good commercial proposition." "don't talk about the commercial side of it, dearie. tell me about the 'gold bugs.'" "they're wonderful fellows," said skinner, with the air of a man who had always been accustomed to traveling with such people and was now unbending to confide familiar items of special interest to some unsophisticated listener. "you'd find them fascinating." "they 're just like other men, are n't they?" skinner rather pitied her inexperience. "no, they're not. they're just like great, big boys. the most natural talkers in the world--simple, direct, clear." "do you ever talk?" this question brought skinner back to earth again. he was just dearie now. "_do_ i? say, honey, i've been isolated in that cage of mine so long that i thought i'd forgotten how to talk. but you'd be surprised to hear me--right in with the rest of them!" "but you can't talk big things, dearie, like them. you don't _know_ big things." "bless you, they don't talk big things. they tell anecdotes. and they talk about the time when they were boys--and their early struggles. every darned one of them came from a farm or a blacksmith shop. they all love to tell how often their fathers licked 'em. and they gossip about their old friends and things. the ride in is not business, honey, it's social. there's one thing i've discovered in that pullman club," he went on. "these fellows are n't any cleverer than many a man in my position, but they've realized that it's just as easy to play with blue chips as with white ones--and they've got the nerve to do it." "i don't catch on." "it's just as easy to play with dollars as with dimes--just as easy to write an order for a thousand as for ten. and it's easier to do business with big men. they're more imaginative, quicker to grasp." "that's how they got there," honey interjected. "but particularly, honey, these men are all keen students of human nature. they can size a man up--gee! 'brown's able,' says one. 'yes, but he's tricky,' says another. 'carpenter's honest, but he's a fool.' with the 'gold bugs' credit is a combination of honesty and ability." skinner sipped his demi-tasse reflectively. "honey, you remember what russell sage said in reply to horace greeley's, 'go west, young man!' no? well, this is what he said: 'if you want to make money, go where the money is.' _i 've_ begun to go where the money is. see the connection?" "i'm glad you have," said honey, nodding her head. "those clerks you used to travel with never thought big thoughts or they would n't have been clerks." "but remember, honey, i'm only a clerk." "but you never did belong in the clerk class." "you're right! i never did! i'm beginning to realize it now. why, do you know,"--leaning over the table and counting off his words with his finger,--"i've had ideas that if i 'd only been able to carry out, ideas that i got right in that little cage of mine--" thus skinner's education progressed. he took as enthusiastic a delight in studying the "gold bugs" as a naturalist would in some very ancient, but recently discovered, insect. "i 'm finding out lots of good things in that pullman club, honey," said skinner a week later at the dinner table. "every one of these 'gold bugs' has something under his skin. they may be dick turpins and claude duvals and sam basses, their methods of getting things may not be ideal, but you can't beat their methods of giving. they've all got lovable qualities. they do a lot of things that show it--and they don't use a brass band accompaniment either." "for instance?" said honey, simply and sweetly. "well," said skinner, "take old john mackensie. he's so close that they say his grandfather was the man who chased the last jew out of aberdeen." skinner picked up the paper. "see those initials, honey? 'd. c. d.'" "i've noticed them." "old mackensie, when he was a boy, came near starving to death. a reporter got hold of his case and printed a paragraph about it just like those you see every day. i got it on the quiet. mackensie was saved by an anonymous friend who signed himself 'd. c. d.' he never could find out who it was. several years passed. he watched the papers, but these initials never appeared again. so mackensie concluded that his unknown savior was dead. "but he made up his mind to pass the good deed along and here's the romance of it. he wants whoever it was that helped him to get all the credit for it. he wants him to be reminded--if he happens to be alive and 'broke'--that the good thought started is being pushed along. so to-day a newspaper tells a story of an unfortunate girl--a starving boy picked up by the police--a helpless widow--a friendless old man. the next day you read, 'rec'd from d. c. d. $ .'--'d. c. d. $ '--as the case may be. that's old man mackensie." "and yet they say money kills romance." honey's eyes shone with appreciation. "and there's solon wright," skinner went on, "another 'gold bug.' for years every night he has handed a dollar to a certain shambling fellow outside the ferry gate." "how curious!" "briscom told me about it. the strange thing is, it's a man wright used to detest when he was flush. he does n't like him even now. that's why he gives him the money. moral discipline, the way he puts it. can you beat it?" as a result of these observations in the pullman, skinner jotted down in his little book:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ interesting discovery of generally unsuspected facts in the habits of "gold bugs." while skinner was sailing over a fair sea, untroubled by anything but the growing fear that some day honey might find him out,--about the "raise,"--storm clouds were gathering in a wholly unsuspected quarter. "i saw our skinner getting out of the pullman this morning," said perkins to the senior partner. "what of it?" said mclaughlin. "i see him getting out of it every morning." "still what of it?" persisted mclaughlin. "the pullman habit isn't expensive--only a quarter from meadeville." "oh, nothing," observed perkins. "nothing in itself, but new clothes and traveling round in a pullman don't square with the fact that skinner did n't get his raise." mclaughlin swung around in his chair. "say, perk, what do you mean by these hints? you never _did_ like skinner." "you're mistaken, mac. it was his clothes i did n't like." "you've been throwing out hints," mclaughlin reiterated, "and bothering me so much lately about skinner, i wish to goodness i _had_ raised his salary." "i know," perkins persisted, "but see what our skinner's habits have been in the past--penurious. why the sudden change? you know just as well as i do that a clerk can't travel around with the rich." "why not? the man's been saving money for years--got a bank account. all these little things we've noticed you could cover with a few hundred dollars. come, perk, out with it! just what do you mean?" "it's only a suggestion, mac, not even a hint--but pullman cars are great hot-beds for hatching all kinds of financial schemes. that's where you get your wall street tips--that's where they grow." mclaughlin looked serious. he drummed on his desk with the paper-cutter and waited. "tips are very good when they go right," perkins went on, "but when they go wrong--" he hesitated. "i get you. they're dangerous to a man who is employed in a fiduciary capacity," said mclaughlin very quietly. "i believe as you do," urged perkins, "that skinner is the most honest and loyal man in america--but other honest and loyal men--well, darn it, they're all human." "well?" mclaughlin observed, and waited. "it's a part of wisdom to be cautious. it's just as much for his good as it is for ours. an ounce of prevention, you know. besides, it's _our_ money he's handling." "you may be right," said mclaughlin, rising. "but go slow--wait a little. i'll keep my eye on the meadeville end of it for a while." skinner not only "listened" himself into the affections of stephen colby, but into the affections of other members of the "gold-bug" set as well. he won his way more with his ears than with his tongue. he'd only been a member of the pullman contingent a fortnight when he and honey were invited to dine with the howard hemingways. there they met all the vicarious members of the pullman club--the wives. the hemingway dinner was an open sesame to the skinners. the ladies of the "walled-in" element began to take honey up. they called on her. she was made a member of the bridge club. it cost honey something to learn the game,--some small money losses,--but these were never charged to the dress-suit account, for a very obvious reason. so popular did the skinners become that it was seldom they dined at home. skinner, methodical man that he was, put down in his little book to the credit of the dress-suit account, not the value of the dinner they got, but what they'd actually saved on each occasion. and he began to feel that the dress suit was earning good interest in cash on the investment. the skinners, now that they had engaged in active social life, learned one valuable lesson, which was something of an eye-opener to them both. they found that they had constantly to be on dress parade, as it were, and that in the manners of the social devotee, no less than in his clothes, there can be no letdown. also, they found that, on occasions, their dining out cost them more in the wear and tear on their patience than a dinner at home would have cost them in cash. for instance, when they returned from the brewsters' dinner one night. skinner jotted down in his little book:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ never again! one bad evening! when you go to the brewsters, you've got to talk all the time about their prodigy son who writes plays. anything else bores them, and if you do talk about him, you 're bored. damned if you do, damned if you don't! it's a draw, and a draw is a waste of time! "well, perk," said mclaughlin one morning, "i've got an interesting bit for you. the skinners are doing the society stunt: bridge and that sort of thing." "that's not enough to convict." "they're splurging. they're buying rugs and pictures!" as a matter of fact, honey had bought one modest rug and one modest picture to fill up certain bare spaces over against the meeting of the bridge club at her house, and being a good manager she could make any purchase "show off" to the limit. but the skinners' ice man in detailing the thing to the mclaughlins' maid had assiduously applied the multiplication table. mclaughlin paused. "well," said perkins, "what do you make of it?" "he's getting too big for his breeches." "well?" said perkins. "i hate to do it," said mclaughlin, "but--" "well?" said perkins. "don't stand there saying 'well,' perk. help me out." "what are you going to do about it, mac?" "did you notice him this morning? he looks as worried as the devil!" mclaughlin drummed on his desk with the paper-cutter. "perk, we've got to do something--and we've got to do it sudden." mclaughlin turned. "come in!" he shouted. the boy entered and handed the senior partner a card. "send him in." he turned to perkins. "it's billings. just you think this over to-night, perk." "hello, billings." chapter viii chickens coming home to roost skinner _did_ look worried, but what ailed him was very foreign to the cause that mclaughlin and perkins suspected. he was worrying about his diminishing bank account. but it was n't the actual diminution of funds that worried him so much--he was afraid honey would find him out. for a long time this fear had haunted him. like a wasp, it had buzzed constantly about his ears, threatening to sting him at any moment. it had become a veritable obsession, a mean, haunting, appetite-destroying, sleep-banishing obsession. there were many ways in which this fear might be realized. for instance, honey had told him that she was thinking of studying finance so as to find out all the little leakages and help them save, and that she was going to ask mr. waldron, the teller of the meadeville national, to instruct her in the intricacies of banking. what inadvertent remark might not that functionary drop and thus sow suspicion in honey? at first, skinner had thought of warning the teller not to discuss these things with honey. but he made up his mind that that might direct waldron's attention to their account and lead him to suspect something from the new process of circulation which skinner had set going when he promoted himself. no--better let sleeping dogs lie in that direction. instead, skinner persuaded honey that it would be an imposition on mr. waldron, take up too much of his time. he, skinner, would give her what instruction she needed. the more the "cage man" schemed to keep his wife from finding out the deception he'd practiced on her, the more possibilities of exposure developed, and the more apprehensive he became. no sooner did honey promise not to bother mr. waldron than another danger popped up. by jingo! there was mrs. mclaughlin! honey might again mention to her something about his raise, reiterate what she had hinted at on the night of the first presbyterian reception. no doubt, if she did, mrs. mclaughlin would quiz her this time, find out what she was driving at, and report it to mclaughlin and make him, skinner, a laughing-stock in the eyes of the boss. then, by a series of recoils, mclaughlin would deny it to his wife, mrs. mclaughlin would deny it to honey, and there'd be the devil to pay. and paying the devil, in this particular instance, skinner apprehended, would be a hard proposition. instigated by this fear, ever since the night of the first presbyterian affair skinner had schemed to keep mrs. mclaughlin and honey apart. it was easy enough at first, when they were only invited to a few affairs, but with the enlargement of their social horizon the danger loomed bigger. skinner knew enough about women not to warn honey against talking confidentially with mrs. mclaughlin, since this would excite her suspicions and recoil upon him, skinner, with a shower of inconvenient questions. the only thing he could do, then, was to see to it that he and honey should avoid places where the mclaughlins were liable to be. skinner had been put to all sorts of devices to find out if the mclaughlins were going to certain parties to which he and honey had been invited. he could n't do this very well by discussing the thing with the boss. so he had endeavored to determine the exact social status of the mclaughlins in that community and avoid the stratum in which they might circulate. but this rule had failed him once or twice, for in communities of the description of meadeville social life was more or less democratic and nondescript. when he had thought himself secure on certain occasions, he had bumped right into the mclaughlins and then it behooved him to stick pretty close to honey all the evening. this was not what he counted on, for skinner was beginning to enjoy the sweets of broader social intercourse. he was beginning to like to talk with and dance with other women. at times, when skinner had received information at the last moment that the mclaughlins were to be at a party, he had affected a headache. on one of these occasions, honey had set her heart on going and told skinner that the lewises had offered to take her along with them in case he should be delayed at the office--for skinner had even pretended once or twice to be thus delayed. presto! at honey's words about the lewises, dearie's headache had disappeared. skinner thought with a humorous chuckle how honey had said, "dearie, i believe you're jealous of tom lewis." "perhaps i am," the miserable skinner had admitted. skinner pictured the effect of exposure in all sorts of dramatic ways. but not once did he see himself suffering--only honey. that's what worried him. he could bear pain without flinching, but he could not bear seeing other persons bear pain--particularly honey. he knew he could throw himself on her mercy and confess and that she would forgive him because she'd know he did it on her account. but the hurt, the real hurt, would be hers to bear--and skinner loved honey. whenever skinner had felt apprehensive or blue because of his self-promotion and the consequent difficulties he found himself plunged into, he had looked at his little book, and the credit side of the dress-suit account had always cheered him. but this infallible method was not infallible to-night. going out on the train skinner had the "blues" and "had them good." gloom was closing in on all sides; he could n't tell why, unless the growing fear of exposure to honey was taking hold on his subconsciousness and manifesting itself in chronic, indefinite apprehension. at meadeville, he purposely avoided black, his next-door neighbor, with whom he customarily walked home from the depot--for skinner was not the man to inflict an uncordial condition upon an innocent person. when skinner reached home, honey drew him gently into the dining-room and pointed to the table. as she began, "look, dearie, oysters, and later--beefsteak! think of it! beefsteak!"--the now familiar formula that had come to portend some new extravagance,--dearie stopped her. "don't, honey, don't tell me what you've got for dinner, course by course. give me the whole thing at once, or give me a series of surprises as dinner develops." "i think you're horrid to stop me," honey pouted reproachfully. "if i tell you what i 've got, you'll enjoy it twice as much--once in anticipation, once in realization." "but what does this wonderful layout portend or promise?" "to do good is a privilege, is n't it?" "granted." "then it's a promise," was honey's cryptic answer. honey had certain little obstinacies, one of which was a way of teasing dearie by making him wait when he wanted to know a thing. it was no use--skinner could n't budge her. "i'll wait," said he. but all the circumstances pointed to the probability of a new "touch," which did not add greatly to his appetite. after his demi-tasse, skinner said to honey, "come, honey, spring it." "not till you 've got your cigar. i want you to be perfectly comfortable." skinner lighted up, leaned back in his chair, and affected--so far as he was able--the appearance of indulgent nonchalance. "shoot." honey leaned her elbows on the table, rested her chin in the little basket formed by her interlacing fingers, and looked at dearie in a way that she knew to be particularly engaging and effective. "i 've always wanted to do a certain thing," she began. "_you_ have always been my first concern, but now--i want to do something very personal--very much for my own pleasure. will you promise to let me do it?" "you bet i will," said skinner; "nothing's too good for you!" skinner was genuinely and enthusiastically generous. also, it would be a good scheme to indulge honey, since he might have to ask her indulgence later on. "i had a letter from mother this morning." "indeed?" there was little warmth in skinner's tone. "i suppose she spoke pleasantly, not to say flatteringly, of me." "now, dearie, don't talk that way. i know mother is perfectly unreasonable about you." "she came darned near making me lose you. that's the only thing i've got against her." "she has n't really anything against you--she only thinks she has," observed honey. "the only thing she's got against me is that she acted contrary to my advice and lost her money. she's hated me ever since!" "it _is_ wrong of her, but we 're not any of us infallible. besides, she's my mother--and i can't help worrying about her." "why worry?" "the interest on her mortgage comes due and she can't pay it." "if she'd only listened to me and not taken the advice of that scalawag brother-in-law of yours, she would n't have any mortgage to pay interest on." "she only got a thousand dollars. at five per cent, that's fifty dollars a year." skinner swallowed hard to keep down the savage impulse that threatened to manifest itself in profanity whenever he thought of honey's mother and his weakling brother-in-law. "honey," he said grimly, "does your mother in that letter ask you to help her out with that interest?" honey lifted her head proudly. "she does n't ask me anything. she does n't have to. she only tells me about it." "yes, she does n't have to." "you know i 've always wanted to do something for her, and i've never been able to. i'm ashamed to neglect her now, when we're living so well and dressing so well--and you have your raise. it's only a dollar a week." "have you any more relatives who have a speculative tendency?" skinner began with chill dignity. "now, dearie!" honey began to cry and skinner got up from the table and went over and kissed her. she had married him against mother's advice and had stood by him like a brick, and he'd do anything for her. he stroked her glossy hair. "you _have_ always wanted to do something for her, have n't you? you're a good girl! do it! send her a dollar a week!" skinner resumed his place at the table. this was the climax, he thought, the _ne plus ultra_ of it all! he was to contribute a dollar a week to his mother-in-law to make up a loss caused by the advice of a detested, silly-ass brother-in-law, who had always hated him, skinner. surely, the dress-suit account had reached the debt limit! he took out his little book and jotted down:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ one important lesson! never take the first false step! it's apt to lead, one knows not whither! "you don't know how happy you've made me," said honey, "and i 'm so proud of you--such strength of character--just like old solon wright, you're doing this for one you positively dislike, dearie!--moral discipline!" "moral discipline, your grandmother!" snapped skinner; then softly, "i'm doing it for one i love." "i would n't have mentioned it if you hadn't got your raise. you know that!" his raise! skinner thought much about "his" raise as he lay in bed that night. had he gone too far to back out, he wondered? by jove, if he did n't back out, his fast-diminishing bank account would _back_ him out! the thing would work automatically. probably in his whole life skinner had never suffered so much disgust. think of it! he must go on paying mother-in-law a dollar a week forever and ever, amen! no, he'd be hanged if he'd do it! he'd tell honey the whole thing in the morning and throw himself on her mercy. the resolution gave him relief and he went to asleep. but he did n't tell honey in the morning. he was afraid to hurt her. he thought of his resolution of the night. it's so easy to make conscience-mollifying resolves in the night when darkness and silence make cowards of us. no, he could n't tell her now. he'd tell her when he got home to dinner. meantime, things were doing in the private office of mclaughlin & perkins, inc. "i've thought it over this far, perk," said mclaughlin. "well?" "understand, i believe in skinner absolutely--but--" "even _your_ judgment is not infallible, you mean?" "exactly." "so do i believe in him," perkins said. "i couldn't offend him for the world," mclaughlin went on. "he's as sensitive as a cat's tail. i would n't even dare to go into that cage of his." mclaughlin paused, "yet we've got to do _something_. we can't wait till summer when he goes on his vacation. all kinds of things might happen before then. time and wall street don't wait for anybody--except magnates!" "you mean, have an expert accountant go over his books?" said perkins. "certainly, that's what i mean--that's what you mean--that's what's been in both our minds from the time he began to travel with that pullman crowd." "it ought to be done at once," said perkins. "if things are not regular--well, we must protect ourselves. i'm puzzled how to get rid of him while we're doing it. it's a delicate business," perkins urged. "i've got that all figured out, perk." mclaughlin paused to register the comedy line that was to follow. "i'm going to send skinner to st. paul--after willard jackson!" the partners were silent for a few moments; then perkins said, "you can't, mac." "why not?" "it's a joke!" "of course it's a joke! but it's a harmless joke. you and i are the only ones that are 'on.' skinner won't suspect. we'll put it up to him in dead earnest." "the worst jackson can do is to insult him the way he did you," said perkins. "the old dog!" said mclaughlin. he paused. "we'll get skinner out of his cage for a while. it'll cost us so much money--we'll add that on to the expert accountant's bill. can you think of a better way, perk?" "mac, you're a genius!" mclaughlin pressed the button marked "cashier." perkins put out his hand. "don't call him yet, mac. wait till i get through laughing." mclaughlin turned as the "cage man" entered. "hello, skinner. sit down." he paused a moment to register his next words. "skinner, mr. perkins and i want you to do something for us." skinner looked from one partner to the other. "yes," he said quietly. "two years ago we lost the biggest customer we ever had," mclaughlin proceeded. "i know. willard jackson--st. paul." "lost him through the stupidity of briggs," snapped mclaughlin. skinner nodded. "we've been trying to get him back ever since, as you know. we sent our silver-tongued browning out there. no good! then mr. perkins went out. then i went out. all this you know." the "cage man" nodded. mclaughlin paused. "skinner, we want _you_ to go out to st. paul and get him back." skinner looked curiously from one partner to the other, but both seemed to be dead serious. "but--i'm--i'm not a salesman," the "cage man" stammered. "that's just it," said mclaughlin earnestly. "there must be something wrong with the policy or the method or the manners of our salesmen, and mr. perkins and i have thought about it till we're stale. we want to put a fresh mind on the job." "jackson's gone over to the starr-bacon folks. they do well by him. how am i going to pry him loose?" said skinner. "we'll do even better by him," said mclaughlin. "you know this business as well as i do, skinner. i 'm darned if i don't think you know it better. you know how closely we can shave figures with our competitors, i don't care who they are. i 'm going to make you our minister plenipotentiary. do as you please, only get jackson. i don't care if you take a small loss. we can make it up later. but we want his business." skinner pondered a moment. "really, mr. mclaughlin, i don't know what to say. i'm very grateful to you for such confidence. i 'll do my best, sir." "it'll take rare diplomacy, rare diplomacy, skinner," mclaughlin warned. "what kind of a man is mr. jackson?" skinner asked presently. "i know him by his letters, but what kind of man is he to meet?" "the worst curmudgeon west of pittsburg," said mclaughlin. "he'll insult you, he'll abuse you, he might even threaten to assault you like he did me. but he's got a bank roll as big as vesuvius--and you know what his business means to us. take as much time as you like, spend as much money as you like, skinner,--don't stint yourself,--but _get_ jackson!" "have you any suggestions?" said skinner. "not one--and if i had, i would n't offer it. i want you to use your wits in your own way, unhampered, unencumbered. it's up to you." "when do you want me to go?" "business is business--the sooner the quicker!" skinner thought a moment. "let's see--to-morrow's sunday. i'll start monday morning, if that is satisfactory." "fine!" said mclaughlin, rising and shaking hands with his cashier. skinner walked to the door, paused, then came halfway back. "what kind of a woman is mrs. jackson, mr. mclaughlin?" "well," said mclaughlin, staggered by the question, "she don't handsome much and she ain't very young, if that's what you mean." skinner blushed. "i didn't mean it that way." "the only thing i've got against mrs. jackson is she's a social climber," perkins broke in. "the only thing i 've got against her," said mclaughlin, "is--she don't climb. she wants to, but she don't." "is there any particular reason why she does n't climb?" said skinner. "vulgar--ostentatiously vulgar," said mclaughlin. skinner smiled. he pondered a moment, then ventured, "say, mr. mclaughlin, it'd be a big feather in my cap if i landed jackson, wouldn't it?" "one of the ostrich variety, my son,--seeing that the great auk is dead," said mclaughlin solemnly. skinner's voice faltered a bit. "you don't know, mr. mclaughlin, and you, mr. perkins, how grateful i am for this opportunity. i--i--" he turned and left the room. "it's pathetic, ain't it? i feel like a sneak, perk," said mclaughlin. "pathetic, yes," said perkins. "but it's for his good. if he's all right, we're vindicating him--if he is n't all right, we want to know it." the "cage man" whistled softly to himself as he reflected that the awful day of confessing to honey was deferred for an indefinite period. it was a respite. but what gave him profound satisfaction was the fact that mclaughlin and perkins were beginning to realize that he could do something besides stand in a cage and count money. they had made him their plenipotentiary, mclaughlin said. gad! that meant full power! by jingo! he kept on whistling, which was significant, for skinner rarely whistled. and for the first time in his career, when he smelt burning wood pulp and looked down at the line of messenger boys with a ready-made frown and caught the eyes of mickey, the "littlest," smiling impudently at him, skinner smiled back. for the rest of the day, as skinner sat in his cage, three things kept running through his head: he's a curmudgeon; she's a climber; and she _doesn't_ climb. from these three things the "cage man" subconsciously evolved a proposition:-- three persons would go to st. paul, named in order of their importance: first, skinner's dress suit; second, honey; and third, skinner. chapter ix skinner fishes with a diplomatic hook the first step in the scheme which skinner had evolved for the reclamation of willard jackson, of st. paul, minnesota, was to be taken sunday morning, after services, at the first presbyterian church of meadeville, new jersey. skinner had not told honey he was going to take her on his trip west. he would do that after church, if a certain important detail of his plan did not miscarry. although he paid respectful attention to the sermon, skinner's thoughts were at work on something not religious, and he was relieved when the doxology was finished and the blessing asked. unlike most of the others present, skinner was in no hurry to leave. instead, he loitered in the aisle until mrs. stephen colby overtook him on her way down from one of the front pews. "why, mr. skinner, this _is_ a surprise," exclaimed the social arbiter. then slyly, "there's some hope for you yet." "i thought i'd come in and make my peace before embarking on a railroad journey," skinner observed. "going away? not for long, i hope." "st. paul. i'm not carrying a message from the ephesians--just a business trip." "st. paul's very interesting." "i'm glad to hear it." "you've never been there?" "no." "goodness--i know it well." "what bothers me is, i'm afraid mrs. skinner 'll find it dull. i'm taking her along. you see, i 'll have lots to do, but she does n't know anybody out there." the social arbiter pondered a moment. "but she _should_ know somebody. would you mind if i gave her a letter to mrs. j. matthews wilkinson? very old friend of mine and very dear. you'll find her charming. something of a bore on family. her great-grandfather was a kind of land baron out that way." "it's mighty good of you to do that for mrs. skinner." "bless you, i'm doing it for you, too. you have n't forgotten that you're a devilish good dancer and you don't chatter all the time?" then, after a pause, "i'm wishing a good thing on the wilkinsons, too,"--confidentially,--"for i don't mind telling you i've found mrs. skinner perfectly delightful. she's a positive joy to me." "you're all right, mrs. colby." "that's the talk. yes, i'm coming along." she waved her hand to stephen colby. "when do you go?" "to-morrow morning." "i'll send the letter over this afternoon--and if you don't mind, i 'll wire the wilkinsons that you're coming on." skinner impulsively caught her hand. "mrs. colby, you're the best fellow i ever met!" when the letter arrived at the skinner's house that afternoon, honey knitted her brows. "i don't understand it." "you ought to. it's for you." "dearie," said honey, rising, her eyes brimming, "you mean to say that i'm going to st. paul with you?" "don't have to say it. is n't that letter enough?" "dearie, you're the most wonderful man i ever saw. think of it!--a letter from mrs. colby! i'll bet those wilkinsons are swells!" "they breathe the colby stratum of the atmosphere. it's a special stratum, designed and created for that select class." "it's quite intoxicating." "special brands usually are." "i thought those western cities did n't have classes." "my dear, blood is n't a matter of geography. there's not a village in the united states that does n't have its classes. the more loudly they brag of their democracy, the greater the distance from the top to the bottom." as skinner said this, he jotted down in his little book:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ one "open sesame" to the smartest set west of the alleghanies! and honey clapped her hands. and as he put mrs. colby's letter in his inside pocket, skinner muttered to himself, "a climber, but does n't climb. she'll climb for this all right!" the skinners reached st. paul tuesday night and registered at the hotel. when he had deposited honey in the suite which had been reserved by wire for them, skinner proceeded to execute the next step in his scheme for the reclamation of willard jackson. he returned to the desk. "i wish," he said to the chief clerk, "that you 'd see to it that a paragraph regarding my arrival is put in the morning papers, just a little more than mere mention among hotel arrivals"--he took pen and paper and wrote--"something like this: 'william manning skinner, of mclaughlin & perkins, inc., new york, reached town last evening and is stopping at the hotel.' there's a lot of people here i want to see, but i might overlook 'em in the rush of business. if they know i'm here, they'll come to see me." "very good, mr. skinner," said the clerk. "i'll see to it." skinner paused a moment. "by jove, i've almost forgotten the principal thing." he added a few words to the copy. "put that in, too, please. can you read it? see: 'mrs. skinner, daughter of the late archibald rutherford, of hastings-on-the-hudson, accompanies her husband.' that's just to please her." [illustration: "mrs. skinner, daughter of the late archibald rutherford, of hastings-on-the-hudson, accompanies her husband"] "'rutherford'--'hastings-on-the-hudson'--swagger name," commented the clerk. skinner smiled at the clerk's comment. if it impressed this dapper, matter-of-fact, know-everybody man-of-affairs that way, how much more would it appeal to mrs. curmudgeon w. jackson's social nose. veritably, it augured well for his scheme. but he only said, "it reads a devilish sight better than plain skinner, does n't it?" "well," said the clerk, trying to be consoling and diplomatic and failing in both, "you must n't always judge a man by his name." after breakfast next morning skinner and honey remained in their rooms, waiting for the message that was to come from the wilkinsons, for skinner had reckoned that any friend of the colbys would receive prompt attention. "she'll call you up, honey, and ask us to dine to-night. there, there, don't ask any questions. i've figured it all out. but we're engaged until saturday." "engaged every night? why, dearie, this is only wednesday. you had n't told me anything about it." "quite right," said skinner, "i had not." "what are we going to do?" "i have no plans. i suppose we'll sit in our rooms or go to the theater." "well," said honey, "it beats me." on reading the morning paper, mrs. j. matthews wilkinson said to her husband, "they're here--the skinners--jennie colby's friends, you know. we must have them to dinner." "when?" said wilkinson, looking up from his paper. "i dare say they'll be here but a short time. better make it to-night." "you're the doctor," said wilkinson, resuming his paper. "we'll send out a hurry call for the armitages and the bairds and the wendells," said mrs. wilkinson, mentally running over her list of the most select of st. paul's inner circle. "we'll show these people that we're not barbarians out here." "can you corral all those folks for to-night? is n't it rather sudden, my dear?" "i've dined with them on shorter notice than that, just to accommodate them. i 'll call up the skinners right away." honey answered the 'phone. of course they'd be delighted to dine at the wilkinsons, but every night was filled up to saturday. a pause. hold saturday for them? she should say they would. there was another pause. then honey clapped her hand over the receiver and turned to skinner. "can we take a spin with them this afternoon, dearie?" "you bet. we've nothing else to do." "you fraud," said honey, when she had hung up the receiver, "you said you had engagements." "i tried to convey to you," observed skinner, somewhat loftily, "that we couldn't dine at the wilkinsons' before saturday. that covers it, i think." according to skinner's plans, the dinner at the wilkinsons' was to be the big, climactic drive at the fortress of willard jackson's stubbornness. as skinner had reckoned, mrs. curmudgeon w. jackson nosed out the paragraph in the morning paper, first thing. "who is this mr. skinner, willard? do you know him?" "what skinner?" "william manning skinner." "never heard of him." "he's of mclaughlin & perkins, inc.,--your old friends." jackson pricked up his ears. "what's he doing here? does it say?" "no." "i know," said jackson shrewdly. "he's out here after me." he chuckled. "they've been sending emissaries to get me back ever since i quit 'em. even the partners came out, one at a time. that shows what they think of my trade." "skinner's got his wife with him." "i don't blame him. it's a devilish mean business going on the road without some one to look after you." jackson paused. "but he can't disguise his fine italian hand that way. i know those fellows." "she's some swell," said mrs. jackson. "daughter of the late archibald rutherford, of hastings-on-the-hudson." "that don't mean anything. the way they write it makes it _look_ aristocratic. rutherford!--he might have been a butcher! and hastings-on-the-hudson! well, they have butchers there as well as astors!" "mebbe you're right." "i'll bet you a new dress skinner'll be after me to-day," said jackson, folding his newspaper and preparing to leave for his office. "trust your uncle dudley here--i know." the very first words that greeted jackson that night when he reached home were, "i get the dress, don't i?" "how do you know?" "skinner didn't get after you to-day. look!" mrs. jackson held up the evening paper and read aloud. "'a belated honeymoon--that's what we're here for more than anything else,' said mr. william manning skinner, of mclaughlin & perkins, inc., of new york, to a reporter this afternoon. the skinners had just returned from a spin over beyond minneapolis with the j. matthews wilkinsons--" "the devil you say!" said jackson, reaching over and taking the paper. "aw!" he chucked the paper aside. "that don't establish their social status any more than living in hastings-on-the-hudson or being a rutherford. it don't amount to anything. it's just business. fellows like wilkinson, when some outsider is n't quite good enough socially and they want to swell his head without committing themselves, take him in their car or to the club. in that way they save their business faces without sacrificing their social faces. i know," he growled. "but how did he get in with the wilkinsons? they have n't any business." "wilkinson is in all sorts of things that nobody knows of but himself." he glanced over the sub-caption. "skinner sees no difference socially between the st. paul and the new york people. puts st. paul first," he observed, "thanks for that." he read further. "'but the western people are more frankly hospitable'!" "moonshine! moonshine!" he commented. "hospitality ain't a matter of location. you'll find generous people and devilish mean people, no matter where you go. that's soft soap. it reads well--but--i know." "it don't look as if he'd have much time for you, willard." "he ain't through yet," said jackson, lighting a stogie. "i'll bet you another dress that to-morrow--" "taken!" mrs. jackson turned again to the paper. "that girl knows how to _dress_, all right!" but it was n't honey's dress that stirred mrs. jackson's soul to the depths. these skinners were hand in glove with the inaccessible wilkinsons, and--the devil take it--jackson was no longer a customer of mclaughlin & perkins, inc. skinner read the evening paper with great satisfaction. the inky seed disseminated through the press was, he felt, bound to take strong root in the fertile consciousness of mrs. curmudgeon w. jackson, and therefrom was sure to react effectively upon the decidedly active consciousness of jackson himself. with this end in view, as per plan of campaign for the reclamation of willard jackson, skinner had had himself interviewed on a subject dear and flattering to the middle west, especially flattering to st. paul. he had written his "first impressions of st. paul" on the way out from new york, and had permitted the same to be extracted by the reporters--with great cunning--from his modest and reluctant self. honey was present--designedly present--while the young newspaper men were quizzing skinner, dressed in her very latest, which was carefully noted and described in the interview, for decorative purposes. "we just looked in _en passant_," skinner observed to the reporters, using his french to the limit. "it's a kind of belated honeymoon. we've seen mr. hill's residence and we ran over and looked at those wonderful flour mills in minneapolis, your neighbor"-- he paused. a frozen atmosphere seemed suddenly to enshroud the reporters. their pencils ceased to record. "oh, yes, let's get back to st. paul." instantly the temperature rose about a hundred degrees, and the reporters' pencils began to move again. when the newspaper men were gone, skinner jotted down:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ useful hint! when you're in st. paul, talk about _st. paul_! and when he read his interview in the evening paper, skinner made this entry:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ a certain remarkable authority in discussing social matters which i never thought i possessed. in fact, which i never did possess until i got the dress suit. the skinners devoted the days between wednesday and saturday to loafing or sight-seeing, principally the former. they drove over to minneapolis again and took in the wonderful flour mills, for anything that pertained to machinery fascinated skinner. then they went out to the lake and had a trout dinner and all the rest of it. but after a time, this unaccountably useless routine got on honey's nerves. "dearie," she protested, "this is our honeymoon, to be sure, but don't you think you ought to get after business?" "don't worry. business will get after _us_ pretty soon." "but time is flying." "time is doing just what i want it to do. it takes time for plans to develop. it takes time for seed to grow. i started business getting after us sunday morning at the first presbyterian church in meadeville. i prepared some of the seed on the way out here. i began sowing the evening we arrived. i fanned the flame with a big puff,"--he held up the paper with the interview in it. "jingo, that's funny. i did n't mean it literally." "your metaphors are fearfully mixed, dearie." "does n't matter. they're graphic." "but they're not clear to me." "they are to me, which is enough," said skinner, with a suggestion of finality. honey pouted reproachfully at the snub, and skinner's heart instantly smote him. "don't worry, honey. it's all right." he paused. "now, i'm going to make a prophecy." he pointed impressively at her with his forefinger. "and you mark my words! things will begin to happen right after the wilkinson dinner." "that's sunday morning." "things have happened on sunday," observed skinner quietly. "when do you expect to start for home?" "i 'm not sure, but i 'm counting strongly on tuesday morning." while the skinners were talking, something pertaining to the same business was developing in another part of the city. "do i get another dress?" mrs. jackson asked as the famous curmudgeon entered the dining-room thursday evening. "you do," he growled. "i'll be hanged if i understand it." "it's too bad," mrs. jackson began. the curmudgeon held up his finger. "stop right where you are. i know what you're going to say." he growled out the accustomed formula: "'you'd give me dresses all day long and diamonds and a magnificent house, but you don't give me what is dearest in the world. i want to go with the people i 'm fit to go with!' in the future, just to save time, cross your fingers and i'll know you mean formula number two." "but mr. skinner," mrs. jackson persisted. the curmudgeon cut her short. "what's _skinner_ got to do with it?" "got to do with it? why, he's a regular missing link!" "missing link?" jackson looked at her in surprise. "have you seen him?" "i don't mean that--i mean connecting link." "some difference," jackson grunted. "if you hadn't gone and broken with mclaughlin & perkins, inc." "that's enough. it's too late now. i don't want to hear anything more about it." mrs. jackson said nothing. she knew that silence at such a time was her most effective weapon. jackson waited for her to speak, but as she did not speak he immediately felt sorry that he'd been short with her. she was the only person in the world he really cared for. but he must show no outward sign of weakness, so he repeated, "it's too late now, i tell you!" but, being a resourceful man, jackson never considered anything too late. he would never take defeat for granted until he should be in his coffin. as a matter of fact, he had often regretted that he had broken with mclaughlin & perkins, inc. if it had n't been for that fresh salesman, briggs, he never would have. and after he _had_ broken with them, his stupid obstinacy had stood in the way of resuming friendly relations, for mclaughlin & perkins, inc., had always delivered the goods. chapter x skinner lands a curmudgeon with his head full of these reflections but without any definite method to accomplish a rather indefinite purpose, jackson strolled into the lobby of the hotel the next morning. "who is this skinner that was interviewed?" he asked the chief clerk, whom he had known for a long time. glibly the clerk recounted to jackson all he knew about their guest, who had suddenly become illustrious through the magic touch of the j. matthews wilkinsons. "point him out to me," said jackson. "i always like to look over these eastern guys that know so much that ain't so about us middle west people." "the skinners don't get down to breakfast before ten," said the clerk. an hour later jackson strolled in casually and took a chair opposite the desk. here was an opportunity for the clerk, an opportunity which jackson had arranged for him without his knowing it. he passed around from behind the desk and intercepted skinner as he and honey were about to step into the elevator. "mr. skinner," he said, "i'd like you to meet one of our prominent citizens." he led skinner over to where the curmudgeon was sitting. "mr. skinner, i want you to shake hands with mr. willard jackson." "how do you do, mr. skinner?" said jackson, rather reservedly; for now that the game was going the way he had designed it should go, he wanted to make it appear that the clerk, and not he, had taken the initiative. "i'm very glad to meet you, mr. jackson," said skinner, with his accustomed cordiality. "i saw your little squib in the paper," said jackson. "you must belong to the boost club." "it never does any harm to tell pleasant truths," said skinner. presently jackson remarked, "you're with mclaughlin & perkins, inc., i see." "you know them?" "why, yes. i'm willard jackson." "oh, yes," laughed skinner, "how stupid of me. of course i know. certainly i know." he caught jackson's coat and drew him over and added confidentially, "i'm a little bit abstracted. you see, this is a kind of junketing expedition. just what they said in the paper--a belated honeymoon. i've never had a chance before, and i'm devoting my whole time to giving the wife a good time." he pulled out his watch. "say, you'll excuse me. we've got a date." "of course," said jackson. skinner grasped jackson's hand cordially. "say, won't you run in again and have a chat? i'm awfully glad to have met you." "well, i'll be jiggered," said jackson to himself as he left the hotel. anyhow, he reflected, as he walked downtown to his office, he'd taken the first step, he'd broken the ice. it had gone against the grain to do it, but it was entirely on the wife's account. he'd let skinner take the next step. he'd be darned if _he_ would. but as usual in social matters, the woman's domain entirely, the man in the case reckoned without his host! for two whole days jackson waited in his office for skinner to appear--waited in vain. he dreaded going home to dinner, dreaded formula number two. each night he half determined to 'phone some excuse and dine at the club, but put the suggestion aside as petty, shirking. however, nothing was said at dinner by the good mrs. curmudgeon, and jackson began to feel that the incident was closed. if only the departure, the sudden departure, of skinner would be as conspicuously recorded as his advent had been, what a relief it would be. nothing further appeared in the papers about skinner, however, and jackson was flattering himself that that gentleman had folded his tent like the arab. a great calm prevailed in the heart of jackson. but this proved to be only a weather-breeder. sunday morning when jackson entered the breakfast room, he found his wife in tears. "look," she cried, holding up the paper and pointing to the great headline. "what's the matter? some accident? somebody dead?" "i should say not! somebody's very much alive! we're the dead ones!" jackson took the paper from her hand and read: "important social event. the west dines the east. mr. and mrs. j. matthews wilkinson entertain at a quiet, select dinner mr. and mrs. william manning skinner, of new york. the dinner guests were mr. and mrs. philip armitage, mr. and mrs. almeric baird, mr. and mrs. jack wendell--" jackson put the paper down. somehow he felt guilty. he avoided his wife's reproachful eyes. but he did n't dare cover up his ears, and the ear is not always so successful at avoiding as the eye. the eye can see only straight ahead, but the ear can hear from all around. "think of it," sniffled mrs. jackson, her sniffle developing into a blubber as she went on. "i'm not a snob, but why can't _i_ go with those people? we've got lots of money! i want to see the best kind of life, but i've never had the chance, and now these skinners come here, are taken up,--wined and dined,--and we're left out in the cold!" [illustration: "why can't _i_ go with those people?" she sniffled] "how can i help that?" jackson grunted. but he knew what was coming and it came. "you _could_ have helped it. traded with mclaughlin & perkins, inc., for years and then broke off--spoiled this chance!" "how the deuce could i see two years ahead and know that skinner was coming out here?" jackson snapped. "besides, he could n't have got us an invitation to that dinner anyhow!" "the wilkinsons have taken him up. they've established his social status. it was n't a public dinner, such as a politician gives to another politician; it was n't an automobile ride or a club affair. it was a private dinner, very private! they introduced him to the select few, the inner circle,--him and his wife,--his wife!!" she wailed. "but what does that lead to?" "we might not go there, but we could have had the skinners here." "what good would that do? it would n't put you in direct touch with the wilkinsons, even if you did have the skinners here." "no, but it would help. the j. matthews wilkinsons dine them one day, the willard jacksons dine them another day. see--the connecting link?" "oh, damn these social distinctions," said jackson. "it's you women that make 'em. we men don't!" "i can't eat any breakfast," mrs. jackson sobbed. "i'm too upset. i must go to my room!" jackson did n't eat much breakfast either. when his wife had gone, he threw the paper to the floor and kicked it under the table, then he jammed his hat on to his head, and with a whole mass of profanity bubbling and boiling within him, he left the house. in the calm that succeeded the storm within, jackson reflected that his present domestic tranquillity was threatened by the presence of these skinners, and not only that, but their coming, if he could not avail of it, would be a source of reproach for years to come. being something of a bookkeeper, he figured out that if, on the one hand, he might be compelled to eat a bit of humble pie,--not customarily a part of the curmudgeon's diet,--on the other hand, he would gain perhaps years of immunity from reproaches and twitting. many times he passed and re-passed the hotel, first with a grim determination to go in, and then with as grim a determination not to go in. but at last his wife's troubled, haunting eyes won, as they always did, and he went in. jackson waited an hour before skinner appeared. skinner had reckoned that about that time the curmudgeon would be lounging around downstairs, waiting to meet him quite accidentally, so he permitted himself a cigar and a stroll in the office, which stroll was made to appear casual. the curmudgeon had disposed himself in a huge armchair, which commanded a view of the elevator, and no sooner did he see skinner emerge than he busied himself assiduously staring at, but not perceiving, the pages of the sunday magazine section. with equal assiduity, skinner, who as soon as he had left the elevator had observed jackson, avoided seeing him, although he clearly perceived him. thus they played at cross-purposes for a while, these two overgrown boys. "hello," said jackson, looking up from his paper as skinner strolled past for the fourth time. "you here yet?" "i hate to tear myself away," said skinner. "have a cigar?" jackson took the weed and indicated a chair next his own. "by jove," said skinner, seating himself and crossing his legs comfortably, "i like this town. wonderful climate, fine people--and"--he turned to jackson--"devilish good grub." "have you had a trout dinner yet?" said jackson. "yes. out at the lake the other day." "i mean a _real_ one--cooked by a _real_ cook--all the trimmings." "no, i can't say that i have." jackson paused, drummed on the arm of his chair, and swallowed hard. "i've got the best cook in the middle west," he observed. "that's going some." "you think you've eaten, don't you? well, you haven't. you ought to try _my_ cook." "that would be fine," said skinner. skinner knew exactly what jackson would say next. it was wonderful, he thought, almost uncanny, how the curmudgeon was doing just what he had schemed out that he would do--willed him to do. he felt like a magician operating the wires for some manikin to dance at the other end or a hypnotist directing a subject. things were going swimmingly for jackson, too. he felt that he had executed his little scheme very well, without any danger of being found out or even suspected, yet he had never known things to fall in line as they were doing now. still, he flattered himself it was good management. for jackson was not a believer in luck. "how long are you going to stay here?" he asked abruptly. "tuesday morning." "you and the missus had better come out and try that cook of mine before you go." jackson affected indifference, but his heart was beating high, higher than it had beaten for years, for he was a man that had always had his own way, and was not given to argument or diplomatic finessing. having shot his bolt, jackson waited. skinner turned in his chair. "that's mighty good of you, old chap," he said cordially. "you're just like these other hospitable westerners. you've bragged about your cook and you want to show me that you can make good. but i'll let you off--i'll take your word for it this time." "i don't want you to take my word for it," jackson retorted. "besides, i'd like to have your wife meet my wife!" "so would i," said skinner. he paused a moment. right here was the bit of humble pie that jackson had prepared to eat, if necessary, but taken from the hand of a cordial fellow like skinner, it would n't be so hard, after all. "skinner, you 're a good fellow--so am i a good fellow. i like you. there's no reason why we should n't be friends--personally--you understand." "mr. jackson," said skinner, "you're a frank man. i'm going to be frank with you. i don't feel that it would be loyal to my firm if i should accept your hospitality, under the circumstances. it's all well enough to be impersonal, separate business life from social life but"--and here he began to butter the humble pie that he had felt it to be inevitable that jackson should eat--"you stood mighty well with our house. you've got a great reputation. it was most important to us. we did everything we could to please you. after the break came, we went the limit in the way of eating humble pie to get you back again. but you set your face against us hard. i might even waive that, but just you look at it yourself." skinner laughed. "you know you did n't treat mclaughlin very well--and the curious part was, mclaughlin was always very fond of you personally." at the last words jackson capitulated. "see here, you and the missus come out to dinner to-morrow night and we'll talk things over." skinner hesitated. "i've thought this all out," said jackson. "the starr-bacon folks have been figuring on that bunch of machinery that i'm going to get in. here's what they say. can you meet those figures?" skinner looked over the memorandum jackson handed him and made a quick calculation. "yes," said he, "we can meet them." "the order is yours." "i won't take it," said skinner, "unless you throw in that trout dinner." that night skinner wired mclaughlin and perkins, inc., that he'd caught the bear and was bringing the hide home with him--the hide being the fattest order that that concern had had for many a day. then he jotted down in his little book:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ landed one curmudgeon! bait used--domestic tranquillity! method--did n't use any! just stood off and waited, and he landed himself. chapter xi the ostrich feather when skinner entered the office of mclaughlin & perkins, inc., two days later, he found that the partners had arranged a reception committee of two to welcome him. both shook hands cordially and mclaughlin said, "skinner, we're not only convinced that you're a thoroughly honest and methodical man"--he glanced knowingly at perking--"but that you're a very able man as well. we--" skinner cut him short. "mr. mclaughlin, do i get the ostrich feather?" "you do, indeed,--and i'm only sorry that the great auk is dead!" skinner blushed. "you don't know how good you 've made me feel, really you don't--giving me this chance to show what i could do." "you had your chance and you showed what you could do, all right," mclaughlin broke in. he paused, then, "now, tell us, skinner, how did you do it?" skinner hesitated. "i'd rather not." "why?" said mclaughlin. "ain't you got it patented?" "secret process," said skinner. "it's more than that, it's an _effective_ process. but what's important to us, skinner, is--could you work it on other folks besides jackson?" "yes--that is, most other men--middle-aged men." "why middle-aged men?" "because they're married--most middle-aged men are." mclaughlin turned to perkins. "i'm darned if he ain't gone and mashed the climber. that's what i think!" skinner thrust his hands into his pockets, walked over to the window, then turned and slowly came back to within a few feet of where mclaughlin was sitting. "on my way back from st. paul, mr. mclaughlin," he said--and perkins, recognizing the premonitory symptoms, crossed to the window and stood with his back to his partner and "the cage man"--"mr. mclaughlin," skinner repeated after a pause, "i've been thinking that the most valuable man to any concern is the one that gets the business for it." "right-o!" said mclaughlin. "and the hardest man to get," skinner went on, "is the customer you get back. you not only have to pry him loose from some other concern with better figures, but you have his personal pride to overcome. to come back is a surrender." "all of which means that you expect a raise, eh, skinner?" "i was only going to suggest--" "you don't have to suggest. we've already decided to raise you twenty-five dollars a week. how does that strike you? just as a mark of appreciation." "i can't see any appreciation in it unless you take me out of the cage--for this reason," said skinner. "as a 'cage man' i'm not worth much more than i 've been getting. in order to earn that extra twenty-five dollars a week i 've got to have a chance to show what i can do further. take me out of the cage." "skinner," said mclaughlin, "you didn't for a minute think that we were going to keep a man that could pull off such a trick as that in a cage, did you? we're going to make you a salesman." the idea of going on the road did n't appeal to skinner. "to be frank, mr. mclaughlin, i want something better than that." "better?" "yes. i want to be put in charge of the sales department. you see, i not only know the business from beginning to end, but i want to show our salesmen that selling goods means something more than rattling off a list of what you've got, dilating like a parrot. i want to teach them the value of knowledge of the personal equation and how to apply that knowledge effectively. does n't that telegram from jackson show that i know something about it?" "what do you think of skinner's proposition?" mclaughlin said to the junior partner. perkins turned and came back to the table. "skinner seems to have the goods." "mr. mclaughlin," skinner urged, "it is n't that i feel big about what i've done, it is n't that i think i know more than anybody else, but i've had ideas about things i've always wanted to put into practice. when you sent me out to st. paul, i formulated a little scheme of attack on jackson, and you saw how it worked. i think that entitles my opinion to some respect. i've got the good of this concern at heart and i want to show what can be done along original lines." mclaughlin looked at perkins and perkins nodded affirmatively. "skinner, i 'm going to let you see what you can do," said the senior partner; then paused. he turned to perkins. "the devil of it is, what to do with hobson." "let him take charge of the san francisco office," perkins suggested. "i don't like to hurt the old chap's feelings." "hurt his feelings? why, he's always wanted to go back to the coast--where he belongs." all that day, while skinner was instructing the young man who was to succeed him as "cage man," he was very happy. he was happy that the field of his activities was broadening, that he'd have a chance to show what was in him. but he was particularly happy that now he would never have to tell honey that he'd deceived her. this, however, would involve a negative deception, worse luck, he mused, for he would not be able to tell her about the twenty-five dollars advance he'd just got. he would go right along as he had been doing, each week giving honey ten dollars to deposit in the meadeville national. then he, himself, would deposit ten dollars a week until he'd made up for the number of weeks that had elapsed since he'd promoted himself. thus their little bank account would remain intact, and honey would not know unless--his heart slowed down--mclaughlin should take to bragging about him and how they'd shown their appreciation of what he'd done in st. paul, and mrs. mclaughlin should get hold of it and pass it along to honey--which would have the effect of perpetuating his original, devilish raise. but he was n't going to cross that bridge yet! and so it came about that eight months later, one beautiful morning in december, mclaughlin said to the junior partner, "that which i feared has come upon us!" "what's the matter? has skinner asked for another raise?" "worse'n that. the starr-bacon people have made him an offer!" "i see! that's because he pried willard jackson and others loose from that concern. probably they want him to use the same method to get those people away from us and back in to the s.-b. fold." "it's clear what _they_ want. it is n't so clear what we've got to do." "raise his pay again," perkins suggested. "that ain't enough. skinner claims he wants broader fields of opportunity." "i hope he's willing to let you and me run things a while longer." "i don't know what to do. you see, skinner proved to be an awfully good man, just so soon as we gave him his head. he's an all-round man. when he was cashier, he not only could collect money from anybody who had a cent, and without losing business either, but he steered us away from some very bad risks that those two enterprising young salesmen, briggs and henderson, tried to 'put over' on us." "that was his business. he was cashier." "but see what he's done since we made him manager of the sales department," urged mclaughlin. "he has not only opened up new territory and got in new customers, but he's reclaimed old, abandoned fields of operation and got back a lot of old fellows. he's delivered the goods all along the line, perk. besides that, it was skinner that got us to put in that new machinery over in newark. why, it's already saved a quarter of its cost in fuel. also, perk, he's a great little adviser." "i know his value, mac, as well as you do." mclaughlin laughed. "we did n't either of us know it till we sent him out west. he kept his light under a bushel so long." "kept it in a cage, you mean." "if he goes over to the starr-bacon people, he takes his methods with him, and you know--customers follow methods." "what we want to do," said the junior, "is to offset the starr-bacon offer without you and me having to sell our machines and take to the subway in order to pay his salary. how would it do to make him general manager? skinner's ambitious--he's looking for honor." "no," said mclaughlin, after pondering a few moments, "if we keep him on a salary and he remains an employee only, he will still be susceptible to outside offers. the only thing to do is to make him a partner! that's the only way to keep him!" "make him a partner, mac? this isn't a firm any more; it's a corporation." "same thing--you and i own it, don't we?" "quite so." "well, all we've got to do's to give him a block of stock--ain't it?" "question 's, how much?" "enough to hold him." "but how much would that be?" perkins insisted. "i 'll have to feel him out." "i guess you 're right." perkins paused a bit,--then, "well, mac, the worm turned--you didn't head him off?" "who wants to head off such a worm? let him turn! the more he turns the better for us! do you know what his first turn meant in terms of cash? no? just ring for millard." millard was chief bookkeeper. that night, as skinner sipped his second demi-tasse, he looked across the table at his beautiful wife, who was assiduously studying an automobile catalogue. the suggestion it conveyed gave skinner a touch of apprehension. but the aforesaid touch lasted only a moment. he banished it and all other cares by making the following entry in his little book:-- _dress-suit account_ _debit_ _credit_ a one-third interest in mclaughlin & perkins, inc. file was produced from scans of public domain material produced by microsoft for their live search books site.) rufus and rose; or, the fortunes of rough and ready. by horatio alger, jr. author of "ragged dick," "fame and fortune," "mark, the match boy," "rough and ready," "ben, the luggage boy," "campaign series," "luck and pluck series," etc. philadelphia: porter & coates. to my young friends, henry and eugene, this volume is affectionately dedicated preface. in presenting to the public the last volume of the "ragged dick series," the author desires to return his thanks for the generous reception accorded, both by the press and the public, to these stories of street life. several of the characters are drawn from life, and _nearly all_ of the incidents are of actual occurrence. indeed, the materials have been found so abundant that invention has played but a subordinate part. the principal object proposed, in the preparation of these volumes, has been to show that the large class of street boys--numbering thousands in new york alone--furnishes material out of which good citizens may be made, if the right influences are brought to bear upon them. in every case, therefore, the author has led his hero, step by step, from vagabondage to a position of respectability; and, in so doing, has incurred the charge, in some quarters, of exaggeration. it can easily be shown, however, that he has fallen short of the truth, rather than exceeded it. in proof, the following extract from an article in a new york daily paper is submitted:-- "as a class, the newsboys of new york are worthy of more than common attention. the requirements of the trade naturally tend to develop activity both of mind and body, and, in looking over some historical facts, we find that _many of our most conspicuous public men_ have commenced their careers as newsboys. many of the principal offices of our city government and our chief police courts testify to the truth of this assertion. from the west we learn that many of the most enterprising journalists spring from the same stock." not long since, while on a western journey, the superintendent of the lodging house in park place found one of his boys filling the position of district attorney in a western state, another settled as a clergyman, and still others prosperous and even wealthy business men. these facts are full of encouragement for those who are laboring to redeem and elevate the street boy, and train him up to fill a respectable position in society. though the six volumes already issued complete his original purpose, the author finds that he has by no means exhausted his subject, and is induced to announce a second series, devoted to still other phases of street life. this will shortly be commenced, under the general name of the "tattered tom series." new york, november , . list of illustrations "don't you try to fool me." "i'll teach you to do it again." rufus and rose; or, the fortunes of rough and ready. chapter i. new plans. "so this is to be your first day in wall street, rufus," said miss manning. "yes," said rufus, "i've retired from the newspaper business on a large fortune, and now i'm going into business in wall street just to occupy my time." the last speaker was a stout, well-grown boy of fifteen, with a pleasant face, calculated to inspire confidence. he looked manly and self-reliant, and firm of purpose. for years he had been a newsboy, plying his trade in the streets of new york, and by his shrewdness, and a certain ready wit, joined with attention to business, he had met with better success than most of his class. he had been a leader among them, and had received the name of "rough and ready," suggested in part, no doubt, by his name, rufus; but the appellation described not inaptly his prominent traits. he understood thoroughly how to take care of himself, and thought it no hardship, that, at an age when most boys are tenderly cared for, he was sent out into the streets to shift for himself. his mother had been dead for some time. his step-father, james martin, was a drunkard, and he had been compelled to take away his little sister rose from the miserable home in which he had kept her, and had undertaken to support her, as well as himself. he had been fortunate enough to obtain a home for her with miss manning, a poor seamstress, whom he paid for her services in taking care of rose. his step-father, in order to thwart and torment him, had stolen the little girl away, and kept her in brooklyn for a while, until rufus got a clue to her whereabouts, and succeeded in getting her back. at the time when the story opens, he had just recovered her, and having been fortunate enough to render an important service to mr. turner, a wall street broker, was on this monday morning to enter his office, at a salary of eight dollars a week. this sketch of the newsboy's earlier history is given for the benefit of those who have not read the book called "rough and ready," in which it is related at length. it is necessary to add that rufus was in some sense a capitalist, having five hundred dollars deposited in a savings-bank to his credit. of this sum, he had found three hundred one day, which, as no claimant ever appeared for it, he had been justified in appropriating to his own use. the remainder had been given him by mr. turner, in partial acknowledgment of the service before referred to. "your new life will seem strange to you at first, rufus," said miss manning. "yes, it does already. when i woke up this morning, i was going to jump out of bed in a hurry, thinking i must go round to nassau street to get my papers. then all at once i thought that i'd given up being a newsboy. but it seemed queer." "i didn't know but you'd gone back to your old business," said the seamstress, pointing to a paper in his hand. "it's this morning's 'herald,'" explained rufus; "you and rose will have to be looking for another room where martin can't find you. you'll find two columns of advertisements of 'boarders and lodgers wanted,' so you can take your choice." "i'll go out this morning," said the seamstress. "all right. take rose along with you, or you may find her missing when you get back." there was considerable reason to fear that the step-father, james martin, would make a fresh attempt to get possession of rose, and rufus felt that it was prudent to guard against this. "have you had breakfast, rufus?" "yes; i got breakfast at the lodging house." here it may be remarked that rufus had enjoyed advantages superior to most of his class, and spoke more correctly in general, but occasionally fell into modes of pronunciation such as he was accustomed to hear from his street associates. he had lately devoted a part of his evenings to study, under the superintendence of miss manning, who, coming originally from a country home, had had a good common-school education. "it's time i was going down to the office," said rufus. "good-morning, miss manning. good-morning, rosy," as he stooped to kiss his little sister, a pretty little girl of eight. "good-morning, rufie. don't let mr. martin carry you off." "i think he'd have a harder job to carry me off than you, rosy," said rufus, laughing. "don't engage lodgings on fifth avenue, miss manning. i'm afraid it would take more than i can earn in wall street to pay my share of the expense." "i shall be content with an humbler home," said the seamstress, smiling. rufus left the little room, which, by the way, looked out on franklin street near the hudson river, and the seamstress, taking the "herald," turned to the column of "boarders and lodgers wanted." there was a long list, but the greater part of the rooms advertised were quite beyond her slender means. remembering that it would be prudent to get out of their present neighborhood, in order to put the drunken step-father off the track, she looked for places farther up town. the objection to this, however, was, that prices advance as you go up town. still the streets near the river are not considered so eligible, and she thought that they might find something there. she therefore marked one place on spring street, another on leroy street, and still another, though with some hesitation, on christopher street. she feared that rufus would object to this as too far up town. "now put on your things, rose, and we'll take a walk." "that will be nice," said rose, and the little girl ran to get her shawl and bonnet. when she was dressed for the street, rose would hardly have been taken for the sister of a newsboy. she had a pretty face, full of vivacity and intelligence, and her brother's pride in her had led him to dress her better than might have been expected from his small means. many children of families in good circumstances were less neatly and tastefully dressed than rose. taking the little girl by the hand, miss manning led the way down the narrow staircase. it was far from a handsome house in which they had thus far made their home. the wall-paper was torn from the walls in places, revealing patches of bare plastering; there was a faded and worn oil-cloth upon the stairs, while outside the rooms at intervals, along the entry, were buckets of dirty water and rubbish, which had been temporarily placed there by the occupants. as it was monday, washing was going on in several of the rooms, and the vapor arising from hot suds found its way into the entry from one or two half-open doors. on the whole, it was not a nice or savory home, and the seamstress felt no regret in leaving it. but the question was, would she be likely to find a better. the seamstress made her way first to spring street. she was led to infer, from the advertisement, that she might find cheap accommodations. but when she found herself in front of the house designated, she found it so dirty and neglected in appearance that she did not feel like entering. she was sure it would not suit her. next she went to leroy street. here she found a neat-looking three-story brick house. she rang the bell. "you advertise a room to let," she said to the servant; "can i look at it?" "i'll speak to the missis," said the girl. soon a portly lady made her appearance. "you have a room to let?" said miss manning, interrogatively. "yes." "can i look at it?" "it's for a gentleman," said the landlady. "i don't take ladies. besides, it's rather expensive;" and she glanced superciliously at the plain attire of the seamstress. of course there was no more to be said. so miss manning and rose found their way into the street once more. the last on the list was christopher street. "come, rose. are you tired of walking?" "oh, no," said the child; "i can walk ever so far without getting tired." christopher street is only three blocks from leroy. in less than ten minutes they found themselves before the house advertised. it was a fair-looking house, but the seamstress found, on inquiry, that the room was a large one on the second floor, and that the rent would be beyond her means. she was now at the end of her list. "i think, rose," she said, "we will go to washington square, and sit down on one of the seats. i shall have to look over the paper again." this square is a park of considerable size, comprising very nearly ten acres. up to , it had been for years used as a potter's field, or public cemetery, and it is estimated that more than one hundred thousand bodies were buried there. but in it became a park. there is a basin and a fountain in the centre, and it is covered with trees of considerable size. at frequent intervals there are benches for the accommodation of those who desire to pass an hour or two in the shade of the trees. in the afternoon, particularly, may be seen a large number of children playing in the walks, and nurse-maids drawing their young charges in carriages, or sitting with them on the seats. rose was soon busied in watching the sports of some children of her own age, while miss manning carefully scanned the advertisements. but she found nothing to reward her search. at length her attention was drawn to the following advertisement:-- "no. --, waverley place. two small rooms. terms reasonable." "that must be close by," thought the seamstress. she was right, for waverley place, commencing at broadway, runs along the northern side of washington square. before the up-town movement commenced, it was a fashionable quarter, and even now, as may be inferred from the character of the houses, is a very nice and respectable street, particularly that part which fronts the square. miss manning could see the number mentioned from where she was seated, and saw at a glance that it was a nice house. of course it was beyond her means,--she said that to herself; still, prompted by an impulse which she did not attempt to resist, she determined to call and make inquiries about the rooms advertised. chapter ii. the house in waverley place. leaving the park, miss manning crossed the street, went up the front steps of a handsome house, and rang the bell. "what a nice house!" said rose, admiringly; "are we going to live here?" "no, i don't think we can afford it; but i will ask to see the rooms." soon the door was opened, and a servant-girl looked at them inquiringly. "can i see the rooms you have to let?" asked the seamstress. "step in a moment, and i'll call mrs. clayton." they stepped into a hall, and remained waiting till a woman of middle age, with a pleasant countenance, came up from below, where she had been superintending the servants. "i saw your advertisement of rooms to let," commenced miss manning, a little timidly, for she knew that the house was a finer one than with her limited means she could expect to enter, and felt a little like a humbug. "yes, i have two small rooms vacant." "are they--expensive?" asked the seamstress, with hesitation. "i ought to say that only one is at my disposal," said the landlady; "and that is a hall bedroom on the third floor back. the other is a square room, nicely furnished, on the upper floor, large enough for two. but last evening, after i had sent in the advertisement, mrs. colman, who occupies my second floor front, told me she intended to get a young lady to look after her two little girls during the day, and teach them, and would wish her to occupy the larger room. i thought when i first saw you that you were going to apply for the situation." a sudden thought came to miss manning. why could she not undertake this office? it would pay her much better than sewing, and the children would be companions for rose. "how old are the little girls?" she said. "one is five, the other seven, years old. mrs. colman is an invalid, and does not feel able to have the children with her all the time." "is mrs. colman at home?" "yes. would you like to see her?" "i should. i am fond of children, and i might be willing to undertake the charge of hers, if she thought fit to intrust them to me." "i think it quite likely you can come to an agreement. she was wondering this morning where she could hear of a suitable person. wait here a moment, and i will go and speak to her." mrs. clayton went upstairs, and returned shortly. "mrs. colman would like to see you," she said. "i will lead the way." miss manning followed the landlady upstairs, and was ushered into a large, handsomely furnished room on the second floor. there was a cheerful fire in the grate, and beside it, in an easy-chair, sat a lady, looking nervous and in delicate health. two little girls, who seemed full of the health and vitality which their mother lacked, were romping noisily on the floor. "mrs. colman," said the landlady, "this is the young lady i spoke of." "take a seat, please," said mrs. colman, politely. "i am an invalid as you see, mrs. ----?" here she looked up inquiringly. "miss manning," said the seamstress. "then the little girl is not yours?" "not mine; but i have the care of her, as her mother is dead." "how old is she?" "eight." "a little older than my jennie. are you fond of children, miss manning?" "very much so." "i am looking for some one who will look after my little girls during the day, and teach them. at present they know absolutely nothing, and i have not been willing to send them out of the house to school. what i have been thinking is, of securing some one who would live in the house, and take the care of the children off my hands. i am an invalid, as you see, and sometimes their noise absolutely distracts me." miss manning was struck with pity, as she noticed the pale, nervous face of the invalid. "then the children need to go out and take a walk every day; but i have no one to send with them. you wouldn't object to that, would you?" "no, i should like it." "could you come soon?" "i could come to-morrow, if you desire it," said miss manning, promptly. "i wish you would. i have a nervous headache which will last me some days, i suppose, and the children can't keep still. i suppose it is their nature to be noisy." "i can take them out for an hour now, if you like it, mrs. colman. it would give me a chance to get acquainted." "would you? it would be quite a relief to me, and to them too. oh, there is one thing we must speak of. what compensation will satisfy you?" "i don't know how much i ought to ask. i am willing to leave that matter to you." "you would want your little girl to live with you, i suppose." "yes, she needs me to look after her." "very well. then i will pay mrs. clayton for the board of both of you, and if two dollars a week would satisfy you--" would satisfy her? miss manning's breath was quite taken away at the magnificent prospect that opened before her. she could hardly conceive it possible that her services were worth a home in so nice a house and two dollars a week besides. why, toiling early and late at her needle, she had barely earned hitherto, thirty-seven cents a day, and out of that all her expenses had to be paid. now she would still be able to sew while the children were learning their lessons. she would no longer be the occupant of a miserable tenement house, but would live in a nice quarter of the city. she felt devoutly thankful for the change: but, on the whole, considered that perhaps it was not best to let mrs. colman see just how glad she was. so she simply expressed herself as entirely satisfied with the terms that were offered. mrs. colman seemed glad that this matter had been so easily arranged. "mrs. clayton will show you the room you are to occupy," she said. "i have not been into it, but i understand that it is very comfortable. if there is any addition in the way of furniture which you may require, i will make it at my own expense." "thank you. you are very kind." here mrs. clayton reappeared, and, at the request of mrs. colman, offered to show them the room which they were to occupy. "it is on the upper floor," she said, apologetically; "but it is of good size and pleasant, when you get to it." she led the way into the room. it was, as she had said, a pleasant one, well lighted, and of good size. a thick woollen carpet covered the floor; there were a bureau, a clothes-press, a table, and other articles needful to make it comfortable. after the poor room they had occupied, it looked very attractive. "i think i shall like it," said miss manning, with satisfaction. "are we to live here?" asked rose, who had not quite understood the nature of the arrangement. "yes, rosy; do you think you shall like it?" "oh, yes, ever so much. when are we coming?" "to-morrow morning. you will have two little girls to play with." "the little girls i saw in that lady's room downstairs?" "yes. do you think you shall like it?" "i think it will be very nice," said rose, with satisfaction. "well, how do you like the room, miss manning?" said mrs. colman, when they had returned from upstairs. "it looks very pleasant. i have no doubt i shall like it." "i think you will need a rocking-chair and a sofa. i will ask mr. colman to step into some upholsterer's as he goes down town to-morrow, and send them up. if it wouldn't be too much trouble, miss manning, i will ask you to help carrie and jennie on with their hats and cloaks. they quite enjoy the thought of a run out of doors with you and your little girl. by the way, what is her name?" "rose." "a very pretty name. i have no doubt the three children will soon become excellent friends. she seems a nice little girl." "rose is a nice little girl," said the seamstress, affectionately. in a short time they were on their way downstairs. in the hall below they met the landlady once more. "what is the price of your hall bedroom, mrs. clayton?" asked miss manning. "five dollars and a half a week," was the answer. it needs to be mentioned that this was in the day of low prices, and that such an apartment now, with board, would cost at least twelve dollars a week. "what made you ask, miss manning?" said rose. "i was thinking that perhaps rufus might like to take it." "oh, i wish he would," said rose; "then we would all be together." "we are speaking of her brother," said miss manning, turning to mrs. clayton. "how old is he?" "fifteen." "is he at school, or in a place?" "he is in a broker's office in wall street." "then, as he is the little girl's brother, i will say only five dollars a week for the room." "thank you, mrs. clayton. i will let you know what he decides upon to-morrow." they went out to walk, going as far as union square, where miss manning sat down on a bench, and let the children sport at will. it is needless to say that they very soon got well acquainted, and after an hour and a half, which their bright eyes testified to their having enjoyed, miss manning carried the little colmans back to waverley place, and, with rose, took the horse-cars back to their old home. "won't rufie be surprised when he hears about it?" said rose. "yes, rosy, i think he will," said miss manning. chapter iii. james martin's vicissitudes. while miss manning is seeking a new boarding-place for herself and rose, events are taking place in brooklyn which claim our attention. it is here that james martin, the shiftless and drunken step-father of rufus and rose, has made a temporary residence. he had engaged board at the house of a widow, mrs. waters, and for two or three weeks paid his board regularly, being employed at his trade of a carpenter on some houses going up near by. but it was not in james martin's nature to work steadily at anything. his love of drink had spoiled a once good and industrious workman, and there seemed to be little chance of any permanent improvement in his character or habits. for a time rufus used to pay him over daily the most of his earnings as a newsboy, and with this he managed to live miserably enough without doing much himself. but after a while rufus became tired of this arrangement, and withdrew himself and his sister to another part of the town, thus throwing martin on his own resources. out of spite martin contrived to kidnap rose, but, as we have seen, her brother had now succeeded in recovering her. after losing rose, martin took the way back to his boarding-house, feeling rather doubtful of his reception from mrs. waters, to whom he was owing a week's board, which he was quite unable to pay. he had told her that he would pay the bill as soon as he could exchange a fifty-dollar note, which it is needless to say was only an attempt at deception, since he did not even possess fifty cents. on entering the house, he went at once to his room, and lay down on the bed till the supper-bell rang. then he came down, and took his place at the table with the rest of the boarders. "where's your little girl, mr. martin?" inquired mrs. waters, missing rose. "she's gone on a visit to some of her relations in new york," answered martin, with some degree of truth. "how long is she to stay?" "'till she can have some new clothes made up; maybe two or three weeks." "that's rather sudden, isn't it? you didn't think of her going this morning?" "no," answered martin, with his mouth full of toast; "but she teased so hard to go, i let her. she's a troublesome child. i shall be glad to have the care of her off my mind for a time." this might be true; but mrs. waters was beginning to lose confidence in mr. martin's statements. she felt that it was the part of prudence to make sure of the money he was already owing her, and then on some pretext get rid of him. when supper was over, martin rose, and was about to go out, but mrs. waters was too quick for him. "mr. martin," she said, "may i speak to you a moment?" "yes, ma'am," answered martin, turning reluctantly. "i suppose you are ready to pay my bill; i need the money particularly." "i'll pay it to-morrow, mrs. waters." "you promised to pay me as soon as you changed a bill, and this morning you said you should have a chance to change it, as you were going to buy your little girl some new clothes." "i know i did," said martin, feeling cornered. "i suppose, therefore, you can pay me the money to-night," said mrs. waters, sharply. "why, the fact is, mrs. waters," said martin, awkwardly, "i was very unfortunate. as i was sitting in the horse-car coming home, i had my pocket picked of all the money i got in change. there was some over forty dollars." "i'm sorry," said mrs. waters, coldly, for she did not believe a word of this; "but i need my money." "if it hadn't been for that, i'd have paid you to-night." "there's only one word i have to say, mr. martin," said the landlady, provoked; "if you can't pay me, you must find another boarding-place." "i'll attend to it in a day or two. i guess i can get the money to-morrow." "if you can't pay me to-night, you'll oblige me by giving up your room to-morrow morning. i'm a poor widder, mr. martin, and i must look out for number one. i can't afford to keep boarders that don't pay their bills." there was one portion of this speech that set mr. martin to thinking. mrs. waters was a widow--he was a widower. by marrying her he would secure a home, and the money received from the boarders would be paid to him. he might not be accepted. still it would do no harm to try. "mrs. waters," he said, abruptly, wreathing his features into what he considered an attractive smile, "since i lost my wife i've been feeling very lonely. i need a wife to look after me and my little gal. if you will marry me, we'll live happy, and--" "thank you, mr. martin," said mrs. waters, considerably astonished at the sudden turn affairs had taken; "but i've got too much to do to think about marrying. leastways, i don't care about marrying a man that can't pay his board-bill." "just as you say," answered martin, philosophically; "i've give you a good chance. perhaps you won't get another very soon." "well, if there isn't impudence for you!" ejaculated mrs. waters, as her boarder left the room. "i must be hard up for a husband, to marry such a shiftless fellow as he is." the next morning, mr. martin made his appearance, as usual, at the breakfast-table. notwithstanding his proposal of marriage had been so decidedly rejected the day before, his appetite was not only as good as usual, but considerably better. in fact, as he was not quite clear where his dinner was to come from, or whether, indeed, he should have any at all, he thought it best to lay in sufficient to last him for several hours. mrs. waters contemplated with dismay the rapid manner in which he disposed of the beef-steak and hash which constituted the principal dishes of her morning meal, and decided that the sooner she got rid of such a boarder the better. mr. martin observed the eyes of the landlady fixed upon him, and misinterpreted it. he thought it possible she might have changed her mind as to the refusal of the day before, and resolved to renew his proposal. accordingly he lingered till the rest of the boarders had left the table. "mrs. waters," he said, "maybe you've changed your mind since yesterday." "about what?" demanded the landlady, sharply. "about marrying me." "no, i haven't," answered the widow; "you needn't mention the matter again. when i want to marry you, i'll send and let you know." "all right!" said martin; "there's several after me, but i'll wait a week for you." "oh, don't trouble yourself," said the landlady, sarcastically; "i don't want to disappoint anybody else. can you pay me this morning?" "i'll have the money in a day or two." "you needn't come back to dinner unless you bring the money to pay your bill. i can't afford to give you your board." mr. martin rose and left the house, understanding pretty clearly that he couldn't return. on reaching the street, he opened his pocket-book, and ascertained that twelve cents were all it contained. this small amount was not likely to last very long. he decided to go to new york, having no further inducements to keep him in brooklyn. something might turn up, he reasoned, in the shiftless manner characteristic of him. jumping upon a passing car, he rode down to fulton ferry, and crossed in the boat to the new york side, thus expending for travelling expenses eight cents. supposing that rufus still sold papers in front of the "tribune" office, he proceeded to printing house square, and looked around for him; but he was nowhere to be seen. "who you lookin' for, gov'nor?" inquired a boot-black, rather short of stature, but with an old-looking face. "aint you the boy that went home with me wednesday?" asked martin, to whom ben gibson's face looked familiar. "s'posin' i am?" "have you seen a newsboy they call rough and ready, this morning?" "yes, i seed him." "where is he? has he sold all his papers?" "he's giv' up sellin' papers, and gone into business on wall street." "don't you try to fool me, or i'll give you a lickin'," said martin, sternly. [illustration: "don't you try to fool me."] "thank you for your kind offer," said ben, "but lickings don't agree with my constitution." "why don't you tell me the truth then?" "i did." "you said rufus had gone into business in wall street." "so he has. a rich cove's taken a fancy to him, and adopted him as a office-boy." "how much does he pay him?" asked martin, considering whether there would be any chance of getting some money out of his step-son. "not knowin' can't say," replied ben; "but he's just bought two pocket-books to hold his wages in." "you're a humbug!" said martin, indignantly. "what's the man's name he works for?" "it's painted in big letters on the sign. you can't miss it." james martin considered, for an instant, whether it would be best to give ben a thrashing, but the approach of a policeman led him to decide in the negative. "shine yer boots, gov'nor?" asked ben, professionally. "yes," said martin, rather unexpectedly. "payment in advance!" said ben, who didn't think it prudent to trust in this particular instance. "i'll tell yer what," said martin, to whom necessity had taught a certain degree of cunning, "if you'll lend me fifty cents for a week, i'll let you shine my boots every day, and pay you the money besides." "that's a very kind proposal," said ben; "but i've just invested all my money on a country-seat up the river, which makes me rather short." "then you can't lend me the fifty?" "no, but i'll tell you where you can get it." "where?" "up in chatham street. there's plenty'll lend it on the security of that hat of yours." the hat in question was in the last stages of dilapidation, looking as if it had been run over daily by an omnibus, and then used to fill the place of a broken pane, being crushed out of all shape and comeliness. martin aimed a blow at ben, but the boot-black dexterously evaded it, and, slinging his box over his back, darted down nassau street. later in the day he met rough and ready. "i see the gov'nor this mornin'," said ben. "what, mr. martin?" "yes." "what did he say?" "he inquired after you in the most affectionate manner, and wanted to know where you was at work." "i hope you didn't tell him." "not if i know myself. i told him he'd see the name on the sign. then he wanted to borrow fifty cents for a week." rufus laughed. "it's a good investment, ben. i've invested considerable money that way. i suppose you gave him the money?" "maybe i did. he offered me the chance of blacking his boots every day for a week, if i'd lend him the money; but i had to resign the glorious privilege, not havin' been to the bank this mornin' to withdraw my deposits." "you talk like a banker, ben." "i'm goin' to bankin' some day, when boot-blacking gets dull." ben gibson had been for years a boot-black, having commenced the business when only eight years old. his life had been one of hardship and privation, as street life always is, but he had become toughened to it, and bore it with a certain stoicism, never complaining, but often joking in a rude way at what would have depressed and discouraged a more sensitive temperament. he was by no means a model boy, though not as bad as many of his class. he had learned to smoke and to swear, and did both freely. but there was a certain rude honesty about him which led rufus, though in every way his superior, to regard him with friendly interest, and he had, on more than one occasion, been of considerable service to our hero in his newsboy days. rufus had tried to induce him to give up smoking, but thus far without success. "it keeps a feller warm," he said; "besides it won't hurt me. i'm tough." chapter iv. how james martin came to grief. after parting with ben gibson, james martin crossed the street to the city hall park, and sat down on one of the wooden benches placed there for the public accommodation. neither his present circumstances nor his future prospects were very brilliant. he was trying to solve the great problem which has troubled so many lazy people, of how best to live without work. there are plenty of men, not only in our cities, but in country villages, who are at work upon this same problem, but few solve it to their satisfaction. martin was a good carpenter, and might have earned a respectable and comfortable livelihood, instead of wandering about the streets in ragged attire, without a roof to shelter him, or money to pay for a decent meal. as he sat on the bench, a cigar-boy passed him, with a box of cigars under his arm. "cigars," he cried, "four for ten cents!" "come here, boy," said martin. the boy approached. "i want a cigar." "i don't sell one. four for ten cents." martin would willingly have bought four, but as his available funds amounted only to four cents, this was impossible. "i don't want but one; i've only got four cents in change, unless you can change a ten-dollar bill." "i can't do that." "here, take three cents, and give me a prime cigar." "i'll sell you one for four cents." "hand over, then." so martin found himself penniless, but the possessor of a cigar, which he proceeded to smoke with as much apparent enjoyment as if he had a large balance to his credit at the bank. he remained in the park till his cigar was entirely smoked, and then sauntered out with no definite object in view. it occurred to him, however, that he might as well call on the keeper of a liquor saloon on baxter street, which he had frequently patronized. "how are you, martin?" asked "jim," that being the name by which the proprietor was generally known. "dry as a fish," was the suggestive reply. "then you've come to the right shop. what'll you have?" martin expressed his desire for a glass of whiskey, which was poured out, and hastily gulped down. "i'm out of stamps," said martin, coolly. "i s'pose you'll trust me till to-morrow." "why didn't you say you hadn't any money?" demanded jim, angrily. "come," said martin, "don't be hard on an old friend. i'll pay you to-morrow." "where'll the money come from?" demanded jim, suspiciously. this was a question which martin was quite unable to answer satisfactorily to himself. "i'll get it some way," he answered. "you'd better, or else you needn't come into this shop again." martin left the saloon rather disappointed. he had had a little idea of asking a small loan from his friend "jim;" but he judged that such an application would hardly be successful under present circumstances. "jim's" friendship evidently was not strong enough to justify such a draft upon it. martin began to think that it might have been as well, on the whole, to seek employment at his trade in brooklyn, for a time at least, until he could have accumulated a few dollars. it was rather uncomfortable being entirely without money, and that was precisely his present condition. even if he had wanted to go back to brooklyn, he had not even the two cents needed to pay the boat fare. matters had come to a crisis with martin financially, and a suspension of specie payments was forced upon him. he continued to walk about the streets in that aimless way which results from absence of occupation, and found it, on the whole, rather cheerless work. besides, he was beginning to get hungry. he had eaten a hearty breakfast at his boarding-house in brooklyn, but it was now one o'clock, and the stomach began to assert its claims once more. he had no money. still there were places where food, at least, could be had for nothing. he descended into a subterranean apartment, over the door of which was a sign bearing the words free lunch. as many of my readers know, these establishments are to be found in most of our cities. a supply of sandwiches, or similar food, is provided free for the use of those who enter, but visitors are expected to call and pay for one or more glasses of liquor, which are sold at such prices that the proprietor may, on the whole, realize a profit. it was into one of those places that james martin entered. he went up to the counter, and was about to help himself to the food supplied. after partaking of this, he intended to slip out without the drink, having no money to pay for it. but, unfortunately for the success of his plans, the keeper at the saloon had been taken in two or three times already that day by similar impostors. still, had james martin been well-dressed, he could have helped himself unquestioned to the provisions he desired. but his appearance was suspicious. his ragged and dirty attire betokened extreme poverty, and the man in charge saw, at a glance, that his patronage was not likely to be desirable. "look here, my friend," he said, abruptly, as martin was about to help himself, "what'll you take to drink?" "a glass of ale," said martin, hesitatingly. "all right! pass over the money." "the fact is," said martin, "i left my pocket-book at home this morning, and that's why i'm obliged to come in here." "very good! then you needn't trouble yourself to take anything. we don't care about visitors that leave their pocket-books at home." "i'll pay you double to-morrow," said martin, who had no hesitation in making promises he hadn't the least intention of fulfilling. "that won't go down," said the other. "i don't care about seeing such fellows as you at any time. there's the door." "do you want to fight?" demanded martin, angrily. "no, i don't; but i may kick you out if you don't go peaceably. we don't want customers of your sort." "i'll smash your head!" said martin, becoming pugnacious. "here, mike, run up and see if you can't find a policeman." this hint was not lost upon martin. he had no great love for the metropolitan police, and kept out of their way as much as possible. he felt that it would be prudent to evacuate the premises, and did so, muttering threats meanwhile, and not without a lingering glance at the lunch which was not free to him. this last failure rather disgusted martin. according to his theory, the world owed him a living; but it seemed as if the world were disposed to repudiate the debt. fasting is apt to lead to serious reflection, and by this time he was decidedly hungry. how to provide himself with a dinner was a subject that required immediate attention. he walked about for an hour or two without finding himself at the end of that time any nearer the solution of the question than before. to work all day may be hard; but to do nothing all day on an empty stomach is still harder. about four o'clock, martin found himself at the junction of wall street and nassau. i hardly know what drew this penniless man to the street through which flows daily a mighty tide of wealth, but i suspect that he was hoping to meet rufus, who, as he had learned from ben gibson, was employed somewhere on the street. rufus might, in spite of the manner in which he had treated him, prove a truer friend in need than the worthless companions of his hours of dissipation. all at once a sharp cry of pain was heard. a passing vehicle had run over the leg of a boy who had imprudently tried to cross the street just in front of it. the wheels passed over the poor boy's legs, both of which appeared to be broken. of course, as is always the case under such circumstances, there was a rush to the spot where the casualty took place, and a throng of men and boys gathered about the persons who were lifting the boy from the ground. "the boy seems to be poor," said a humane by-stander; "let us raise a little fund for his benefit." a humane suggestion like this is pretty sure to be acted upon by those whose hearts are made tender by the sight of suffering. so most of those present drew out their pocket-books, and quite a little sum was placed in the hands of the original proposer of the contribution. among those who had wedged themselves into the crowd was james martin. having nothing to do, he had been eager to have his share in the excitement. he saw the collection taken up with an envious wish that it was for his own benefit. beside him was a banker, who, from a plethoric pocket-book, had drawn a five-dollar bill, which he had contributed to the fund. closing the pocket-book, he carelessly placed it in an outside pocket. james martin stood in such a position that the contents of the pocket-book were revealed to him, and the demon of cupidity entered his heart. how much good this money would do him! there were probably several hundred dollars in all, perhaps more. he saw the banker put the money in his pocket,--the one nearest to him. he might easily take it without observation,--so he thought. in an evil moment he obeyed the impulse which had come to him. he plunged his hand into the pocket; but at this moment the banker turned, and detected him. "i've caught you, you rascal!" he exclaimed, seizing martin with a vigorous grip. "police!" martin made a desperate effort to get free, but another man seized him on the other side, and he was held, despite his resistance, till a policeman, who by a singular chance happened to be near when wanted, came up. martin's ragged coat was rent asunder from the violence of his efforts, his hat fell off, and he might well have been taken for a desperate character, as in this condition he was marched off by the guardian of the city's peace. there was another humiliation in store for him. he had gone but a few steps when he met rufus, who gazed in astonishment at his step-father's plight. martin naturally supposed that rufus would exult in his humiliation; but he did him injustice. "i'm sorry for him," thought our hero, compassionately; "he's done me harm enough, but i'm sorry." he learned from one of the crowd for what martin had been arrested, and started for franklin street to carry the news to miss manning and rose. chapter v. the last evening in franklin street. though rufus felt sorry for mr. martin's misfortune, there was at least one satisfaction connected with it. he would doubtless be sent to blackwell's island for three months, and of course when there he would be unable to annoy rose, or contrive any plots for carrying her off. this would be a great relief to rufus, who felt more than ever how much the presence of his little sister contributed to his happiness. if he was better than the average of the boys employed like himself, it was in a considerable measure due to the fact that he had never been adrift in the streets, but even in the miserable home afforded by his step-father had been unconsciously influenced towards good by the presence of his mother, and latterly by his little sister rose. he, in his turn, had gained a salutary influence among the street boys, who looked up to him as a leader, though that leadership was gained in the first place by his physical superiority and manly bearing. it occurred to him, that perhaps, after all, it might not be necessary for rose and miss manning to move from franklin street at present, on account of mr. martin's arrest. he was rather surprised, when, on entering the little room, after hurrying upstairs two or three steps at a time, he saw miss manning's trunk open and half packed, with various articles belonging to herself and rose spread out beside it. "hallo!" he exclaimed, stopping short on the threshold, "what are you doing?" "getting ready to move, rufus," answered the seamstress. "so you've found a place?" "oh, such a nice place, rufie!" chimed in little rose; "there's a nice carpet, and there's going to be a sofa, and oh, it's beautiful!" "so you're going to live in style, are you?" said rufus. "but how about the cost, miss manning?" "that's the pleasantest part of it," was the reply; "it isn't going to cost me anything, and i am to be paid two dollars a week besides." rufus looked bewildered. "can't i get a chance there too?" he asked. "i'd be willin' to give 'em the pleasure of my society for half a price, say a dollar a week, besides a room." "we are to be boarded also," said miss manning, in a tone of satisfaction. "if it's a conundrum i'll give it up," said rufus; "just tell a feller all about it, for i begin to think you're crazy, or else have come across some benevolent chap that's rather loose in the upper story." hereupon miss manning, unwilling to keep rufus longer in suspense, gave him a full account of her morning's adventures, including her engagement with mrs. colman. "you're in luck," said rufus, "and i'm glad of it; but there's one thing we'll have to settle about." "what's that?" "about rose's board." "oh, that is all settled already. mrs. colman is to pay for her board as well as mine." "yes, i know that; but it is your teachin' that is to pay for it." "yes, i suppose so." "then i must pay you for her board. that will make it all right." "oh, no, rufus, i couldn't accept anything. you see it doesn't cost me anything." "yes, it does," persisted the newsboy; "if it wasn't for that, you would be paid more money." "if it wasn't for her, i should not have applied for board in that place; so you see that it is to rose, after all, that i am indebted for the situation." "i see that you are very kind to rose, miss manning, but i can't have you pay for her board. i am her brother, and am well and strong. i can afford to pay for rose, and i will. now how much will it be?" miss manning persisted that she was not willing to receive anything; but upon this point the newsboy's pride was aroused, and finally this arrangement was made: miss manning was to receive three dollars a week, and for this sum she also agreed to provide rose with proper clothing, so that rufus would have no responsibility or care about her. he wanted the seamstress to accept four dollars; but upon this point she was quite determined. she declared that three dollars was too high, but finally agreed to accept it. "i don't want to make money out of rose," she said. "it'll take some time to get ahead of a. t. stewart on three dollars a week." "i shall have five dollars a week." "but you will have to buy clothes for rose and yourself." "i shall make them myself, so that they won't cost me more than half of the money." "then you can save up the rest." "but you will only have five dollars left to pay your expenses, rufus." "oh, i can get along. don't mind me." "but i wanted you to come and board with us. mrs. clayton has a hall bedroom which she would let to you with board for five dollars a week. but that would leave you nothing for clothes." "i could earn enough some other way to pay for my clothes," said rufus; "but i don't know about going to board with you. i expect it's a fashionable place, and i shouldn't know how to behave." "you will know how to behave as well as i do. i didn't think you were bashful, rufus." "no more i am in the street," said the newsboy; "but you know how i've lived, miss manning. mr. martin didn't live in fashionable style, and his friends were not very select. when i took breakfast at mr. turner's, i felt like a cat in a strange garret." "then it's time you got used to better society," said miss manning. "you want to rise in the world, don't you?" "of course i do." "then take my advice, and come with us. you'll soon get used to it." "maybe i will. i'll come round to-morrow, and see how i like it." "remember you are in business in wall street, and ought to live accordingly. don't you think mr. turner would prefer to have you board in a good place rather than sleep at the lodging house, without any home of your own?" "yes, i suppose he would," said rufus. the idea was a new one to him, but it was by no means disagreeable. he had always been ambitious to rise, but thus far circumstances had prevented his gratifying this ambition. his step-father's drunken habits, and the consequent necessity he was under of contributing to his support as well as that of rose, and his mother when living, had discouraged him in all his efforts, and led him to feel that all his efforts were unavailing. but now his fortunes had materially changed. now, for the first time, there seemed to be a chance for him. he felt that it was best to break off, as far as possible, his old life, and turn over a new leaf. so the advice of his friend, miss manning, commended itself to his judgment, and he about made up his mind to become a boarder at mrs. clayton's. he would have the satisfaction of being in the same house with his little sister rose, and thus of seeing much more of her than if he boarded down town at the lodging house. it would cost him more to be sure, leaving him, as miss manning suggested, nothing for his clothes; but, as his duties in wall street did not commence until nine o'clock, and terminated at five, he felt sure that in his leisure time he would be able to earn enough to meet this expense. besides, there would be the interest on his five hundred dollars, which would amount to not less than thirty dollars, and probably more, for, with the advice of mr. turner, he was about to purchase with it some bank shares. then, if it should be absolutely necessary, he could break in upon his principal, although he would be sorry to do this, for, though he did not expect to add to it for a year to come, he hoped to keep it at its present amount. these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, and, when little rose, taking his hand, said, pleadingly, "do come and live with us, rufie!" he answered, "yes, rosy, i will, if mrs. clayton will make room for me." "oh, that will be so nice, won't it, miss manning?" said rose, clapping her hands. "perhaps mr. martin will come and board with us," said rufus, jestingly; "wouldn't you like that, rose?" "no," said rose, looking frightened; "do you think he will find out where we are?" "not for some time at least," said her brother. "by the way, i saw him to-day, miss manning." "did you speak with him, rufus?" "did he try to carry you off, rufie?" asked rose, anxiously. "you forget, rose, that i am rather too big to carry off," said rufus. "no, he did not say anything to me. the fact is, he has got into a scrape, and has enough to do to think of himself." "tell us about it, rufus." "i saw him, just as i was coming home, in the hands of the police. i heard that he had tried to rob a gentleman of his pocket-book." "what will they do to him?" "i suppose he will be sent to the island." "i am sorry for him, though he has not treated you and rose right." "yes, i am sorry too; but at any rate we need not feel anxious about his getting hold of rose." they had a very pleasant supper together. it was the last supper in the old room, and they determined that it should be a good one. rufus went out and got some sirloin steak, and brought in a pie from the baker's. this, with what they had already had, made a very nice supper. "you won't have any more cooking to do for some time, miss manning," said rufus; "you'll be a lady, with servants to wait on you. i hope the two little girls won't give you much trouble. if they do, that might be harder work than sewing." "they seem to be quite pleasant little girls, and they will be a good deal of company for rose." "how did you like them, rosie?" asked her brother. "ever so much. jennie,--that's the oldest, you know, she's almost as big as me,--said she would give me one of her dolls. she's got four." "that's quite a large family for a young lady to have. don't you think she would give me one of them?" "boys don't have dolls," said rose, decidedly. "it aint proper." rufus laughed. "then i suppose i must do without one; but it would be a great deal of company for me when i go down town to business. i could put it in my pocket, you know." "you're only making fun, rufie." "i suppose you think of going up to mrs. clayton's the first thing in the morning," said rufus, turning to miss manning. "yes," she answered; "i can send up my trunk by a city express, and rose and i can go up by the horse-cars, or, if it is pleasant, we will walk." "i will go up with you, and look at the room you spoke of, if you will go early enough for me to be down at the office at nine o'clock." miss manning assented to this arrangement, and rufus left franklin street at nine, and repaired to the newsboy's lodging house, to sleep there for the last time. chapter vi. a new home. at an early hour the next morning miss manning, accompanied by rufus and rose, ascended mrs. clayton's steps, and rang the bell. the summons was answered directly by a servant. "is mrs. clayton at home?" inquired miss manning. "yes; you're mrs. colman's new governess, aint you?" "i am; but i would like to see mrs. clayton first." "come in, and i'll call her." the three remained standing in the hall, awaiting the appearance of the landlady. rufus surveyed the interior of the house, so far as he could see it, with evident approval. not that the house compared with the homes of many of my young readers who are favored by fortune. it was not magnificent, but it was neat, and well furnished, and looked bright and cheerful. to rufus it appeared even elegant. he had a glimpse of the parlor through the half-opened door, and it certainly was so, compared with the humble boarding-house in franklin street, not to mention the miserable old tenement house on leonard street, which the readers of "rough and ready" will easily remember. "i say, miss manning, this is jolly," said rufus, in a tone of satisfaction. "isn't it a nice house, rufie?" said little rose. "yes, it is, rosie;" and rough and ready, to call him for once by his old name, felt happy in the thought that his little sister, whose life, thus far, had been passed in a miserable quarter of the city, would now be so much more favorably situated. at this moment mrs. clayton made her appearance. "good-morning, miss manning," she said, cordially; "i am sorry the servant left you standing in the hall. good-morning, my dear," addressing rose; "is this young man your brother?" "he is my brother," said rose; "but he isn't a young man. he's a boy." rufus smiled. "maybe i'll be a young man in twenty or thirty years," he said. "miss manning tells me," he continued, "that you have a small room which you will let for five dollars a week with board." "yes," said the landlady; "my price has always been five and a half, but as your sister would like to have you here, i will say five to you." "can i look at it?" "yes, i will go up and show it to you at once." they followed mrs. clayton up two flights of stairs. the door of the vacant room was already open. it was a hall bedroom of ordinary size. the head of the bed was on the same side as the door, the room being just wide enough for it. between the foot of the bed and the window, but on the opposite side, was a bureau with a mirror. there were a washstand and a couple of chairs beside it. a neat carpet covered the floor, and the window was screened by a shade. "you see it is pretty good size for a hall bedroom," said the landlady. "there is no closet, but you can hang your clothes on that row of pegs. if there are not enough, i will have some more put in." "i think there will be enough," said rufus, thinking, as he spoke, of his limited wardrobe. he was not much better off than the man who carried all his clothes on his back, and so proclaimed himself independent of trunk-makers. "well, rufus, what do you think of the room?" asked miss manning. "i'll take it," said our hero, promptly. he had been on the point of calling it _bully_, when it occurred to him that perhaps such a word might not be the most appropriate under the circumstances. "when will you come, mr. ----?" here the landlady hesitated, not having been made acquainted with the last name of our new boarder. here it occurs to me that as yet our hero has not been introduced by his full name, although this is the second volume of his adventures. it is quite time that this neglect was remedied. "rushton," said rufus. "when will you take possession of the room, mr. rushton?" "i'll be here to-night to dinner," said rufus, "maybe i won't send my trunk round till to-morrow." "i didn't know you had a trunk, rufie," said rose, innocently. "i don't carry my trunk round all the time like an elephant, rosy," said her brother, a little embarrassed by his sister's revelation, for he wanted to keep up appearances in his new character as a boarder at an up-town boarding-house. "rufus, wouldn't you like to go up and see my room?" interposed miss manning; "it's on the next floor, but, though rather high up, i think you will like it." this opportune interruption prevented rose from making any further reference to the trunk. so they proceeded upstairs. though mr. colman had not yet sent in the additional furniture promised by his wife, the room was looking bright and pleasant. the carpet had a rich, warm tint, and everything looked, as the saying is, as neat as a pin. "this is to be my room," said miss manning, with satisfaction,--"my room and rosy's. i hope you will often come up to visit us. how do you like it?" "bully," said rufus, admiringly, unconsciously pronouncing the forbidden word. "i think we shall be very comfortable here," said miss manning. here a child's step was heard upon the stairs, and jennie colman entered. "mamma would like to see you downstairs, miss manning," she said. "good-morning, my dear," said her new governess. "rufus, this is one of my pupils." "is that your husband, miss manning?" asked jennie, surveying rufus with attention. rufus laughed, and miss manning also. "he would be rather a young husband for me, jennie," she said. "he is more suitable for you." "i am not old enough to be married yet," she answered, gravely; "but perhaps i will marry him some time. i like his looks." rufus blushed a little, not being in the habit of receiving compliments from young ladies. "have you got that doll for me, jennie?" asked rose, introducing the subject which had the greatest interest for her. "yes, i've got it downstairs, in mamma's room." they went down, and at the door of mrs. colman's room miss manning said, "won't you come in, rufus? i will introduce you to mrs. colman." "yes, come in," said jennie, taking his hand. but rufus declined, feeling bashful about being introduced. "it's time for me to go to the office," he said; "some other time will do." "you'll be here in time for dinner, rufus?" "yes," said our hero, and putting on his hat he made his escape, feeling considerably relieved when he was fairly in the open air. "i s'pose i'll get used to it after a while," he said to himself. "i am glad you have come, miss manning," said mrs. colman, extending her hand. "you will be able to relieve me of a great deal of my care. the children are good, but full of spirits, and when i have one of my nervous headaches, the noise goes through my head like a knife. i hope you won't find them a great deal of trouble." "i don't anticipate that," said the new governess, cheerfully; "i am fond of children." "do you ever have the headache?" "very seldom." "then you are lucky. children are a great trial at such a time." "have you the headache this morning, mrs. colman?" asked miss manning, in a tone of sympathy. "not badly, but i am seldom wholly free from it. now suppose we talk a little of our plans. it is time the children were beginning to learn to read. can your little girl read?" "a little; not very much." "i suppose it will be better not to require them to study more than an hour or two a day, just at first. the rest of the time you can look after them. i am afraid you will find it quite an undertaking." "i am not afraid of that," said miss manning, cheerfully. "the children have no books to study from. perhaps you had better take them out for a walk now, and stop on your way at some broadway bookseller's, and get such books as you think they will need." "very well." "are we going out to walk?" said jennie. "i shall like that." "and i too," said carrie. "i hope you won't give miss manning any trouble," said their mother. "here is some money to pay for the books;" and she handed the new governess a five-dollar bill. the children were soon ready, and their new governess went on with them. she congratulated herself on the change in her mode of life. when solely dependent on her labors as a seamstress, she had been compelled to sit hour after hour, from early morning until evening, sewing steadily, and then only earned enough to keep soul and body together. what wonder if she became thin, and her cheek grew pale, losing the rosy tint which it wore, when as a girl she lived among the hills of new england! better times had come to her at length. she would probably be expected to spend considerable time daily out of doors, as her pupils were too young to study much or long at a time. it was a blessed freedom, so she felt, and she was sure that she should enjoy the society of the two little girls, having a natural love for children. she did not expect to like them as well as rose, for rose seemed partly her own child, but she didn't doubt that she should ere long become attached to them. then, again, she would not only enjoy an agreeable home, but for the first time would receive such compensation for her services as to be quite at ease in her pecuniary circumstances. five dollars a week might not be a large sum to a lady with expensive tastes; but miss manning had the art of appearing well dressed for a small sum, and, as she made her own clothes, she estimated that three dollars a week would clothe both, and enable her to save two dollars weekly, or a hundred dollars a year. this was indeed a bright prospect to one who had been engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle with poverty for the last five years. she went into a broadway bookstore, and purchased primers for her new pupils, and a more advanced reading-book for rose. at the end of an hour they returned home. they found an express wagon at the door. two men were lifting out a sofa and a rocking-chair. "they are for your room, miss manning," said jennie. "i heard ma tell pa this morning, to stop at a furniture place and buy them." mr. colman had certainly been prompt, for, though it was still early, here they were. when they were carried upstairs, and placed in her room, miss manning looked about her with pardonable pride and satisfaction. though the room was on the fourth floor, it looked quite like a parlor. she felt that she should take great comfort in so neat and pleasant a room. it was a great contrast to her dull, solitary, laborious life in the shabby room, for which, poor as it was, she oftentimes found it difficult to provide the weekly rent. there were no lessons that morning, for miss manning had her trunk to unpack, and rose's clothes and her own to lay away in the bureau-drawers. she had about completed this work when the bell rang for lunch. taking rose by the hand, she led her downstairs to the basement, where, as is common in new york boarding-houses, the dining-room was situated. there were five ladies and children at the table, the gentlemen being obliged, on account of the distance, to take their lunch down town, somewhere near their places of business. "you may take this seat, miss manning," said the landlady, indicating one near herself. "your little girl can sit between us, and jennie and carrie on the other side. i will trouble you to take care of them. their mother seldom comes down to lunch." the repast was plain but plentiful, the principal meal, dinner, being at six, an hour more convenient for men of business. i state this for the benefit of those of my readers who live in the country, and are accustomed to take dinner in the middle of the day. miss manning was introduced to mrs. pratt, a stout, elderly lady, with a pleasant face, who sat opposite her; to mrs. florence, a young lady recently married, who sat at her left; and to mrs. clifton, formerly miss peyton, who, as well as her husband, will be remembered by the readers of the second and third volumes of this series. mr. clifton kept a dry goods store on eighth avenue. in the afternoon, miss manning gave her first lesson, and succeeded in interesting her young pupils, who proved quite docile, and seemed to have taken a fancy to their new governess. meanwhile rufus had succeeded in making an arrangement which promised to add to his weekly income. of this an account will be given in the next chapter. chapter vii. a new enterprise. rufus felt some doubts as to whether he had done wisely in agreeing to board at mrs. clayton's. his own board, together with what he paid for his sister's board and clothes, would just take up the whole of his salary. however, he would have the interest on his five hundred dollars, now deposited in a savings-bank, and yielding six per cent. interest annually. still this would amount only to thirty dollars, and this would not be sufficient to pay for his clothes alone, not to mention miscellaneous expenses, such as car-fares and other incidental expenses. he felt that he should like now and then to go on an excursion with his sister and miss manning, or perhaps to a place of amusement. for all this, one hundred dollars a year would be needed, at a moderate calculation. how should he make up this amount? two ways suggested themselves to rufus. one was, draw upon his principal. probably he would not be obliged to do this very long, as, at the end of six months, it was probable that his salary would be raised if he gave satisfaction, and this he meant to do. still, rufus did not like this plan, for five hundred dollars seemed a good round sum, and he wanted to keep it all. the other way was to make up the necessary sum by extra work outside of the office. this idea he liked best. but it suggested another question, which was not altogether easy to answer. "what should he do, or what kind of work should he choose?" he might go back to his old employment. as he was not required to be at the office before nine o'clock, why should he not spend an hour or two in the early morning in selling newspapers? he felt confident that he could in this way clear two dollars a week. but there were two objections which occurred to him. the first was, that as mrs. clayton's breakfast was at half-past seven in the winter, and not earlier than seven in the summer, he would be obliged to give it up, and take breakfast at some restaurant down town. his breakfasts, probably, would come to very nearly the sum he would make by selling papers, and as mrs. clayton took him under her usual price, it was hardly to be expected that she would make any allowance for his absence from the morning meal. besides, rufus had left his old life behind him, and he did not want to go back to it. he doubted, also, whether his employer would like to have him spend his time before office hours in selling papers. then, again, he was about to board at a house of very good rank, and he felt that he did not wish to pass among his new acquaintances as a newsboy, if he could get something better to do. of course it was respectable, as all honest labor is; but our hero felt that by this time he was suited to something better. the more rufus balanced these considerations in his mind, the more perplexed he became. meanwhile he was walking down broadway on his way to the office. just as he was crossing canal street, some one tapped him on the shoulder. turning round, he recognized a young man whom he remembered as clerk in a stationery store in nassau street. his name was george black. "rough and ready!" he exclaimed, in surprise. "is this you? why are you not selling papers? you got up late this morning, didn't you?" "i've given up selling papers," said rufus. "how long since?" "only a few days." "what are you up to now?" "i'm in an office in wall street." "what sort of an office?" "a banker's,--mr. turner's." "yes, i know the firm. what do you get?" "eight dollars a week." "that's pretty good,--better than selling papers." "yes, i like it better, though i don't make any more money than i did before. but it seems more like business." "well, you've found a place, and i've lost one." "how is that?" "my employer failed, and the business has gone up," said black. "i suppose you are looking for a new place." "yes; but i wouldn't if i only had a little capital." "what would you do then?" "i was walking up sixth avenue yesterday, when i saw a neat little periodical and fancy goods store for sale, on account of the owner's illness. it's a very good location, and being small does not require much capital to carry it on. the rent is cheap,--only twenty dollars a month. by adding a few articles, i could make a thousand dollars a year out of it." "why don't you take it?" "because i haven't got but a hundred dollars in the world, and i expect that will be gone before i get a new place." "what does the owner want for his stock?" "he says it cost him seven hundred dollars; but he's sick, and wants to dispose of it as soon as possible. he'll sell out for five hundred dollars cash." "are you sure the stock is worth that much?" asked rufus. "yes, i am sure it is worth more. i've been in the business, and i can judge." "why don't you borrow the money?" "it is easy enough to say that, but where shall i find anybody to lend it?" "you might take a partner with money." "so i might, if i could find one." "look here, mr. black," said rufus, in a businesslike tone, "what offer will you make to any one who will furnish you the money to buy out this shop?" "do you know of anybody who has got the money?" asked the young man. "perhaps i do, and perhaps i don't; but maybe i might find somebody." "i'll tell you what i'll do. if any one will set me up there, i will give him a third of the profits after paying expenses." "and you think that you can make a thousand dollars a year?" "yes, i feel sure of it." "that's a good offer," said rufus, meditatively. "i'm willing to make it. at that rate i shall make fourteen dollars a week, and i have never been paid but twelve for clerking it. besides, i should be my own master." "you might not make so much." "if i make less i can live on less. there's a small room in back, where i can put in a bed, that will save me room-rent. my meals i can buy at the restaurants. i don't believe it will cost me over three hundred and fifty dollars to live." "so that you could save up money." "yes, i should be sure to. after a while i could buy out the whole business." rufus was silent for a moment. he had five hundred dollars. why should he not set up george black in business on the terms proposed? then, instead of getting a paltry thirty dollars' interest for his money, he would get two or three hundred dollars, and this would abundantly make up what he needed to live in good style at mrs. clayton's, and afford rose and himself occasional recreation. of course a good deal depended on the honesty of george black. but of this young man rufus had a very good opinion, having known him for two or three years. besides, as partner he would be entitled to inquire into the state of the business at any time, and if anything was wrong he would take care that it was righted. "what are you thinking about?" inquired the young man, observing his silence. "how would you like me for a partner?" asked rufus, looking up suddenly. "i'd just as lief have you as anybody, if you had the money," said george black. "i have got the money," said our hero. "you don't mean to say you've got five hundred dollars?" asked black, in surprise. "yes, i do." "how did you get it? you didn't make it selling papers in the street." "you may bet on that. no; i found part of it and the rest i had given me." "tell me about it." rufus did so. "where is the money?" "i keep it in a savings-bank." "i'll tell you what, rufus," said george, "if you'll buy out the shop for me, and come in as my partner, i'll do what i said, and that'll be a good deal better than the savings-bank can do for you." "that's true; but there'll be more risk." "i don't think there will. i shall manage the business economically, and you can come in any time and see how it's going on. but i never thought you had so much money." "if you had, maybe you'd have thought more of me," said rufus. "maybe i should. 'money makes the mare go' in this world. but when will you let me know about it? i've only got two days to decide in." "i should like to see the shop myself," said rufus, with commendable prudence. "of course; that's what i'd like to have you do. when will you come round with me and see it?" "i can't come now," said our hero, "for it would make me late at the office. is it open in the evening?" "yes." "then i'll tell you what. i'll meet you there this evening at eight o'clock. just give me the number, and i'll be sure to be there." "all right. have you got a pencil?" "yes; and here's one of our cards. you can put it down here." the address was put down, and the two parted. george black went round to the shop at once to say that he would probably be able to make an arrangement. in the evening, at the appointed hour, the two met at the periodical store. rufus was favorably impressed on first entering. the room was small, but it was very neat. it had a good window opening to the street, and it appeared well filled with stock. a hasty survey satisfied our hero that the stock was really worth more than the amount asked for it. the proprietor seemed a sickly-looking man, and the plea of ill-health, judging from his appearance, might readily be credited. "this is the capitalist i spoke of this morning," said george black, introducing rufus. "he seems young,", said the proprietor, a little surprised. "i'm not very aged yet," said rufus, smiling. "the main thing is, that he's got the money," said black. "he's in business in wall street, and is looking about for an investment of his spare funds." rufus was rather pleased with this way of stating his position. he saw that it heightened his importance considerably in the mind of the owner of the shop. "he'll do well to invest here," said the latter. "it's a good stand. i wouldn't sell out if my health would let me hold on. but confinement doesn't suit me. the doctor says i shan't live a year, if i stay here, and life is better than money." "that's so." "how long has this shop been established?" asked rufus. "five years." "it ought to be pretty well known." "yes; it's got a good run of custom. if the right man takes hold of it, he'll make money. he can't help it." "what do you think of it, rufus?" asked george black, turning to our hero. "isn't it as i represented?" "yes," said rufus. "i should think a good business might be done here." "if i get hold of it, a good business shall be done here," said black, emphatically. "but it all depends on you. say the word, and we'll close the bargain now." "all right!" said rufus, promptly. "i'll say the word. we'll take the shop." chapter viii. the new boarding-house. it might be considered hazardous for rufus to invest all his money in a venture which depended to so great an extent upon the honesty of another. but there is no profit without risk, and our hero felt considerable confidence in the integrity of his proposed partner. it occurred to him, however, that he might need some money before he should receive any from the business. accordingly, as the young man had told him that he had a hundred dollars, he proposed that he should contribute one half of that sum towards the purchase of the shop, while he made up the balance,--four hundred and fifty dollars. this would leave him fifty dollars for contingent expenses, while george black would have the same. our hero's street-life had made him sharp, and he determined to secure himself as far as possible. he accordingly proposed to george black that they should go to a lawyer, and have articles of agreement drawn up. for this, however, he did not have time till the next morning. one article proposed by rufus was, that he should draw fifty dollars a quarter towards the third share of the profits, which it was agreed that he should receive, and at the end of the year any balance that might remain due. no objection was made by george black, who considered this provision a fair one. the style of the firm,--for as most of the capital was furnished by rufus, it was thought that his name should be represented,--was "rushton & black." a new sign was ordered, bearing their names, and it was arranged that the new proprietors should take possession of the store at the commencement of the next week, when it would probably be ready. rufus hesitated about announcing his new venture to miss manning and rose, but finally concluded not to do so just at present. it would be time, he thought, when they had got fairly started. meanwhile he had transferred himself to the room at mrs. clayton's boarding-house. he felt rather bashful at first about appearing at the table. half an hour before the time, he reached the house, and went up at once to miss manning's room. "o rufie!" said rose, jumping up from the sofa and running to meet him, "have you come to stay?" "yes, rosie," he answered, sitting down on the sofa, and taking her in his lap. "i am _so_ glad. you are going down to dinner, aint you?" "yes, i suppose so." "we have such nice dinners,--don't we, miss manning?" "very nice, rose." "a great deal better than i ever had before. i wonder where you will sit, rufie." "he will sit next to you, rose; i spoke to mrs. clayton about it. rufus will take care of you, and i am to look after jennie and carrie." "that will be very nice." "how do you like the little girls, rose?" asked her brother. "very much. they have given me some of their dolls." "and which knows the most,--you or they?" "oh, i know ever so much more," said rose, positively. "is that true, miss manning, or is rose boasting?" asked rufus. "rose is farther advanced than either jennie or carrie," answered miss manning. "they have studied comparatively little yet, but i find them docile, and i think they will soon improve." by the time rufus had combed his hair, and put on a clean collar, the dinner-bell rang. he followed miss manning down into the dining-room. "good-evening, mr. rushton," said mrs. clayton. "i am glad to see you." "his name isn't mr. rushton," said rose. "his name is rufie." "it is the first time rose ever heard me called so," said rufus, smiling. "she will soon get used to it." he was rather pleased than otherwise to be called mr. rushton. it made him feel more like a man. "you may take that seat, mr. rushton," said the landlady. "your little sister will sit beside you." rufus took the chair indicated. next to him was seated a lady of thirty or more, whose hair fell in juvenile ringlets. this was mrs. clifton, formerly miss peyton, who will be remembered by the readers of "fame and fortune." rufus was introduced to her. "i am very glad to make your acquaintance, mr. rushton," said mrs. clifton, graciously. "you have a very sweet little sister." "yes; she is a very good little girl," said rufus, better pleased with a compliment to rose than he would have been with one to himself. "i understand you are in business in wall street, mr. rushton." "yes," said rufus. "i am in the office of mr. turner." "i sometimes tell mr. clifton i wish he would go into business in wall street. he keeps a dry-goods store on eighth avenue." "can't remember ever hearing you mention the idea, mrs. c----," remarked her husband, who sat on the other side, in a pause between two mouthfuls. "there aint much money in dry goods just now, by jove! i'll open in wall street, if you say the word." mrs. clifton slightly frowned, and did not see fit to answer the remark made to her. her husband was not very brilliant, either in business, wit, or in any other way, and she had married him, not from love, but because she saw no other way of escaping from being an old maid. "do you know, mr. rushton," said mrs. clifton, "you remind me so much of a very intimate friend of mine, mr. hunter?" "do i?" added rufus. "i hope he is good-looking." "he's very handsome," said mrs. clifton, "and _so_ witty." "then i'm glad i'm like him," said rufus. for some reason he did not feel so bashful as he anticipated, particularly with mrs. clifton. "he's soon going to be married to a very rich young lady,--miss greyson; perhaps you know her." "that's where he has the advantage of me," said rufus. "mr. clifton," said his wife, "don't you think mr. rushton looks very much like mr. hunter?" "yes," said her husband; "as much as i look like the emperor napoleon." "don't make a goose of yourself, mr. clifton," said his wife, sharply. "thank you, i don't intend to. a goose is a female, and i don't care to make such a change." "i suppose you think that is witty," said mrs. clifton, a little disdainfully. it is unnecessary to pursue the conversation. those who remember mrs. clifton when she was miss peyton will easily understand what was its character. it had the effect, however, of putting rufus at his ease. on the whole, considering that he was only used to cheap restaurants, he acquitted himself very well for the first time, and no one suspected that he had not always been accustomed to live as well. the dinner he found excellent. mrs. clayton herself superintended the preparation of dinner, and she was not inclined to undue economy, as is the case with many landladies. "i'm glad i came here," thought rufus. "it's worth the difference in price." as they rose from the table, mrs. colman asked miss manning, "is that the brother of your little girl?" "yes," answered miss manning. "he has a very good appearance; i should like to have you bring him into our room a while." miss manning communicated this invitation to rufus. he would have excused himself gladly, but he felt that this would have been hardly polite; therefore he accepted it. "i am glad to make your acquaintance, mr. rushton," said mrs. colman. "thank you," said rufus. "i hear that you have come to board with us." "yes," he answered, wishing that he might think of something more to say, but not succeeding. "it is a pleasant boarding-place; i hope you will like it." "i think i shall." "you have a very nice little sister; my little girls like her very much. she will be a great deal of company for them." "i think she is a very good little girl," said rufus; "but then i am her brother, so i suppose it is natural for me to think so." "you are in an office in wall street, i am told," said mr. colman. "yes, sir," said rufus. "whose, may i ask?" "mr. turner's." "he is an able business-man, and stands high. you could not learn business under better auspices." "i like him very much," said rufus; "but then i have not been long in his office." "i find miss manning relieves me of a great deal of care and trouble," said mrs. colman (her new governess being just then out of the room). "i feel that i was fortunate in securing her services." "i think you will like her," said rufus. "she is very kind to rose. i don't know what i should do with little sister, if i did not have her to look after her." "then your mother is not living, mr. rushton." "no," said rufus; "she has been dead for two years." "and you are the sole guardian of your little sister?" "yes, ma'am." after half an hour's call, which rufus found less embarrassing and more agreeable than he anticipated, he excused himself, and went upstairs. on tuesday of the nest week, he decided to reveal his new plans to miss manning. accordingly, he managed to reach home about half-past four in the afternoon, and invited her and rose to take a walk with him. "where shall we walk?" she asked. "over to sixth avenue," said rufus. "i want to show you a store there." miss manning soon got ready, and the three set out. it was not far,--scarcely ten minutes' walk. when they arrived opposite the store, rufus pointed over to it. "do you see that periodical store?" he asked. "yes," said miss manning. "how do you like it?" "why do you ask?" she inquired, puzzled. "look at the sign," he answered. "rushton & black," read miss manning. "why, that is your name!" "and i am at the head of the firm," said rufus complacently. "what does it all mean?" asked miss manning. "how can it be?" "i'll tell you," said rufus. a few words made her understand. "now," said rufus, "let us go over to _my_ store, and look in." "what, is it your store, rufie?" asked rose. "yes, little sister, it's part mine." when they entered, they found george black behind the counter, waiting on a customer, who directly went out. "well, george, how's business?" asked rufus. "it opens well," said his partner, cheerfully. "it's a good stand, and there's a good run of custom." "this is my friend, miss manning," said rufus, "and my little sister rose." "i am glad to see you, miss manning," said the young man. "i hope," he added, smiling, "you will give us a share of your patronage." "we'll buy all our slate-pencils at rufie's store, won't we, miss manning?" said rose. "yes, i think so," answered miss manning, with a smile. "then," said rufus, "we shall be certain to succeed, if there's a large profit on slate-pencils, george." "yes, if you charge high enough." after a little more conversation they left the store. "what do you think of my store, miss manning?" asked rufus. "it's a very neat one. i had no idea you had become so extensive a business-man, rufus." "is rufie an extensive man?" asked rose. "i hope to be some day," said rufus, smiling. chapter ix. at the end of three months. rufus soon became accustomed to his new boarding-house, and came to like it. it gratified his pride to perceive that he was regarded as an equal by his fellow-boarders, and that his little sister rose was a general favorite. it seemed almost a dream, and a very disagreeable one, the life they had formerly lived in the miserable tenement-house in leonard street; but still the remembrance of that time heightened his enjoyment of his present comforts and even luxuries. he usually spent the evening in miss manning's room, and, feeling the deficiencies in his education, commenced a course of study and reading. he subscribed to the mercantile library, and thus obtained all the books he wanted at a very moderate rate. by way of showing how they lived at this time, i will introduce the reader to miss manning's room one evening, about three months after rufus had begun to board in the house. miss manning was seated at the table sewing. her young pupils were gone to bed, and she had the evening to herself. rufus was reading abbott's "life of napoleon," which he found very interesting. little rose had fallen asleep on the sofa. "what are you sewing upon, miss manning?" asked rufus, looking up from his book. "i am making a dress for rose." "when you get tired, just let me know, and i will sew a little for you." "thank you, rufus," said miss manning, smiling, "but i suppose it won't hurt your feelings much, if i doubt your abilities as a seamstress." "i am afraid i shouldn't make a very good living at that, miss manning. times have changed a little since you used to sew from morning till night." "yes, they have. i used to see some hard times, rufus. but everything has changed since i got acquainted with you and little rose. i sometimes am tempted to regard you as my good angel." "thank you, i don't know much about angels, but i'm afraid i don't look much like one. they never have red cheeks, and do business in wall street, do they?" "from what i have heard, i don't believe wall street is a favorite resort with them. but, seriously, everything seems to have prospered since i met you. really, i am beginning to be a capitalist. how much money do you think i have saved up out of the three dollars a week which you pay me?" "you've bought some things for yourself and rose, haven't you?" "yes, we have each had a dress, and some little things." "then i don't see how you could save up much." "i made the dresses myself, and that was a great saving. let me see, you've paid me forty-two dollars, in all, for fourteen weeks. i will see how much i have left." she went to the bureau, and took out her pocket-book. "i have twenty-five dollars," she said, counting the contents. "am i not growing rich?" "perhaps you'd like to speculate with it in wall street?" suggested rufus. "i think i'd better keep the money, or put it in a savings-bank." "when you have money enough, i can buy you a fifty-dollar government bond." "i shall have to wait a while first." "well, as for me," said rufus, "i can't tell exactly how i do stand. i took fifty dollars out of that five hundred i had in the savings-bank. i think i've got about half of it left. the rest of it went for a trunk, car fare, and other expenses. so, you see, i've been going down hill, while you've been climbing up." "have you drawn anything from your store yet, rufus? you were to draw fifty dollars a quarter, i believe." "yes; and that reminds me that george black promised to call this evening, and pay the money. it's about time to expect him." rufus had hardly spoken, when a servant knocked at the door. rufus opened it. "there's a young man downstairs, that would like to see you, mr. rushton," she said. "where is he, nancy?" "in the parlor." "i'll go right down. i think it must be black," he said, turning to miss manning. "if it is, of course you will bring him up." "yes, i should like to. we can't talk very well in such a public place." rufus went down, and shortly reappeared with george black. "good-evening, mr. black," said miss manning; "take a seat. i hope you are well." "i'm thriving," said black. "how pleasant and cheerful you look!" "yes, the room is rather high up; but it is pleasant when you get to it." "we were just speaking of you, when the girl came to let us know that you were here." "i hope you said nothing very bad about me." "not very." "i think i shall be welcome, as i have brought you some money." "money is always welcome here," said rufus. "i'll take care of all you can bring." "i have brought fifty dollars, according to our agreement." "can you spare that amount without affecting the business?" "oh, yes." "i suppose you can't tell me what the profits have been for the last three months." "not exactly; but i have made a rough calculation. as it was the first quarter, i knew you would like to know." "well, what is your estimate?" "as well as i can judge we have cleared about two hundred and fifty dollars." "that is at the rate of a thousand dollars a year." "yes; isn't that doing well?" "capitally. do you think the business will hold out at that rate?" "i feel sure of it. i hope to improve upon it." "even if you don't, that will give you nearly seven hundred dollars a year, and me over three hundred." "that's better than clerking,--for me, i mean." "perhaps you might get more as a clerk." "perhaps i might; but now i am my own master, and then i shouldn't be. besides, i have plans in view which i think will increase our custom, and of course our profits also." "success to the firm of rushton & black!" said miss manning, smiling. "thank you," said rufus; "i like that sentiment, and i'd drink to it if i saw anything to drink. have you got any champagne in the closet, miss manning?" "all that i ever had there, rufus. if a glass of water will do as well, i can give you that." at this moment a knock was heard at the door. miss manning rose and opened it. the visitor proved to be mrs. clifton, of whom mention has already been made. "good-evening, mrs. clifton," said the governess; "come in." "thank you, but i didn't know you had company." "don't stand on ceremony, mrs. clifton," said rufus; "my friend, mr. black, is perfectly harmless, i assure you. he is neither a bull nor a bear." "what spirits you have, mr. rushton!" "no spirits at all, mrs. clifton. miss manning has just been offering us some water as a substitute." "you are _so_ lively, mr. rushton. you remind me so much of my friend, mr. hunter." "i suppose he was one of your admirers before you became mrs. clifton." "really, mr. rushton, you mustn't say such things. mr. hunter and i were very intimate friends, but nothing more, i assure you." "is mr. clifton well?" asked miss manning. "he hasn't got home from the store. you know the dry goods stores always keep open late. really, i might as well have no husband at all, it is so late when mr. clifton gets home, and then he is so sleepy that he can't keep his eyes open." it was generally believed that mr. and mrs. clifton did not live together as happily as they might have done,--a fact that will not at all surprise those who are familiar with their history before their marriage, which was quite a business arrangement. mrs. clifton married because she did not want to be an old maid, and mr. clifton because he knew his prospective wife had money, by means of which he could establish himself in business. "are you in business in wall street, mr. black?" inquired mrs. clifton. "no; i keep a store on sixth avenue." "indeed! my husband keeps a dry goods store on eighth avenue." "mine is a periodical and fancy goods store. mr. rushton here is my partner." "indeed, mr. rushton, i am surprised to hear that. you have not left wall street, have you?" "no; i have only invested a portion of my extensive capital. my friend black carries on the business." thus far, rufus had said nothing in the house about his connection with the sixth avenue store; but now that it was no longer an experiment he felt that there was no objection to doing so. mrs. clifton, who liked to retail news, took care to make it known in the house, and the impression became general that rufus was a young man of property. mr. pratt, who was an elderly man, rather given to prosy dissertations upon public affairs, got into the habit of asking our hero's opinion upon the financial policy of the government, to which, when expressed, he used to listen with his head a little on one side, as though the words were those of an oracle. this embarrassed rufus a little at first; but as during the day he was in a situation to hear considerable in reference to this subject, he was generally able to answer in a way that was regarded as satisfactory. "that young man," remarked mr. pratt to his wife in private, "has got a head upon his shoulders. he knows what's what. depend upon it, if he lives long enough, he will become a prominent man." "i can't judge of that," said good-natured mrs. pratt; "but he's a very agreeable young man, i am sure, and his sister is a little darling." chapter x. mr. martin again appears on the scene. the success of the periodical store put rufus into good spirits. he saw that it would yield him, if only the present degree of prosperity continued, at least three hundred dollars a year, which would make quite a handsome addition to his income. he felt justified in going to a little extra expense, and determined to celebrate his good luck by taking martha and rose to a place of amusement. it happened that at this time a company of japanese jugglers were performing at the academy of music, which, as my new york readers know, is situated on fourteenth street. meaning it to be a surprise, he said nothing to rose or martha, but before going down town the next day, went to the box-office, and secured three reserved seats in an excellent situation. they were expensive; but rufus was resolved that he would not spare expense, for this occasion at least. when he reached home at half-past five in the afternoon, he went up at once to martha's room. "miss manning," he said, "have you any engagement this evening?" "it is hardly necessary to ask, rufus," she replied; "my company is not in very great demand." "you have heard of the japanese jugglers at the academy of music?" "yes; mrs. florence was speaking of them this morning. she and her husband went last evening." "and we are going this evening. wouldn't you like to go, rosy?" "ever so much, rufie. will you take me?" "yes, i have got tickets: see here;" and rufus drew out the three tickets which he had purchased in the morning. "thank you, rufus," said miss manning; "i shall like very much to go. it is long since i went to any place of amusement. how much did the tickets cost?" "a dollar and a half apiece." "isn't that rather extravagant?" "it would be if we went every week; but now and then we can afford it." "you must let me pay for my ticket, rufus." "not if i know it," said rufus. "it's a pity if a wall street banker can't carry a lady to a place of amusement, without charging her for the ticket." "if you put it that way, i suppose i must yield," said miss manning, smiling. rose was highly excited at the idea of going to see the japanese, whose feats, as described by mrs. florence at the breakfast-table, had interested her exceedingly. the prospect of sitting up till eleven in the evening also had its charm, and she was quite too excited to eat much dinner. "really," said mrs. clifton, "i quite envy you, miss manning. i tried to get mr. clifton to buy tickets, but he hasn't done it." "first time i heard of it," said her husband. "you pay very little attention to what i ask,--i am aware of that," said mrs. clifton, in an aggrieved tone. "we'll go now, if you say so." "we couldn't get any decent seats. when did you buy yours, mr. rushton?" "this morning." mrs. clifton, who was thoroughly selfish, hinted that probably rose wouldn't care about going, and that she should be glad to buy the ticket, and accompany rufus and miss manning; but this hint failed to be taken, and she was forced unwillingly to stay at home. to tell the truth, miss manning was scarcely less pleased than rose at the idea of going. until recently she had been a poor seamstress, earning scarcely enough to subsist upon, much less to pay for amusements. sometimes in the early evening she had passed the portals of places of amusement, and wished that she were able to break the tedious monotony of her daily life by entering; but it was quite out of the question, and with a sigh she would pass on. now she was very differently situated, and her life was much pleasanter. "can i wear my new dress, martha?" asked rose. "yes, rosy. it was fortunate that i got it finished to-day." "and will you wear yours, too, martha?" "yes, i think so," she said. "rufus has bought us nice seats, and we must look as well as we can." when both were dressed, they surveyed themselves with satisfaction. miss manning was not above the weakness, if it is a weakness, of liking to appear well dressed, though she was not as demonstrative as rose, who danced about the room in high enjoyment. when they were quite ready, rufus came into the room. he had a pair of kid gloves in his hand, which he twirled about in rather an embarrassed way. "i can't get the confounded things on, miss manning," he said. "i've been trying for some time, but it's no go. the fact is, i never owned a pair of kid gloves before. i'd enough sight rather go without any, but i suppose, if i am going to sit in a fashionable seat, i must try to look fashionable." miss manning soon explained to rufus how the gloves should go on. this time the success was better, and he was soon neatly gloved. "they are pretty gloves, rufus," she said. "i don't like the feeling of them," said rufus; "they feel strange." "that is because you are not used to them. you'll like them better soon." "i wonder what some of my old street friends would say to see me now," said rufus, smiling. "they'd think i was a tip-top swell." though the gloves did not feel comfortable, rufus looked at his hands with satisfaction. step by step he was getting into the ways of civilized life, and he was very anxious to leave as far behind him as possible his street experiences. soon after dinner they left the house, and, proceeding to broadway, walked up as far as union square. then they turned down fourteenth street, and a few minutes brought them to the academy of music. the entrance and vestibule were brilliantly lighted. on the steps and in front were a number of speculators, who were eagerly offering their tickets to those who appeared unprovided. rufus pushed his way through, with martha and rose at his side. his tickets were taken at the gate, but the portion indicating the number of their reserved seats was torn off, and given back to them. on showing them to the usher, they were conducted to their seats, which were in the sixth row from the stage, and fronting it. "we'll have a good view here, miss manning," he said. soon the curtain rose, and the performance commenced. to those who have not seen the japanese in their peculiar performance, it is enough to say that they show marvellous skill and agility in their feats, some of which are so difficult as to seem almost impossible. all three enjoyed the performance. miss manning, though so much older, was almost as much unaccustomed as little rose herself to such scenes, and took a fresh interest in it, which those who go often cannot feel. every now and then, little rose, unable to restrain her enthusiasm, exhibited her delight openly. i should like, for the benefit of my younger readers, to give a detailed account of some portions of the performance which seemed most wonderful; but my memory is at fault, and i can only speak in general terms. it was a little after ten when the curtain finally fell. "is that all?" asked rose, half in disappointment. "that's all, rosy. are you sleepy?" "not a bit," said rose, vivaciously; "i should like to stay here an hour longer. wasn't it perfectly beautiful, rufie?" "yes; it was very good," said rufus; "i don't know but i like it almost as well as the old bowery." though he had risen in the social scale, he had not quite lost his relish for the style of plays for which the old bowery, the favorite theatre with the street boys, is celebrated. but that he had a suspicion that it was not exactly a fashionable place of amusement, he would like to have taken rose and miss manning there this evening. he would hardly have liked to mention it at the table afterwards, however. the audience rose from their seats, and rufus with them. slowly they moved towards the door, and at last made their way to the entrance. had rufus known who was waiting there, he might have felt a little nervous. but he did not know, and it devolves upon us to explain. three days before, mr. martin, who had been sentenced to the penitentiary for three months, on account of his attempt at picking pockets, which we have already chronicled, was released. to say the least, he left the prison no better than he had entered it. better in one sense he was, for he had been forced for three months to abstain from drink, and this he felt to be a great hardship. but it had a favorable influence upon his health, and his skin was clearer, and his nose not quite so ruddy as when he was arrested. but so far as good intentions went, he had not formed any during his exile from society, and now that he was released he was just as averse to living by honest industry as before. however, his resources were still limited. money had never been very plentiful with him, and just at present he was not encumbered with any. it did not occur to him that the shortest way to obtain some was to go to work; or, if it did, the suggestion did not strike him favorably. it did occur to him, however, that there were charitable persons in the metropolis who might be induced to help him, and he resolved to act upon this suggestion. accordingly, he haunted the neighborhood of the academy of music, until the stream of people began to pour out from it, and then he felt that the time had come for him to carry out his plans. he went up to a gentleman who was coming out with a young lady leaning on his arm. "will you listen to me a minute, sir?" he said, in a whining tone. "i haven't eaten anything since yesterday, and i have no money to pay for a night's lodging." "why don't you go to work?" said the gentleman. "i can't get anything to do, sir. i've been trying for something all day." the fact was that mr. martin had been lounging about a low bar-room all day. "here, take this, and clear the way." the gentleman, more to get rid of him than anything else, dropped five cents into his hand, and passed on. "he might have given a quarter," grumbled martin; "it wouldn't have hurt him." he looked up, intending to make a similar application to the next person, when he uttered an exclamation of surprise and exultation. close before him he saw rufus and his little sister, accompanied by miss manning. chapter xi. mr. martin's wild-goose chase. probably nothing could have given martin greater pleasure than this unexpected meeting with his step-children. he did not reflect that the pleasure might not be mutual, but determined to make himself known without delay. hurrying forward, he placed one hand on the shoulder of rufus, saying, "glad to see you, rufus; what have you been up to lately? here's rose too, i expect she's glad to see me." at the first sound of his voice poor rose began to tremble. clinging closer to her brother, she said, "don't let him take me, rufie." "he shan't touch you, rose," said rufus, manfully. "you don't seem very glad to see me," said martin, smiling maliciously. "that's where you're right," said rufus, bluntly. "we are not glad to see you. i suppose that don't surprise you much. come along, rose." he tried to leave martin, but martin did not choose to be left. he shuffled along by the side of our hero, considerably to the disgust of the latter, who was afraid he might fall in with some acquaintance whose attention would be drawn to the not very respectable-looking object who had accosted him, and learn the relationship that existed between them. "you seem to be in a hurry," sneered martin. "i am in a hurry," said rufus. "it's late for rose to be out." "that's what i was thinking," said martin. "considerin' that i'm her natural protector, it's my duty to interfere." "a pretty sort of protector you are!" retorted rufus, scornfully. "you're an undootiful boy," said martin, "to speak so to your father." "who do you mean?" "aint i your father?" "no, you are not. if you were, i'd be ashamed of you. mr. martin, we haven't anything to do with each other. you can go your way, and i'll go mine. i shan't interfere with you, and i shan't allow you to interfere with me." "ho, ho!" said martin, "when was you twenty-one, i'd like to know?" "it doesn't make any difference when. good-night." "you don't get rid of me so easy," said martin. "i'll follow you home." by this time they had reached the corner of broadway and union square. rufus was placed in an awkward position. he had no authority to order martin away. he might follow them home, and ascertain where they lived, and probably would do so. rufus felt that this would never do. were their home known to mr. martin, he would have it in his power to lie in wait for rose, and kidnap her as he had done once before. he would never feel easy about his little sister under these circumstances. yet what could he do? if he should quicken his pace, martin would do the same. "what do you want to follow us for?" he asked. "what good is it going to do you?" "don't you trouble yourself about that," said martin, exulting in our hero's evident perplexity. "considerin' that you two are my children, i may want to come and see you some time." here rose began to cry. she had always been very much afraid of martin, and feared now that she might fall into his hands. "don't cry, rose," said rufus, soothingly. "he shan't do you any harm." "maybe he won't if you treat him well," said martin. "look here, rufus. i'm hard up--dead broke. haven't you a dollar to spare?" "are you going to follow us?" "maybe i won't if you'll give me the dollar." "i can't trust you," said rufus, suspiciously. "i'll tell you what," he added, after a little thought; "go up to madison park, and sit down on one of the seats, and i'll come up in half an hour, or three quarters at most, and give you the dollar." "do you think i'm so green?" sneered martin. "i might stop there all night without seein' you. all you want is a chance to get away without my knowin' where." "no," said rufus; "i'll do what i promise. but you must go up there now, and not follow us." "that don't go down," said martin. "you don't ketch a weasel asleep." "well," said rufus, coolly, "you can do just as you please. if you accept my offer, you shall have a dollar inside of an hour. if you don't, you won't get a penny." still martin was not persuaded. he felt sure that rufus meant to mislead him, and, being unreliable himself, he put no confidence in the promise made by our hero. he prepared to follow him home, as the knowledge of where rose lived would probably enable him to extort more than a dollar from the fear and anxiety of rufus. so he repeated:-- "that don't go down! you aint quite smart enough to take me in. i'm goin' to follow you, and find out where you live." "better give him the dollar now, rufus," suggested miss manning, who felt nearly as anxious as rose. "no," said rufus, decidedly; "i shan't gain anything by it. as soon as he got the money, he'd follow us all the same." "what will you do?" asked miss manning, anxiously. "you'll see," said rufus, composedly. he had been busily thinking, and a plan had suggested itself to his mind, which he thought offered probably the best way out of the difficulty. he reflected that probably mr. martin, judging from his appearance, was penniless, or nearly so. he therefore decided to jump on board a horse-car, and thus elude him. when they reached the corner of university place, a car was seen approaching. rufus hailed it. "are we going to ride?" asked rose. "yes, rose; and now, whatever i do, i want you to keep perfectly still and say nothing. will you promise?" "yes, rufie." rufus exacted this promise, as rose might unconsciously, by some unguarded exclamation, betray the very knowledge which he was anxious to conceal. martin fathomed the purpose of our hero, and determined not be balked. he had five cents which had just been given him out of charity at the door of the academy, and, though the fare on the horse-cars was one cent more, he thought he might make it do. accordingly he got into the car after rufus. "i couldn't bear to leave such agreeable company," he said, with a leer. "horse-cars are free, i believe." "i believe they are," said rufus. "i wonder how much money he's got," thought our hero. "i guess i can drain him after a while." the conductor came along, and rufus paid for miss manning and rose, as well as himself. martin was hanging on a strap near by. "your fare," said the conductor. martin plunged his hand into his pocket, and drew out five cents. he plunged his hand in again, and appeared to be hunting about for the extra penny. "i declare," said he, "i believe i've lost the other cent. won't five cents do?" "couldn't let you ride under six cents," said the conductor. "it's against the rules." "i can't see where it is," said martin, hunting again. "i'll pay the other penny," said a gentleman sitting near. "thank you, sir," said martin. "very much obliged to you. i'm a poor man; but it's on account of some undutiful children that i've spent all my money on, and now they begrudge their poor father a few pennies." he looked at rufus; but our hero did not see fit to apply the remark to himself, nor, considering that he used to help support martin, did he feel any particular remorse. if martin had been a more respectable-looking object, if his nose had been a trifle less red, and his whole appearance less suggestive of intemperate habits, the remark he had let fall might have stirred some of his listeners to compassion. but no one, to look at him, would wonder much at a want of filial affection towards such a father. so, though he looked round to notice the effect, hoping that he might elicit some sympathy which should take a pecuniary form, he perceived that his appeal had fallen upon stony ground. nobody seemed particularly impressed, and the hope of a contribution from some compassionate listener faded out. rufus was a witness of this scene, and of course it enabled him to fathom martin's resources. he congratulated himself that they were so speedily exhausted. he did not get out when the car reached waverley place, for obvious reasons, but kept on till they came to bleecker street. rose was about to express surprise, but a look from rufus checked her. at bleecker street he signalled to the conductor to stop. the latter obeyed the signal, and our hero got out, followed not only by rose and miss manning, but, as might have been expected, also by martin. "you don't get rid of me so easy," said the latter, triumphantly. "don't i?" asked rufus, coolly. "are you going to follow me still?" martin answered in the affirmative, with an oath. "then," said rufus, coolly, "i'll give you all the following you want to do." a car bound in the opposite direction was approaching. rufus hailed it, and it came to a stop. martin, who had not been anticipating this move, stopped a moment, staring, crestfallen, at rufus; but, recovering himself quickly, jumped on the platform, resolved to try his luck. rufus paid his fare. martin didn't volunteer to pay his, but looked steadily before him, hoping that he might escape the conductor's observation. but the latter was too sharp for that. "fare?" he said. "all right," said martin, plunging his hand into his pocket. of course he drew out nothing, as he anticipated. "i declare," he said; "i believe i haven't any money with me." "then get off." "couldn't you let me off this time?" asked martin, insinuatingly; "i'm a poor man." "so am i," said the conductor, bluntly. "you must get off." "isn't there any gentleman that'll lend a poor man six cents?" asked martin, looking round. but nobody seemed disposed to volunteer assistance, and martin was compelled reluctantly to jump off. but he didn't give up yet. the car didn't go so fast but that he could keep up with it by running. it chafed him that rufus should get the better of him, and he ran along on the sidewalk, keeping the car continually in sight. "he's running," said miss manning, looking out. "what a determined man he is! i'm afraid he'll find us out." "i'm not afraid," said rufus. "he'll get tired of running by the time we get to central park." "shall you ride as far as that?" "if necessary." for about a mile martin held out, but by this time he became exhausted, and dropped behind. the distance between him and the car gradually increased, but still rufus rode on for half a mile further. by this time martin was no longer in sight. "we'll cross over to sixth avenue," he said, "so that martin may not see us on our return." this suggestion was adopted, luckily, for martin had posted himself at a favorable place, and was scanning attentively every returning car. but he waited and watched in vain till long after the objects of his pursuit were safe at home and in bed. chapter xii. martin's luck turns. martin continued to watch for an hour or two, sitting in a door-way. at length he was forced to conclude that rufus had given him the slip, and this tended by no means to sweeten his temper. in fact, his position was not altogether a pleasant one. it was now past midnight, and, having no money, he saw no other way than to spend the night in the street. besides he was hungry, and that was a complaint which was likely to get worse instead of better. as for rufus, martin had never before seen him so well dressed, and it seemed clear that he was prospering. "he's an ungrateful young rascal," muttered martin,--"livin' in ease and comfort, while i am left to starve in the street!" it would have been rather hard to tell what rufus had to be grateful for, unless for the privilege which he had enjoyed for some time of helping support his step-father; but martin persuaded himself that he was ungrateful and undutiful, and grew indignant over his fancied wrongs, as he lay back in discomfort on the stone step which he had selected as his resting-place. the night passed slowly away, and when the morning light came martin got up very stiff and sore, and more hungry than ever, and began to wonder where he was likely to get any breakfast. begging seemed to him, on the whole, the easiest way of getting along; but it was too early for that. after a while, however, the street began to be peopled, and he walked up to a gentleman who was approaching, and, assuming a look which he thought indicative of wretchedness, whined out, "would you be willing to help a poor man, sir?" the gentleman stopped. "so you are poor?" he said. "yes," said martin, "i have been very unfortunate." "why don't you work?" "i can't find any work to do," answered martin. "haven't you got any friends to help you?" "they've all turned against me," said martin. "even my own children have turned me out of the house to shift for myself." "how old are your children?" asked the other. martin hesitated, for this question was a little embarrassing. "one of them is sixteen," he said. "a son?" "yes." "did you support him, or did he support you?" was the natural inquiry. "i supported him," said martin; "but he's an undootiful, ungrateful scamp, and--" "then it appears that he has relieved you from taking care of him, and you have only yourself to provide for. it appears to me that you ought to get along better than before." "if i could get any work." "what sort of work do you want to do?" "if i had a few dollars i could set up in some light business." "you will have to apply elsewhere for the money, my friend," said the gentleman. "to be frank with you, your appearance doesn't speak in your favor;" and he walked on. "that's the way the rich and prosperous treat the poor," soliloquized martin, feeling that the whole world was in a conspiracy against him. those who undertake to live without work are very apt to arrive at such conclusions. martin concluded, on the whole, that he wouldn't refer to being turned out of his house next time, as it might lead to embarrassing questions. he approached another gentleman, and began with the same appeal for assistance. "what's the matter? can't you work?" was the reply. "i've had a severe fit of sickness," said martin, forcing a cough; "and i'm very feeble. i haint had anything to eat for twenty-four hours, and i've got a wife and five little children dependent on me." "if that don't bring something," thought martin, "nothing will." "where do you live?" "no. twenty-fourth street," answered martin, glibly. now the individual addressed was a gentleman of leisure, of a philanthropic turn of mind, and one who frequently visited the poor at their homes. martin's story seemed pitiful, and he concluded to inquire into it. "i'm sorry for you," he said. "i'll go round with you and see your family, and see what can be done for them." this was just what martin did not want. as the family he spoke of was entirely imaginary, it would only result in exposure and disappointment. yet he knew not how to refuse. "i'm much obliged to you, sir," he said. "i'm afraid it would be too much trouble." "no, i've nothing pressing for an hour. i always like to relieve the unfortunate." "what shall i do?" thought martin, as he walked by the side of the benevolent stranger. at length an idea struck him. "it isn't everybody that would be willing to risk going with me," he said. "why not?" "they'd be afraid to come." "why? what danger is there?" "my third child is 'most dead with the small-pox," answered martin, with a very dejected look. "good heavens! and i might have carried the infection home to my children," exclaimed the stranger, in excitement. "then you won't go with me?" asked martin. "here," said the gentleman, producing fifty cents, "here's a little money. take it, and i hope it'll do you good." "i reckon it will," thought martin, as he took the money. "it'll buy me some breakfast and a couple of cigars. that's a pretty good idea, havin' a child sick with the small-pox. i'll know what to do next time anybody wants to go home with me." as soon as martin found himself in funds he took measures to satisfy his appetite. he really had not eaten anything since the middle of the day previous, and felt that he could do justice to a substantial breakfast. he walked along until he came to a restaurant where the prices seemed to be reasonable, and went in. seating himself at one of the tables, he gave his order, and presently a plate of meat and cup of coffee were placed before him. to these he devoted himself with such vigor that they were soon despatched. still martin's appetite was not satisfied. much as he wanted a cigar, the claims of hunger were imperative, and he ordered breakfast to the extent of his resources. opposite him at the table sat a man of middle age, with bushy whiskers, and a scar on his left cheek. he wore a loose sack coat, and a velvet vest. his thick, bunchy fingers displayed two large, showy rings, set with stones, probably imitation. he finished his breakfast before martin, but still retained his seat, and watched him rather attentively. martin was too busily engaged to notice the scrutiny to which he was subjected. after sitting a while the stranger drew out a cigar, and, lighting it, began to smoke. this drew martin's attention. as the flavor of the cigar, which was a very good one, reached his nostrils, he began to feel a regret that he had not reserved a part of his funds for the purchase of a cigar. his opposite neighbor observed his look, and, for a reason which will appear, saw fit to gratify martin's desire. "i don't like to smoke alone," he said, drawing another cigar from his pocket. "won't you have a cigar?" "thank you," said martin, eagerly accepting it. "you're very kind." "don't mention it. so you like to smoke. light it by mine." "yes," said martin; "i like smoking; but i'm a poor man, and i can't afford to smoke as often as i want to." "been unfortunate?" said the stranger, suggestively. "yes," said martin, "luck's been ag'inst me. i couldn't get work to do, and my family turned ag'inst me because i was poor. i've got two children living on the fat of the land, but one of 'em refused me a dollar last night, and left me to sleep in the streets." "that's bad," said the other. "he's an undootiful son," said martin. "better luck by and by," said the stranger. "luck'll turn, it's likely." "i wish it would turn pretty quick," said martin. "i've spent my last cent for breakfast, and i don't know where i'm to get my dinner." "the world owes every man a living," remarked the stranger, sententiously. "so it does," said martin. "i don't see what's the use of bein' born at all, if you're goin' to starve afterwards." "very true. now i'll tell you what my principle is." "what is it?" asked martin, who was becoming interested in his companion. "if the world owes me a living, and isn't disposed to pay up promptly, i think it's perfectly right for me to collect the debt any way i can." "so do i," said martin, though he didn't exactly see the other's drift. "for instance, if i was starving, and my next neighbor was a baker, and had plenty of bread, the law of self-preservation justifies me in taking a loaf." "without payin' for it?" "yes; if i haven't got any money to pay. i'm entitled to my share of food, and if others keep it from me, i have a right to help myself, haven't i?" "that's so," said martin; "only it's dangerous." "of course there is a risk about it; but then there's a risk in starvin', isn't there?" "i should think there was," said martin. "i thought we should agree pretty well. now tell me what you propose to do. perhaps i can assist you." "i don't know what to do," said martin. "i can't get work. what do you do?" "i'm in business," said the stranger, evasively. "couldn't you give me a chance,--that is, if it aint hard work? i aint so strong as i was once, and i aint fit for hard work." "well, perhaps i may be able to do something for you," said the stranger. "if you'll walk with me a little way, we'll smoke another cigar, and talk it over. what do you say?" of course martin accepted the proposal with alacrity. he did not want to go back to his work as a carpenter, having lost all relish for honest industry. he would rather beg, or do anything else for a living. he had a very indefinite idea of the nature of the proposal which was coming, but, whatever it might be, he was not likely to be shocked at it. "here, give me your check," said the stranger. he paid, therefore, for martin's breakfast as well as his own, leaving that gentleman's fifty cents intact. martin was not used to such attention, and appreciated it. for the first time he began to think that his luck had really turned. the two went out into the street together, and were soon engaged in earnest conversation. chapter xiii. martin makes a business engagement. martin was agreeably surprised at the attention paid him by his new friend. there are some who have no difficulty in making friends at first sight, but this had not often happened to him. in fact, there was very little that was attractive or prepossessing about him, and though he could not be expected to be fully aware of that, he had given up expecting much on the score of friendship. yet here was a stranger, who, to martin's undiscriminating eyes, appeared quite the gentleman, who had given him a cigar, paid his dinner-bill, and treated him with a degree of attention to which he was unaccustomed. martin felt that he was in luck, and if there was anything to be made out of his new friend he was determined to make it. they turned down a side street, perhaps because the stranger's course led that way, perhaps because he was not proud of his new acquaintance. "so you've had poor luck," he remarked, by way of starting the conversation. "yes," grumbled martin, "you may say that. things have all been ag'inst me. it's a pretty hard rub for a poor man to get a livin' here." "just so," said the other. "what's your business?" "i'm a carpenter." "and you can't find work?" "no," said martin. "besides," he added, after a pause, "my health aint very good. hard work don't agree with me." he might have said that hard drinking did not agree with him, and this would have been rather nearer the truth. but he was afraid his new friend would offer to find him employment as a carpenter, and for this he was not very anxious. there had been a time when he was content to work early and late, for good wages, but he had of late years led such a shiftless and vagabond life, that honest industry had no more attraction for him, and he preferred to get his living by hook or crook, in fact in any way he could, rather than take the most direct path to a good living by working hard for it. "what is your name?" "james martin. what's yours?" "mine," said the stranger, pausing, and fixing his eyes thoughtfully upon martin; "well, you may call me smith." "that aint a very uncommon name," said martin, thinking he had perpetrated a good joke. "just so," said the stranger, composedly. "i've been told so often." "well, mr. smith, do you think you could help me to some light business that wouldn't be too hard on my health?" "perhaps i might," said the other. "what do you think you would like?" "why," said martin, "if i only had a little capital, i could set up a small cigar store, or maybe a drinkin' saloon." "that would be light and genteel, no doubt," said smith, "but confining. you'd have to be in the store early and late." "i might have a boy to stay there when i wanted to go out," suggested martin. "so you might," said the other. "there doesn't seem any objection, if you can only raise the capital." this was rather a powerful objection, however, especially as mr. smith offered no encouragement about supplying the capital himself. martin saw this, and he added, "i only mentioned this. i aint any objection to anything else that's light and easy. do you think of anything i could do?" "i may be able to throw something in your way," said mr. smith. "but, first, i must ask you a question. can you keep a secret?" "yes," said martin, "just as many as you like." "because the business which i have to propose is of rather a confidential character, and a great deal depends on its being kept secret." "all right; i'm your man then." "when i saw you in the restaurant," said smith, "it struck me that you might answer our purpose. you look as if you could be trusted." "so i can be," said martin, pleased with the compliment. "i'll never say a word about the matter. what is it?" "you shall learn presently,--that is, if my partner thinks we had better engage you." "where is your place of business?" "we will go there. let us jump into this horse-car." they had reached eighth avenue, and entered a car bound downwards. when the conductor came along, smith said, "i pay for two," indicating martin. this was fortunate; for martin's purse was at a low ebb, his entire stock of money being limited to fifty cents. they rode some fifteen minutes, at the end of which smith signalled to the conductor to stop. "we get out here," he said to martin. martin jumped out after him, and they turned westward down one of the streets leading to the north river. "is it much farther?" asked martin. "not much." "it's rather an out-of-the-way place for business, isn't it?" remarked martin, observing that the street was lined with dwelling-houses on either side. "for most kinds of business it is," said his new acquaintance; "but it suits us. we like a quiet, out-of-the-way place." "are you in the wholesale business?" asked martin, whose curiosity began to be considerably excited. "something of that sort," answered the stranger. "ah, here we are!" the house before which he stopped was a brick dwelling-house, of three stories. the blinds were closed, and it might have been readily supposed that no one lived there. certainly nothing could have looked less like a place of business, so far as outward appearance went, and martin, whose perceptions were not very acute, saw this, and was puzzled. still his companion spoke so quietly and composedly, and seemed to understand himself so well, that he did not make any remark. instead of pulling the bell, mr. smith drew a latch-key from his pocket, and admitted himself. "come in, mr. martin," he said. martin stepped into the entry, and the door was closed. before him was a narrow staircase, with a faded stair-carpet upon it. a door was partly open into a room on the right, but still there was nothing visible that looked like business. "follow me," said smith, leading the way up stairs. martin followed, his curiosity, if anything, greater than before. they went into a front room on the second floor. "excuse me a moment," said smith. martin was left alone, but in two minutes smith returned with a tall, powerful-looking man, whose height was such that he narrowly escaped being a giant. "mr. martin," said smith, "this is my partner, mr. hayes." "proud to make your acquaintance, i am sure, mr. hayes," said martin, affably. "i met your partner this mornin' in an eatin'-house, and he said you might have a job for me. my health aint very good, but i could do light work well enough." "did you tell mr. martin," said the giant, in a hoarse voice that sounded as if he had a cold of several years' standing, "that our business is of a confidential nature?" "yes," said martin, "i understand that. i can keep a secret." "it is absolutely necessary that you should," said hayes. "you say you can, but how can i be sure of it?" "i'll give you my word," said martin. the giant looked down upon martin, and ejaculated, "humph!" in a manner which might be interpreted to convey some doubt as to the value of martin's word. however, even if martin had been aware of this, he was not sensitive, and would not have taken offence. "are you willing to take your oath that you will never reveal, under any circumstances, anything connected with our business?" "yes," said martin, eagerly, his curiosity being greater than ever. there was a bible on the table. hayes cast his eyes in that direction, but first said something in a low voice to smith. the latter drew a small brass key from his pocket, and opened a cupboard, or small closet in the wall, from which, considerably to martin's alarm, he drew out a revolver and a knife. these he laid on the table beside the book. "what's that for?" asked martin, with an uneasy glance at the weapons. "i'll tell you what it's for, my friend," said the giant. "it's to show you what your fate will be if you ever reveal any of our secrets. perhaps you don't want to take the risk of knowing what they are. if you don't, you can say so, and go." but martin did not want to go, and he did want to learn the secrets more than ever. "i'm ready," he said. "i'll take the oath." "very well, you understand now what it means. put your hand on the book, and repeat after me: 'i solemnly swear, on the penalty of death by pistol or knife, never to reveal any secret i may have imparted to me in this room.'" martin repeated this formula, not without a certain shrinking, not to say creeping, of the flesh. "now that you have taken the oath," said smith, "we will tell you our secret." "yes," said martin, eagerly. "the fact is," said smith, in a low voice, "we are counterfeiters." "you don't say so!" ejaculated martin. "yes, there's a light, genteel business for you. there are all ways of making a living, and that isn't the worst." "does it pay pretty well?" asked martin, getting interested. "yes, it's a money-making business," said smith, with a laugh; "but there's a little prejudice against it, and so we have a very quiet place of business." "yes, i see," said martin. "you see the world owes us a living," continued smith, "as you remarked this morning, and if it doesn't come in one way, it must in another." "isn't it dangerous?" asked martin. "not if it's carefully managed." "what do you want me to do?" "supply money to our agents chiefly. it won't do to have too many come to the house, for it might excite suspicion. you will come every morning, receive money and directions from one of us, and then do as you are bid." "how much will you give me?" "what do you say to a hundred dollars a month?" "in good money," said martin, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. "no, of course not. in money of our manufacture." martin's countenance fell. "first thing i know i'll be nabbed," he said. "not if you are careful. we'll give you instructions. do you accept our terms?" "yes," said martin, unhesitatingly. "of course you take a risk. no gain without risk, you know. but if you are unlucky, remember your oath, and don't betray us. if you do, you're a dead man within twenty-four hours from the time you leave the prison. there are twenty men bound by a solemn oath to revenge treachery by death. if you betray our secret, nothing can save you. do you understand?" "yes," said martin, whose mind was suitably impressed with the absolute necessity of silence. the representations of his new friends might or might not be true, but, at all events, he believed them to be in earnest, and their point was gained. "when do you want me to begin?" he asked. "to-day; but first it will be necessary for you to be more decently dressed." "these are all the clothes i have," returned martin. "i've been unfortunate, and i haven't had any money to buy good clothes with." "have we any clothes in the house that will fit this man?" asked smith of his confederate. "i will go and see." the giant soon returned with a suit of clothing, not very fine or very fashionable, but elegant compared with that which martin now wore. "i guess these will fit you," he said. "try them on." martin made the change with alacrity, and when it had been effected, surveyed himself in a mirror with considerable complacency. his temporary abstinence from liquor while at the island had improved his appearance, and the new suit gave him quite a respectable appearance. he had no objection to appearing respectable, provided it were at other people's expense. on the whole, he was in excellent spirits, and felt that at length his luck had turned, and he was on the high road to prosperity. chapter xiv. how rufus succeeded in business. very little has been said of rufus in his business relations. when he entered mr. turner's office, he resolved to spare no pains to make himself useful, and his services satisfactory to his employer. he knew very well that he owed his situation entirely to the service which he had accidentally been able to do mr. turner, and that, otherwise, the latter would never have thought of selecting an office-boy from the class to which he belonged. but rufus was resolved that, whatever might have been his original motive, he should never regret the selection he had made. therefore he exerted himself, more than under ordinary circumstances he would have done, to do his duty faithfully. he tried to learn all he could of the business, and therefore listened attentively to all that was going on, and in his leisure moments studied up the stock quotations, so that he was able generally to give the latest quotations of prices of the prominent stocks in the market. mr. turner, who was an observant man, watched him quietly, and was pleased with his evident pains to master the details of the business. "if rufus keeps on, mr. marston," he said to his chief clerk, one day, "he will make an excellent business-man in time." "he will, indeed," said the clerk. "he is always prompt, and doesn't need to be told the same thing twice. besides, he has picked up a good deal of outside information. he corrected me yesterday on a stock quotation." "he did me a great service at one time, and i mean to push him as fast as he will bear it. i have a great mind to increase his pay to ten dollars a week at once. he has a little sister to take care of, and ten dollars a week won't go far in these times." "plenty of boys can be got for less, of course; but he is one in a hundred. it is better to pay him ten dollars than most boys five." in accordance with this resolution, when rufus, who had gone to the bank, returned, mr. turner called him. rufus supposed it was to receive some new order, and was surprised when, instead, his employer inquired:-- "how is your little sister, rufus?" "very well, thank you, sir." "have you a comfortable boarding-place?" "yes, sir." "how much board do you pay?" "eight dollars a week for both of us, sir." "that takes up the whole of your salary,--doesn't it?" "yes, sir; but i have invested the money i had in a stationery store on sixth avenue, and get a third of the profits. with that i buy clothes for myself and sister, and pay any other expenses we may have." "i see you are a great financier, rufus. i was not aware that you had a business outside of mine. how long have you been with me?" "about four months, sir." "your services have been quite satisfactory. i took you into the office for other reasons; but i feel satisfied, by what i have noticed of you, that it will be well worth my while to retain your services." "thank you, sir," said rufus. he was exceedingly gratified at this testimony, as he had reason to be, for he had already learned that mr. turner was an excellent business-man, and bore a high reputation in business circles for probity and capacity. "i intended, at the end of six months," pursued mr. turner, "to raise your pay to ten dollars a week if you suited me; but i may as well anticipate two months. mr. marston, you will hereafter pay rufus ten dollars a week." "very well, sir." "i am very much obliged to you, mr. turner," said rufus, gratefully. "i didn't expect to have my pay raised for a good while, for i knew that i received more already than most office-boys. i have tried to do my duty, and shall continue to do so." "that is the right way, rufus," said his employer, kindly. "it will be sure to win success. you are working not only for me, but most of all for yourself. you are laying now the foundation of future prosperity. when an opportunity occurs, i shall promote you from the post of errand-boy to a clerkship, as i judge from what i have seen that you will be quite competent to fill such a position." this intelligence was of course very gratifying to rufus. he knew that as yet he was on the lowest round of the ladder, and he had a commendable desire to push his way up. he saw that mr. turner was well disposed to help him, and he resolved that he would deserve promotion. when he returned home to supper, he carried to miss manning and rose the tidings of his increase of pay, and the encouraging words which had been spoken by mr. turner. "i am not surprised to hear it, rufus," said miss manning. "i felt sure you would try to do your duty, and i knew you had the ability to succeed." "thank you for your good opinion of me," said rufus. "i can tell you of some one else who has a good opinion of you," said miss manning. "who is it?" "mrs. clifton. she said this forenoon, that she considered you one of the most agreeable and wittiest young men she was acquainted with." "i suppose i ought to blush," said rufus; "but blushing isn't in my line. i hope mr. clifton won't hear of it. he might be jealous." "he doesn't seem much inclined that way," said miss manning. at this moment mrs. clifton herself entered. "good-evening, mr. rushton," she said. "where do you think i called this afternoon?" "i couldn't guess." "at your store in sixth avenue." "i hope you bought something. i expect my friends to patronize me." "yes. i bought a package of envelopes. i told mr. black i was a friend of yours, so he let me have it at the wholesale price." "then i'm afraid i didn't make anything on that sale. when i want some dry goods may i tell your husband that i am a friend of yours, and ask him to let me have it at the wholesale price?" "certainly." "then i shall take an early opportunity to buy a spool of cotton." "can you sew?" "i never took in any fine work to do, but if you've got any handkerchiefs to hem, i'll do it on reasonable terms." "how witty you are, mr. rushton!" "i am glad you think so, mrs. clifton. i never found anybody else who could appreciate me." several days had passed since the accidental encounter with martin outside of the academy of music. rufus began to hope that he had gone out of the city, though he hardly expected it. such men as martin prefer to live from hand to mouth in a great city, rather than go to the country, where they would have less difficulty in earning an honest living. at any rate he had successfully baffled martin's attempts to learn where rose and he were boarding. but he knew his step-father too well to believe that he had got rid of him permanently. he had no doubt he would turn up sooner or later, and probably give him additional trouble. he turned up sooner than rufus expected. the next morning, when on the way from the bank with a tin box containing money and securities, he suddenly came upon martin standing in front of the general post office, with a cigar in his mouth. the respectable appearance which martin presented in his new clothes filled rufus with wonder, and he could not avoid staring at his step-father with surprise. "hillo!" said martin, his eye lighting up with malicious pleasure. "so you didn't know me, eh?" "no," said rufus. "i'm in business now." "i'm glad to hear it," said rufus. "i get a hundred dollars a month." "i'm glad you are prosperous, mr. martin." "maybe you'll be more willing to own the relationship now." "i'm glad for your sake only," said rufus. "i can take care of rose well enough alone. but i must be going." "all right! i'll go along with you." "i am in a hurry," said rufus, uneasily. "i can walk as fast as you," said martin, maliciously. "seein' you're my step-son, i'd like to know what sort of a place you've got." the street being free to all, rufus could not shake off his unwelcome companion, nor could he evade him, as it was necessary for him to go back to the office at once. he consoled himself, however, by the reflection that at any rate martin wouldn't find out his boarding-place, of which he was chiefly afraid, as it might affect the safety of rose. "what have you got in that box?" asked martin. "i don't care to tell," said rufus. "i know well enough. it's money and bonds. you're in a broker's office, aint you?" "i can't stop to answer questions," said rufus, coldly. "i'm in a hurry." "i'll find out in spite of you," said martin. "you can't dodge me as easy as last time. i aint so poor as i was. do you see that?" as he spoke he drew out a roll of bills (they were counterfeit, but rufus, of course, was not aware of that), and displayed them. our hero was certainly astonished at this display of wealth on the part of his step-father, and was puzzled to understand how in the brief interval since he last saw him he could have become so favored by fortune, but his conjectures were interrupted by his arrival at the office. "turner!" repeated martin to himself, observing the sign. "so this is where my dootiful step-son is employed. well, i'm glad to know it. it'll come handy some day." so saying, he lighted a fresh cigar, and sauntered away with the air of a man of independent means, who had come down to wall street to look after his investments. chapter xv. the tin box. "i met my dootiful son this mornin'," remarked martin to his employer, at their next interview. "did you?" said smith, carelessly, for he felt little interest in martin's relations. "yes; he's in business in wall street." "how's that?" asked smith, his attention arrested by this statement. "he's with turner, the banker. he was going to the bank, with a tin box under his arm. i'd like to have the money there was in it." "did he tell you there was money in it?" "no; but i'll bet there was enough in it to make a poor man rich." "perhaps so," said smith, thoughtfully. "how old is your son?" he inquired, after a pause. "fifteen or sixteen, i've forgotten which. you see he isn't my own son; i married his mother, who was a widder with two children; that's the way of it." "i suppose he doesn't live with you." "no; he's an undootiful boy. he haint no gratitude for all i've done for him. he wouldn't care if i starved in the street." "that shows a bad disposition," said smith, who seemed disposed to protract the conversation for some purposes of his own. "yes," said martin, wiping his eyes pathetically with a red handkerchief; "he's an ungrateful young scamp. he's set my little daughter rose ag'inst me,--she that set everything by me till he made her believe all sorts of lies about me." "why don't you come up with him?" "i don't know how." "i suppose you would have no objections if i should tell you." "no," said martin, hesitating; "that is, if it aint dangerous. if i should give him a lickin' in the street, he'd call the police, and swear i wasn't his father." "that isn't what i mean. i'll think it over, and tell you by and by. now we'll talk about business." it was not until the next day that smith unfolded to martin his plan of "coming up with" rufus. it was of so bold a character that martin was startled, and at first refused to have any part in it, not from any conscientious scruples,--for martin's conscience was both tough and elastic,--but solely because he was a coward, and had a wholesome dread of the law. but smith set before him the advantages which would accrue to him personally, in so attractive a manner, that at length he consented, and the two began at once to concoct arrangements for successfully carrying out the little plan agreed upon. not to keep the reader in suspense, it was no less than forcibly depriving rufus of the tin box, some morning on his way home from the bank. this might bring rufus into trouble, while martin and smith were to share the contents, which, judging from the wealth of mr. turner, were likely to be of considerable value. "there may be enough to make your fortune," suggested smith. "if i don't get nabbed." "oh, there'll be no danger, if you will manage things as i direct you." "i'll have all the danger, and you'll share the profits," grumbled martin. "isn't the idea mine?" retorted smith. "is it the soldiers who get all the credit for a victory, or doesn't the general who plans the campaign receive his share? besides, i may have to manage converting the securities into cash. there isn't one chance in a hundred of your getting into trouble if you do as i tell you; but if you do, remember your oath." with this martin was forced to be contented. he was only a common rascal, while smith was one of a higher order, and used him as a tool. in the present instance, despite his assurances, smith acknowledged to himself that the plan he had proposed was really attended with considerable danger, but this he ingloriously managed that martin should incur, while he lay back, and was ready to profit by it if it should prove successful. meanwhile rufus was at work as usual, quite unconscious of the danger which menaced him. his encounter with martin gave him a little uneasiness, for he feared that the latter might renew his attempts to gain possession of rose. farther than this he had no fears. he wondered at the sudden improvement in martin's fortunes, and could not conjecture what business he could have engaged in which would give him a hundred dollars a month. he might have doubted his assertion, but that his unusually respectable appearance, and the roll of bills which he had displayed, seemed to corroborate his statement. he was glad that his step-father was doing well, having no spite against him, provided he would not molest him and rose. he decided not to mention to rose or miss manning that he had met martin, as it might occasion them anxiety. he contented himself by warning them to be careful, as martin was no doubt still in the city, and very likely prowling round in the hopes of finding out where they lived. it was towards the close of business hours that mr. marston, the head clerk, handed rufus a tin box, saying, "rufus, you may carry this round to the bank of the commonwealth." "yes, sir," said rufus. it was one of his daily duties, and he took the box as a matter of course, and started on his errand. when he first entered the office, the feeling that property of value was committed to his charge gave him a feeling of anxious responsibility; but now he had become used to it, and ceased to think of danger. probably he would have felt less security, had he seen mr. martin prowling about on the opposite side of the street, his eyes attentively fixed on the entrance to mr. turner's office. when martin saw rufus depart on his errand, he threw away the cigar he had in his mouth, and crossed the street. he followed rufus closely, unobserved by our hero, to whom it did not occur to look back. "it's a risky business," thought martin, rather nervously. "i wish i hadn't undertaken it. ten to one i'll get nabbed." he was more than half inclined to give up his project; but if he should do so he knew he would get into disgrace with his employers. besides, the inducements held out to him were not small. he looked covetously at the tin box under the arm of rufus, and speculated as to the value of the contents. half of it would perhaps make him a rich man. the stake was worth playing for, and he plucked up courage and determined to proceed. circumstances favored his design. before going to the bank, rufus was obliged to carry a message to an office on the second floor of a building on wall street. "this is my opportunity," thought martin. he quickened his steps, and as rufus placed his foot on the lower step of the staircase, he was close upon him. hearing the step behind him, our hero turned, only in time to receive a violent blow in the face, which caused him to fall forward. he dropped the box as he fell, which was instantly snatched by mr. martin, who lost no time in making his escape. the blow was so violent that rufus was for the moment stunned. it was only for a moment, however. he quickly recovered himself, and at once realized his position. he knew, also, that it was martin who had snatched the box, for he had recognized him during the instant of time that preceded the blow. he sprang to his feet, and dashed into the street, looking eagerly on either side for the thief. but martin, apprehending immediate pursuit, had slipped into a neighboring door-way, and, making his way upstairs, remained in concealment for ten minutes. not suspecting this, rufus hastened to nassau street, and ran toward the bank, looking about him eagerly for martin. the latter, in the mean while, slipped out of the door-way, and hurried by a circuitous course to fulton ferry, where smith had arranged to meet him and relieve him of the tin box. "have you got it?" asked smith, who had been waiting anxiously for over an hour. "here it is," said martin, "and i'm glad to be rid of it. i wouldn't do it again for a thousand dollars." "i hope you'll get more than that out of it," said smith, cheerfully. "you've done well. did you have much trouble?" "not much; but i had to work quick. i followed him into a door-way, and then grabbed it. when'll you divide?" "come round to the house this evening, and we'll attend to it." "honor bright?" "of course." meanwhile rufus, in a painful state of excitement, ran this way and that, in the faint hope of setting eyes upon the thief. he knew very well that however innocent he had been in the matter, and however impossible it was for him to foresee and prevent the attack, the loss would subject him to suspicion, and it might be supposed that he had connived at the theft. his good character was at stake, and all his bright prospects were imperilled. meeting a policeman, he hurriedly imparted to him the particulars of the theft, and described martin. "a tall man with a blue coat and slouched hat," repeated the officer. "i think i saw him turn into wall street half an hour ago. was his nose red?" "yes," said rufus. "he hasn't come back this way, or i should have seen him. he must have gone the other way, or else dodged into some side street or door-way. i'll go back with you." the two went back together, but it was too late. martin was by this time at some distance, hurrying towards fulton ferry. rufus felt that the matter was too serious for him to manage alone, and with reluctant step went back to the office to communicate his loss. a formidable task was before him, and he tried to prepare himself for it. it would naturally be inferred that he had been careless, if not dishonest, and he knew that his formerly having been a street boy would weigh against him. but, whatever might be the consequences, he knew that it was his duty to report the loss instantly. chapter xvi. mr. vanderpool. rufus entered the office as mr. turner was about to leave it. "you were rather long," he said. "were you detained?" "i wish that was all, mr. turner," said rufus, his face a little pale. "what has happened?" asked the banker, quickly. "the box was stolen from me as i was going upstairs to the office of foster & nevins." "how did it happen? tell me quickly." "i had only gone up two or three steps when i heard a step behind me. turning to see who it was, i was struck violently in the face, and fell forward. when i recovered, the man had disappeared, and the box was gone." "can i depend upon the absolute truth of this statement, rufus?" asked mr. turner, looking in the boy's face searchingly. "you can, sir," said rufus, proudly. "can you give any idea of the appearance of the man who attacked you?" "yes, sir, i saw him for an instant before the blow was given, and recognized him." "you recognized him!" repeated the banker, in surprise. "who is he?" our hero's face flushed with mortification as he answered, "his name is martin. he is my step-father. he has only just returned from blackwell's island, where he served a term of three months for trying to pick a man's pocket." "have you met him often since he was released?" asked mr. turner. "he attempted to follow me home one evening from the academy of music, but i dodged him. i didn't want him to know where i boarded, for fear he would carry off my little sister, as he did once before." "did he know you were in my employ?" "yes, sir; i met him day before yesterday as i was coming home from the post-office, and he followed me to the office. he showed me a roll of bills, and said he was getting a hundred dollars a month." "now tell me what you did when you discovered that you had been robbed." "i searched about for martin with a policeman, but couldn't find him anywhere. then i thought i had better come right back to the office, and tell you about it. i hope you don't think i was very much to blame, mr. turner." "not if your version of the affair is correct, as i think it is. i don't very well see how you could have foreseen or avoided the attack. but there is one thing which in the minds of some might operate to your prejudice." "what is that, sir?" asked rufus, anxiously. "your relationship to the thief." "but he is my greatest enemy." "it might be said that you were in league with him, and arranged to let him have the box after only making a show of resistance." "i hope you don't think that, sir?" said our hero, anxiously. "no, i do not." "thank you for saying that, sir. now, may i ask you one favor?" "name it." "i want to get back that box. will you give me a week to do it in?" "what is your plan?" "i would like to take a week out of the office. during that time, i will try to get on the track of martin. if i find him, i will do my best to get back the box." mr. turner deliberated a moment. "it may involve you in danger," he said, at length. "i don't care for the danger," said rufus, impetuously. "i know that i am partly responsible for the loss of the box, and i want to recover it. then no one can blame me, or pretend that i had anything to do with stealing it. i should feel a great deal better if you would let me try, sir." "do you think there is any chance of your tracing this man, martin? he may leave the city." "i don't think he will, sir." "i am inclined to grant your request, rufus," said the banker, after a pause. "at the same time, i shall wish you to call with me at the office of police, and give all the information you are possessed of, that they also may be on the lookout for the thief. we had best go at once." mr. turner and rufus at once repaired to the police office, and lodged such information as they possessed concerning the theft. "what were the contents of the box?" inquired the officer to whom the communication was made. "chiefly railroad and bank stocks." "was there any money?" "four hundred dollars only." "were any of the securities negotiable?" "there were two government bonds of five hundred dollars each. they were registered, however, in the name of the owner, james vanderpool, one of our customers. indeed, the box was his, and was temporarily in our care." "then there would be a difficulty about disposing of the bonds." "yes." "we may be able to get at the thief through them. very probably he may be tempted to offer them for sale at some broker's office." "it is quite possible." "we will do our best to ferret out the thief. the chances are good." "the thief will not be likely to profit much by his theft," said mr. turner, when they were again in the street. "the four hundred dollars, to be sure, he can use; but the railway and bank stocks will be valueless to him, and the bonds may bring him into trouble. still, the loss of the securities is an inconvenience; i shall be glad to recover them. by the way, mr. vanderpool ought at once to be apprised of his loss. you may go up there at once. here is his address." mr. turner wrote upon a card, the name james vanderpool, _no. -- west twenty-seventh street_ and handed it to rufus. "after seeing mr. vanderpool, you will come to my house this evening, and report what he says. assure him that we will do our best to recover the box. i shall expect you, during the week which i allow you, to report yourself daily at the office, to inform me of any clue which you may have obtained." "you may depend upon me, sir," said our hero. rufus at once repaired to the address furnished him by mr. turner. another difficult and disagreeable task lay before him. it is not a very pleasant commission to inform a man of the loss of property, particularly when, as in the present case, the informant feels that the fault of the loss may be laid to his charge. but rufus accepted the situation manfully, feeling that, however disagreeable, it devolved upon him justly. he took the university place cars, and got out at twenty-seventh street. he soon found mr. vanderpool's address, and, ringing the bell, was speedily admitted. "yes, mr. vanderpool is at home," said the servant. "will you go up to his study?" rufus followed the servant up the front staircase, and was ushered into a front room on the second floor. there was a library table in the centre of the apartment, at which was seated a gentleman of about sixty, with iron-gray hair, and features that bore the marks of sickness and invalidism. mr. vanderpool had inherited a large estate, which, by careful management, had increased considerably. he had never been in active business, but, having some literary and scientific tastes, had been content to live on his income, and cultivate the pursuits to which he was most inclined. "mr. vanderpool?" said rufus, in a tone of inquiry. "yes," said that gentleman, looking over his glasses, "that is my name. do you want to speak to me?" "i come from mr. turner, the banker," said rufus. "ah, yes; mr. turner is my man of business. well, what message do you bring to me from him?" "i bring bad news, mr. vanderpool," said our hero. "eh, what?" ejaculated mr. vanderpool, nervously. "a tin box belonging to you was stolen this morning." "bless my soul! how did that happen?" exclaimed the rich man, in dismay. rufus gave the account, already familiar to the reader, of the attack which had been made upon him. "why," said mr. vanderpool, "there were fifty thousand dollars' worth of property in that box. that would be a heavy loss." "there is no danger of losing all that," said rufus. "the money i suppose will be lost, and perhaps the government bonds may be disposed of; but that will only amount to about fifteen hundred dollars. the thief can't do anything with the stocks and shares." "are you sure of that?" asked mr. vanderpool, relieved. "yes, sir, mr. turner told me so. we have given information to the police. mr. turner has given me a week to find the thief." "you are only a boy," said mr. vanderpool, curiously. "do you think you can do any good?" "yes, sir; i think so," said rufus, modestly. "the box was taken from me, and i feel bound to get it back if i can. if i don't succeed, the certificates of stock can be replaced." "well, well, it isn't so bad as it might be," said mr. vanderpool. "but are you not afraid of hunting up the thief?" he asked, looking at rufus, attentively. "no, sir," said rufus. "i'd just like to get hold of him, that's all." "you would? well now, i would rather be excused. i don't think i have much physical courage. how old are you?" "sixteen." "well, i hope you'll succeed. i would rather not lose fifteen hundred dollars in that way, though it might be a great deal worse." "i hope you don't blame me very much for having the box stolen from me." "no, no, you couldn't help it. so the man knocked you down, did he?" "yes, sir." "that must have been unpleasant. did he hurt you much?" "yes, sir, just at first; but i don't feel it now." "by the way, my young friend," said mr. vanderpool, reaching forward to some loose sheets of manuscript upon the desk before him, "did you ever consider the question whether the planets were inhabited?" "no, sir," said rufus, staring a little. "i have given considerable time to the consideration of that question," said mr. vanderpool. "if you have time, i will read you a few pages from a work i am writing on the subject." "i should be happy to hear them, sir," said rufus, mentally deciding that mr. vanderpool was rather a curious person. the old gentleman cleared his throat, and read a few pages, which it will not be desirable to quote here. though rather fanciful, they were not wholly without interest, and rufus listened attentively, though he considered it a little singular that mr. vanderpool should have selected him for an auditor. he had the politeness to thank the old gentleman at the close of the reading. "i am glad you were interested," said mr. vanderpool, gratified. "you are a very intelligent boy. i shall be glad to have you call again." "thank you, sir; i will call and let you know what progress we make in finding the tin box." "oh, yes. i had forgotten; i have no doubt you will do your best. when you call again, i will read you a few more extracts. it seems to me a very important and interesting subject." "thank you, sir; i shall be very happy to call." "he don't seem to think much of his loss," said our hero, considerably relieved. "i was afraid he would find fault with me. now, mr. martin, i must do my best to find you." chapter xvii. dividing the spoils. martin did not fail to go to the house occupied by his employers, in the evening. he was anxious to learn the amount of the booty which he had taken. he decided that it must be ten thousand dollars at least. half of this would be five thousand, and this, according to the agreement between them, was to come to him. it was quite a fortune, and the thought of it dazzled martin's imagination. he would be able to retire from business, and resolved to do so, for he did not like the risk which he incurred by following his present employment. martin had all his life wished to live like a gentleman,--that is, to live comfortably without work; and now his wish seemed likely to be gratified. in the eyes of some, five thousand dollars would seem rather a small capital to warrant such a life; but it seemed a great deal to a shiftless character like him. besides, the box might contain more than ten thousand dollars, and in that case, of course, his own share would be greater. so, on the whole, it was with very pleasant anticipations that martin ascended the front steps of the counterfeiter's den, and rang the bell. meanwhile smith had opened the box, and his disappointment had been great when he found the nature of its contents. actually but four hundred dollars were immediately available, and, as the banker no doubt had recorded the number of the government bonds, there would be risk in selling them. besides, even if sold, they would produce, at the market price, barely eleven hundred dollars. as to the bank and railway shares, they could not be negotiated, and no doubt duplicates would be applied for. so, after all, the harvest was likely to prove small, especially as smith had passed his word to divide with martin. after a while it occurred to him that, as martin did not know the contents of the box, he could easily be deceived into supposing them less than they were. he must tell a falsehood; but then smith's conscience was tough, and he had told a great many in the course of his life. when martin was ushered into the room, he found his confederate looking rather sober. "have you opened the box?" inquired martin, eagerly. "yes," said smith, rather contemptuously. "a great haul you made, i must say." "wasn't there anything in it?" asked martin, in dismay. "yes, there were plenty of bank and railroad shares." "can't we sell them?" queried martin, whose knowledge of business was limited. "you must be a fool! we can't sell them without the owner's indorsement. perhaps you'll call and ask him for it." "can't we do anything with them, then?" asked martin, anxiously. "nothing at all." "wasn't there nothing else in the box?" "yes, there was a government bond for five hundred dollars." smith concluded to mention only one. "that's something." "yes, it's something. you can sell it after a while, and bring me half the money." "will there be any danger in selling it?" "none to speak of," said smith, who was afraid martin might decline selling it, unless he gave this assurance. "wasn't there any money?" asked martin, disappointed. "yes, there was a trifle,--a hundred dollars," answered his unscrupulous confederate, who was certainly cheating martin in the most barefaced manner. "half of that belongs to me," said martin. "of course it does. do you think i wouldn't treat you fair?" "no," said his dupe. "i know, mr. smith, you're a man of honor." "of course i am. i'd like to see anybody say i wasn't. i've left everything in the box just as it was, so you might see it was all right." he went to the cupboard, and, unlocking it, produced the box, of which he lifted the lid. the certificates of stock were at the bottom. above them, folded up, was the five-twenty u. s. bond for five hundred dollars, and upon it a small roll of green-backs. "you see it's just as i say, martin," said smith, with an air of frankness. "there's the shares that we can't do anything with, here's the bond, and there's the money. just take and count it, i may have been mistaken in the amount." martin counted the roll of bills, and made out just one hundred dollars. of course he could not be expected to know that there had been three hundred more, which, together with the other bond, were carefully concealed in his confederate's breast-pocket. "yes, it's just a hundred dollars," he said, after finishing the count. "well, take fifty of them, and put in your pocket." martin did so. "it aint what i expected," he said, rather ruefully. "if i'd knowed there was so little in the box, i wouldn't have taken it." "well, it's better than nothing," said smith, who could afford to be philosophical, having appropriated to himself seven-eighths of the money, and three-fourths of the bonds. "there's the bond, you know." "let me see it." smith extended it to martin. "when shall i sell it?" asked he. "not just yet. wait till the affair blows over a little." "do you think there's any danger, then?" queried martin, anxiously. "not much. still it's best to be prudent." "hadn't you better sell it yourself?" "suppose i did," said smith. "i might take the notion to walk off with all the money." "i don't think you would," said martin, surveying his confederate doubtfully, nevertheless. "no, i don't think i would; but if you sell it yourself, you'll have the affair in your own hands." "but _i_ might walk off with all the money, too," said martin, who thought it a poor rule that didn't work both ways. "i don't think you would," said smith, "and i'll tell you why. we belong to a large band, that are bound together by a terrible oath to punish any one guilty of treachery. suppose you played me false, and did as you say,--though of course i know you don't mean it,--i wouldn't give that for your life;" and he snapped his fingers. "don't!" said martin, with a shudder. "you make me shiver. of course i didn't mean anything. i'm on the square." "certainly, i only told you what would happen to you or me, or any one that was false to the others." "i think i'd rather have you sell the bond," said martin, nervously. "if i were in your case, i'd be perfectly willing; but the fact is, the brokers know me too well. they suspect me, and they won't suspect you." "i think i've had my share of the risk," grumbled martin. "i don't see but i do the work, and you share the profits." "wasn't it i that put you up to it?" demanded smith. "would you ever have thought of it if it hadn't been for me?" "maybe i wouldn't. i wish i hadn't." "you're a fool, then! don't you see it's turned out all right? haven't you got fifty dollars in your pocket, and won't you have two hundred and fifty more when the bond is sold?" "i thought i'd get five thousand," said martin, dissatisfied. "it seems to me that three hundred dollars is pretty good pay for one morning's work; but then there are some people that are never satisfied." "it wasn't the work, it was the danger. i aint at all sure but the boy saw me, and knew who i was. if he did, i've got to keep out of the way." "do you think he did recognize you?" asked smith, thoughtfully. "i'm not sure. i'm afraid he did." "i wish we'd got him in our clutches. but i dare say he was too frightened to tell who it was." "he aint easy frightened," said martin, shaking his head. he understood our hero better than his confederate. "well, all is, you must be more careful for a few days. instead of staying in the city, i'll send you to jersey city, newark, and other places where you won't be likely to meet him." "that might do," said martin; "he's a smart boy, though he's an undootiful son. he don't care no more for me than if i was no kith nor kin to him, and he just as lieves see me sent to prison as not." "there's one thing you haven't thought of," said smith. "what's that?" "his employer will most likely think that the boy has stolen the box, or had something to do with its being carried off. as he took him out of the street, he won't have much confidence in his honesty. i shouldn't be at all surprised if this undootiful boy of yours, as you call him, found himself locked up in the tombs, on account of this little affair." "do you think so?" said martin, brightening up at the suggestion. "i think it more likely than not. if that is the case, of course you won't be in any danger from him." "that's so," said martin, cheerfully. "i hope you're right. it would be worth something to have that young imp locked up. he wouldn't put on so many airs after that." "well, it's very likely to happen." the contemplation of this possibility so raised martin's spirits, that, in spite of the disappointment he had experienced in finding the booty so far below what he had anticipated, he became quite cheerful, especially after smith produced a bottle of whiskey, and asked him to help himself,--an invitation which he did not have occasion to repeat. chapter xviii. rufus entrapped. "now," said rufus to himself on the morning succeeding the robbery, "i've got a week to recover that box. how shall i go about it?" this was a question easier asked than answered. martin being the thief, the first thing, of course, was to find him; and rufus had considerable hopes of encountering him in the street some day. should this be the case, he might point him out to a policeman, and have him arrested at once; but this would not recover the box. probably it was concealed at martin's boarding-house, and this it was that rufus was anxious to find. he decided, therefore, whenever he got on the track of his step-father, to follow him cautiously until he ascertained where he lodged. he walked the street with his eyes about him all day, but did not catch a glimpse of martin. the fact was, the latter was at newark, having been sent there by his employers with a supply of counterfeit money to dispose of, so that our hero's search was of course fruitless, and so he was obliged to report to mr. turner the next morning. "probably he is in hiding," said his employer. "i don't think you have much chance of meeting him for a few days to come." "i should like to try," said rufus. "he won't be content to hide long." "i have notified the banks and railroad companies of the robbery," said mr. turner; "so that it will be impossible to sell the shares. after a while, should we fail to recover them, they will grant us duplicate certificates. i have advertised, also, the numbers of the bonds; and, if an attempt is made to dispose of them, the thief will find himself in trouble. so the loss is reduced to four hundred dollars." "that is too much to lose," said rufus. "that is true; but we are lucky to get off so cheap." "i hope to get back some of that," said our hero, stoutly. "did it ever strike you that there might be some risk encountering this man? if he is driven to bay he may become dangerous." "i don't think of the danger, mr. turner," said rufus. "i lost that box, and it is my duty to recover it if i can, danger or no danger." mr. turner secretly admired the pluck of rufus; but he was not a man given to compliments, so he only said, quietly, "well, rufus, you shall have the week i promised you. i have no doubt you will do your best. i shall not be surprised, however, if you fail." so rufus entered upon his second day's search. he went up chatham street, and explored most of the streets intersecting it, visiting many places which he remembered as former haunts of his step-father. but he was quite off the track here. martin's employment now was on the other side of the city, near the north river, and he had no longer occasion to visit his old haunts. besides, he had again been sent over to new jersey, and did not get back to the city at all till late in the afternoon. the next day martin complained of headache, and was permitted to remain at home. he did not think it prudent to be out during the day; but easily solaced himself in his confinement with whiskey and cigars, of which he had laid in a good supply. he was sitting in his shirt-sleeves at the front window, looking through the blinds, which were always closed, when his eyes lighted on rufus passing on the opposite side of the street. "he's looking for me," exclaimed martin to himself, observing that rufus was looking about him as he walked. "who's looking for you?" asked his confederate, smith, who happened just then to enter the room. "my undootiful son. look, there he is," said martin, nervously. "i wonder if he has heard about my living here." smith went to the window, and looked out. "he looks resolute and determined," said smith. "we must pull his teeth." "what do you mean?" "i mean we must put it out of his power to do you harm." "how are we going to do that?" "wait a minute and i'll tell you." smith left the room hastily, and after a brief interval returned. "i think i'll fetch it," he said. "what have you done?" asked martin. "i've sent humpy to follow your son. he's to carry him a message from you." "what do you mean?" asked martin, alarmed. "don't be afraid. it's all right." "but i don't understand it. i didn't send any message. what was it?" "i'll tell you. if i'm not mistaken humpy will bring your son back with him, so that i shall have the pleasure of reuniting parent and child." "you don't mean to say you are going to bring rufus here?" said martin, his lower jaw falling. "you aint going to betray me, are you?" "stuff and nonsense! what are you thinking of? all you need understand is, that the boy is getting dangerous. he is following you round as if he meant something, and that must be stopped. i mean to get him into the house, but i don't mean to part company with him very soon." smith here briefly detailed the instructions which he had given to his errand-boy. martin listened with much satisfaction. "what a head you've got!" he said admiringly. "i'm generally ready for an emergency," remarked smith, complacently. "you've got to get up early in the morning to get ahead of me." we must now follow smith's messenger, and we shall ascertain that gentleman's plan. humpy was a boy of sixteen, very short, in fact almost a dwarf, and, as his name implies, disfigured by a hump. he was sharp, however, and secretive, and, though he could not help understanding the character of the men who employed him, was not likely to betray them. he had a pride in deserving the confidence which he saw was reposed in him. after receiving the instructions of his principal, he crossed the street, and followed rufus at a little distance, being particular to keep him in sight. our hero turned a corner, and so did he. he then quickened his pace and came up with him. "was you a-lookin' for anybody in particular?" he said. "what makes you ask?" said rufus, facing round upon him. "maybe i could help you." "perhaps you know who i am after," said rufus, looking at him steadily. "you're looking for a man named martin, aint you?" "do you know where i can find him?" asked rufus, eagerly. "yes, i do. he sent me after you." "he sent you!" repeated our hero, hardly believing his ears. "yes; he wants to see you." "what does he want to see me for?" asked rufus, inclined to be suspicious. "there's something he's got of yours that he wants to return," said humpy, in a low voice, looking around cautiously. rufus was more and more astonished. was it possible that martin's conscience troubled him, and that he wanted to make restitution? he could hardly believe this, knowing what he did of his step-father. martin was about the last man he would have suspected of being troubled in any such way. "yes, he has got something of mine," he said aloud. "does he want to return it?" "yes, he's sorry he took it. he's afraid you'll set the copps on him." "so he's frightened," thought rufus. this seemed to throw light on the new phase of affairs. he had never regarded his step-father as very brave, and now concluded that he was alarmed about the consequences of the theft. "if he'll return what he took, all right," said rufus, venturing to make this promise on his own responsibility; "he shan't be touched. where is he?" "not far off," said humpy. "tell him to bring it to me, and i'll give my word not to have him arrested." "he can't come." "why can't he?" "he's sick." "where?" "in a house near by. he wants you to come and see him." rufus hesitated. "what's the matter with him?" he asked. "he caught a cold, and is threatened with a fever," said the boy, glibly. "if you want to see him, i'll lead you where he is." "all right! go ahead!" said rufus, thoroughly deceived by the boy's plausible story. "you'll promise not to set the copps on him, after you've got the box?" said humpy. "yes, i promise." "then follow me." rufus followed, congratulating himself that things were coming out satisfactorily. he had no hesitation in making the promise he did, for he felt sure that he would be sustained by his employer. at any rate, he determined that, having pledged his word to martin, nothing should make him break it. humpy stumped along, followed by rufus. they turned the corner again, and the boy guided him at once to the counterfeiter's den. "he's in there," said humpy, with a jerk of his forefinger. "come along!" he mounted the steps, and opened the door, which had been left unlocked. "he's upstairs," said humpy. "come up." rufus, without suspicion, followed his humpbacked guide up the narrow staircase. they had scarcely reached the top, when smith, coming out of a room on the floor below, locked the outer door, and put the key in his pocket. this rufus did not see, or it would have aroused his suspicion. the boy opened the door of a chamber at the head of the staircase. "go in there," he said. rufus entered, and looked around him, but saw no one. he did not have to wait long. a step was heard at the door, and james martin entered the room, apparently in perfect health. "i'm glad to see you, rufus," he said with a triumphant grin. "you've been such an undootiful son that i didn't much expect you'd come to see your sick father." rufus sprang to his feet in dismay. the whole plot flashed upon him at once, and he realized that he had walked into a trap with his eyes wide open. chapter xix. in a trap. our hero's first impulse, on finding himself entrapped, was to escape. he sprang towards the door, but martin quickly grasped him by the arm, and forced him back. "no you don't!" he said, with emphasis. "i want you to stay with me." "let me go!" exclaimed rufus, struggling to escape. "sorry i couldn't oblige you," said martin, with a grin. "can't you stay with your sick father a few days?" "you've played me a mean trick," said rufus, indignantly. "what was you walkin' through this street for?" asked martin. "wasn't it because you wanted to see me?" "yes," answered our hero. "well, you've got what you wanted," said martin, smiling maliciously. "i know'd you'd never find me if i didn't send out for you. was there anything partic'lar you wish to say to me?" "yes," said rufus, bluntly. "i want you to give me back that tin box you stole from me the other day." "what do i know about any tin box?" asked martin, not knowing that it had been spoken of by humpy in the street. "you needn't deny it, mr. martin. the boy you sent after me told me you took it." "he did, did he?" said martin, seeing that he must try another tack. "well, s'posin' i did, what then?" "the law may have something to say. you'll stand a chance of going to sing sing for a few years." "you'd have to prove i took it," said martin, uneasily. "i only told the boy to say so, so's to get you in here. i read about the robbery in the papers." "i recognized you at the time, and am ready to swear to you," said rufus, firmly. this was rather imprudent, for it made martin even more determined to prevent our hero's escape. "if that's your game," he said, "i'll see you don't get a chance to swear to any lies." "what do you mean to do with me?" demanded rufus. "i aint decided yet," said martin. "your health's so delicate that i don't think it'll agree with you to go out in the street." "are you going to confine me here?" "maybe," said his step-father. "i shan't charge you nothing for board. your cheerful company'll pay me for that." "mr. martin," said rufus, "i've got a proposition to make to you." "go ahead and make it then." "you've got yourself into a scrape about that tin box." "i thought you was the one that had got into a scrape," said martin, jocularly. "so i have; but mine is of a different kind from yours. you run the risk of going to prison." "and you're in prison already," said martin, with a grin. "seems to me i've got the best of it so far." "perhaps you have; but i wouldn't exchange with you for all that. now i've got a proposition to make." "that's what you said before." "if you will restore the tin box, and let me go free, i'll see that you are not arrested for what you've done." "you're very kind," said martin; "but that won't pay me for my trouble." "if i'll get you out of your present danger?" "i don't know about that. s'posin' i was to do as you say, the first thing you'd do after you got out would be to set the copps on me." "no, i wouldn't. i'd go to prison first myself." this proposition had some effect upon martin. he realized that he was in danger, and felt that he had been very poorly paid for his risk and trouble. he was inclined to believe rufus would keep his word, but he knew also that matters had gone too far. smith, he was sure, would not consent to any such arrangement, and without him he could do nothing. besides, it was a satisfaction to him to feel that he had rufus in his power, and he had no desire to lose that advantage by setting him free. tyrant and bully as he was by nature, he meant to gratify his malice at our hero's expense. "i couldn't do it, rufus," he said. "there's another man in it, and he's got the box." rufus looked sharply at martin to ascertain if he was speaking the truth. he decided that it was as his step-father stated, and, if this was the case, he would have more than one enemy to deal with. "does the other man live here?" he asked. "maybe he does, and maybe he doesn't." "who is he?" "maybe it's the emperor of chiny, and maybe it isn't. what would you give to know?" "not much," said rufus, assuming an indifferent tone. "you're the man that took the box,--that's enough for me." "he put me up to it," said martin, unguardedly. "i thought martin wasn't smart enough to plan the robbery himself," said rufus to himself. he resolved to appear indifferent to this information, in the hope of learning more. "you can settle that among yourselves," he said, quietly. "if you consented to do it, you're as much to blame as he." at this moment smith, influenced by curiosity, opened the door and entered. "this is my undootiful son, mr. smith," said martin. "so his name's smith," thought rufus. "i wonder whether it's his real name, or a false one." "i'm glad to see you, young man," said smith. "so you've called to see your father?" "he isn't my father." "you see how undootiful he is," said martin. "he won't own me." "we'll teach him to be more dutiful before we get through with him," said smith. "mr. smith," said rufus, "i'm not here of my own accord. i dare say you know that. but as long as i am here, i'd like to ask you if you know anything about a tin box that was taken from me the other day by mr. martin." "by your father?" "by mr. martin," said rufus, determined not to admit the relationship. "what should i know about it?" "mr. martin tells me that, though he took it, somebody else set him to do it. i thought you might be the one." "did you say that?" demanded smith, looking angrily at martin. "i was only foolin'," returned martin, who began to think he had made a blunder. "it's my belief that you're a fool," retorted smith. "you'd better be careful what you tell your son. young man," turning to rufus, "as to the tin box you speak of, i can tell you nothing. your father says that he has recovered some property which you stole from him a while since, and i suppose that may be the tin box you refer to." "that isn't true. it belonged to mr. turner, my employer, or rather to a customer of his." "that's nothing to me. mr. martin boards with me, and as long as he pays for his board i don't want to pry into his affairs. if he has taken a tin box from you, i presume he had a better right to it than you had. are you going to bring your son down to dinner, mr. martin?" "i guess he'd better eat his victuals up here," said martin. "just as you say. i can send humpy with them. we shall have dinner in about an hour." "all right; i'll go down now if my dootiful son can spare me." as rufus did not urge him to stay, martin left the room with smith, taking care to lock the door after him. "what's the boy's name?" asked smith, abruptly. "rufus." "he's smart. i can tell that by his looks." "ye-es, he's smart enough," said martin, hesitatingly; "but he's as obstinate as a pig." "likes to have his own way, eh?" "that's what he does." "he'd make a good boy for our business," said smith, musingly. martin shook his head. "it wouldn't do," he said. "why not?" "he wants to be honest," said martin, contemptuously. "we couldn't trust him." "then there's only one thing to do." "what's that?" "we must keep him close. we mustn't on any account allow him to escape." "i'll look after that," said martin, nodding. "i've had hard work enough to get hold of him. he won't get away in a hurry." "if he does, you'll be arrested." "and you too," suggested martin. "why should i?" "didn't you put me up to taking the box, and haven't you taken half what was in it?" "look here," said smith, menacingly, "you'd better stop that. you've already told the boy more than you ought. if you are taken through your own carelessness, mind what you are about, and don't split on me. if you do, it'll be the worse day's work you ever did. imprisonment isn't the worse thing that can happen to a man." martin understood what his confederate meant, and the intended effect was produced. he began to think that smith was a desperate man, and capable of murdering him, or instigating his murder, in case of treachery. this made him feel rather uneasy, in spite of his capture of rufus. meanwhile, our hero, left to himself, began to examine the apartment in which he was confined. the door had been locked by martin, as we have already said. this was the only mode of exit from the apartment, except what was afforded by two windows. rufus walked to them, and looked out. the room was in the back part of the house, and these windows looked out into a back yard. he could see the rear portions of the houses on a parallel street, and speculated as to the chances of escape this way. as the room was only on the second floor, the distance to the ground was not great. he could easily swing off the window-sill without injury. though he knew it would not be well to attempt escape now when martin and smith were doubtless on the lookout, he thought he would open the window softly and take a survey. he tried one window, but could not raise it. he tried the other, with like want of success. he thought at first that the difficulty lay in their sticking, but, on closer examination, he ascertained that both were firmly fastened by nails, which accounted for their being immovable. chapter xx. humpy. "i might break the window," thought rufus; but it occurred to him at once that the noise would probably be heard. besides, if there was any one in the room below, he would very likely be seen descending from the window. if this plan were adopted at all, he must wait till evening. meanwhile some other way of escape might suggest itself. the room was of moderate size,--about fifteen feet square. a cheap carpet covered the floor. a pine bedstead occupied one corner. there were three or four chairs, a bureau, and a bedstead. rufus sat down, and turned the matter over in his mind. he couldn't make up his mind what martin's business was, but decided that it was something unlawful, and that he was either employed by smith, or connected in some way with him. it seemed to him probable that his step-father, in waylaying him and stealing the tin box, had acted under the direction of smith, and that probably the box was at that very moment in the possession of the superior villain. "if i could only find the box and escape with it," thought rufus, "that would set me right with mr. turner." but there seemed little chance of that. it did not seem very probable even that he could escape from the room in which he was confined, much less carry out the plan he had in view. while he was thinking over his situation, the key turned in the lock, and the door was opened. rufus looked up, expecting to see martin; but instead of his step-father there entered the boy already referred to as humpy. humpy carried in his hand a plate of meat and vegetables. "here's your dinner," he said, laying the plate down, while he locked the door behind him. "look here, johnny," said rufus, "you served me a mean trick." humpy chuckled. "you came in just as innocent," he said. "it was jolly." "maybe it is, but i don't see it. you told me a lie." "didn't you find the man you was after?" said humpy. "you told me he was sick." "so he is. he's in delicate health, and couldn't go to business to-day." "what is his business?" asked rufus, a little too eagerly. humpy put his thumbs to his nose, and twirled his fingers with a grin of intelligence. "don't you wish you knew?" he said tantalizingly. "do you know anything about the tin box?" asked rufus, seeing that his former question was not likely to be answered. "maybe i do." "it's in this house." "oh, is it? well, if you know that, there's no use of my telling you." "i can't make much of him," thought rufus. "he's a young imp, and it isn't easy to get round him." he looked at humpy meditatively, and it occurred to him whether it would not be well to spring upon him, snatch the key, release himself from the room, and dash downstairs. so far as the boy was concerned, this plan was practicable. rufus was much his superior in strength, and could master him without difficulty. but, doubtless, martin and smith were below. they would hear the noise of the struggle, and would cut off his flight. evidently that plan would not work. another suggested itself to him. "johnny," said he, "don't you want to make some money?" here he attacked the boy on his weak side. humpy was fond of money. he had already scraped together about twenty dollars from the meagre pay he received, and had it carefully secreted. "of course i do," he answered. "how'm i to do it?" "i'll tell you. that tin box contained property of value. it doesn't belong to me. it belongs to mr. turner, the banker. i was trying to recover it when you got me to come in here this morning. now what i want to say, is this. get that tin box for me, and help me to get away with it, and it'll be worth fifty dollars to you." fifty dollars! humpy's eyes sparkled when he heard the sum named; but prudence came to his aid, fortified by suspicion. "who's a-goin' to pay it?" he asked. "mr. turner." "s'posin' he don't?" "then i will." "where'd you raise the money?" "i'm not rich, but i'm worth a good deal more than that. i'd rather pay it out of my own pocket than not get back that box." but if humpy was fond of money, he had also a rude sense of honor, which taught him to be faithful to his employer. he did want the money, and then there was something in our hero's look that made him pretty sure that he would keep his promise. so he put away the seductive temptation, though reluctantly. "i aint a-goin' to do it," he said, doggedly. "perhaps you'll think better of it," said rufus, who, in spite of the boy's manner, saw the struggle in his mind. "if you do, just let me know." "i've got to be goin'," said humpy, and, unlocking the door, he went out, locking it again directly. rufus turned his attention to the dinner, which he found of good quality. despite his imprisonment, his appetite was excellent, and he ate all there was of it. "i must keep up my strength at any rate," he said to himself; "i may need it." meanwhile, as there was no longer anything to dread, rufus being a prisoner, martin went out in the service of his employer. "now," thought he, reflecting with satisfaction on his signal triumph over rufus, "if i only knew where rose was, i'd go after her, and her brother shouldn't get hold of her again in a hurry. he's got enough to do to take care of himself." this was pleasant to think about; but martin had not the least idea where rose was, and was not likely to find out. meanwhile something happened in the counterfeiter's den, which was destined to prove of advantage to rufus. smith sent humpy out on an errand. the boy was detained unavoidably, and returned an hour later than he was expected. smith was already in an ill-temper, which the late return of his emissary aggravated. "what made you so late?" he demanded, with lowering brow. "i couldn't help it," said humpy. "don't tell me that!" roared smith. "you stopped to play on the way; i know you did." "no, i didn't," said humpy, angrily. "do you dare to contradict me, you villanous little humpback?" screamed smith. "i'll teach you to do it again." [illustration: "i'll teach you to do it again."] he clutched the boy by the collar, and, seizing a horsewhip, brought it down with terrible force on the boy's shrinking form. "let me go! don't beat me!" screamed humpy, in mingled fear and rage. "not till i've cured you," retorted smith. twice more he struck the humpbacked boy with the whip, and then threw him on the floor. "that's what you get for contradicting me," he said. the boy rose slowly and painfully, and limped out of the room. his face was pale, but his heart was filled with a burning sense of humiliation and anger against the man who had assaulted him. it would have been well for smith if he had controlled himself better, for the boy was not one of the forgiving kind, but harbored resentment with an indian-like tenacity, and was resolved to be revenged. he crawled upstairs to the small attic room in which he usually slept, and, entering, threw himself upon the bed, face downward, where he burst into a passion of grief, shame, and rage, which shook his crooked form convulsively. this lasted for fifteen minutes, when he became more quiet. then he got up slowly, and, going to a corner of the room, lifted up a board from which the nails appeared to have been drawn out, and drew from beneath a calico bag. this he opened, and exposed to view a miscellaneous collection of coins, which he took out and counted. "twenty dollars and nineteen cents!" he said to himself. "i've been more'n a year gettin' it. that boy offers me fifty dollars,--most three times as much,--if i'll get him the tin box and help him to escape. i said i wouldn't do it; but he hadn't struck me then. he hadn't called me a villanous humpback. now he's got to pay for it. he'll wish he hadn't done it;" and the boy clenched his fist, and shook it vindictively. "now, how'll i get the box?" he sat on the bed thinking for some time, then, composing his countenance, he went downstairs. he resolved to assume his usual manner, in order not to excite smith's suspicion. smith had by this time got over his rage, and was rather sorry he had struck the boy so brutally, for he knew very well that humpy might prove a dangerous enemy. he glanced at humpy's face when he came downstairs, but saw nothing unusual. "oh, he'll forget all about it," he thought to himself. "here's ten cents, humpy," he said. "maybe i struck you too hard. go and buy yourself some candy." "thank you," said the boy, taking the money. "i've another errand for you." he told what it was. "go and come back as soon as possible." humpy went quietly, and returned in good season. about five o'clock, martin not yet having returned, smith directed him to carry up our hero's supper. there was a little exultant sparkle in the boy's eye, as he took the plate of buttered bread, and started to go upstairs. "so it's you, is it?" said rufus, on the boy's entrance. "where is martin?" "he aint come in yet. do you want to see him?" "no, i'm not particular about it." humpy stood looking earnestly at rufus while he was eating the bread and butter. at length he said, "i've been thinkin' over what you said to me at dinner-time. shall i get the fifty dollars certain sure if i do what you want?" "yes," said rufus, eagerly. "get me the tin box, and help me to escape, and the money shall be yours." "honor bright?" "honor bright." chapter xxi. suspense. rufus generally reached his boarding-house at half-past five o'clock. sometimes rose and her two young companions were playing in washington park at that time, and ran to meet him when he appeared in sight. but on the night of our hero's capture by martin they waited for him in vain. "where can rufie be?" thought rose, as she heard six o'clock peal from a neighboring church-tower. she thought he might have gone by without her seeing him, and with this idea, as it was already the hour for dinner, she went into the house. she ran upstairs two steps at a time, and opened the door of her own room. "you should not have stayed out so late, rose," said miss manning. "you will hardly have time to get ready for dinner." "i was waiting for rufie. has he come?" "no; he seems to be late to-night." "i am afraid he's got run over," said rose anxiously. "rufus is old enough to take care of himself. i've no doubt he's quite safe." "then what makes him so late?" "he is probably detained by business. but there is the bell. we must go down to dinner." "can't we wait for rufie?" "no, my dear child; we cannot tell when he will be home." "it don't seem a bit pleasant to eat dinner without rufie," complained rose. "it isn't often he stays, rose. he'll tell us all about it when he comes." they went down and took their seats at the dinner-table. "where is your brother, rose?" asked mrs. clifton. "he hasn't got home," said rose, rather disconsolately. "i am sorry for that. he is a very agreeable young man. if i wasn't married," simpered mrs. clifton, "i should set my cap for him. but i mustn't say that, or mr. clifton will be jealous." "oh, don't mind me!" said mr. clifton, carelessly. "it won't spoil my appetite." "i don't think there's anything that would spoil _your_ appetite," said his wife, rather sharply, for she would have been flattered by her husband's jealousy. "just so," said mr. clifton, coolly. "may i trouble you for some chicken, mrs. clayton?" "you're a great deal too old for rufie, mrs. clifton," said rose, with more plainness than politeness. "i'm not quite so young as you are, rose," said mrs. clifton, somewhat annoyed. "how old do you think i am?" "most fifty," answered rose, honestly. "mercy sake!" exclaimed mrs. clifton, horrified, "what a child you are! why don't you say a hundred, and done with it?" "how old are you, mrs. clifton?" persisted rose. "well, if you must know, i shall be twenty-five next november." mrs. clifton was considerably nearer thirty-five; but, then, some ladies are very apt to be forgetful of their age. the dinner-hour passed, and rose and miss manning left the table. they went upstairs hoping that rufus might be there before them; but the room was empty. an hour and a half passed, and it was already beyond eight, the hour at which rose usually went to bed. "can't i sit up a little later to-night, miss manning?" pleaded rose. "i want to see rufie." "no, rose, i think not. you'll see him in the morning." so rose unwillingly undressed and went to bed. by this time miss manning began to wonder a little why rufus did not appear. it seemed to her rather strange that he should be detained by business till after eight o'clock, and she thought that an accident might possibly have happened to him. still rufus was a strong, manly boy, well able to take care of himself, and this was not probable. when ten o'clock came, and he had not yet made his appearance, she went downstairs. the door of the hall bedroom, which rufus occupied, was open and empty. this she saw on the way. in the hall below she met mrs. clayton. "rufus has not yet come in?" she said, interrogatively. "no, i have not seen him. i saved some dinner for him, thinking he might have been detained." "i can't think why he doesn't come home. i think he must be here soon. do you know if he has a latch-key?" "yes, he got a new one of me the other day. perhaps he has gone to some place of amusement." "he would not go without letting us know beforehand. he would know we would feel anxious." "yes, he is more considerate than most young men of his age. i don't think you need feel anxious about him." miss manning went upstairs disappointed. she began to feel perplexed and anxious. suppose something should happen to rufus, what would they do? rose would refuse to be comforted. she was glad the little girl was asleep, otherwise she would be asking questions which she would be unable to answer. it was now her hour for retiring, but she resolved to sit up a little longer. more than an hour passed, and still rufus did not come. it seemed unlikely that he would return that night, and miss manning saw that it was useless to sit up longer. it was possible, however, that he might have come in, and gone at once to his room, thinking it too late to disturb them. but, on going down to the next floor, she saw that his room was still unoccupied. rose woke up early in the morning; miss manning was already awake. "did rufie come last night?" asked the little girl. "he had not come when i went to bed," was the answer. "perhaps he came in afterwards." "may i dress and go down and see?" "yes, if you would like to." rose dressed quicker than usual, and went downstairs. she came up again directly, with a look of disappointment. "miss manning, he is not here," she said. "his chamber door is open, and i saw that he had not slept in his bed." "very likely mr. turner sent him out of the city on business," said miss manning, with an indifference which she did not feel. "i wish he'd come," said rose. "i shall give him a good scolding, when he gets home, for staying away so long." "has not mr. rushton come?" asked mrs. clayton, at the breakfast-table. "not yet. i suppose he is detained by business." just after breakfast, miss manning, as usual, took the three little girls out in the park to play. it was their custom to come in about nine o'clock to study. this morning, however, their governess went to mrs. colman and said, "i should like to take this morning, if you have no objection. i am feeling a little anxious about rufus, who did not come home last night. i would like to go to the office where he is employed, and inquire whether he has been sent out of town on any errand." "certainly, miss manning. the little girls can go out and play in the park while you are gone." "thank you." "where are you going, miss manning?" asked rose, seeing that the governess was preparing to go out. "i am going to rufie's office to see why he stayed away." "may i go with you?" asked rose, eagerly. "no, rose, you had better stay at home. the streets are very crowded down town, and i shouldn't like to venture to cross broadway with you. you can go and play in the park." "and shan't we have any lessons?" "not this morning." "that will be nice," said rose, who, like most girls of her age, enjoyed a holiday. miss manning walked to broadway, and took a stage. that she knew would carry her as far as wall street, only a few rods from mr. turner's office. she had seldom been in a stage, the stage fare being higher than in the cars, and even four cents made a difference to her. she would have enjoyed the brilliant scene which broadway always presents, with its gay shop-windows and hurrying multitudes, if her mind had not been preoccupied. at length trinity spire came in sight. when they reached the great church which forms so prominent a landmark in the lower part of broadway, she got out, and turned into wall street. it did not take her long to find mr. turner's number. she had never been there before, and had never met mr. turner, and naturally felt a little diffident about going into the office. it was on the second floor. she went up the stairway, and timidly entered. she looked about her, but rufus was not to be seen. at first no one noticed her; but finally a clerk, with a pen behind his ear, came out from behind the line of desks. "what can i do for you, ma'am?" he asked. "is rufus rushton here?" she inquired. "no, he is not." "was he here yesterday?" "he's out of the office just now, on some business of mr. turner's. that's mr. turner, if you would like to speak to him." miss manning turned, and saw mr. turner just entering the office. he was a pleasant-looking man, and this gave her courage to address him. "mr. turner," she said, "i came to ask about rufus rushton. he did not come home last night, and i am feeling anxious about him." "indeed!" said the banker, "i am surprised to hear that. it leads me to think that he may have found a clue to the stolen box." "the stolen box!" repeated miss manning, in surprise. "yes; did he not tell you of it?" "no, sir." mr. turner briefly related the particulars already known to the reader. "i think," he said, in conclusion, "rufus must have tracked the man martin, and--" "martin!" interrupted miss manning. "was he the thief?" "yes, so rufus tells me. do you know him?" "i have good reason to. he is a very bad man. i hope he has not got rufus in his power." "i don't think you need feel apprehensive. rufus is a smart boy, and knows how to take care of himself. he'll come out right, i have no doubt." "i am glad to hear you say so, mr. turner. i will bid you good-morning, with thanks for your kindness." "if rufus comes in this morning, i will let him go home at once, that your anxiety may be relieved." with this assurance miss manning departed. she had learned something, but, in spite of the banker's assurance, she felt troubled. she knew martin was a bad man, and she was afraid rufus would come to harm. chapter xxii. martin grows suspicious. our hero's interview with humpy gave him new courage. when he had felt surrounded by enemies the chances seemed against him. now he had a friend in the house, who was interested in securing his escape. not only this, but there was a fair chance of recovering the box for which he was seeking. on the whole, therefore, rufus was in very good spirits. about nine o'clock he heard a step on the stairs, which he recognized as that of his step-father. he had good reason to remember that step. many a time while his mother was alive, and afterwards while they were living in leonard street, he had listened to it coming up the rickety staircase, and dreaded the entrance of the man whose presence was never welcome. after some fumbling at the lock the door opened, and martin entered. it was dark, and he could not at first see rufus. "where are you, you young villain?" he inquired, with a hiccough. rufus did not see fit to answer when thus addressed. "where are you, i say?" repeated martin. "here i am," answered rufus. "why didn't you speak before? didn't you hear me?" demanded his step-father, angrily. "yes, mr. martin, i heard you," said rufus, composedly. "then why didn't you answer?" "because you called me a young villain." "well, you are one." rufus did not answer. martin locked the door and put the key in his pocket. he next struck a match, and lit the gas. then seating himself in a rocking-chair, still with his hat on, he looked at rufus with some curiosity, mingled with triumph. "i hope you like your accommodations," he said. "pretty well." "we don't charge you nothing for board, you see, and you haven't any work to do. that's what i call living like a gentleman." "i believe you tried the same kind of life at blackwell's island," said rufus. "look here," said martin, roughly, "you'd better not insult me. i didn't come here to be insulted." "what did you come for, then?" asked rufus. "i thought you'd like to know how rose was," answered martin. "i don't believe you have seen her." "well, you needn't believe it. perhaps i didn't meet her on the street, and follow her home. she begged me to tell her where you was; but i couldn't do it." rufus felt a temporary uneasiness when he heard this statement; but there was something in martin's manner which convinced him that he had not been telling the truth. he decided to change the subject. "mr. martin," he said, "have you made up your mind to give up that tin box?" "no i haven't. i can't spare it." "if you will give it up, i will see that you are not punished for taking it." "i aint a-goin' to be punished for taking it." "you certainly will be if you are caught." "what do you know about it?" "there was a man convicted of the same thing three months ago, and he got five years for it." "i don't believe it," said martin, uneasily. "you needn't if you don't want to." "i haven't got the box now, so i couldn't give it back. smith's got it." "is that the man i saw this morning?" "yes." "then you'd better ask him to give it back to you." "he wouldn't do it if i asked him." "then i'm sorry for you." martin was not very brave, and in spite of his assertions he felt uneasy at what rufus was saying. besides, he felt rather afraid of our hero. he knew that rufus was a resolute, determined boy, and that he could not keep him confined forever. some time he would get out, and martin feared that he would set the officers on his track. the remark of smith that he would make a good boy for their business occurred to him, and he determined to try him on a new tack. if he could get him compromised by a connection with their business, it would be for his interest also to keep clear of the police. "rufus," said martin, edging his chair towards our hero, "i'm your friend." rufus was rather astonished at this sudden declaration. "i'm glad to hear it," he said; "but i don't think you've treated me in a very friendly manner." "about the tin box?" "yes, partly that. if you're my friend, you will return it, and not keep me locked up here." "never mind, rufus, i've got a business proposal to make to you. you're a smart boy." "i am glad you think so." "and i can give you a chance to make a good living." "i am making a good living now, or i was before you interfered with me." "how much did you earn a week?" "why do you want to know?" "was it over ten dollars a week?" "about that." "i know a business that will pay you fifteen dollars a week." "what is it?" "it is the one i'm in. i earn a hundred dollars a month." "if you are earning as much as that, i shouldn't think you'd need to steal tin boxes." "there wasn't much in it. only a hundred dollars in money." "you are not telling me the truth. there were four hundred dollars in it." "what was that you said?" asked martin, pricking up his ears. "there were four hundred dollars in it." "how do you know?" "mr. turner told me so." "smith told me there were only a hundred. he opened it, and gave me half." "then he gave you fifty, and kept three hundred and fifty himself." "if i thought that, i'd smash his head!" said martin, angrily. "make me run all the risk, and then cheat me out of my hard earnin's. do you call that fair?" "i think he's been cheating you," said rufus, not sorry to see martin's anger with his confederate. "it's a mean trick," said martin, indignantly. "i'd ought to have got two hundred. it was worth it." "i wouldn't do what you did for a good deal more than two hundred dollars. you haven't told me what that business was that i could earn fifteen dollars a week at." "no," said martin, "i've changed my mind about it. if smith's goin' to serve me such a mean trick, i won't work for him no longer. i'll speak to him about it to-morrow." martin relapsed into silence. rufus had given him something to think about, which disturbed him considerably. though he had been disappointed in the contents of the box, he had not for a moment doubted the good faith of his confederate, and he was proportionately incensed now that the latter had appropriated seven dollars to his one. considering that he had done all the work, and incurred all the danger, it did seem rather hard. there was one bed in the room, rather a narrow one. "i'm goin' to bed," said martin, at length. "i guess the bed'll be big enough for us both." "thank you," said rufus, who did not fancy the idea of sleeping with his step-father. "if you'll give me one of the pillows, i'll sleep on the floor." "just as you say, but you'll find it rather hard sleepin'." "i shan't mind." this was the arrangement they adopted. martin took off his coat and vest, and threw himself on the bed. he was soon asleep, as his heavy breathing clearly indicated. rufus, stretched on the floor, lay awake longer. it occurred to him that he might easily take the key of the door from the pocket of martin's vest, which lay on the chair at his bedside, and so let himself out of the room. but even then it would be uncertain whether he could get out of the house, and he would have to leave the tin box behind him. this he hoped to get hold of through humpy's assistance. on the whole, therefore, it seemed best to wait a little longer. chapter xxiii. escape. humpy made up his mind to accept our hero's offer. fifty dollars was to him a small fortune, and he saw no reason why he should not earn it. the brutal treatment he had received from smith removed all the objections he had at first felt. now, how was he going to fulfil his part of the compact? to release rufus would be comparatively easy. he happened to know that the key of his own room in the attic would also fit the door of the chamber in which our hero was confined. the difficulty was to get possession of the tin box. he did not even know where it was concealed, and must trust to his own sagacity to find out. to this end he watched his employer carefully whenever he got a chance to do so without being observed, hoping he might take the box out from its place of concealment. finally smith noticed the boy's glances, and said, roughly, "what are you looking at, boy? do you think you shall know me the next time you see me?" humpy did not reply, but this made him more careful. in the morning he took up our hero's breakfast, meeting martin on his way downstairs. "well," said rufus, eagerly, as he entered the room, "have you found out anything about the box?" "not yet," said humpy. "i'm tryin' to find where he's hid it. i can let you out any time." "how?" "i've got a key that fits this lock." "that's well, but i'd rather wait till i can carry the box with me." "i'll do what i can," said humpy. "i'm goin' to watch him sharp. i'd better go down now, or maybe he'll be suspectin' something." humpy went downstairs, leaving rufus to eat his breakfast. on his way down his attention was drawn by angry voices, proceeding from the room in which he had left smith. he comprehended at once that smith and martin were having a dispute about something. he stood still and listened attentively, and caught the following conversation:-- "the boy tells me," said martin, doggedly, "that there was four hundred dollars in the box. you only gave me fifty." "then the boy lies!" said smith, irritated. "i don't believe he does," said martin. "i don't like him myself, but he aint in the habit of telling lies." "perhaps you believe him sooner than you do me." "i don't see where the three hundred dollars went," persisted martin. "considerin' that i did all the work, fifty dollars was very small for me." "you got half what there was. if there'd been more, you'd have got more." "why didn't you wait and open the box when i was there?" "look here," said smith, menacingly, "if you think i cheated you, you might as well say so right out. i don't like beating around the bush." "the boy says there was four hundred dollars. turner told him so." "then turner lies!" exclaimed smith, who was the more angry, because the charge was a true one. "the box is just as it was when i opened it. i'll bring it out and show you just where i found the money." when humpy heard this, his eyes sparkled with excitement and anticipation. now, if ever, he would find out the whereabouts of the tin box. luckily for him the door was just ajar, and by standing on the upper part of the staircase he could manage to see into the room. he saw smith go to a desk at the centre of one side of the room, and open a drawer in it. from this he drew out the box, and, opening it, displayed the contents to martin. "there," said he, "that's where i found the money. there was a roll of ten ten-dollar bills. i divided them into two equal parts, and gave you your share. i was disappointed myself, for i expected more. i didn't think you'd suspect me of cheating you. but i don't want any fuss. i'll give you ten dollars off my share, and then you can't complain." so saying, he took out a ten from his pocket-book, and handed it to martin. "are you satisfied now?" he asked. "i suppose i shall have to be," said martin, rather sullenly, for he was by no means sure of the veracity of his confederate. "it's all i can do for you at any rate," said smith. "and now suppose we take breakfast. i shall want you to go to newark to-day." he replaced the box in the drawer, and, locking it, put the key in his pocket. by this time humpy thought it would do to reappear. "where've you been all the time?" asked smith, roughly. "the boy upstairs was talkin' to me." "what did he say?" "he asked what was your business." "what did you tell him?" "i told him i didn't rightly know; but i thought you was a manufacturer." "right, humpy; you're a smart boy," laughed smith. "you know a thing or two." the boy showed his teeth, and appeared pleased with the compliment. "what else did he ask?" "he asked, would i let him out?" "did he, the young rascal? and what did you tell him?" "not for joe!" "good for you! there's a quarter;" and smith offered the boy twenty-five cents. "if he'd done that yesterday instead of hittin' me," thought humpy, "i wouldn't have gone ag'inst him." but the money came too late. humpy had a brooding sense of wrong, not easily removed, and he had made up his mind to betray his employer. the breakfast proceeded, humpy waiting upon the table. when the meal was over, smith gave martin some instructions, and the latter set out for newark, which was to be the scene of his operations during the day. about half an hour later smith said, "humpy, i've got to go down town; i may be gone all the forenoon. stay in the house while i am gone, and look out, above all, that that boy upstairs don't escape." "yes, sir," said humpy. when smith left, the coast was clear. there were none in the house except rufus and the boy who was expected to stand guard over him. the giant had gone to philadelphia on some business, precisely what humpy did not understand, and there was nothing to prevent his carrying out his plans. he had two or three old keys in his pocket, and with these he eagerly tried the lock of the drawer. but none exactly fitted. one was too large, the other two were too small. humpy decided what to do. he left the house, and went to a neighboring locksmith. "i want to get a key," he said. "what size?" "a little smaller than this." "i must know the exact size, or i can't suit you. what is it the key of?" "a drawer." "i can go with you to the house." "that won't do," said humpy. "i've lost the key, and i don't want the boss to know it. he'd find out if you went to the house." "then i'll tell you what you can do. take an impression of the lock in wax. i'll give you some wax, and show you how. then i'll make a key for you." "can you do it right off? i'm in a great hurry." "yes, my son, i'll attend to it right away." he brought a piece of wax, and showed humpy how to take an impression of a lock. "there," said he, laughing, "that's the first lesson in burglary." humpy lost no time in hurrying back and following the locksmith's instructions. he then returned to the shop. "how soon can i have the key?" "in an hour. i'm pretty sure i've got a key that will fit this impression with a little filing down. come back in an hour, and you shall have it." humpy went back, and seeing that there were some traces of wax on the lock, he carefully washed them off with soap. a little before the hour was up, he reported himself at the locksmith's. "your key is all ready for you," said the smith. "i guess it will answer." "how much is it?" "twenty-five cents." humpy paid the money, and hurried to the house, anxious to make his experiment. the locksmith's assurance was verified. the key did answer. the drawer opened, and the errand-boy's eyes sparkled with pleasure as they rested on the box. he snatched it, hastily relocked the drawer, and went up the stairs two at a time. he had the key of his attic room in his pocket. with this he opened the door of the chamber, and, entering triumphantly, displayed to rufus the tin box. "i've got it!" he ejaculated. rufus sprang to his feet, and hurried up to him. "you're a trump!" he said. "how did you get hold of it?" "i haven't time to tell you now. we must be goin', or mr. smith may come back and stop us." "all right!" said rufus; "i'm ready." the two boys ran downstairs, and, opening the front door, made their egress into the street, rufus with the tin box under his arm. "where will we go?" asked humpy. "are you going with me?" "yes, i want that money." "you shall have it. you have fairly earned it, and i'll see that you get it, if i have to pay it out of my own pocket." "i shan't go back," said humpy. "why not?" "he'll know i let you out. he'll murder me if i go back." "i'll be your friend. i'll get you something to do," said rufus. "will you?" said the hunchback, brightening up. "yes. i won't forget the service you have done me." rufus had hardly got out these words when humpy clutched him violently by the arm, and pulled him into a passageway, the door of which was open to the street. "what's that for?" demanded rufus, inclined to be angry. humpy put his finger to his lip, and pointed to the street. on the opposite sidewalk rufus saw smith sauntering easily along with a cigar in his mouth. chapter xxiv. how rufus got back. it happened that smith espied the man whom he wished to meet, from the car-window, just as it turned into canal street. he got out, therefore, and, adjourning to a whiskey saloon, the two discussed a matter of business in which they were jointly interested, and then separated. thus smith was enabled to return home sooner than he had anticipated. he little suspected that his prisoner had escaped, as he walked complacently by on the opposite sidewalk. "it's lucky i saw him," said humpy. "he might have nabbed us." "he wouldn't have nabbed me," said rufus, resolutely. "he'd have found it hard work to get me back." "he's stronger than you," said humpy, doubtfully. "i'd have called a copp, then," said rufus, using his old word for policeman. "he'll kill me if he ever gets hold of me," said humpy, shuddering. "he horsewhipped me yesterday." "then he's a brute," said rufus, who could not help feeling a degree of sympathy for the deformed boy, who had done him such good service. "he never did it before," said humpy. "that's what made me turn against him." "and you won't go back to him?" "_never!_" said humpy, decidedly. "he'll know i let you out." "what's your name?" asked rufus, remembering that he had never heard the name of his guide. "they call me humpy," said the deformed boy, flushing a little. he had got hardened to the name, he thought; but now that rufus asked him, he answered with a feeling of shame and reluctance. "haven't you another name? i don't like to call you that." "my name is william norton, but i've most forgot it, it's so long since anybody ever called me so." "then i'll call you so. i like it better than the other. have you made up your mind what to do, now you've left your old place?" "yes, i'm going out west,--to chicago maybe." "why do you leave new york?" "i want to get away from _him_," said william, indicating his old employer by a backward jerk of his finger. "if i stay here, he'll get hold of me." "perhaps you are right; but you needn't go so far as chicago. philadelphia would do." "he goes there sometimes." "what will you do in chicago?" "i'll get along. there's a good many things i can do,--black boots, sell papers, smash baggage, and so on. besides, i'll have some money." "the fifty dollars i am to give you?" "i've got more besides," said humpy, lowering his voice. looking around cautiously, lest he might be observed, he drew out the calico bag which contained his savings, and showed to rufus. "there's twenty dollars in that," he said, jingling the coins with an air of satisfaction. "that'll make seventy when you've paid me." "i'm glad you've got so much, william. where did you get it all?" "i saved it up. he paid me fifty cents a week, and gave me an extra quarter or so sometimes when he felt good-natured. i saved it all up, and here it is." "when did you begin saving?" "six months ago. i used to spend all my money for oysters and cigars, but somebody told me smokin' would stop me from growin', and i gave it up." "you did right. i used to smoke sometimes; but i stopped. it don't do a boy any good." "are you rich?" asked humpy. "no. what makes you ask?" "you wear nice clo'es. besides, you are goin' to pay me fifty dollars." "i'm worth five hundred dollars," said rufus, with satisfaction. "that's a good deal," said humpy, enviously. "i'd feel rich if i had so much." "you'll be worth a good deal more some time, i hope." "i hope so, but it'll be a good while." while this conversation had been going on, the boys had been walking leisurely. but rufus, who was anxious to restore the tin box as soon as possible, now proposed to ride. "we'll jump aboard the next car, william," he said. "i'll pay the fare." "where are you goin'?" "to mr. turner's office, to return the box." "he won't think i had anything to do with stealin' it, will he?" "no; i'll take care he doesn't." they jumped on board the next car, and before long reached the termination of the car route, at the junction of vesey street and broadway. "where's the place you're goin' to?" asked humpy. "in wall street. we'll be there in ten minutes." the boys proceeded down broadway, and in rather less than ten minutes, rufus, followed by humpy, entered his employer's office. his arrival created a sensation. "i am glad to see you back, rufus," said mr. turner, coming forward, and shaking his hand cordially. the clerks left their desks, and greeted him in a friendly manner. "i've brought back the tin box, mr. turner," said rufus. "i told you i'd get it back, and i have," he added, with pardonable pride. "how did you recover it? tell me all about it." "this boy helped me," said rufus, directing attention to humpy, who had kept himself in the background. "but for him i should still be a prisoner, closely confined and guarded." "he shall be rewarded," said the banker. "what is his name?" "william morton." mr. turner took the boy's hand kindly, dirty though it was, and said, "i will bear you in mind, my lad," in a tone which made humpy, who before felt awkward and uncertain of a welcome, quite at his ease. "now for your story, rufus," said the banker. "i am curious to hear your adventures. so you were a prisoner?" "yes, sir," answered rufus, and forthwith commenced a clear and straightforward account of his experiences, which need not be repeated. he wound up by saying that he had promised humpy fifty dollars in return for his assistance. "your promise shall be kept," said mr. turner. "i will pay you the money now, if you wish," he added, turning to humpy. "i would advise you to put most of it in a savings-bank, as you are liable to be robbed, or to lose it." "i'll put it in as soon as i get to chicago," said humpy. "are you going there?" rufus explained why the boy wished to leave new york. "do you want to start at once?" "i'd like to." "then, rufus, i think you had better go with him, and buy his ticket. you may also buy him a suit of clothes at my expense." "thank you, sir," said humpy, gratefully. "if you can spare me, mr. turner," said rufus, "i would like to go home first, and let them know that i am safe." "certainly. that reminds me that a lady--was it your aunt?--was in the office an hour ago, asking for you." "it was miss manning." "i promised to let you go home when you appeared, and i think you had better do so at once to relieve the anxiety of your friends." "thank you, sir;" and rufus was about to leave the office, when a thought occurred to him, and he turned back. "i didn't think to tell you that the money had been taken out," he said. "so i supposed. i will open the box." the box being opened, it was discovered also that the government bonds were missing. "that's too much to lose," said the banker. "what is the number of the house in which you were confined?" rufus was able to give it, having judged that it would be wanted. "i shall give information to the police, and see what can be done towards recovering the bonds." "shall i go to the police-office for you, mr. turner?" "no, you can go home at once. then accompany this boy to a clothing-store, and afterwards to the erie railroad station, where you may buy him a through ticket to chicago. here is the necessary money;" and mr. turner placed a roll of bills in the hands of our hero. "am i to buy the railroad ticket, also, out of this?" "yes. william shall have his fifty dollars clear to start on when he gets there." miss manning had nearly got through with the morning lessons, when a quick step was heard ascending the stairs two or three at a time. rose let drop the arithmetic, from which she had been reciting, and exclaimed, in glad excitement, "that's rufie, i know it is!" the door opened, and she was proved to be correct. "where've you been, rufie?" exclaimed his sister, throwing her arms around his neck. "mr. martin carried me off, rosy." "i knew he would; but you said you was too big." "he was smarter than i thought for. sit down, rosy, and i'll tell you all about it. were you anxious about me, miss manning?" "yes, rufus. i don't mind saying now that i was, though i would not confess it to rose, who fretted enough for you without." so the story had to be told again, and was listened to, i need not say, with breathless interest. "you won't let him catch you again, will you, rufie?" said rose, anxiously, when it was finished. "not if i know myself, rosy," answered rufus. "that can't be done twice. but i've got to be going. i've got ever so much to do. i'll be back to dinner at six." he hastened downstairs, and rejoined humpy, who had been waiting for him in the street. chapter xxv. unpleasant discoveries. smith did not go home immediately. he intended to do so, but happened to think of an errand, and this delayed him for an hour or two. when he entered the house, he looked around for his errand-boy, but looked in vain. "humpy!" he called out in a voice which could be heard all over the house. there was no answer. smith, who was not remarkable for patience, began to grow angry. "very likely the young rascal is in his room," he said to himself. "i'll stir him up." he took the whip and ascended the stairs two or three at a time. arrived in the attic, he peered into humpy's room, but, to his disappointment, saw nobody. "the little villain got tired of waiting, and went out, thinking i couldn't find him out," he muttered. "he shall have a taste of the whip when he comes back." he went downstairs more slowly than he ascended. he was considerably irritated, and in a state that required an object to vent his anger upon. under these circumstances his prisoner naturally occurred to him. he had the proper key in his pocket, and, stopping on the second floor, he opened the door of the chamber in which our hero had been confined. his anger may be imagined when he found it untenanted. it was not very dignified, but smith began to stamp in his vexation, and lash with his whip an unoffending chair in which rufus ought to have been seated. "i wish it was that young villain!" muttered smith, scowling at the chair, and lashing it harder. "i'd teach him to run away! i'd make him howl!" smith was considerably discomposed. things were going decidedly against him. besides, the escape of rufus might entail serious consequences, if he should give information to the police about the place of his captivity. a visit from these officials was an honor which smith felt disposed respectfully, but firmly, to decline. unfortunately, however, policemen are not sensitive, and are very apt to intrude where they are not wanted. a visit to smith's abode might lead to unpleasant discoveries, as he very well knew, and he could not easily decide what course it would be best for him to pursue. he inferred at once that humpy had been bought over, and had released the prisoner, otherwise he would, undoubtedly, have detected or frustrated our hero's attempt to escape. this did not inspire very amiable feelings towards humpy, whom it would have yielded him great satisfaction to get into his power. but humpy had disappeared, and that satisfaction was not to be had. mingled with smith's anger was a feeling of surprise. humpy had been a good while in his employ, and he had reposed entire confidence in his fidelity. he might have continued to do so but for the brutal assault upon the boy recorded in a previous chapter. he did not think of this, however, or guess the effect it had produced on the mind of the deformed errand-boy. "i think i had better get out of the city a week or two till this blows over," thought smith. "i guess i'll take the afternoon train for philadelphia." this was a wise resolution; but smith made one mistake. he ought to have put it into effect at once. at that very moment information was lodged at the office of police, which threatened serious consequences to him; but of this he was ignorant. he had no idea that rufus would act so promptly. in spite of his anger smith was hungry. his morning walk had given him an excellent appetite, and he began to think about dinner. as, on account of the unlawful occupation in which he was engaged, he did not think it prudent to employ a cook, who might gossip about his affairs, he generally devolved the task of preparing the dinner upon humpy, whom he had taught to cook eggs, broil beef-steak, make coffee, fry potatoes, and perform other simple culinary duties. now that humpy was gone, he was obliged to do this work himself. he looked into the pantry, and found half-a-dozen eggs, and a slice of steak. these he proceeded to cook. he had nearly finished his unaccustomed task when the door opened, and martin returned, with his nose a little redder than usual, and his general appearance somewhat disordered by haste. "what brings you here so soon?" asked smith, in surprise. "what's the matter?" "i came near gettin' nabbed; that's what's the matter," said martin. "how did that happen?" "i went into a cigar-store near the ferry in jersey city," said martin, "and asked for a couple of cigars,--twenty-cent ones. i took 'em, and handed in one of your ten-dollar bills. the chap looked hard at it, and then at me, and said he'd have to go out and get it changed. i looked across the street, and saw him goin' to the police-office. i thought i'd better leave, and made for the ferry. the boat was just goin'. when we'd got a little ways out, i saw the cigar man standin' on the drop with a copp at his elbow." "you'd better not go to jersey city again," said smith. "i don't mean to," said martin. "have you got enough dinner for me? i'm as hungry as a dog." "yes, there's dinner enough for two, and that's all there is to eat it." something significant in his employer's tone struck martin. "there's the boy upstairs," he said. "there isn't any boy upstairs." "you haven't let him go?" queried martin, staring open-mouthed at the speaker. "no, he got away while i was out this morning,--the more fool i for leaving him." "but there was humpy. how did the boy get away without his seeing him?" "humpy's gone too." "you don't say!" ejaculated martin. "yes, i do." "what you goin' to do about it?" inquired martin, hopelessly. "i'll half kill either of the little rascals when i get hold of them," said smith, spitefully. "i'd give something out of my own pocket to get that undootiful son of mine back," chimed in martin. "i'll say this for him," said smith, "he's a good sight smarter than his father." "i always was unlucky," grumbled martin. "i aint been treated right." "if you had been you'd be at sing sing," returned smith, amiably. "smith," said martin, with drunken dignity, for he was somewhat under the influence of a liberal morning dram, "you'd ought to respect the feelin's of a gentleman." "where's the gentleman? i don't see him," responded smith, in a sarcastic tone. "if you aint too much of a gentleman to do your share of the work, just draw out the table and put the cloth on." this martin, who was hungry, did with equal alacrity and awkwardness, showing the latter by over-turning a pile of plates, which fell with a fatal crash upon the floor. "just like your awkwardness, you drunken brute!" exclaimed smith, provoked. martin did not reply, but looked ruefully at the heap of broken crockery, which he attributed, like his other misfortunes, to the ill-treatment of the world, and meekly got upon his knees and gathered up the pieces. at length dinner was ready. martin, in spite of an ungrateful world, ate with an appetite truly surprising, so that his companion felt called upon to remonstrate. "i hope you'll leave a little for me. it's just possible that i might like to eat a little something myself." "i didn't eat much breakfast," said martin, apologetically. "you'd better lunch outside next time," said his employer. "it will give you a good chance to change money." "i've tried it at several places," said martin; "i could do it better if you'd give me some smaller bills. they don't like to change fives and tens." after dinner was despatched, and the table pushed back, smith unfolded his plans to martin. he suggested that it might be a little unsafe to remain at their present quarters for a week or fortnight to come, and counselled martin to go to boston, while he would go to philadelphia. "that's the way we'll dodge them," he concluded. "just as you say," said martin. "when do you want me back?" "i will write you from philadelphia. you can call at the post-office for a letter in a few days." "when had i better sell the bond?" "that reminds me," said smith. "i will take the box with me." he went and unlocked the drawer in which the box had been secreted. to his dismay he discovered that it was gone. "have you taken the tin box?" he demanded, turning upon martin with sudden suspicion. "isn't it there?" gasped martin. "no, it isn't," said smith, sternly. "do you know anything about it?" "i wish i may be killed if i do!" asserted martin. "then what can have become of it?" "it's my undootiful boy that took it,--i'm sure it is," exclaimed martin, with sudden conviction. "he had no key." "humpy got him one, then." just then smith espied on the floor some scraps of wax. they told the story. "you're right," he said, with an oath. "we've been taken in worse than i thought. the best thing we can do is to get away as soon as possible." they made a few hurried preparations, and left the house in company. but they were too late. a couple of officers, who were waiting outside, stepped up to them, as they set foot on the sidewalk, and said, quietly, "you must come with us." "what for?" demanded smith, inclined to show fight. "you'd better come quietly. you are charged with stealing a box containing valuables." "that's the man that did it," said smith, pointing to martin. "he's the one you want." "he put me up to it, and shared the money," retorted martin. "you're both wanted," said the officer. "you'll have a chance to tell your story hereafter." as this winds up the connection of these two worthies with our story, it may be added here that they were found guilty, not only of the robbery, but of manufacturing and disseminating counterfeit money, and were sentenced to sing sing for a term of years. the bonds were found upon them, and restored to mr. vanderpool. thus the world persists in its ill-treatment of our friend, james martin. still i cannot help thinking that, if he had been a sober and industrious man, he would have had much less occasion to complain. chapter xxvi. conclusion. in the course of an hour humpy was provided with a new suit, which considerably improved his appearance. rufus accompanied him to the erie railway station, where he purchased for him a through ticket to chicago, and saw him enter the cars. "good-by, william, and good luck!" said rufus. "good-by," said humpy. "you're a trump. you're the first friend i ever had." "i hope i shan't be the last," said rufus. "shall i give your love to smith, if i see him?" "never mind about it." rufus was compelled to leave the station before the cars started, in order to hurry back to the office. arrived there a new errand awaited him. "rufus," said mr. turner, "do you remember where mr. vanderpool lives?" "the owner of the tin box? yes, sir." "you may go up at once, and let him know that his property is recovered." this task rufus undertook with alacrity. he had been pleased with what he saw of mr. vanderpool on his first visit, and was glad to be able to tell him that the box, for whose loss he felt partly to blame, was recovered. he was soon ringing the bell of the house in twenty-seventh street. mr. vanderpool was at home, the servant told him, and he was ushered immediately into his presence. the old gentleman, who had been writing, laid aside his pen, and, looking up, recognized rufus. "you're the boy that came to tell me about my property being stolen, are you not?" he asked. "yes, sir; but it's found." "bless my soul, you don't say so! did the thief give it up?" "no," said rufus. "i took it from him." "is it possible? why, you're only a boy," said mr. vanderpool, regarding him with interest. "boys can do something as well as men," said rufus, with pardonable pride. "tell me all about it." rufus told his story as briefly as possible. when he described how he had been entrapped and imprisoned, mr. vanderpool said, "bless my soul!" several times. "you're a brave boy!" he said, when the story was finished. "thank you, sir," said rufus, modestly. "were you not afraid when you were locked up by those bad men?" "not at all, sir." "i should have been. i don't think i am very brave. you've behaved very well indeed, master ---- i don't remember your name." "rufus rushton." "master rushton, i must make you a present." "i have only done my duty, mr. vanderpool. i don't want any present for that." "we'll talk about that afterwards. by the way, have you thought anything more about the question whether the planets are inhabited?" "i can't say i have, sir. i've had so much else to think about." "very true, very true. i've written a few pages more, which i will read to you if you have time." "i should like very much to hear them, sir; but i am afraid i must hurry back to the office." "ah, i am sorry for that," said the old gentleman, in a tone of disappointment, but he brightened up immediately. "i'll tell you what, my young friend," he said; "you shall come and dine with me next saturday at six, and then we will have the evening to ourselves. what do you say?" "i shall be very happy to come, sir," said rufus, not quite sure whether he would be happy or not. when saturday came he presented himself, and was very cordially received by the old gentleman. the dinner was a capital one, and served in excellent style. mr. vanderpool paid rufus as much attention as if he were a guest of distinction,--read him his essay on the planets, and showed him some choice engravings. the evening passed very agreeably, and rufus was urged to come again. he did so, and so won the favor of the old gentleman that at the end of two months he was invited to come and make his home permanently in the house in twenty-seventh street. "thank you, mr. vanderpool," said our hero. "you are very kind; but i shouldn't like to leave miss manning and my little sister." "have you a little sister? tell me about her." "her name is rose, and she is a dear little girl," said rufus, warmly. "how old is she?" "eight years old." "i am glad she is not a young lady. you can bring her too. i've got plenty of room. who is miss manning?" "she is a friend of mine, and teaches my sister." "why can't she come and look after my servants? i have no house-keeper." "i will mention it to her," said rufus. rufus did mention it to miss manning, who by appointment called upon the old gentleman. mr. vanderpool repeated the invitation, and offered her ten dollars per week for her services. such an offer was not to be rejected. miss manning resigned her situation as governess to mrs. colman's children, greatly to that lady's disappointment, and removed with rose to the house of mr. vanderpool. elegant chambers were assigned to all three, and they found themselves living in fashionable style. as neither had any board to pay, rufus felt justified in dressing both rose and himself in a manner more befitting the style in which they now lived, while miss manning also, finding that she was expected to preside at the table, felt called upon to follow their example. it was such a change for all three that it seemed like a dream sometimes when they recalled the miserable attic in leonard street, and the humble lodging near the north river. rose was sent to school, and had a music-teacher at home. miss manning also, having considerable time at her disposal, took lessons in music and french, and soon acquired very respectable proficiency in both. the old gentleman, so long accustomed to solitude, seemed to renew his youth in the cheerful society he had gathered around him, and came to look upon rufus and rose as his own children. he was continually loading them with gifts, and his kindness won their gratitude and affection. he tried to induce rufus to give up his situation with the banker; but our hero was of an independent turn, and had too active a temperament to be content with doing nothing. on the succeeding christmas he received from mr. vanderpool a very costly gold watch, which i need not say was very acceptable. about six months after her entrance into the house, miss manning was profoundly astonished by receiving from the old gentleman an offer of marriage. "i don't ask for romantic love, my dear miss manning," said mr. vanderpool, "but i hope you will not find it hard to like me a little, and i'll try to make you happy. i don't want to hurry you. take a week to think of it." miss manning did take a week to think of it. she was not in love with mr. vanderpool,--that was hardly to be expected, as he was thirty years older than she,--but she did respect and esteem him, and she knew that he would be kind to her. so she said yes, after consulting with rufus, and one morning, without any fuss or ostentation, she was quietly married, and transformed from plain miss manning into the rich mrs. vanderpool. i may say here that neither she nor her husband has seen cause to repent the match, so unexpectedly brought about, but live in harmony and mutual friendship, as i hope they may continue to do to the end of their days. when rufus reached the age of twenty-one, he was agreeably surprised by an offer from mr. turner to take him into partnership. "but, mr. turner," he said, "i have very little capital,--far too little for a partner in such a large business." "you have fifty thousand dollars. that will answer very well." "i don't understand you, sir," said rufus, suspecting that mr. turner was crazy, or was dreaming. "you remember the tin box which you recovered five years ago?" "yes, sir." "mr. vanderpool has made it over with its contents to you as a free gift. its value, as you remember, is fifty thousand dollars, or rather more now, some of the stocks having risen in value." rufus was quite affected by this munificent gift, and no longer objected to the plan proposed. shortly after, the style of the firm was changed, and now, as you pass through wall street, if you will closely examine the signs on either side of the street, your eyes may light on this one:-- turner and rushton, bankers you will have no trouble in conjecturing that the junior partner in this firm is the same who was first known to you as rough and ready. if you think that our young friend, the newsboy, has had rare luck, i hope you will also admit that, by his honesty, industry, and generous protection of his little sister, he has deserved the prosperity he has attained. george black has long since bought out his partner's interest in the periodical store, and now carries on quite a flourishing trade in his own name. smith and martin are still in prison, their term of confinement not yet having expired. what adventures yet remain in store for james martin i am unable to say, but i doubt if he will ever turn over a new leaf. his habits of indolence and intemperance are too confirmed to give much hope of amendment. * * * * * the fortunes of rough and ready, so far as this record is concerned, are now ended, and with them is completed the sixth and concluding volume of the ragged dick series. but the flattering interest which his young friends have taken in these pictures of street life leads the author to announce the initial volume of a new series of stories of similar character, which will soon be published under the name of tattered tom: or, the adventures of a street arab. famous alger books. horatio alger, jr., has attained distinction as one of the most popular writers of books for boys, and the following list comprises all of his best books. ragged dick series. ragged dick; or, street life in new york. fame and fortune; or, the progress of richard hunter. mark the match boy; or, richard hunter's ward. rough and ready; or, life among the new york newsboys. ben the luggage boy; or, among the wharves. rufus and rose; or, the fortunes of rough and ready. tattered tom series. (first series.) tattered tom; or, the story of a street arab. paul the peddler; or, the adventures of a young street merchant. phil the fiddler; or, the young street musician. slow and sure; or, from the sidewalk to the shop. tattered tom series. (second series.) julius; or, the street boy out west. the young outlaw; or, adrift in the world. sam's chance and how he improved it. the telegraph boy. luck and pluck series. (first series.) luck and pluck; or, john oakley's inheritance. sink or swim; or, harry raymond's resolve. strong and steady; or, paddle your own canoe. strive and succeed; or, the progress of walter conrad. luck and pluck series. (second series.) try and trust; or, the story of a bound boy. bound to rise; or, how harry walton rose in the world. risen from the ranks; or, harry walton's success. herbert carter's legacy; or, the inventor's son. brave and bold series. brave and bold; or, the story of a factory boy. jack's ward; or, the boy guardian. shifting for himself; or, gilbert greyson's fortunes. wait and hope; or, ben bradford's motto. campaign series. frank's campaign; or, the farm and the camp. paul prescott's charge. charlie codman's cruise. pacific series. the young adventurer; or, tom's trip across the plains. the young miner; or, tom nelson in california. the young explorer; or, among the sierras. ben's nugget; or, a boy's search for fortune. a story of the pacific coast. atlantic series the young circus rider; or, the mystery of robert rudd. do and dare; or, a brave boy's fight for fortune. hector's inheritance; or, boys of smith institute. famous castlemon books. no author of the present day has become a greater favorite with boys than "harry castlemon," every book by him is sure to meet with hearty reception by young readers generally. his naturalness and vivacity leads his readers from page to page with breathless interest, and when one volume is finished the fascinated reader, like oliver twist, asks "for more." by harry castlemon. gunboat series. frank the young naturalist. frank in the woods. frank on the prairie. frank on a gunboat. frank before vicksburg. frank on the lower mississippi. go ahead series. go ahead; or, the fisher boy's motto. no moss; or, the career of a rolling stone. tom newcombe; or, the boy of bad habits. rocky mountain series. frank at don carlos' rancho. frank among the rancheros. frank in the mountains. sportsman's club series. the sportsman's club in the saddle. the sportsman's club afloat. the sportsman's club among the trappers. frank nelson series. snowed up; or, the sportsman's club in the mountains. frank nelson in the forecastle; or, the sportsman's club among the whalers. the boy traders; or, the sportsman's club among the boers. boy trapper series. the buried treasure; or, old jordan's "haunt" the boy trapper; or, how dave filled the order. the mail carrier. roughing it series. george in camp; or, life on the plains. george at the wheel; or, life in a pilot house. george at the fort; or, life among the soldiers. rod and gun series. don gordon's shooting box. rod and gun. the young wild fowlers. by c. a. stephens. rare books for boys--bright, breezy, wholesome and instructive--full of adventure and incident, and information upon natural history--they blend instruction with amusement--contain much useful and valuable information upon the habits of animals, and plenty of adventure, fun and jollity. camping out series. camping out. as recorded by "kit." left on labrador; or, the cruise of the schooner yacht "curlew." as recorded by "wash." off to the geysers; or, the young yachters in iceland. as recorded by "wade." lynx hunting. from notes by the author of "camping out." fox hunting. as recorded by "raed." on the amazon; or, the cruise of the "rambler." as recorded by "wash." by j. t. trowbridge. these stories will rank among the best of mr. trowbridge's books for the young, and he has written some of the best of our juvenile literature. jack hazard series. jack hazard and his fortunes. a chance for himself; or, jack hazard and his treasure. doing his best. fast friends. the young surveyor; or, jack on the prairies. lawrence's adventures among the ice cutters, glass makers, coal miners, iron men and ship builders. by edward s. ellis. a new series of books for boys, equal in interest to the "castlemon" and "alger" books. his power of description of indian life and character is equal to the best of cooper. boy pioneer series. ned in the block house; or, life on the frontier. ned in the woods. ned on the river. kit musgrave's luck by harold bindloss author of partners of the out trail, the lure of the north, the wilderness mine, etc. [illustration] grosset & dunlap publishers new york made in the united states of america copyright, , by frederick a. stokes company published in england under the title "musgrave's luck" all rights reserved printed in the united states of america. contents part i the wide horizon chapter page i.--kit's plunge ii.--other rules iii.--a mountain excursion iv.--kit's obstinacy v.--mrs. austin's veranda vi.--the injured passenger vii.--the bullet viii.--a swimming match ix.--kit gives his confidence x.--mrs. austin makes some plans xi.--the plans work part ii responsibility i.--olivia's experiment ii.--the first voyage iii.--kit's surprise iv.--wolf gives a feast v.--wolf's offer vi.--betty carries a message vii.--shipping camels viii.--an idle afternoon ix.--the third voyage x.--smoke on the horizon xi.--miguel takes control xii.--the retreat to the boat part iii kit finds his level i.--illumination ii.--"cayman's" start iii.--the wady iv.--kit negotiates v.--the return to the beach vi.--betty demands help vii.--the "lucia" arrives viii.--"cayman's" return ix.--kit's reward x.--olivia's refusal xi.--daybreak kit musgrave's luck part i the wide horizon chapter i kit's plunge the morning was hot, and kit musgrave, leaning on the african liner's rail, watched the volcanic rocks of grand canary grow out of the silver haze. he was conscious of some disappointment, because on the voyage to las palmas he had pictured a romantic white city shining against green palms. its inhabitants were grave spaniards, who secluded their wives and daughters in old moorish houses with shady patios where fountains splashed. now he saw he had got the picture wrong. las palmas was white, but not at all romantic. a sandy isthmus, swept by rolling clouds of dust, connected the town and the frankly ugly port. the houses round the harbor looked like small brown blocks. behind them rose the isleta cinder hill; in front, coal-wharfs and limekilns, hidden now and then by dust, occupied the beach. moreover, the spaniards on board the boats about the ship were excited, gesticulating ruffians. bombay peddlers, short, dark-skinned portuguese, and canario dealers in wine, tobacco, and singing birds, pushed up the gangway. all disputed noisily in their eagerness to show their goods to the passengers. yet kit was not altogether disappointed. somehow the industrial ugliness of the port and the crowd's businesslike activity were soothing. kit had not known much romantic beauty, but he knew the lancashire mining villages and the mean streets behind the liverpool docks. besides, he was persuaded that commerce, particularly british commerce, had a civilizing, uplifting power. seeing he would buy nothing, the peddlers left him alone, and he mused about the adventure on which he had embarked. things had happened rapidly since he went one morning to don arturo's office in liverpool and joined the crowd in the great man's waiting-room. don arturo was not spanish, but at grand canary he was generally given the castilian title and the spaniards declared the island would soon be his. he was an english merchant of the new imperialist school and he gave kit exactly one and a half minutes. perhaps he approved the embarrassed lad, for half an hour afterwards kit had engaged to start for the canaries and take a _sobrecargo_'s post on board a spanish steamer. the secretary admitted the pay was small, but argued that since don arturo controlled all the business worth controlling in the canaries and west africa, the chances for promotion were remarkably good. in short, kit could sail in two days and was a fool if he did not go. kit agreed and signed the contract. he knew some castilian, which he had studied at evening classes conducted by the liverpool y.m.c.a. since he thought the association's motto, _mens sana in corpore sano_, good, he had also trained his muscles at the y.m.c.a gymnasium. for a city clerk he was healthy and strong. the two days before he sailed were marked by new and disturbing thrills. kit was conservative, and sprang from cautious, puritanical stock. his grandfather was a cumberland sheep farmer, his father kept a shop and had taught kit the virtues of parsimonious industry. his mother was kind but dull, and had tried not to indulge her son. although kit was honest and something of a prig, he had the small clerk's respect for successful business. he was raw and his philosophy was smiles'. in order to make progress one must help oneself. yet he had not altogether escaped the touch of romance, and when he agreed to sail his first duty was to explain things to betty. she kept the books at a merchant's office, and sometimes they went to a tea-shop and sometimes to a cheap concert. betty did not go to theaters, but now and then took kit to church. she was high-church and wore a little silver cross. betty was thin, pale and quiet, and kit's mother approved her, although nothing had been said about their marrying. kit saw that in the meantime marriage was not for him. to marry on pay like his was not fair to the girl. yet he imagined he loved betty; anyhow, he liked her much. when she left the office in the evening they went to a tea-shop. kit found a quiet corner and helped betty to cakes. he was embarrassed and his careless talk was forced. betty studied him and did not say much. her quietness had some charm, and she was marked by a touch of beauty that might have developed had she enjoyed fresh air, good food, and cheerful society. women had not then won much reward for their labor, and betty was generally tired. at length kit, with awkward haste, told her his plans. betty drained her cup and gave him a level glance. kit thought her paler than before, but the electric light was puzzling. "you are going to the canaries and perhaps to west africa! are you going for good?" she said. "why, no!" said kit. "i expect i'll stop for a year or two. anyhow, if i make much progress, i'll come back then. you see, i'm forced to go. there's no chance for me in liverpool; you get old while you wait for the men in front to move up the ladder. if i stop until i'm forty, i might get up a few rounds." "is it necessary to get up?" betty asked. kit looked at her with surprise. sometimes betty's philosophy was puzzling, and he wondered whether she got it at church. kit had not heard another clergyman preach like the vicar and thought him privately rather a fool. but betty seldom argued and they did not jar. "of course!" he said. "so long as you can get up honestly, you have got to get up. you can't stop in the pushing crowd at the bottom." betty was quiet for a few moments. she looked tired and kit imagined she knew all he knew about the pressure of the crowd. then she said, "if only we didn't push! perhaps there's room enough, and we might make things better." "oh, well," said kit, rather comforted by her calm, but vaguely disappointed because she could philosophise. "anyhow, although it's hard, i must seize my chance. i shall miss you. you have been much to me; now i've got to go, i begin to see how much. perhaps it's strange i didn't see before. you don't argue, you belong to my lot, but somehow one feels you're finer than other girls one meets--" he stopped and betty gave him a curious smile. "do you know many girls, kit?" "i don't," he admitted. "i haven't bothered about girls; i haven't had time. they expect you to tell them they're pretty, to send them things, to josh and make them laugh, and now and then to quarrel about nothing. rather a bore when you'd sooner be quiet; but you're not like that. we have been pals, and now i wish you were going out with me." "there's not much use in wishing." "that is so," kit agreed and hesitated for a moment or two while his face got red. "you couldn't go now, but i'm coming back. suppose i get on and my pay is good? will you marry me when i go out again?" betty gave him a long, level glance. for all that, he thought her hand shook when she moved her cup and his heart beat. "no," she said quietly. "anyhow, i won't promise. perhaps, if you do come back, we'll talk about it, but you mustn't feel you're bound to ask." kit got a jolt. that betty liked him was obvious, and the girls he knew were keen for a lover. betty, of course, was not like them, but she was human. in a sense, however, her refusal was justified. perhaps he was a dull fellow; a girl by whom he was once attracted declared he was as gloomy as a funeral. then, with his rather shabby clothes and small pay, he was certainly not worth bothering about. for all that, betty's refusal strengthened his resolve. she was firm, but he got a hint of strain. the thrill of his adventure had gone and he was sorry for betty. he knew how she lived; the dreary shabby street she left in the morning for her nine hours' work, the pinching to make her pay go round. all was dull and monotonous for her, but he was going to a land of wine and sun. he could not move her, and she left him, puzzled and unhappy, in the street. the evening before he sailed they went to a concert, and betty let him come with her to the door of her lodgings. she opened the door and then looked up the street. nobody was about and when kit advanced impulsively, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him. then she firmly pushed him back. "good-bye!" she said, and the door shut. kit thought about it while he leaned against the rails on board the african boat. perhaps it was strange, but he had not kissed betty before. to hold her in his arms had rather moved him to a curious tenderness than to passion. when he thought about betty he felt gentle; but he braced himself and forced a smile, for the new governor of an african jail came up with bones and blades. considine was an old soldier, with a red face and twinkling eyes, who had been long in india, but did not state his rank. bones and blades were raw lads from lancashire going out to a west african factory for the yearly pay of eighty pounds. their notion of life at the factory was romantically inaccurate. "the boat stops six hours," considine remarked. "long enough to see the town, and they tell me wine is cheap. i'll go ashore with you, musgrave. where's my money, bones?" "i'll keep t' brass until you come back," bones rejoined. considine was fat and his hair was going white, but he turned with unexpected swiftness and seizing the lad, took his cap. "no time to get my boots, but your deck-shoes won't go on! hand out my pocket-book." bones gave up the book and went to the gangway with kit. "i expect that's your boat. we were pretty good pals on this voyage and i hope we'll meet again. what do you say, blades?" "i'd like it," agreed the other and then his friendly grin vanished and his freckled face got grave. "all the same, africa's a queer country and you can't have adventures without some risk. well, good luck, musgrave! i'd better say good-bye!" kit gave him his hand and afterwards learned that blades' dream of romantic adventures was not realized. his job was to count bottles of trade gin, and he and bones died of fever before they earned their first year's pay. in the meantime, considine jumped into the boat. he wore neat white clothes, thin, red slippers, and bones' cap, which was much too small. "i ought to have stopped on board," he said with a twinkle. "all the same, when i get to africa i'll have long enough to play up to my job. at las palmas i'm not important. when you want a frolic, go where you're not known." kit did not want a frolic. he was thoughtful and rather daunted. all his old landmarks were gone; he was in a new country where people did not use the rules he had known at liverpool. besides, he was thinking about betty. for all that, when the spanish boatman rowed him across the harbor to a lava mole he roused himself. the _patron_ declared that although the fare was fixed in pesetas english passengers paid with shillings. it was, however, not for nothing kit sprang from sternly frugal stock. he stated in his best castilian that the peseta was worth ninepence and he would pay with spanish money or would not pay at all. the _patron_'s violent arguments did not move him, but when he heard a laugh he looked up. two ladies occupied the pavement at the top of the steps. one was little, dressed in white, with fine lace on her fashionable clothes, and looked dignified. the other was young and wore a dress of corn-yellow. her eyes were brown and luminous, her hair was nearly black, and her rather olive skin had something of a peach's bloom. her type of beauty was new to kit, but when he saw she remarked his glance he turned to the gesticulating boatman. mrs. austin was an important lady at las palmas, where her husband, and her father, don pancho brown, carried on a merchant business. people said jacinta austin ruled both. olivia, her sister, had not long returned from an english school. señor don erminio martinez, captain of a small spanish mail steamer, engaged the ladies in talk, because olivia was beautiful and he waited for his boat. don erminio was big, brown-skinned and athletic. he wore shabby english clothes and a small english cap, and looked something like a bullfighter. on the whole, he was a trustful, genial ruffian, although the barcelona anarchists were his political models. he used a little uncouth french and english. mrs. austin noted her sister's glance at the boat. the tall young man was obviously english, and had come to take a post; he was raw and did not wear the tourist's stamp. mrs. austin knew men and there was something honest and thoughtful about him that she approved. all the same, she did not want olivia to approve. "book castilian; i think the accent's lancashire," the girl remarked. "i wonder where he's going; african shipping office: bananas, or coal?" "it's not important," mrs. austin rejoined. "oh, well, unless he's a hermit, we are bound to meet him, and he's fresh blood anyway. one gets very bored by the banana and coaling men. still i think he's their type." "the type's plain, but i doubt if he's for the coaling wharf; the young man looks honest," said mrs. austin, and turning to the captain, added: "i expect he will join the _correillo_." _correillo_ is not classical castilian, but the captain knew she meant a small mail steamer and spread out his hands. "aha! another animal. he come to me. all animales the yngleses of don arturo. _verdad._ people without shame and education----" "i am english, my friend," mrs. austin rejoined. "one forgets; the thing looks impossible," said don erminio, with a bow. "you have a charm and sympathy. but the others! with teeth and neck like the camel, and the air commanding. they come on board my steamer. 'i am ynglesa. all the ship for me.' but another animal of a _sobrecargo_! señora, i am your servant. i go and tear my hair." he went off, and olivia laughed. "it's strange, but people don't like us, and at the beginning i expect the young man will have some trouble on board _campeador_. all the same, don erminio's really a good sort. well, it looks as if the dispute about the fare had stopped. he's beaten the _patron_." she stepped back, for kit came up the steps behind a boatman who carried his tin box. considine followed, and at the end of the mole the boatman called a _tartana_. kit got into the little trap, and considine, pushing the driver from his seat, seized the reins. the horse kicked, the _tartana_ rocked, and they started for las palmas in a cloud of dust. "at home, we're a sober lot," mrs. austin remarked. "in the south, we're joyfully irresponsible. how do you account for it?" "i don't account for it," said olivia. "there's no use in bothering about things like that. besides, the young man looks remarkably sober." chapter ii other rules after a collision with a steam tram, the _tartana_ reached las palmas and considine got down at a wine shop. he refused to pay for the damage to the trap, and wishing kit good luck, vanished among the barrels in the dark shop. the _tartanero_ drove kit to the steamship office, and sitting on the doorstep declared he would not go away until his just claim was met. kit, somewhat embarrassed, was shown into the manager's room and received by a little, fastidiously neat spanish gentleman. the driver's mournful voice pierced the lava walls, and when kit narrated the grounds for his complaint, don ramon shrugged. "it is not important; when the tourists are about, such disputes are numerous," he said in careful english, and gave a clerk some orders. the _tartanero_'s clamour stopped and don ramon resumed: "we will send a note to the purser, and if your countryman does not miss his ship, the thing is finished. many do miss their ships and there is trouble for us. i have much admiration for the english, but they make disturbances." "we are not all like that," kit objected. "you are not like that in england; i was at the company's office," don ramon agreed. "all was in stern order, but in this country you have other rules. well, it is not important. to-night you join your steamer; i will tell you your duties." he did so with kind politeness, and kit liked the man then and afterwards. by and by don ramon sent him to a spanish hotel, and for a time he wrote letters to his mother and betty behind a bougainvillea that climbed from the flagged _patio_ to a balcony. the creeper's splendid purple shone against the yellow wall and on the opposite balcony old bronze rails twinkled. the shade was cool, and all was quiet but for the rumble of the atlantic surf. while kit wrote his frank, boyish letters, he thought about betty with shy tenderness. in a sense she had refused him, but his normal mood was calm and he had not known passion yet. he wrote to betty very much as he wrote to his mother. by and by he put up his writing case and went off to get some stamps at a baker's shop. in spanish countries one cannot, as a rule, buy stamps at a post office. then he looked at his watch, and seeing it was two o'clock, walked across the town. don ramon had stated that he need not go on board before midnight. the streets were strangely quiet and for the most part nobody was about; kit understood the citizens went to sleep in the afternoon. he saw nothing romantic. las palmas rather looked business-like and modern than picturesque. the houses had straight, square fronts and the roofs were flat. only the white belt of surf and background of broken volcanic mountains relieved the utilitarian ugliness. the wine shops had no call for kit, but he noted the splashed floors, pungent smells, and swarms of flies. a girl on a balcony near the cathedral dropped a red oleander and another smiled, but kit did not turn his head. he sprang from sober, puritanical stock, and his code was austere; one earned one's pay and studied in order to earn more; one shunned indulgence and trained one's body. kit had trained his at the gymnasium and a cheap swimming club. in summer he sailed races on board cheap little boats. although his horizon was not wide, his health and nerve were good. he followed the _carretera_ that runs south from the town. in spain, a road is often a bridle-track a mule can hardly climb, but the government _carretera_ is wide and level. in the distance was telde, where oranges grow, and kit set off in the dust and scorching heat. the trade-breeze blew behind him; on his left hand the atlantic broke in shining foam against black lava reefs; on his right, across the thin belt of cultivation, dark rocks, melted by volcanic fire, rose like a giant wall. a few palms and fields of feathery sugar cane bordered the road. then kit saw vines, tied to sticks and growing in hot dust, and by and by a thread of water in a deep _barranco_. washerwomen knelt by the channel, beating wet clothes with stones, and kit understood afterwards why his shirts wore out. some of the women were young, but when he stopped for a moment at the bridge they did not look up. to beat the clothes was their job, and maize flour and goat's milk cheese are dear. farther on, kit saw others, carrying big earthen jars on their heads. they looked like moorish women, for their feet and arms were very brown, and long black shawls half hid their faces. in the fields, barefooted men laboured among the tomatoes and vines. it was obvious the _peons_ did not sleep in the afternoon; but for the most part their white clothes were good and they looked happy. soon after he passed a lava village, kit got tired. this was strange, but the sun was hot; and there was a wall about which lizards ran. behind, grew fleshy green bananas, with big flowers like bleeding-hearts; and he sat down in the shade. he had meant to walk to telde; going four miles an hour, one could get back before nine o'clock, but it was cool among the bananas and he had begun to feel the drowsy calm of the islands where nothing is important and the sun always shines. he mused about betty. she was thin and often looked tired. if he could bring her out, to feel the sun and balmy wind and see the blaze of colour! he pictured her bending over her account books in a dark office and going home through the dreary streets. she knew no joy and brightness; his horizon was getting wider, but hers was not. then he remembered betty's silver cross. betty went to church; perhaps she found her romance there and saw things beyond his view. she had refused to marry him and perhaps her kiss was meant for good-bye. he did not know, but when he got promotion he was going back to try again. in the meantime, for betty's sake, he meant to keep his simple rules; to go straight, do what he said, cheat nobody, and by diligence force his way to fortune. he heard shouts and mocking laughter, and looked up. the governor of the african jail was running along the road, his face red, and wet by sweat; bones' small cap occupied ridiculously the back of his head. his white jacket had lost some buttons and blew open; his thin, red slippers were trodden down at the heels. he laboured on with stern resolution, looking straight in front. behind came a swarm of ragged children, pelting him with soil and stones. "shilling, _penique_, _puerco_ ynglisman!" they cried. for a moment or two kit gazed at considine with angry impatience. he did not know if the fellow was very drunk, but it was obvious he was not sober, and his breathless panting jarred on the drowsy calm. don ramon had said the english made disturbances. yet the fellow was kit's countryman; and he got up. driving off the children, he stopped considine. "where are you going?" "must catch my ship. purser said five o'clock." kit looked at his watch. it was four o'clock, and las palmas was some distance off. the port was three miles farther, but one could get a _tartana_ at the town. "you're heading the wrong way," he said. "can you run?" "turn me round and see me go," considine replied. "beat you, anyway. loser pays for drinks." kit turned him round and they started, but when a piece of lava a boy threw struck his head, it cost kit something to use control. now and then considine's red slippers came off and they were forced to stop. considine declared that if he stooped he could not get straight again, and kit resignedly put the slippers on his feet. he felt himself ridiculous and wanted to leave the wastrel, but somehow could not. if considine lost his ship and got into trouble at las palmas, he might lose his post. kit saw his business was to help him out. he got very hot. the trade-breeze blew the dust in his face, and the dust turned to mud on his wet skin; he saw dark patches on his white jacket. considine's slippers came off oftener, and kit remarked that not much of his stockings was left, but they made progress, and at length the town was close in front. kit wondered whether the citizens had finished their afternoon sleep, and did not know if it was a relief or not to find the first street empty and quiet. he did not want people to see him, but he must find a _tartana_, and none was about. considine, going five miles an hour, was a yard or two in front. when he saw a wine shop he stopped. "here we are!" he gasped. "the loser pays." kit pushed him across the pavement; considine turned and knocked off his hat. while kit picked up his hat the other reeled towards the wine shop and people came out. kit seized him and drove him on. the market was not far off and he had seen _tartanas_ in the square. he was breathless, tired and dusty, and had trodden on his soft grey hat. people were beginning to run after them, but he meant to put considine on board a _tartana_ and send him to the port. the market was nearly deserted, for in the canaries one buys food before the sun is high, but a few stalls were occupied and three or four small traps waited for hire. kit waved to a driver and seized considine. then he tried to get his breath, and wiping his hot face, smeared his skin with muddy grit. "loser pays," said considine. "what's good stopping in the sun? let's get some wine!" he tried to make off, but kit shook him angrily and glanced about. a crowd had begun to gather and all the traps were coming. at the end of a neighbouring street, the girl he had noted at the mole talked to a man in english clothes. she was very handsome and looked cool and dignified. kit was young and got hotter when he saw her eyes were fixed on his dishevelled companion. he felt humiliated and could have borne it better had she looked amused, but she did not. she watched him and considine with grave curiosity, as if she studied people of another type than hers. kit got very angry. four traps arrived, the drivers gesticulating and cracking whips, and kit dragged considine to the nearest. considine struggled and tried to push him back. "not going yet," he shouted. "beat you easy. where's my wine? don't you pay your debts?" his jacket tore and he almost got away, but kit got a better hold. "you're going now! get in!" "won't go with that fellow. don't like his horse," considine declared. the crowd had got thicker and people jeered and laughed. "_todos animales. gente sin verguenza!_" one remarked. kit frowned. he knew the castilian taunt about people who have no shame, but he held on to considine. the drivers did not help; they disputed noisily who should get the passenger. then the man kit had noted with the girl came up. "put him on board. i'll lift his legs," he said. they did so with some effort, for considine was heavy and kicked. "to the mole; african steamer's boat," said kit; considine occupied the driver's seat. "show you how to drive!" he said, and shoving back the _tartanero_, used the whip. the horse plunged, the wheels jarred the pavement, there was a crash as a stall overturned, and the _tartana_ rolled across the square and vanished. kit heard considine's hoarse shout and all was quiet. he looked about. the girl who wore the yellow dress was gone, but the man stood close by and gave him a quiet smile. he had a thin, brown face and kit saw a touch of white in his hair. a mark on his cheek looked like an old deep cut. "you didn't go with your friend," he remarked. "i did not; i've had enough," said kit and added anxiously: "d'you think he'll get the african boat?" the other looked at his watch. "if he runs over nothing before he makes the port, it's possible. a west-coast trader, i expect?" "no," said kit. "he's the governor of a jail. an old soldier, i understand." his companion smiled. "the british colonial office uses some curious tools, but if he sweated for you in india, their plan's perhaps as good as handing out a job to a political boss." "then, you're not english?" "i'm an american. i don't know if it's important, but since you'd had enough of the fellow, why did you bother?" "for one thing, i wanted to get rid of him," kit said naïvely. "then, of course, since he is english, i felt i had to see him out." the other nodded. "a pretty good rule, but if you stick to it at las palmas, i reckon you'll be occupied! which way do you go?" "to the _fonda malagueña_," said kit. his companion indicated a shady street and left him at the top, and when kit loafed in the _patio_ after his six o'clock dinner, he pondered. las palmas was not at all the romantic city he had thought, and the men he had met going south on board the steamer were a new type. they were business men, holding posts at african factories, but they were not the business men he knew at liverpool. he could not picture them punctual, careful about small things, or remarkably sober. they had a touch of rashness he distrusted but rather liked. yet he understood some occupied important posts. in fact, it looked as if the liverpool small clerk's rules did not apply everywhere; in the south men used others. although kit was puzzled his horizon was widening. chapter iii a mountain excursion two weeks after kit joined his ship, she returned to las palmas, and on the whole he was satisfied with his occupation. _campeador_ was fast and built on a steam yacht's model, except that her bow was straight. although she rolled horribly across the combers the trade-breeze piles up, she shipped no heavy water. then kit thought it strange, but she was kept as clear as a british mail-liner. he had begun to like her crew; the grave bare-legged fishermen who rowed the cargo launches, and the careless officers. all were spanish but don pedro macallister, the chief engineer, for although the _roll_ stated that his birthplace was portobello, it was not in spain. the rules require that spanish mail-boats be manned by spanish subjects, but government officials are generally poor and english merchant houses sometimes generous. for two weeks _campeador_ steamed round the islands, stopping at surf-hammered beaches to pick up cattle, camels, sheep and mules. now the livestock was landed and kit, waiting for a boat to carry him ashore, mused about his first encounter with the captain. _campeador_ was steaming out from las palmas, rolling violently as she breasted the long, foam-crested seas, and kit staggered in the dark across the lumbered deck where the crew were throwing cargo into the hold. she had, as usual, started late, for in spain nobody bothers about punctuality. he reached the captain's room under the bridge. don erminio had pulled off his uniform and now wore a ragged white shirt and shabby english clothes. his cap, ridiculously shrunk by spray, was like a schoolboy's. kit inquired politely what he was to do about some goods not recorded in the ship's manifest, and the blood came to the captain's olive skin. "another animal! all _sobrecargos_ are animals; people without honour or education!" he shouted. "i am a spanish gentleman, not a smuggler!" kit was half daunted by the other's theatrical fury, but his job was to keep proper cargo lists, and what he undertook he did. it was not for nothing his ancestors were hard sheep-farmers in the bleak north. "nevertheless, i want to know about the chemical manure for palma," he said. don erminio seized the tin dispatch-box and threw it on the floor. "look for the documents! do i count bags of manure? i am not a clerk. when the company doubts my honour i am an anarchist!" he kicked the tumbled papers. "if you find five pesetas short, i throw the manure in the sea. people without education! i go and tear my hair!" he went, and when the door banged kit sat down and laughed. he had borne some strain, but the thing was humorous. to begin with, don erminio's hair was very short. then, although his grounds for anger were not plain, kit thought it possible the cargo belonged to a relation of the captain's. picking up the papers, he returned to his office, and when _campeador_ reached port the bags of manure were entered on the manifest. don erminio, however, bore him no grudge. in the morning he met kit with a friendly smile and gave him a list of the passengers, for whom landing dues must be paid. "sometimes one disputes about the sum. it is human, but not important," he remarked. "you will write three lists for the robbers who collect the dues." kit said the list obviously did not give the names of all on board, and don erminio grinned. "it is a custom of the country. if one pays all one ought, there is no use in having official friends. i put down the names of people the collectors know." when the steamer was ready to leave palma, kit and don erminio went to the agent's office and were shown a pile of bags of silver. there was a bank at las palmas, but for the most part the merchants did not use its cheques, and kit's duty was to carry the money to their creditors. the agent gave him a list. "you will count the bags before you sign? it is the english habit!" he said. kit saw don erminio studied him and imagined the agent's voice was scornful. for a moment or two he thought hard, and then took up a pen. "i expect all the money is here?" "i have counted," said the agent and kit signed the document. he knew he had broken a sound business rule and perhaps had run some risk, but he had begun to see the rules were different in spain. when he went out he heard the agent say, "_muy caballero!_" "this one is not altogether an animal," the captain agreed. kit afterwards counted the silver and found the list accurate. on the morning he waited for his boat at las palmas, he mused about it, and admitted that perhaps his philosophy did not cover all the complexities of human nature. by and by macallister joined him, and he asked: "who is the american with a scar on his cheek i met before we sailed?" "i'm thinking ye mean jefferson. a fine man! he was austin's partner and they transact some business together noo." "then who is austin?" "he was _sobrecargo_ and held your post, but he didna bother aboot the freight. pented pictures, until he and jefferson salved the _cumbria_ and i married him to jacinta brown." "_you_ married him to the lady," kit remarked. "weel, i reckon i had something to do with it. for a' that, don pancho brown is cautious, and although he's anither daughter, i doubt if i could do as much again. ony way, if ye trust old peter, ye'll no go far wrang." kit was frankly puzzled about his new friend. macallister's hair was going white, but his eyes twinkled humorously, and kit often found it hard to determine whether he joked or not. all the same, people did trust macallister. in the meantime, kit wanted to know about austin and jefferson. macallister told him. jefferson was mate of an american sailing ship, and inheriting a small legacy, undertook to float a wreck on the african coast. his money soon ran out, his men fell sick, and when he fronted disaster jacinta brown sent austin to help. austin was poor and not ambitious, but he had some talent that jacinta roused him to use. macallister said jacinta could make any man do what she wanted and the girl jefferson married was her friend. money was raised, austin went to africa, and he and jefferson salved the stranded ship. their adventures made a moving tale and when they returned pancho brown gave austin a share in his merchant business. macallister repeated that he was really accountable for jacinta's marrying austin, and when he stopped, studied kit. "i dinna ken what i can do for you," he said in a thoughtful voice. "ye're no like austin. he was a lad o' parts. aweel, ye're young and a' the lassies are no' fastidious." "anyhow, i'm not an adventurer," kit rejoined and hesitated. "besides, if i'm ever rich enough to marry, there's a girl at home----" "yin?" remarked macallister. "man, when i was young i had the pick o' twelve! then i'm thinking it was no' for nothing she let ye away. maybe ye have some talents, but ye're no' amusing." he turned, for juan the mate, who wore spectacles, and the captain came on deck. don erminio carried an old pinfire gun, hung round his shoulders by a strap; he wore a big cartridge belt and black leggings, and looked like a brigand. "_vamos!_" he said. "me, i am _cazador_. i go shoot the rabbit. if the _patron_ is not about, perhaps i shoot the goat." a boat came to the ladder and kit, rather doubtfully, got on board. he knew something about his companions and imagined the excursion might be marked by adventures. for one thing, the goats that roamed among the hills were not altogether wild but belonged to somebody. when the party landed he thought his doubts were justified. two horses, a big white donkey, and a mule were waiting, and a violent dispute began, for the muleteer declared he went with the animals and must be paid before they started. he called his saint to witness that he knew the captain. "_buen!_" don erminio remarked at length and turned to kit. "he is more animal than the mulo, but it is not important. _vamos!_ now we start." they set off in a dust cloud, but presently left the road and laboured across a waste of hot sand. when the sand stopped they went by winding paths to the hills, and when they pushed up a dry watercourse kit's troubles began. the track was rough, and dangerous in places where the sharp lava blocks were piled in heaps, but don erminio rode his lean horse like a _gaucho_. the fat mate rode like a sack, but his big, cautious donkey knew the hills, and macallister had the carriage and balance of a cavalry soldier. he declared he had learned to ride in the greys, and kit thought it possible, although macallister's statements were sometimes not accurate. he carried a sharp stick, with which at awkward spots he pricked kit's mule. a spanish mule is as surefooted as a cat, but riding is not a pastime for small shipping clerks, and kit had not mounted before. the pack-saddle was very wide and galled his legs, the jolts shook him hard, and when they reached the top of the watercourse his muscles ached intolerably. the muleteer ran beside him, sometimes holding on by the stirrup and sometimes by the animal's tail. at the top the path went obliquely up a precipitous cinder bank and macallister used his pointed stick. the mule kicked and kit, falling backwards, rolled for some distance down the pitch. when he got up he was shaken, bruised and very sore, but he saw macallister's twinkle and heard don erminio's hoarse laugh. his mouth went hard. he had engaged to ride to a hill village and he was going to ride there. the muleteer helped him up and they presently reached a row of square lava houses standing among palms and sugar cane. there was a small, dark wine shop, at which don erminio stopped. "_buen' caballero!_" he remarked to kit. "now we take a drink and then i shoot the goat." there was no glass in the wine shop windows and the trade-breeze blew through the room. after the glare outside, to sit in the shade and rest one's aching muscles was soothing, and kit drank two cups of red wine. the captain drank _caña_, a raw rum, and presently picking up a guitar began to sing. his voice was good and kit liked the music, although he did not know it was classic opera. he sang on, without embarrassment, when macallister began, "gae bring to me a pint o' wine," and the clashing melodies brought a group of _peons_ to the door. "ave maria!" one exclaimed. "but they are strange, the men of the sea!" by and by kit noted the empty bottles and got up. he had had enough and resolved he would not help don erminio to shoot another's goat. moreover, he imagined his companions had had too much. starting for the port, he left the village but soon afterwards sat down by a euphorbia bush. although his head was clear, his legs were a trifle unsteady; the red wine was stronger than he had thought, but perhaps his coming out from the cool, dark shop into the scorching sun accounted for something. he frowned, and resolving he would not again indulge like that, began to look about. overhead, a tremendous rampart of broken mountains cut the sky. in places, the rocks, torn by volcanic heat, were black as ink; in places they were red, and some belts shone in the searching light like polished steel. in the hollow of a _barranco_ where water ran were tall palms and luminous green cane, dotted by red oleanders and geraniums. the sky was all blue and the atlantic glimmered like a big turquoise. kit felt the landscape's charm, for he had not known much of nature's beauty. at liverpool, when one went out with a bicycle on saturdays, one followed the tram-lines across a flat country stained by smoke and the dust of traffic. he had once stopped for a week with his father's relations in the north and remembered the quiet, green valley where the river ran, but the moors about it were hidden by rain-clouds, and mist rolled down the long wet slopes. now sea and mountains were touched with splendid colour by the southern sun. he mused about his companions. he thought macallister a good sort, and liked the mate and don erminio. their irresponsible carelessness had charm, but kit did not altogether approve; his friends and relations were frugal, industrious folk. he had a vague notion that their utilitarian virtues were sometimes shabby; for example, in kit's circle, one was sober because soberness paid. but at the same time, to waste his youth and talents in indulgence was folly. yet he was not altogether moved by selfish caution; kit's unconscious asceticism was his by inheritance. the blood of yeomen flockmasters, who by stern self-denial had held their sheep-walks on the bleak hills, was in his veins. they were hard folk, who fronted bitter gales, took no thought for their bodies, and lived that they might work. but, since he was not a hermit, it was plain he must go with his new friends as far as his code allowed, but when he had done so he would stop. he thought, for example, he had stopped in time when he left the wine shop after macallister ordered another bottle. then, looking at his watch, he got up and started for las palmas. chapter iv kit's obstinacy when he had gone some distance kit climbed down a ravine that promised a short line to the harbour, and stopped as he crossed a field of maize at the bottom. a girl, standing by a horse, was occupied by a strap, and kit knew her before she looked up. she wore a short linen riding-skirt, a thin yellow jacket, and a big yellow hat that shone against the tall green corn. her olive skin had a warm tinge; her brown hair looked burnished. she was mrs. austin's sister, and kit admitted he had not in england met a girl like this. he thought her vivid; it was the proper word. "have you some bother about the harness?" he asked. olivia looked up and noted that he was tall and straight. his colour was fresh, for kit was not much sunburned yet, and his eyes were frank. in a way, he was rather an attractive fellow, but not altogether her sort. for one thing, he was don arturo's man and his white clothes were cheap. all the same, when the winter tourists were gone, young men were not numerous. "a strap has broken," she replied. "perhaps one could get a piece of string through the hole. have you some?" "i have a leather bootlace," said kit. "if you'll wait a minute----" he was going off, but she stopped him. "you had better see how much we need, because if you cut too much, you may have some trouble to reach las palmas." "that is so; you're rather clever," said kit, who looked at the broken strap. "well, i'll find a block where i can take off my boot." olivia smiled. lava blocks were all about, but she liked his fastidiousness. in a minute or two he came back with a piece of the lace and began to mend the strap. "let me help," said olivia. "that loop is not very neat; i don't think you are much of a workman." "in england, i was a shipping clerk," kit rejoined. olivia noted his frankness. as a rule, the young men from the coal wharf and banana stores talked guardedly about their english occupations. some had come for a warmer climate and some for fresh experience, but none admitted he had come for better pay. she helped kit to pull the loop straight and he remarked that it did not look very firm. "it will hold," she said. "in grand canary harness is mainly string. you are on board the _correillo_, are you not? i think i saw you land from the african boat." kit said he had joined the ship two weeks since, and olivia wondered whether he was dull. he ought to have seen that her remembering his arrival was flattering, but he obviously did not. "well," she resumed, "what do you think about the _correillo_'s officers?" "i don't know yet. you see, one doesn't meet men like these at liverpool. for one thing, _campeador_ generally sails an hour or two late. that's significant." "in spanish countries, punctuality is not a virtue and nobody is a slave to rules. we do what we like, when we like, and let people wait." "sometimes it must make things awkward," kit remarked. "however, if you're satisfied about the harness, can i help you up?" olivia gave him a quick glance; it looked as if he were willing to let her go. he was dull, but his dullness was intriguing. in fact, since olivia knew her charm, it was something of a challenge. she said she would walk across the maize field and signed kit to lead the horse. "i expect you'll make for the _carretera_," he said "isn't it the easiest way to your side of the town?" "if you know where i live, you know who i am." "i do know. you are mrs. austin's sister. macallister told me." olivia frowned. she was not jealous, but sometimes she felt as if jacinta's popularity swamped hers. "what did don pedro tell you about my sister?" "he said she ruled the english colony and at las palmas what she said went." "oh, well! perhaps he did not exaggerate very much. macallister does exaggerate, you know. but was this all?" kit was embarrassed. macallister had said much more. "he told me something about mr. austin and the wreck on the african coast." olivia pondered. she knew macallister and noted kit's embarrassment. he occupied the post austin had occupied. on the whole, olivia was amused, but while she thought about it they passed the end of a path that turned off through the corn. kit was quiet. he felt the vivid light and colour made a proper background for his companion's exotic beauty, and not long since it was unthinkable that a girl like this should engage him in friendly talk. yet, although one got a hint of pride and cultivation, she was frank and he thought her kind. the dreariness he had known at liverpool was gone; walking in the splendid sunshine by olivia's horse, he felt another man. for all that, olivia thought they had talked long enough and when they came out from the maize she stopped. then she saw with some annoyance she had passed the proper path. they had reached the edge of the narrow tableland, and in front a bank of volcanic cinders ran down steeply and vanished, as if there was a cliff not far below. the smooth surface was broken here and there by the marks of horses' feet, and one saw in the distance a bridle path wind among the rocks. a little cement channel, carrying water from the hills, crossed the steepest pitch, and indicated how the horses had reached an easier gradient. yet to ride along the channel looked horribly risky, and kit thought the bank of cinders had recently slipped down and carried away the path. "give me the bridle," said olivia. "you're not going to get up?" olivia smiled. she had pluck and rode like a spaniard. moreover, in the canaries, the hill roads are generally bad. then perhaps she was willing kit should see her cross the awkward spot. "my sister is waiting for me. can you hold the stirrup?" "i won't try! you mustn't ride along the channel." the blood came to olivia's skin. jacinta ruled all the men she knew and olivia thought something of her sister's power was hers. then she was proud and young, and the fellow had told her she _must not_. "do you mean you won't help me up?" she said. "after all, i can get up without you." kit went forward a few yards and then turned and fronted her. he blocked the way and his mouth was firm. olivia looked at him haughtily and her eyes sparkled. his object was plain; he meant to stop and force her to go another way. "move back, please!" she said sharply. "not yet," said kit and indicated the watercourse. "you see, for a few yards there's nothing but the channel. you couldn't walk across the cinders and lead the horse. the pitch is very steep." "one could ride along the channel." "i think not. the top's rounded and the cement's smooth. the horse would slip." "do you know much about horses?" olivia asked. kit coloured, because he imagined he understood her taunt. "i know nothing; until this morning i hadn't mounted a horse. all the same, the risk is obvious." olivia looked at her wrist-watch. "my sister has some engagements for the afternoon and needs me. i ought to be at home. this is the shortest line to the town, but since you won't let me use it, perhaps you have another plan." "i have," said kit. "i'll ride the horse across." with an effort he got into the saddle. the saddle was a man's, but he had not long since finished his first riding lesson, and all his muscles ached. olivia marked his awkwardness and hesitated, although she let him go. the thing was not so risky as he thought and the horse was steady. still she admitted that the fellow's nerve was good. kit's heart beat and his look was strained. he expected to fall and might roll over the cliff. then he noted that the horse tried the treacherous cinders with its feet as it climbed obliquely to the watercourse. he thought the animal was used to the hill-tracks, and if it knew how to get across, he would let it. one could not go up hill because of the rocks, and on the other side the slope was precipitous. not far off, the bank of cinders stopped and one saw nothing but a vulture poised against the sky. he left the bridle slack and the horse went on. after a few minutes the animal stepped off the watercourse and headed cautiously down the slope. to brace himself back hurt horribly, but kit did so. they had nearly passed the top of the cliff and in front a slump of cactus grew beside a winding path. if he could hold out until they reached the clump, he could get down. in the meantime, his stiff, galled knees had no grip and the animal's cautious movements jarred his aching back. he sat like a sack until the horse stepped on a rolling stone, and then his feet came out of the awkward spanish stirrups. he struck the ground, and rolled into the cactus. a cloud of dust marked his plunge. when the dust blew away kit was rather surprised to find he had stuck to the bridle and the horse had not run off. then he was conscious of a strange pricking over much of his body, as if he had been stung by nettles. he looked at his clothes and saw they were pierced by small spines like needles. he pulled out a number, but they stuck to his hands and it was plain both ends were sharp. then he looked at the cactus and understood why it was called prickly pear. the needles grew in tufts on the round fruit and thick, fleshy leaves. he got up and shook his clothes, but could not shake off the tormenting spines. while he was occupied olivia joined him. "since you have got across, i expect you see you're not very logical," she remarked. "it looks like that," said kit. "nevertheless, i was logical as far as i knew." olivia studied him quietly and kit got embarrassed. his clothes and skin were smeared by dust and he felt like a pincushion. the prickling was intolerable and he wanted to rub his leg. olivia's charm was strong, but he wished she would go. in fact, he imagined she knew this, because her eyes twinkled. "your logic's not very sound," she resumed. "for example, i began to ride when i was eight years old, and you admitted you began this morning. why did you imagine you could ride along the channel when i could not? however, you have kept me for some time and i mustn't stop." kit did not know what he ought to do, but he gave her the bridle and held the stirrup. "not that way! keep your hand firm and your arm stiff," she said, and putting her foot on his hand, sprang to the saddle. then she turned and smiled. "you have pluck, but you had better get back on board and change your clothes." she started the horse, and leaning back in a strangely graceful pose, let the animal go. the pitch was steep, and the soil was loose, but they plunged down the hill. kit knew nothing about a horse's paces; he rather thought it skated. when olivia had gone he tried to pull out the spines, but finding that for the most part they stuck to his hands he gave it up. then he lighted a cigarette and reflected moodily. to begin with, it looked as if miss brown knew all about prickly pear, and her amused sympathy annoyed him. then his battling her was obviously not justified, and as he watched her speed down the slopes below he frowned. he had refused to let a girl who rode like that undertake a feat he had tried; and then had fallen into the prickly pear. the thing was ridiculous. in the meantime, his skin was tingling; he must get off his clothes, and he started for las palmas. chapter v mrs austin's veranda don erminio and kit were fishing in the bay behind the isleta, the hill of volcanic cinders that shelters the port of light. off-shore, the trade-breeze was fresh, but in the bay the rocks broke the sea. the captain had moored his _barquillo_ to a reef and stood in a pool, with the warm, green water washing about his knees. his legs and arms were bare, as were kit's, but they wore rawhide sandals, because where the sea-urchin grows one protects one's feet. don erminio carried a dripping bag, in which something moved, and a pole with a sharp hook like a salmon gaff. kit carried a short fishing rod and was rather wet. stepping out on a dry ledge, he looked about. a quarter of a mile off, the long, white-topped combers rolled across the bay and then broke on the north shore of the island in a belt of foam. mist had begun to creep down the mountain wall, and in the distance galdar hill rose against the sunset. farther off, across a belt of shining sea, teneriffe's snowy peak glimmered upon a background of dull green and red. some distance from land, a small ketch-rigged vessel steered for the isleta. it was nearly six o'clock and would soon be dark. "_vamos!_" said don erminio. "one does not get rich while one looks about, and the salt fish i sent home from san sebastian is almost gone." kit remarked that the captain had sent a large box and asked if señora martinez liked salt fish. "she does not, but it is not important," said don erminio. "children are always hungry and meat costs much. when one is a sportsman, fish costs nothing, and there is more money for me." he stepped on some wet weed, and staggering across the ledge, declared the man who made his sandals had no shame, but don erminio was seldom angry long, and kit admitted he was a sportsman. they were looking for the big, yellow-striped eel, which in the canaries is a delicacy, and when the captain got his breath he plunged into the shallow water and began to whistle. "_salta, morena!_" he called in a thin, high-pitched note. the _morena_ feeds on pulps, the squid and octopus, which blow out air with a whistling noise when the pools get dry. the spaniards eat the small pulps, but some are large and _morena_-fishers state they eat men. after a time don erminio jumped into a chasm where the surge swung to and fro, and presently stopped in front of a dark cave. long weed tossed about with the wash, and the light that touched the rock was broken by puzzling reflections, in which the captain's legs shone lividly white. kit, standing behind him, rather wished he would leave the cave alone. somehow the dark hole looked forbidding, but don erminio declared he had seen a _morena_ go in and kit resigned himself to wait. by and by he remarked, under water, a dark object stretched across a rock. it was spotted and looked rather like a thick stalk of weed. he thought it wavered, but the movement of the water might account for this, and don erminio began to pull about the weed. when kit looked down again, the object was curved and thicker than he had thought. it obviously moved and its outer end was getting near the captain's leg. then kit saw another, and for a moment stood stiff and quiet while something throbbed in his ears. he knew the objects were the arms of an octopus. he roused himself, and pushing the captain back, lifted his rod and struck. don erminio saw and shouted, but turned to the cavern and his pole jarred on kit's. the weed tossed, the water got disturbed and thick, and kit saw indistinctly three or four waving arms. it looked as if the thing was coming out, and he struck in savage panic at the spot he thought it occupied. then don erminio leaped on to a dry ledge and pulled kit up. when they looked back an indistinct, spotted horror writhed about the mouth of the cave. for a few moments kit fought against a sense of nausea and the throbbing in his ears got worse. "_buen mozo!_" said the captain, beating his shoulder. "one has enough; the big pulpo is the devil. _vamos!_ in english, we get out." while they pulled their boat to the rocks a man some distance off crossed the reef, and waved a white jacket. it looked as if he signalled and kit saw the ketch he had noted was nearer land, but thought her too far off for the crew to see. the man, however, saw the boat, for he began to scramble across the rocks, shouting to don erminio. "the ketch is señor jefferson's and they do not want her to make the port, where she must pay some dues," the captain said to kit. "she is to go on to africa, but the fellow says his boat is damaged and he cannot carry the message. me, i think the wind is too strong for him. however, señor jefferson is very much a gentleman and the thing is possible." kit looked at the sea and doubted. the wind was fresh and outside the shelter of the rocks the combers were white and big, but don erminio could handle a small sailing boat. kit signed agreement and the captain turned to the fisherman. "go home, mackerel-eater, and say two sailors have taken on your job." they got on board, and while the captain rowed kit reefed the latine sail. the boat plunged and spray began to blow about. when the sail was hoisted kit got on the windward gunwale and the captain took the helm. the _barquillo_ was small and did not carry much ballast, and the reefed sail pressed her, but in order to reach the ketch she must be driven to windward boldly. the others saw her coming for they hove their vessel to some distance off. kit knew they durst not run far into the rocky bay. the long yard began to bend and foam leaped about the gunwale. the _barquillo_ was fast, and the latine sail took her well to windward, but a small boat going to windward is generally wet. when she lurched obliquely across the rollers the spray blew in clouds from her weather bow, and now and then their tops broke on board. kit durst not get down to throw out the water; his weight was needed for a counterbalance on her lifted side, and he presently imagined she could not stand much more. don erminio's clothes and face were wet, but he met the big, curling seas with cool confidence, and somehow the boat went across. when kit could look ahead he saw the ketch was not far off. her mainsail was lowered and, with jib and mizzen set, she swung her forefoot out of the foam and sank until her rail was hidden. it was plain the boat could not reach her on one tack, and by and by don erminio waved his cap. "let them do something. now they must come to us," he said. the ketch's helm went up, she swung round before the wind, and when she luffed the boat was close under her lee. don erminio and the _patron_ shouted, a letter was thrown across, the ketch hoisted her mainsail, and kit slacked the latine sheet. going back, the wind was fair and they sped, with bows out of the water, across the long seas, while a wedge of foam stood up above the depressed stern. when they landed behind a reef it was nearly dark and don erminio studied kit with a grin. "señor jefferson is very much a gentleman and the letter is important," he said. "if you go by the _triana_ and do not stop near the lights, nobody will see you. i must take the fish to my señora before she buys some meat." kit did not want to go. for one thing, his thin, wet clothes stuck to his body, he wore rawhide sandals, and could not find one sock. yet he would rather like to meet jefferson, who no doubt expected the letter. he started for the town and after a time stopped at a house in a quiet street. somebody opened an iron gate in a narrow arch and kit crossed the _patio_. he saw the stars shine over the court and shadowy bougainvilleas trail from the balconies. a fountain splashed in the gloom, and he smelt flowers. then jefferson came from a lighted room and took him in. he gave kit a quick glance and noted his wet clothes, but did not look surprised. to look surprised was not jefferson's habit. "you have saved me some port dues and an awkward delay," he said when he had read the letter. "will you take a drink?" kit refused politely and jefferson resumed: "my wife can't receive you; she's at palma, and there's something about which i ought to put austin wise. will you come along? i expect you know mrs. austin?" "perhaps i can claim to know miss brown?" kit replied and then indicated his clothes. "you're near my height and i can fix you; i didn't mean to let you go off like that," said jefferson smiling. kit wanted to go and when he had put on a white suit of jefferson's they started. mrs. austin's house was modern and occupied a natural terrace on the hill behind the town. a veranda ran along the front, and kit saw a group of people in basket chairs. when jefferson presented him mrs. austin's smile was kind and olivia gave him her hand. presently kit sat down in a corner and looked about. the veranda was wide and mrs. austin used it for a drawing-room. english and spaniards owned her influence, she meddled benevolently with other's affairs, and presided over something like a salon of the old french school. at one end of the veranda a lamp stood on a bronze pillar, and bright beams shone out from the rooms behind, but kit's corner was in the gloom and he was satisfied, since he rather doubted the fit of jefferson's clothes. in front, one saw the clustered lights of the town and the white belt of surf that ran back to the shadowy isleta. the sea sparkled in the moon's track, and then melted into the blue dark behind which was the african coast. kit studied his hosts. mrs. austin was slender and small. her skin was olive and he noted some white in her hair. she was very graceful, but her glance was rather thoughtful than commanding. austin loafed in his easy-chair. he was handsome, but looked languid--his hands were white and finely-shaped, his glance was careless. kit could hardly picture him the hero of macallister's romantic tale. in fact, austin and jacinta rather disappointed kit. on the whole, it was easier to picture jefferson doing something big. he was thin, and although he was quiet, looked resolute and, so to speak, rough-hewn. kit thought his was the abraham lincoln type. the others, however, were not really important when olivia was about. she wore black and amber; a spanish dress of diaphanous material and lace. her olive skin was faintly touched, like a peach, by red. kit thought her strangely beautiful and got a hint of pride and conscious power. by and by she crossed the floor and joined him. "have you gone for another ride?" she asked. "not yet," he said. "we have been at sea and one ride is enough for some time." "do you mean, you were shaken by your fall? if so, i'm sorry." "i don't mean the fall. going up the _barranco_ to the hills shook me worse. i think you know it was my first adventure on horseback. anyhow, you saw its inglorious close." "but i rather thought you enjoyed adventures," olivia replied with a twinkle. "shortly before you arrived i was at a shop in the _triana_, and you crossed the front of the window." kit coloured, for he had seen his reflection in jefferson's dressing glass; he imagined olivia knew his shoes pinched and the clothes he wore were not his. her quiet amusement jarred, but he reflected that clothes were not really important. "my last adventure was on board a boat not long since," he said. "however, i do know a little about a boat." "mr. musgrave certainly does know," jefferson remarked. "he went off to meet _cayman_ in a fresh breeze that scared the fellow i sent." "now you ought to be satisfied!" said olivia. "i'm not satisfied. i didn't expect mr. jefferson to back my statement." "then you didn't want to persuade me you can manage a boat?" "not at all," said kit. "i wanted to state that when you stick to things you know, you're not ridiculous. when i met you at the maize field i was ridiculous, because it was pretty obvious i couldn't manage a horse. in fact, i feel i ought to apologise." "i wonder. you declared you were logical as far as you knew, and when i thought about it i agreed. you imagined the channel wasn't safe and saw i was obstinate. in consequence, you resolved to ride the horse across. on the whole, i think you were nice!" "are you disputing?" mrs. austin asked. "oh, no," said olivia. "i am trying to persuade mr. musgrave he was rather noble. not long since he rode my horse across a spot he didn't think safe for me." "then i reckon his nerve is pretty good!" jefferson remarked. austin laughed, mrs. austin said nothing, but looked interested, and the blood came to kit's skin. he almost thought olivia shabby. anyhow, he had had enough. if he stopped, he might look like a fool again, and he declared he must write out some cargo lists. mrs. austin told him he might come back, and after a glance at olivia he turned to jefferson. "thank you for the clothes," he said in rather a loud voice. "i'll send them home to-morrow." he went off and mrs. austin said: "i don't altogether see----" "it isn't very obvious," olivia replied. "however, i imagine mr. musgrave has some grounds for thinking i ought to understand." she smiled and resumed: "well, one gets rather tired of the banana men, and although mr. musgrave has some drawbacks i think he's good stuff. what do you think, jake?" "i reckon you _know_," said jefferson, who looked at mrs. austin. "you see, i brought the young fellow." "oh, well," said olivia, "we will admit that is something, but perhaps it's not important. mr. musgrave has engaged to return your clothes. if you had trusted anybody else on board his ship, i expect you would not have got them back. the _correilleros_ keep all they get." chapter vi the injured passenger the red sunset shone behind lanzarote's broken hills, and the trade-wind had, for an hour or two, dropped to a light breeze. _campeador_'s boat, under jib and spritsail, was beating up the coast. don erminio held the tiller; kit sat on the gunwale and smoked and looked about. between sea and mountains ran an empty plain, crossed by lava ridges and covered by sand that had blown, for sixty miles, from the sahara. in the distance, the little whitewashed port of arrecife glimmered against the dark sea. the landscape was clean-cut and arid. kit thought it looked like pictures of palestine. rabbits and vividly-coloured fish occupied the bottom of the boat, for don erminio was a keen sportsman and made his sport pay. as a rule, his other ventures were not profitable, and he had taken kit along the coast to look at a new tomato farm, in which he had bought shares. they found a rude wall, enclosing a belt of sand in which kit imagined nothing could be forced to grow, and the captain stormed about the knavery of the people who had persuaded him to speculate, until he saw a goat. now, however, he was resigned and philosophical. "business is not for sailors, who are honest people," he remarked in english. "you have seen the _finca de tomate_. _buen' ejemplo!_" kit had seen, and sympathised with the captain. "did you invest much money?" he asked. "fifty-dollar. money of my señora, and when i arrive at my house she make _escandolo_. when they start the _finca_ there is a feast, mucho talk and drinky. me i say, '_viva la industria._ take my fifty-dollar.' _hombre_, when i calculate the vermouth fifty-dollar buy!" kit said it was hard luck and tried not to smile, for the captain's speculations were something of a joke at las palmas. "other time i buy the mule cart," don erminio resumed. "i say, if the merchant want his cargo, he must use my cart. the plan is good, i buy more cart and get rich quick. _vaya!_ the cart is on the mole, two good mule in front. comes the _locomotura_, pushing the concrete block. _mal rayo!_ the driver not look, and the mule is in the sea. i am no more _commerciante_; i am anarchist!" kit thought he understood the accident, for the mole at las palmas is narrow and the concrete blocks, carried on rails to its end, are large. the captain paused and coughed. "don pedro savvy much; he buy whisky," he went on. "now i have seen the _finca_ mi t'roat is like the lime pit." kit's throat did not bother him. he had inherited an ascetic vein and, in a country where wine is cheap, he was abstemious. for all that, he was hungry and he looked ahead to see if the little port got nearer. he hoped the breeze would not freshen much before they arrived. then he heard blocks rattle and looked astern. a schooner had gone about behind them and was overtaking the boat. her forefoot swung out of the smooth swell, and a thin streak of foam marked her waterline; her high sails were black against the sunset. as she came up she swerved, a jib was hauled aback to stop her, and her after-canvas flapped. "_la malagueña_," said don erminio. "now we get a drink!" when the schooner forged past somebody threw a rope, kit pulled down the boat's mast, and in a few minutes he and don erminio got on board. she was a beautifully-modelled vessel, belonging to the fruit-carrying fleet, but kit understood an english merchant had recently chartered her. when he jumped down from the bulwarks, wolf, the merchant, crossed the deck. "if you'll come below and smoke, we'll tow your boat," he said and addressed don erminio in good castilian. "hallo, my friend! how do things go?" "they do not go well," said the other. "i have seen the tomato farm." wolf laughed and took them to the small stern cabin, where he got out two or three bottles, some figs, and cigars. kit took a _copita_ of sweet, white muscatel and studied his host. wolf was dark-skinned and wore white clothes, canary rawhide slippers and a spanish sash, but his english was good. although he was fat, his movements and glance were quick. "we'll put you on board your steamer when we anchor off the town," he said presently. "then, you're not going in?" said kit. "i think not. arrecife is an awkward port to make in the dark. if the wind holds light, we'll anchor and wait for daybreak." "the wind she freshen," said don erminio. "i know the reefs like a fish. i pilot you." a steward had lighted the swivelled lamp and kit occupied a locker behind the small swing table. don erminio and wolf were opposite and kit thought the captain's offer embarrassed the merchant. he, however, smiled and said they would wait. they could not land cargo until the morning, the casino was dull, and to win three or four pesetas was not exciting. then he turned to kit. "since you sail for las palmas soon, i'll give you a passenger. i expect you know we are trying to start a trade with the tribes on the sahara coast. one of my men got hurt, and if he goes with you, the doctor will look after him to-morrow. i'd like you to send on a note i'll give you as soon as you arrive and keep the man on board until a boat comes. then perhaps you needn't register him in your passenger lists. he's not a spanish subject and we don't want the _commandancia_ officers to make inquiries about the accident." "the officers are animals. me, i know them!" don erminio remarked. "sometimes they bother one," wolf agreed. "however, i'll pay the _sobrecargo_ for a first-class berth." don erminio spread out his hands indignantly. "no, señor! a friend of yours is a friend of mine. there is no use in being captain if one's friends must pay." "oh, well," wolf said, smiling. "i expect the _sobrecargo_ is accountable for the passengers." he put down an envelope and some money. kit counted the coins and pushed back three or four. "you have given me too much." wolf looked at don erminio, and kit thought he slightly lifted his brows. don erminio shrugged, and wolf leaned forward to pick up the money. kit did not know if he got it, for the schooner lurched and the floor slanted. one heard the water rush along her side and a noise on deck. loose canvas banged, ropes and blocks rattled, and it was plain the breeze had not kept light. as a rule, the boisterous north-easter freshens after dark. don erminio jumped for the ladder and a few moments afterwards kit got on deck. all was dark and showers of spray blew about, but he saw the schooner was now lying-to, and the crew had partly lowered the big mainsail. the indistinct figures hanging on to the long boom were trying down a reef. presently they rehoisted the sail and when the schooner started, foam boiled about her lee bulwarks and all forward was lost in a cloud of spray. kit looked aft and saw _campeador_'s boat, lifted half her length out of water, at the end of the towrope. they made two tacks and then hove the schooner to with the lights of the little town abeam. the crew pulled up _campeador_'s boat, and kit, balancing on the schooner's rail, waited for a minute before he jumped. long, white-topped combers ran in the dark, the schooner rolled, lifting her wet side out of the foam. sometimes the boat bumped her planks and sometimes swung away on the backwash. at length kit jumped, and held her off while don erminio, rather unsteadily, came down a rope. then two men appeared at the gangway, carrying another. the boat swung towards the vessel, kit, bracing himself to bear a load, reached up, and next moment the man fell upon him. a rope splashed, he stepped the little mast and hoisted the jib. don erminio seized the tiller, the schooner vanished, and the boat headed for arrecife. the passenger lay in her bottom and did not move. by and by _campeador_'s lights tossed in the dark ahead, for there was no moon and the gloom was thickened by spray and blowing sand. the steamer rolled savagely and kit knew if they missed her, it would be awkward to make the shallow, surf-swept port. one could not trust the captain's pilotage; wolf had been generous with his liquor. riding on a comber's crest, they sped past _campeador_'s stern and kit saw her side, pierced by lights, lengthen out. he jumped for the mast and dropped sail while don erminio shoved down the helm. the boat ran on towards the illuminated square of the gangway under the saloon-deck, and a rope came down. then kit, pulling out the mast, held her off with the hook and the steamer rolled her bilge out of the water. gangway and ladder went up, her side looked like a high, slanted wall; and then she rolled back and buried the ladder in swirling foam. indistinct figures cut against the light and scrambled down the ladder. kit let the boat swing in, and somebody seized the passenger and dragged him out of the boat. next moment kit was on the platform at the bottom of the ladder with the water about his knees, helping the others, who pulled their load through the gangway. the officers' mess-room was opposite, and carrying in the man they put him on the locker cushions. he looked young, but his eyes were shut, he breathed heavily, and a dirty bandage covered the lower part of his face. when they entered macallister got up. "wha's this? where did ye get him?" "his name's scot and we brought him from wolf's schooner. he's hurt." "maybe; the bandage indicates it," said macallister, who studied the man. "for a' that, i alloo he's drunk." kit was surprised and rather indignant, but macallister grinned. "i'm telling ye, and i ought to ken." "_verdad!_" said the captain. "don pedro savvy much. me, i savvy something too. _es cierto._ the animal is drunk." the ship was crowded by emigrants for cuba and when they had put a pillow under scot's head, kit went for his dispatch box and got to work. at midnight he returned to the mess-room and found scot sitting up with his back against the bulkhead. his eyes were dull and his pose was slack, but he awkwardly sucked up some liquor through a maize stalk. macallister sat opposite, looking sympathetic. "is that stuff good for him?" kit asked. "d'ye ken what the stuff is?" macallister rejoined. kit admitted that he did not and remembered that the other sometimes doctored the captain from the ship's medicine-chest. when don erminio had friends on board his throat was generally bad. "anyhow," kit added, "i only see one glass." "he can hear ye, although he canna talk," macallister resumed. "where were you when you got hurt?" kit asked. scot moved his hand over his shoulder and kit thought he meant to indicate the african coast. "how did you get hurt?" the other felt in his pocket and taking out a piece of lead dropped it on the table. kit saw it was a bullet and the end was flattened. "hit a bone," macallister remarked. "but how did they get the bullet out? wolf has not a doctor on board." macallister smiled scornfully. "when ye have gone to sea langer ye'll ken a sailor's talents. for a' that, ye'll no trust the captain if the boat carries an engineer. but i'm modest and will not boast." _campeador_, steaming before the big rollers, plunged violently. one heard the measured beat of engines and roar of broken seas. the mess-table slanted and kit picked up the bullet, which rolled about and struck the ledge. he wanted to ask scot something, but macallister waved his hand. "dinna bother the puir fellow. away and count your tickets!" kit went and got a bath, and was afterwards occupied until _campeador_ steamed into the port of light, when he sent off wolf's note. some time afterwards a boat with a portuguese runner from a big hotel came alongside and they put scot on board. in the evening kit went to ask for him, but the clerk declared scot had not arrived, and he doubted if their runner had gone to meet the _correillo_. muleteers and camel-drivers from arrecife did not stop at fashionable hotels. kit was forced to be satisfied, but he thought the thing was strange. chapter vii the bullet all the basket chairs on mrs. austin's veranda were occupied and two or three young men leaned against the posts. mrs. austin used no formality. people came and went when they liked. jacinta had a smile for all; to some she talked in a low voice and with some she joked. she knew things her guests hid from everybody else, and held a clue to numerous intrigues. the others revolved about her; jacinta, so to speak, occupied the middle of the stage. austin, as usual, was satisfied to leave his wife alone. the evening reception was her business, and if she needed his help he would know. in the meantime, he talked to jefferson and kit. kit was half conscious that he owed his hostess much. his clothes were better and the colours did not clash. he had dropped one or two mannerisms mrs. austin quietly discouraged, and had begun to take for models her husband and jefferson. jefferson was thin and hard and often quiet, although his smile was friendly. austin was urbane and looked languid, but kit now imagined he was not. in fact, both had a calm and balance kit admired. they had risked and done much, but they did not talk down to him; to feel they weighed his remarks was flattering. notwithstanding this, he was rather annoyed by the young man who talked to olivia. the fellow had returned from england and was telling her about cricket and tennis matches and london restaurants. olivia looked interested, and kit was jealous. his cricket was elementary and he knew nothing about tennis, but he thought olivia ought to see nasmyth was a fool. for one thing, he wore spanish alpaca clothes, a black spanish hat and a red sash, and looked like a brigand from the opera. kit instinctively hated a theatrical pose, and wished olivia had seen the fellow crumple up after a few minutes' dispute with macallister about some coal. he was not in love with olivia; this was, of course, ridiculous. she did not move him, as betty had moved him, to a shy tenderness that was mainly protective. when he was with olivia he was romantic and ambitious; she inspired him with vague resolves to make his mark and use his talents. her charm was strong, but kit knew his drawbacks. by and by jefferson asked: "did you see wolf's schooner when you were on the lanzarote coast?" "why, yes," said kit. "we went on board one evening and brought back a hurt man." he stopped for a moment. wolf had asked him not to enter scot on the list of passengers, but then he had not asked him not to talk about it. besides, the thing was puzzling, and kit was curious. he narrated their getting scot on board and sending him off with the hotel runner at las palmas. when he stopped he thought austin looked thoughtful. "do you know wolf?" austin asked. "i do not," said kit. "i hadn't met him before. he was polite, but, of course, he knew my post." "you mean, he reckoned you were not worth cultivating?" jefferson remarked. "sometimes a mail-boat's _sobrecargo_ is a useful friend." "i don't expect wolf has much use for me. he's trading in north-west africa, is he not? what does he get?" "the sahara's not all desert. there are oases, and _wadys_ where water runs. the berber tribes have goods to trade and some of the stuff that comes out of the hinterland is valuable. in fact, the caravan roads may presently go west to the atlantic and not north to algiers." "what sort of fellows are the tribesmen?" "physically, they're magnificent; i reckon it's the proper word. six feet tall, muscular and hard as rawhide. we don't know much about their morals, but they're fearless, proud, and distrust strangers. anyhow, they're a pretty tough crowd to get up against." "have you got up against them?" kit asked. jefferson smiled. "we have had disputes. i reckon you know austin and i send the _cayman_ across now and then. sometimes she brings back sheep and barley and sometimes other goods. the trouble is the spanish crew are not keen about anchoring on the sahara coast; they know the _moros_. but the fellows are not moors, but berbers of a sort. the true berber is rather short and light; these folk are big and dark." "whose is the country?" "the berbers'?" austin replied with some dryness. "nominally, the rio de oro belt belongs to spain. france claims the hinterland, the coast south of rio de oro and some territory north. however, did you look up the fellow scot?" "i tried. he was not at the hotel, and when i went to the house where wolf's note was sent, the old spaniard i saw knew nothing about him." "where is the house?" austin asked. kit told him and he looked at jefferson, who knitted his brows. "oh, well," said austin. "do you know how scot got hurt?" kit took out the bullet. "he couldn't talk, but when we asked about his injury he put this on the table. the boat was rolling and i thought the thing would jump off." jefferson examined the bullet and gave it to austin, who said nothing for a few moments and then lighted a cigarette. "strange and perhaps significant!" austin remarked. "why is it strange? we know the man was shot," said kit. "the berbers use long, smooth-bore, muzzle-loading guns; beautiful guns, with inlaid stocks, probably made long since in persia and india. i don't know how they get them, but these people are not savages. they have a pretty good trading system and caravan roads. this bullet was fired from a modern rifle; a mauser, i think. do you want it?" kit said he did not and austin glanced at mrs. austin, who presently beckoned jefferson. he went off, and kit pondered. on the surface, the others had been frank, but he doubted if they had told him all they knew. then it was perhaps strange mrs. austin had signed to jefferson. "looks as if the bullet interested you," kit ventured. "that is so," austin admitted with a smile. "we imagined we knew the range of the berbers' smooth guns. since they make very good shooting, we found this useful; but a modern rifle is another thing. in fact, i begin to see----" kit was intrigued by the hint of romantic adventure, but austin stopped and got up, for olivia advanced. sitting down by kit, she opened her fan. "since you come to see us, i expect you're not bored," she said. "not at all," said kit. "i feel i owe mrs. austin much for leave to come. all's so new to me." "the people? well, i suppose we're rather a mixed lot." "i didn't altogether mean the people, although they are new. at liverpool, my friends were of a type; the industrious clerk's type. we had our rules; you must be sober and punctual, you must look important, and your aim was to get on. at las palmas, you're not a type but individuals, doing what you like. still i think the new surroundings count for more. after the shabby streets, the rows of little mean houses, to come to this----" he indicated the dark volcanic mountains whose broken tops cut the serene sky, the atlantic sparkling in the moon's track, and the twinkling lights along the belt of surf. when he stopped he heard the sea and the _cazadores'_ band playing in the _alameda_. the smell of heliotrope came from the dusty garden. "all is really beautiful, anyhow at night, when you can't see the port," olivia agreed. "it looks as if you felt its charm, but i think you resist. some people don't trust beauty!" "in a sense, to come south was like coming out of a dark room when the sun is bright. i'm, so to speak, dazzled and can't see which way to go." "you're not emancipated yet," olivia rejoined. "in spain, we don't bother where we go, so long as the road is easy and the sun does shine. however, we won't philosophise. you did look bored not long since." kit had not imagined olivia had noted his annoyance when she talked to the young man in the theatrical clothes, but he was beginning to know her. "don't you think i was justified?" he asked. she laughed. "the charm of the south's insidious. when you arrived you were a puritan; something of jefferson's stamp. well, he doesn't flatter one, but one trusts him." "i think him and austin fine," kit declared. "they're quiet and austin's humorous, but you feel what they say goes. then you know their politeness is sincere. but since jefferson's american, why does he live at las palmas?" "i'll tell you his story. he was mate of an american sailing ship, some time since when sailing ships were numerous. she was wrecked and when she was sinking the crew got at some liquor and tried to kill their officers. i believe they did kill one or two, and then jefferson got control." "you can picture his getting control," kit remarked. "but this doesn't account for----" "the survivors' story was tragic and jefferson lost his post. he came to las palmas and went to the coaling wharf. in the meantime, he had met on board a steamer the girl he married." "ah!" said kit. "calm nights in the tropics, with the moon on the sea! the girl was romantic and liked adventure?" "not at all! muriel gascoyne was conventional; the daughter of a remarkably disagreeable clergyman, who came out to stop the marriage, but arrived too late. macallister had something to do with that. he delayed the _correillo_ when gascoyne was crossing from teneriffe. then jefferson got a small legacy and bought the wreck of the _cumbria_. austin went to help him and when they floated the ship, married my sister. the doctors said mrs. jefferson could not stand a northern climate and jefferson stopped at las palmas; he and austin had earned rather a large sum by their salvage undertaking. i think that's all, but the story's romantic. doesn't it fire your ambition?" "to begin with, i don't expect a legacy," kit remarked. "then i'm not like austin." olivia smiled and shut her fan. "no, you are something like jefferson. he married a clergyman's daughter! well, i imagine jacinta wants me." she went off and kit's heart beat. olivia thrilled him, but he was not a fool. for one thing, he knew she knew he was not her sort; then wrecks that poor adventurers could float were not numerous. all the same, when he talked to olivia he was carried away, and wondered whether he could not by some bold exploit mend his fortune. he frowned and lighted a fresh cigarette. soon afterwards wolf came up the steps. with his dark skin, soft black sombrero and black silk belt, he looked like a spaniard; his urbanity was rather spanish than english. when he stopped by mrs. austin, kit somehow imagined she was not pleased, but she laughed and they talked for a few minutes. then wolf joined another group and afterwards pulled a chair opposite kit's. "i must thank you for landing scot. looks as if you used some tact. your getting him quietly was an advantage." "a hotel runner brought his boat, but when i went to look him up the clerk knew nothing about him," kit replied. wolf smiled. "a dollar carries some weight with a hotel tout, and i didn't want to put the port captain's men on the track. since scot landed in the hotel boat, they'd take it for granted he was a sick english tourist, and unless we're engaged in business, the spanish officials don't bother us." kit rather doubted if wolf was english, as his remark implied, and reflected that he had not much grounds for trusting him. for one thing, when he paid scot's passage he put down a larger sum than was required, and kit, thinking about it afterwards, imagined the fellow expected him to keep the money. then macallister declared scot was drunk, and kit had noted that he was strangely dull. to some extent, however, wolf's frankness banished his doubts. "is scot getting better?" he asked. "he's not making much progress. in fact, since the town is hot just now, we have sent him away." kit noted that he did not state where scot had gone, but perhaps this was not important, and he wanted to be just. "are you satisfied with your post on board the _correillo_?" wolf resumed. "in a way," said kit "i like my job, but the pay is small." wolf looked thoughtful. "perhaps you ought to stop until you know the country and the spanish merchants, but i might help you by and by. we'll talk about it again." he crossed the floor and by and by kit got up. mrs. austin gave him her hand and olivia went with him to the steps. "is mr. wolf a friend of yours?" she asked. "i don't know," said kit. "i think he's friendly." olivia knitted her brows. "jacinta receives him, but sometimes i wonder---- anyhow, i imagine she approves you and you might find her a useful friend. people come to her when they can't see their way." she let him go, and kit returned to his ship, wondering whether her remarks indicated that he ought to consult mrs. austin before he made friends with wolf. chapter viii a swimming match a light breeze touched the long swell that splashed about the coaling mole, for the range that runs down the middle of teneriffe cut off the trade-wind. the sun was near the mountain tops and cool shadow touched santa cruz. the houses on the hillside had faded to grey, but the lower town shone dazzlingly white, and the sea was like wrinkled silver. at the end of another mole, across the flatly-curving bay, a beach of black sand and a green house with balconies marked the citizens' bathing place. the _correillo_ rode at anchor near the mole's seaward end, and an african mail boat rolled upon the sparkling swell between her and the coaling station. kit, standing in the shade of a truck, pulled off his clothes and glanced at the water. the strong light pierced the smooth undulations and he saw the stones three or four fathoms down. a young clerk from a merchant house, half undressed, sat upon a lava block, and three or four others were stripping in the shadow of a neighbouring truck. one bantered macallister, who wore a towel and talked at large. "i was a swimmer before ye were born," the engineer rejoined. "weel, i alloo ye're soople and a bonny pink, but ye're saft. when i get in the water, i'll let ye see!" "you're not really going in?" remarked another, and a lad seized macallister's arm. "put on your clothes, mac. we'll let you off your bet." "ye're generous, but it's possible ye canna pay. though i'd feel shame to rob ye, i never made a bet i didna try to win," macallister replied and, stretching his arms above his head, balanced on his toes. "thirty years sin' ye would not have seen me go, but the cares o' the world have worn me, no' to talk aboot keeping steam wi' short-weight coal." kit turned to his companion. "perhaps it's curious, but i haven't seen macallister in the water. since he started the match, i suppose he can swim?" "you can't argue like that about don pedro," said the other. "anyhow, i think nelson doubts; he tried to stop him." kit glanced with some curiosity at the young man who had meddled. crossing the plaza on the evening before, he stopped in front of a hotel and heard somebody singing. perhaps it was because the song was english and, heard among the tall, white spanish houses, had an extra charm, but kit was moved by the music and thought the voice very fine. entering the hotel, he found macallister in the group about the piano, and when the engineer admitted that nelson's song was good, but declared he, himself, could beat any englishman, singing, riding, or swimming, the match was arranged. "nelson's at the coaling sheds, i think?" kit remarked. "that is so," agreed the other. "don arturo heard him sing in a church choir at home and gave him the coaling job." "because he can sing?" the other laughed. "doesn't look very logical, but don arturo's reasoning isn't always obvious. you don't know why he likes you and this has some advantages." kit threw off his shirt, and when he walked to the edge of the mole in his thin swimming suit, the other gave him an approving glance. his head was well poised on his sunburned neck, his figure was tall, finely-lined, and muscular. he looked hard and athletic but he was tired, for it was not long since he had laboured with don erminio across the high rocks of gomera to look for suppositious wild goats. "the sun's hot and i wish they'd send us off, but i don't see the launch to take our clothes across," he said. "that's nelson's job and nelson forgets. they tell you in the sheds he sometimes forgets how many bags of coal go to a ton, which leads to complications, since they don't fix the weight by scale and beam. but don juan is coming. get ready to start." a man carrying a watch jumped on a truck, shouted a warning, and began to count. white figures leaped from the wall, and for a moment kit turned his head. he saw macallister advance to the edge of the mole and the _campeador_'s mate seize him from behind. there was a struggle and the mate and macallister fell, but next moment kit heard his number and threw himself forward in a long flat plunge. he came up on top of a roller, and shaking the water from his eyes, saw the african boat and _campeador_ cut the dazzling sky. then a long green slope rose in front. he swung out his left arm and dropped his hand in front of his head. his head went under with the impetus he got, and when he came up he saw santa cruz glimmer pearly-grey. the shadow had crept across the town and was moving out to sea. kit did not see the others; when one uses the overhand stroke one does not see much, and for the most part he was down in the hollow of the trough. he made the best possible speed he could, but after a time found the effort hard. kit was not a mountaineer, and climbing across broken lava for eight or nine hours is strenuous work. besides, the water was colder than he had thought, and when he swung up on a long undulation he stopped and looked about. the sun had gone and the sea was dark. between him and the beach a small white object broke the surface and vanished; farther back, he saw a dot like a swimmer's head. he was too far out: the bathing house looked a long way off, he could not see the launch. then he sank into the hollow and the view was lost. kit changed his stroke and swam on his chest. he must economise his strength, because he doubted if he could reach the sandy beach, and to land on the reefs would be awkward. in fact, it began to look as if he was not altogether swimming for sport. perhaps he ought to steer for the _correillo_, but she was some distance off. by and by he heard a faint shout and paddled easily until a man overtook him. "hallo, nelson!" he said. "are you trying to get past?" "not at all," gasped the other. "i've had enough. saw you were going away and made a spurt." kit, swimming slowly, could talk without much effort, and asked: "where's macallister?" "on the mole; wish i was! where are you heading?" "i thought about the _correillo_." nelson blew the water from his sinking lips. "too far. i'm going to the african boat." "we have got no clothes." "it's not important. let's get out of the water." "clothes are important," kit rejoined. "i expect she has a crowd of tourists on board and don't see myself walking about the saloon-deck in a bathing suit." "get on and stop talking," nelson spluttered. "now i'm going easy, i can talk all right." "_don't!_" growled nelson. "you'll have to help me before long." kit got level with him. "brace up, go slow, and keep stroke with me." they went on; sometimes seeing for a few moments the slanted hull and white deck-houses of the african boat, sometimes nothing but sky and heaving water. still the ship was getting near, and by and by her whistle shrieked. "wants the water-barge," said nelson. "she can't start yet." kit was relieved to know this. the steamer had finished coaling, and if she started before they reached her, it would be awkward. after a few minutes he lifted his head and looked about. the liner, rolling on the long swell, was now close in front. he saw her wet plates shine as she lifted them from the sea and the groups of passengers about her rail. some had glasses and he thought they were watching him and his companion. the vessel was obviously taking home the last of the winter tourists, and kit frowned when he noted women's dresses. it did not look as if he could get on board quietly. all the same, he must get on board, because he could go no farther. he encouraged nelson, and passing her high bow, they swam along her side. the ladder was aft and all the passengers on the saloon-deck came to the rail. kit seized the ladder and when he had pulled nelson on to the platform hesitated. no shore boats were about and he could not swim to the beach. "embarrassing, but let's get up," gasped nelson. kit set his mouth and went up. a steward who wore neat uniform met him at the top. "have you got a ticket, sir?" "i have not," said kit; "do i look like a passenger?" "ship's cleared, sir. all visitors sent off. we're only waiting for the water-boat." kit made an effort for control. to get savage would not help and the fellow had no doubt been ordered to let nobody come on board. for all that a number of amused passengers were watching the dispute. the thing was ridiculous, and he was cold. he thought he knew one of the passengers and tried to signal, but the fellow went behind a boat. although an iron ladder a few yards off led to the well-deck, the steward resolutely blocked the way. then a very smart mate crossed the deck. "why have you come on board? what do you want?" he asked. "clothes, to begin with," said kit. "anyhow, we have got on board and we're going to stop until we get a boat." the whistle shrieked and drowned the other's reply. he turned, nelson pushed kit, and they ran for the ladder. plunging down, they reached an alleyway and nelson laughed. "i don't expect the fellow will come after us; a liner's mate has got to be dignified. if you want help when things are awkward, try the engineer." they went up the alleyway and met a short, thin man, wearing a stained blue jacket and greasy trousers. he stopped and studied them, without surprise. "weel?" he said. "are ye going to a fancy ball?" "we want to borrow some clothes; dungarees, overalls, anything you've got," said kit. "we had to give up a swimming match and couldn't reach my ship, astern of you." "the little spanish mailboat? ye're with macallister?" "of course. he got up the match, although i think he didn't start." "it's verra possible," said the other dryly. "mack canna swim. but if ye are friends o' his, i must get ye clothes." kit thanked him, and then, looking at the man thoughtfully, added that he doubted if the things would fit. "i wasna meaning to lend ye my clothes," the engineer replied. "if ye're no fastidious, the second's aboot your size. since he's occupied below, i dinna think he'll mind." he took them into the mess-room, gave them some white clothes, and went off, remarking: "ye'll be ready to go ashore with the water-boat. when they've filled my tanks we start." "he won't start for some time," said nelson. "you see, until we were on the mole, i forgot to tell felix they wanted water. jardine sent the coal, but the water's my job." "you seem to forget rather easily," kit remarked. "oh, well," said nelson, "don arturo gave me the post because i can sing." he paused and added apologetically: "i really can sing, you know." kit laughed. he thought he liked nelson. "where do you think the others went?" "there's a sandy spot near the _barranco_ and i expect they crawled out. of course, the distance was too long, but macallister insisted we should go right across." "yet the engineer declared he can't swim." "he can't swim; i have gone in with him at the bathing beach. all the same, i don't think this would bother mack. if your mate had not meddled, he'd have started." "but the thing's ridiculous!" kit exclaimed. "if you can't swim and jump into deep water, you drown." "unless somebody pulls you out. anyhow, mack is like that, and i forget things; don arturo's men are a fantastic lot. a number of us have talents that might be useful somewhere else, and, so far as i can see, a number have none, but we keep the business going and beat spaniards, french and germans at jobs they've studied. i don't know if it's good luck or unconscious ability. however, we'll go on deck and look for the water-boat." they went up the ladder and saw a tug steaming for the ship with a barge in tow. a few minutes afterwards the passenger kit thought he knew crossed the deck. "mr. scot?" said kit, looking at him hard. "i am scot," said the other. "met you on board the _correillo_. come to the smoking-room and let's get a drink." the smoking-room was unoccupied and they sat down in a corner. kit thought scot had not wanted to meet him, and was curious. the fellow talked awkwardly and the side of his face was marked by a red scar. "you picked up my bullet," he said. "i did," kit admitted. "meant to give it you back, but i forgot. do you want the thing?" "i'd like to know what you did with it." "austin got the bullet. i gave it him one evening when we were talking about africa." "you gave it austin!" scot exclaimed. "after all, perhaps, it doesn't matter. i have had enough and am not going back." "how did you get hurt?" "for one thing, i'd put on a cloth jacket--the evenings are pretty cold--and dark serge doesn't melt into a background of stones and sand. i imagined the tribe knew me." "perhaps a stranger fired the shot." "there are no strangers about the wady azar. i carried an automatic pistol, but i reckoned the other fellows knew it wouldn't pay to shoot. in fact, i don't yet see why i was shot." "the bullet was not from a smooth-bore, but a rifle," said kit. scot gave him a keen glance and smiled. "oh, well, i've had enough of africa. suppose we talk about something else." nelson and scot talked about london until the tug's whistle blew and they ran to the gangway. the ladder was hauled up, but kit and nelson went down a rope to the water-boat, and as she sheered off the engineer came to the steamer's rail. "ye'll mind aboot the clothes when we come back," he shouted. chapter ix kit gives his confidence _campeador_, bound for teneriffe, rolled with a languid swing across the shining swell. her slanted masts and yellow funnel flashed; her boats and deck were dazzling white, and kit, coming out of his dark office, looked about him with half-shut eyes. when he joined the _correillo_ he had not expected to find the spanish crew kept her clean, but she was as smart as an english mail-boat, and kit admitted that some of his british prejudices were not altogether justified. now, however, she was not steaming at her proper speed. the throb of engines harmonised in a measured rhythm with the roar at the bows, but the beat was slow. kit turned and saw macallister watching him with a grin. "ye look glum," said the engineer. "it's possible. we are late again, and i don't see how i'm to finish my business at santa cruz before we start for orotava. have your muleteer firemen got too much rum? or did you forget to chalk the clock?" macallister smiled. "ye're hipped. i'm thinking olivia wasna kind; but ye have not much notion o' amusing a bonny lass. they're no' all satisfied to be looked at. man, when i was young---- but ye needna tell me ye didna go til mrs. austin's. i saw ye, stealing off, with your new silk belt and your shoes fresh chalked." "miss brown has nothing to do with the boat's arriving late." "i mind a trip when her sister had much to do with our arriving verra late indeed. gascoyne, mrs. jefferson's father, was on board, going to stop the wedding, and jacinta gave me a bit hint, but that's anither tale. the trouble is, when ye're short o' fuel ye cannot keep steam. i allood i kenned a' the tricks o' the coaling trade, but a lad with the looks and voice o' a cherub let me down two hundred-weight a ton. weel, i might have kenned, after the innocent set on juan to hold me so i couldna win the swimming match." "you're near the limit, mack," kit remarked and went off. he was disturbed, but _campeador_'s slowness did not account for all. before she sailed a letter arrived from his mother, who stated in a postscript that betty did not look well. the girl felt the cold of an unusually bleak spring and worked too hard. mrs. musgrave understood the doctor thought she ought to go south, but betty, of course, could not. kit walked up and down the deck and pondered. betty had refused him and he had resigned himself to let her go. in fact, he had begun to think he had not really loved her much. now, however, to know she was ill, hurt. he wanted to help, but it was impossible. then he remembered that mrs. austin and mrs. jefferson were on board. perhaps he ought to see if they were comfortable; besides, to talk to them might banish his moodiness. he found them sitting to lee of the deck-house, and leaned against the rail opposite. beneath him, in the moving shadow of the ship, the water was a wonderful blue; farther back, the long undulations, touched here and there by white, melted into the shining plain of the atlantic. in the distance, teneriffe's high range was streaked by silver mist, from which projected a glittering cone. mrs. austin held a book and rings sparkled on her hand. mrs. austin was fond of rings. kit knew she was the daughter of a merchant who began his business career by selling sailors cheap tobacco, but he thought her like an old french marquise; a marquise with a salon where plots were made. mrs. jefferson was not like that. she was not fashionable and one felt her gentle calm. somehow kit knew the calm was inherited; one could not altogether get it by cultivation. she had quiet eyes, her sympathetic voice moved him. now and then he was rather afraid of mrs. austin; he loved mrs. jefferson. he owned it strange he should enjoy the society of ladies like these. in the meantime, mrs. austin studied kit. although he was very raw when he arrived, he was, so to speak, toning down. she had taught him something. mrs. austin had educated a number of raw young men, but since it looked as if olivia were interested in his progress, she wondered whether she was rash to meddle with kit. for one thing, he was rather handsome; he carried himself well, and his figure was good. he was honest, and his frank look had some charm. then he had begun to choose his clothes properly; mrs. austin admitted she had given him some hints. now, however, he was obviously disturbed and she had grounds for curiosity. she knew she could persuade him to give her his confidence and she did so with a cleverness kit did not note. by and by he gave her impulsively his mother's letter. "i'm bothered about the thing," he said. mrs. austin passed on the letter to mrs. jefferson. on the whole, she was conscious of some satisfaction, because she thought mrs. musgrave's use of the postscript significant. "one doesn't like to hear one's relations are ill," she remarked in a sympathetic voice. for a moment or two kit hesitated. mrs. austin was olivia's sister and he had not meant to talk about betty. sometimes he did talk when he ought to be quiet. "betty is not a relation, but i'm bothered about her being ill," he said and indicated the snowy peak, silver mist and shining atlantic. "i feel shabby, as if the thing's not just. you see, i've got so much and betty, who needs all i've got more, is shivering in the cold. you don't know liverpool when the east winds blow in spring." "i know other english, and some american, towns in winter," said mrs. jefferson. "when my husband found i could not stand the cold, he brought me back to the canaries. i think i can sympathise with betty." "not altogether," kit rejoined. "when you are tired, you can rest; betty can't. you have not to go to an office at nine o'clock, knowing that if you're ill for a week or two you may lose your job. you are not forced to stop until nine o'clock in the evening, without extra pay, when trade is good." "are office girls paid nothing extra for extra work?" "all i know are not," said kit. "perhaps five pounds at christmas, if the house is remarkably prosperous; but i don't think betty minded this. you feel the dreariness most; the poor food you eat in the middle of a crowd; the fight for the tram-cars when it rains, and the long walk through muddy streets when you can't get on board. i expect a girl hates to sit all day in wet clothes. besides, it isn't good. then betty's office is dark, and she writes entries in a book until her eyes ache. the thing's, so to speak, hopeless. you feel you've got to go on like that for ever----" he paused and his look was very gentle when he resumed: "betty bore it cheerfully. she has pluck, but i knew she was tired, and now she's ill!" "was she going to marry you?" mrs. austin asked. "no," said kit, blushing like a girl. "when i got my post i wanted her to promise she would marry me when i came back, but she refused." "this was just before you sailed?" mrs. austin remarked thoughtfully. "of course. until don arturo sent for me, i knew it might be long before i could support a wife. betty knew, but she went about with me. sometimes we went to small concerts and sometimes, on saturday afternoons, across the river. on the cheshire side you can get away from the streets. there's a wood one can reach from a station, and primroses and hyacinths grow in the dead leaves. betty was happy among the flowers; she loves things like that. she used to watch the thin birch sprays swing across the white trunks. i didn't know they were birches until she told me, but i sometimes thought her eyes were like the hyacinths. however, i've talked a lot and i'm boring you." "we are not bored," said mrs. jefferson, and mrs. austin mused. kit's voice was very gentle; it looked as if he had not known passion, and mrs. austin thought betty had qualities. one could picture a girl whose life was dreary using all her charm to get a lover; but betty obviously had not. she had refused kit, although nothing he had said indicated that she was calculating and ambitious. well, one sometimes met a girl whose thought was not for herself. "after all, a _sobrecargo_'s pay on board the _correillo_ is not large," she said. "that is so," kit agreed. "but one has so much besides; the sea, the sunshine, friends i could not have got at liverpool. one feels confident; there are better jobs, and perhaps one is not forced to be poor always. anyhow, betty didn't bother about the pay; she can go without things, but when i tried to persuade her she was firm. well, i think it's done with, she won't marry me. all the same, if i could bring her out to rest and get strong in the sun----" he stopped, with some embarrassment, and resumed: "i have bored you and must get the captain to sign the manifests." he went off and mrs. austin looked at mrs. jefferson. "well?" she said. "i like him," said mrs. jefferson. "i think i'd like the girl. one feels he drew her better than he knew." "yet he's not her lover." "he doesn't know he is her lover, but it's important that when he thinks about her being ill he's strongly moved. to know she might get well here but he can't help, hurts. i'm sorry she can't come." "i don't know that it's impossible," mrs. austin replied. mrs. jefferson gave her a thoughtful glance. jacinta was generous and often helped people, but mrs. jefferson imagined she had an object now. "you don't know her and i expect she's independent." "for all that, i don't imagine she would refuse a good post, and a post where the work is light might be got. we'll talk about it again." when _campeador_ arrived at santa cruz, mrs. austin and mrs. jefferson drove across the island to orotava and kit went round with the ship. orotava is open to the atlantic and landing is sometimes awkward, but onions were cheap and the company had engaged to load a barque for cuba. kit sent off a quantity on board the cargo launches and then went to the agent's office to pay for the goods. in spanish countries, business is not transacted with much speed and when he started for the harbour it was dark. he wore deck-shoes and thin white clothes, and his pockets bulged with documents. at the _marina_ he met mrs. austin, olivia, and jefferson. "we came down after dinner to see the surf; it's rather grand to-night," olivia remarked. "i suppose you are going on board?" kit said he was going. he carried the ship's papers, and she could not sail until he arrived. then he asked jefferson: "have you seen my boat?" "they ran her up when the sea began to break. i reckon you'll have some trouble to get off." this was obvious. at orotava the surf is not quiet long, and while kit was engaged at the agent's the rollers had got high and steep. for a moment or two he looked up the famous horseshoe valley. mist floated about the shoulders of the giant peak, but the mist was still, and lights high up on the shadowy slopes did not twinkle. the illumination about the big hotel on the cliff was steady. one got no hint of wind; the night was calm and hot. for all that, the atlantic was disturbed, and the crash of breakers rolled about the little town. the air throbbed with the measured roar. kit looked seawards. two short moles enclosed a break in the lava rocks, but their ends were lost in phosphorescent foam, and a white turmoil marked the gap between. now and then most part of a wall vanished and a yeasty flood ran far up the beach. kit saw a group of indistinct figures standing about a boat and left the party. "can one get a boat off?" mrs. austin asked jefferson. "it's risky. musgrave means to try. the danger spot is where the rollers break on the shallows at the harbour mouth. beyond that, they're smooth." after a few minutes kit returned and jefferson said, "well?" kit laughed. "they're not keen about going, but the promise of a bottle of _caña_ carries some weight and old miguel is a useful man at the steering oar. anyhow, i've got to try. keeping up steam costs something, and a barque at palma waits for the onions." "d'you reckon a _sobrecargo_'s pay covers the risk?" jefferson asked. they stood near a lighted wine shop and kit gave him a puzzled look. "perhaps we ought to get paid for an extra awkward job, but in a sense, the pay has nothing to do with it. when you sign on, you engage to do what's required. but you ought to see----" jefferson saw and his eyes twinkled. kit was embarrassed, because he had remembered the others and thought he was talking like a prig. all the same, the young fellow was staunch. "miguel will come to the steps for me," kit resumed, and they went with him along the wall. a quarter of a mile off, the _correillo_'s lights tossed in the dark. the boat was a thirty-foot cargo launch, rowed double banked by sturdy fishermen, but swinging about on the white turmoil, she looked small. sometime when a thundering roller broke across the mole she vanished. to get on board was awkward, but when she stopped opposite some steps kit ran forward and stood, stiffly posed, at the top. "_ahora, señor!_" somebody shouted. kit jumped. the others saw his white figure plunge and vanish. a crash, half drowned by the roar of the sea, indicated that he had got on board, and the boat went out on the backwash that rolled down the harbour like an angry flood. there was no moon, but one could see her dark hull against the phosphorescent foam. the men were pulling hard; their bodies swung and fiery splashes marked the big oars' path. at the mouth of the harbour she lurched up, almost perpendicular, over a white sea, plunged, and melted into the dark. "they have got out," said olivia. "it was very well done!" "then we'll go back to the hotel," mrs. austin remarked, rather coolly. "you are wearing your dinner dress and the spray is thick!" "i'm not going yet," olivia declared. mrs. austin knew her sister and waited, although she was annoyed. one could not blame kit for doing what he ought, but the thing was unlucky. after a minute or two, jefferson jumped on a lava block and olivia cried out. just outside the harbour a long dark object rolled about in the foam. the object was like a boat, but it was obviously not the proper side up. "she may clear the head of the mole," said jefferson, and he and olivia plunged into the spray. mrs. austin hesitated and was too late. a sea washed across the wall, the others had vanished, and she durst not go alone. men began to run about and she saw the boat was coming back extraordinarily fast. she was upside down, but two or three white objects clung to her, and swimmers' heads dotted the frothing surge that carried her along. jefferson and olivia ran back and mrs. austin went with them to the beach. the boat struck the lava and was pulled up. a group of dripping men pushed through the crowd and jefferson stopped the _patron_. "have you all got back?" he asked. "all but señor musgrave," said the other, "we held on to the boat; he went on." "he went on!" olivia broke in. "do you mean swimming? where did he go?" "to the ship, señorita. he shouted he must get on board." the man went off and jefferson remarked: "i reckon musgrave will make it. the surf-belt's narrow and there's nothing to bother him after he gets through. if he'd come back, he might have washed past the harbour and hit the rocks. i'll wait at the agent's office and see if the _correillo_ starts." "i'll stop with you," said olivia firmly. they waited for half an hour and then _campeador_'s whistle pierced the roar of the surf. her lights began to move and jefferson said, "she's steaming off. musgrave has made it!" olivia thrilled, but said nothing. mrs. austin said they had better go back to the hotel and pondered while they climbed the steep path to the cliff. kit had tried to get on board because he thought he must; he had not, consciously, wanted to persuade olivia he had pluck. all the same, he had done a bold thing, with an object that justified his rashness, and olivia had seen the risk he ran. mrs. austin however was rather sorry she had suggested their going to the mole. chapter x mrs. austin makes some plans mrs. austin's veranda was not as crowded as usual. for one thing, a steamer that touched at las palmas regularly had arrived from the argentine and her captain was giving a ball, to which mrs. austin had resolved she would not go. captain farquhar's friends were numerous but rather mixed; his feasts were not marked by the strict observance of conventional rules, and at las palmas jacinta austin was something of a great lady. when kit came up the steps she gave him a gracious smile. "i'm flattered because you have not, like the others, deserted me," she said. "you are kind to hint you would note if i came or not," kit replied. "however, i must own i don't dance." "then, if you did dance, you would have gone to captain farquhar's ball?" kit smiled. "i think not. to begin with, i'd sooner come here, and i went on board _carsegarry_ when she called on her outward run. captain farquhar's kind, but i had enough. in another sense, so had macallister and don erminio." "you would be nicer if you knew where to stop," mrs. austin remarked. "if you'll let me stop now for half an hour, i'll be satisfied," said kit. "satisfied?" said mrs. austin. "oh, well, i know you're frank. frankness has advantages, but perhaps it's not always necessary." she noted that his glance wandered to olivia, and she began to talk about something else. he was not going to join olivia, but while she talked she studied kit. he was an honest, sober young fellow, and had recently begun to make allowances for others, and had learned to laugh. in the meantime, however, she thought his laugh was forced. "if you are not amused, you needn't make an effort to be polite," she said. "when you arrived i knew you were moody." "then i'm duller than i thought," kit rejoined. "you oughtn't to have known. on your veranda one's bothers vanish." "why were you bothered?" "i got another letter and betty's worse," said kit. "my mother states she has been warned she must give up her post. her work's too hard; she must get the sun and fresh air. i feel i ought to help, but it's impossible. thinking about this, i've begun to see my job on board the _correillo_ leads nowhere. perhaps they'll let me stop when my engagement's up, but there's no promotion." mrs. austin knew the spanish manager was satisfied and meant him to stop. "all the same, you like your job?" she said. "for the most part, but one gets some jars. recently we have been buying onions. a ship is going to cuba, the freight is low, and havana merchants give a good price for onions, but the _peons_ who grow them in the mountains know nothing about this. they have got a big crop that nobody wants to buy and the price has fallen to a very small sum. the poor folks are a remarkably frugal, industrious lot." "i don't know a country with finer peasants," mrs. austin agreed. "still, if they're willing to sell you the onions, why should you not buy?" "we are buying too cheap." mrs. austin turned to jefferson. "mr. musgrave puzzles me. he grumbles because he's buying onions too cheap." "let him state his case," said jefferson. "i'll try. our plan's like this," said kit. "at daybreak _campeador_ steams up to a beach from which cargo can be shipped. don erminio and i get horses and go off to the hills, where nobody knows about the steamer. don erminio stops at a village wine shop and plays the guitar while i talk to the _peons_. they're an unsophisticated lot with the manners of fine gentlemen, and live on maize, bananas, and goat's milk cheese. yet, for all their poverty, i must eat membrillo jelly and drink a cup of wine before we get to business. they have stacks of onions, and at havana onions are short, but the _peons_ don't know and my job's to buy their crop very cheap. the worst is, the fellows are grateful and try to make us a feast. if they got half the sum their goods are worth, they'd be rich. it's rather like robbing a trustful child." "i am a merchant's daughter and doubt if i ought to sympathise," said mrs. austin. "to buy at the lowest price the seller will take is a sound business plan. were you not a business man at liverpool?" "at liverpool nobody i knew made a profit of a hundred per cent," kit rejoined. "the thing's not honest; besides, one feels it's not sound." jefferson laughed. "on the whole, i reckon musgrave's justified. you can fool people once or twice; you can't fool them all the time. when they find you out, they charge you double or sell to another." kit looked at olivia. she was talking to two or three young men and the position of their chairs would make it awkward for him to join the group. moreover, he imagined mrs. austin had not meant him to do so. by and by he looked at his watch. "i must go. it's later than i thought, and i've got to stop at the _carsegarry_." "you said you were not going to the ball." "i'm not going to dance. we sail at ten o'clock and i must get macallister and don erminio on board." "then i allow you have undertaken something of a job," jefferson remarked. "that is so," kit agreed. "the last time i went for them i got rather damaged and they tore my clothes. don erminio's excitable and macallister is big. all the same, somebody must go. don ramon at the office is patient, but i've known him firm. after all, he's accountable, and we carry the spanish mail." he went off and mrs. austin laughed. "kit's naïve, but i like him. he's a good sort." olivia sent off the young men and stopped for a moment by her sister's chair. "kit musgrave is a very good sort, but his luck is to get a knock-about part." "one's luck turns," said jefferson. "if musgrave gets another part, i reckon he'll play up." olivia went into the house and mrs. austin said to jefferson: "if harry has finished his writing, bring him to me." when jefferson went for austin she knitted her brows. kit was obviously attracted by olivia and mrs. austin did not approve, although in other ways she meant to be his friend. she had married a poor man, and rousing him to use his talent, had helped him to get rich; but she doubted if kit had much talent. moreover, she had qualities olivia had not, and kit was not like harry. mrs. austin did not know about olivia. she thought her sister saw kit's drawbacks, but the tourists only stopped for a few months in the winter, and for the most part, the coaling and banana men were dull. in fact, mrs. austin resolved to run no risk. when jefferson returned with austin she said, "you work too long, harry. you began this morning as soon as you got up." "i'm forced to work," austin replied. "since jake and i started the african business i'm pretty closely occupied. for one thing, he won't write the english letters, and my spanish clerks can't." "viñoles speaks good english." "that is so," austin said with a smile. "you speak good castilian, but to write a foreign language is another thing. in fact, i remember a note of yours that embarrassed a sober spanish gentleman. anyhow, viñoles' method of addressing an english merchant house is, _señor don bought of thomas dash_." "what about engaging an english clerk?" austin shook his head. "the experiment's risky. when the pay's not large, you must get them young and don't know your luck until they arrive. some come out for adventure--i imagine these are worst--and some come to loaf. if musgrave wanted another job, i might engage him." "i think not," said mrs. austin firmly. "why not try an english business girl? she wouldn't lose her pay at the casino and borrow from you. she wouldn't make disturbances at cock-fights." "it might work," austin replied. "in fact, i begin to see where i'm being gently led. i expect you know a candidate, but she mustn't be pretty. modern business has nothing to do with romance." "the girl i thought about is a friend of musgrave's." "ah!" said austin, with a twinkle, "the plot thickens!" "now you're ridiculous!" mrs. austin rejoined. "anyhow, my plan has some advantages." she indicated the advantages and enlarged upon betty's business talents, about which kit had not said much. when mrs. austin felt her cause was good she was not fastidious. moreover, she knew her husband and jefferson, and felt she was on firm ground when she drew a moving picture of betty's struggle against failing health and poverty. it counted for much that muriel jefferson could not stand the winter in the north. when she stopped jefferson glanced at austin. "perhaps we might risk it. muriel would look after the girl." austin agreed and mrs. austin let them go. her plans had worked, but she was not altogether selfish. she liked to help people and thought betty needed help. in the meantime, however, kit must not know; she would write to mrs. musgrave, for when kit gave her the letter she had noted where his mother lived. mrs. austin's habit was to note things like that. so far, the scheme went well, but she had not gone far enough. after all, betty had refused kit and the _correillo_ stopped at las palmas for three or four days every two weeks. betty would be occupied by her business duties, but olivia had none. mrs. austin admitted that her supposition about the girl's grounds for refusing kit might not be accurate, and imagined a longer voyage for kit was indicated. by and by wolf entered the veranda and she saw a plan. yet she hesitated. she had no logical grounds for doubting wolf, but she did doubt him. "mr. scot, whom you sent home after his injury, has not come back," she said presently. wolf said he did not think scot would come back, and waited. "are you not embarrassed without him?" "to some extent," wolf replied. "i can't, however, go to england, and to engage a young man you haven't seen is risky. then i don't know a coaling clerk i'd care to hire." "but you do want help?" wolf agreed and mrs. austin looked thoughtful. "perhaps it's lucky, because i'd like to get mr. musgrave a good post. i expect you know i'm a meddler and managing people's affairs is my habit." "i know you are kind and a number of people owe you much," wolf replied. mrs. austin gave him a gracious smile. "well, i really think mr. musgrave is the man you want. he's honest and resolute, and although i don't know if he's very clever, he's not a fool." wolf thought his luck was good. he did want a resolute young man, but did not want him clever, and had for some time thought about kit. then he had an object for satisfying mrs. austin, who did not disown her debts. "well," he said, "i imagine i could give musgrave a post he'd be willing to take. in fact, when my schooner comes back from africa i'll probably send for him----" he stopped and mrs. austin waited with quiet amusement. she knew wolf did nothing for nothing. "señor ramirez arrived from madrid a few days since," he resumed. "i understand don arturo comes from liverpool by the next boat. i would like to meet them." "but this ought not to be difficult." "in a way, not at all difficult. one can go to a public function and, if one is lucky, talk for a few minutes to the honoured guest, who forgets one immediately afterwards. there is not much use in this; but to meet an important man at a friend's house is another thing." mrs. austin pondered. ramirez was a spanish officer of high rank and came to the canaries now and then on the government's business. don arturo had invested much money in the islands and west africa. austin knew both gentlemen and wolf wanted to meet them at her house. it looked as if he knew ramirez was going to dine with austin. on the whole, mrs. austin did not want to indulge him, and imagined austin would not approve. yet wolf had promised to give kit a post. "why do you want to meet señor ramirez?" she asked. "i rather think it's obvious. the spaniards are jealous about the rio de oro belt, and i am a foreigner. there are rules about trading with the berbers that stand in my way. a quiet talk to ramirez might help me much, and i imagine he would be interested." jacinta saw something must be risked, and after all ramirez knew men. he would not take wolf's honesty for granted because he was her friend. "very well," she said. "señor ramirez will dine with us one evening, and i will tell you when the time is fixed. i don't know about don arturo yet." "you are very kind," said wolf. "i had meant to send for musgrave, but now i feel i must use an extra effort to give him a good post." he went off and soon afterwards mrs. austin told austin, who frowned. "i don't know if i altogether approved the fellow's coming to the veranda, but this didn't imply much; his coming to dinner does." "he promised he'd give kit a post," mrs. austin replied. austin looked at her rather hard. "you might have helped musgrave at a cheaper cost. however, one doesn't cheat ramirez easily and so long as you are satisfied----" "do you imagine wolf will try to cheat him?" "it's possible," said austin dryly. mrs. austin laughed. "anyhow, ramirez is just and won't make you accountable. besides, if he is cheated, wolf is cleverer than i think." chapter xi the plans work dinner was over, the night was hot, and mrs. austin had taken her party to the veranda. wolf had gone; he declared he could not put off another engagement, but mrs. austin wondered. the fellow was clever and knew when to stop. a man like that did not go farther than was necessary and risk losing ground he had won. all the same, mrs. austin was satisfied. she had paid her debt, and although she had hesitated about asking wolf, she now felt her doing so was justified. he had interested her famous guests; the dinner party had gone well. señor ramirez occupied a chair by a table that carried some fine glass _copitas_ from which one drinks the scented liquors used in spain. his family was old and distinguished, and his post important. he was thin, dark-skinned and marked by an urbane dignity. as a rule, he looked languid, but sometimes his glance was keen. don arturo sat opposite. he was strongly built and getting fat. although his hair and eyes were very black, he was essentially british. he had known poverty, but now controlled large commercial undertakings and steamship lines. don arturo was loved and hated. some found him strangely generous, and some thought him hard and careless about the tools he used and broke. he made bold plans, and had opened wide belts in africa to british trade. mrs. jefferson, austin, and two or three others occupied the background. they were, so to speak, the chorus, and in the meantime not important. austin knew when to let his wife play the leading part. "when i was honoured by your opening your house to me i knew my entertainment would be good, but i must own it was better than i thought," ramirez presently remarked. "ah," said mrs. austin, "i hesitated. you have public duties; i doubted if you could come." "duties are always numerous and pleasures strangely few. besides, at las palmas, you command. but if one is allowed to talk about your other guest----" "señor wolf wanted to meet you. i hope you were not bored." ramirez smiled. "some people want to meet me and some do not, but i was not bored at all. your friend is an interesting man; he told me much about which i must think. you have known him long?" "not long," said mrs. austin. she wanted to hint that she did not altogether make herself accountable for her guest, and resumed: "still, at las palmas, we are foreigners, and since he is english----" "then you imagine señor wolf is english?" "i have imagined so," said mrs. austin with some surprise. "however, his skin is rather dark." "darker than mine, for example?" ramirez rejoined with a twinkle. "well, the colour of one's skin is not important. in spain there are descendants of the visi-goths whose colors is white and pink. one must rather study mental characteristics." "then you think wolf's mentality is foreign?" said don arturo. "it is not english. one notes a touch of subtlety, an understanding of one's thoughts, a keen intelligence----" don arturo laughed and mrs. austin waved her fan. "but, señor, i am patriotic. are we very dull?" "my lady, your grounds for patriotic pride are good. your people have qualities. let me state an example. in these islands our _peons_ are frugal, sober, and industrious; a fine race. our merchants are intellectual and cultivated. in mathematics, philosophy, and argument i think no brains are better than ours. it is possible we got much from the moors----" "my coaling and banana clerks are not philosophical, and i doubt if many are cultivated," don arturo remarked. ramirez spread out his hands. "you use my argument! i admit you have qualities. these raw english lads do things we cannot. they load in a night bananas we cannot load in two days, they get the best fruit, they use our fishermen and labourers to coal your ships. the profit and all that is good in grand canary goes to you. at the hill villages where the _peons_ went to bed at dark, your mule carts arrive with cheap candles and oil. the shops are full of english clothes and tools. when the _peon_ finds he needs your goods he grows things to sell. sometimes we are jealous, but we trust you." "it looks as if you trusted wolf, although you imagine he is not english," don arturo said dryly. "he is the señora's guest," said ramirez, bowing to mrs. austin. "ah," said mrs. austin, "this does not carry much weight! i am not a clever politician, and perhaps my judgment is not very sound." "all the same, i did trust señor wolf. he wanted some concessions; a little slackening of our rules about trading on the african coast." "your rules are rather numerous," don arturo remarked. "it is so, my friend. our possessions in africa are small and the moors of rio de oro are fierce and troublesome, but i think that belt of atlantic coast will some time be worth much. valuable goods cross the sahara from the west soudan, and when we have made harbours, caravans that now go to morocco and algiers will arrive. well, perhaps we are cautious. we have greedy neighbours, and when one has not got much, one keeps what one has." don arturo looked thoughtful. "west africa's my field, and i don't know the north, but now france has got all the hinterland, i sometimes think the dispute about the atlantic coast may be reopened. i imagine the spanish government is not a friend of islam." "when we are not anarchists we are staunch catholics," ramirez agreed. "well, in north africa the sun and the tribesmen's blood are hot. a strange, wild country, where the agreements diplomatists make do not go. but this is not important. i think the señora's talented friend interested you." "i promised to charter him a steamer," said don arturo dryly. "a spanish steamer?" "she is now an english cargo-boat of two thousand tons. i do not know if wolf will hoist the spanish flag. perhaps this might be allowed." ramirez's eyes twinkled. "it is possible. we are poor and cannot pay our officers much. but two thousand tons? to carry a few sheep!" "i understand wolf will send her to mojador and saffi for maize and beans." "oh, well," said ramirez, "we will talk about something else." he turned to mrs. austin. "my lady, you have seen our politeness is not as deep as people think, but you will make allowances. when one meets a famous english merchant, and a man of talent who knows the rio de oro, like señor wolf----" "although he is not english," mrs. austin remarked, but ramirez smiled and turned to the others, who played up. after a time the guests went off and mrs. austin said to her husband. "somehow i feel i've meddled with a bigger thing than i knew. in fact, i rather wish i had not." "your object's good," said austin. "you have got kit a job. i suppose this was all you wanted?" mrs. austin smiled. "i didn't want to help wolf, and if i have helped, it's because one gets nothing unless one pays. however, we'll let it go." when kit returned to las palmas he found a note from wolf, and in the evening went to a house in an old quarter of the town. the street was narrow, quiet and dark, but the moon touched one side with misty light. kit heard the throbbing rumble of the surf, and coming from the noisy steam tram and the lights of the main street, he got a hint of mystery in the quietness and gloom. the houses had flat tops and looked like forts. their straight fronts were pierced by a few narrow slits and a low arch. the slits were high up and barred. kit thought that part of the city looked as if it had not been built by europeans; it rather belonged to egypt or algiers. there was something romantic but sinister about it. he knocked at a door and an old man took him across a _patio_ where a ray of moonlight fell. the man showed him into a room furnished like an office, and kit waited and looked about. there was no window, but an arch opened on to a passage with dark wooden pillars supporting a balcony. a few maps occupied the wall, and kit began to study one of the rio de oro belt. maps drew him; they called one to countries one had not seen, and this map pictured a wild land white men did not know much about. for all that, kit thought it good. green rings marked the oases, blue threads the wadys where water sometimes runs, and the red lines were the tracks by which loaded camels came from the soudan. the marks, however, were not numerous, and kit mused about the blank spaces. then he turned with a start and saw wolf. he had not heard the fellow come in, and noted that he wore slippers of soft red leather. his shirt and trousers were white, but he wore a red silk sash and a fez cap. "my map interests you?" he said. "well, i doubt if the spanish government owns one as good. i expect to have noted that for the most part it is not printed?" kit had noted that the caravan roads and wadys were drawn by a pen. "i was studying the unmarked spaces," he replied. wolf smiled and indicated a chair. "the explorer's instinct; there's something about the unknown that pulls. all the same, more is known about the country than some people think, and in one sense, it is not a desert. then the people are not savages, although their rules are the rules the arabs brought a thousand years since. they spring from famous stocks; carthaginian, roman; saracen adventurers who pushed across the atlas range and vanished. the country's intriguing, but to know it one must be resolute." "i suppose the tribes are mohammedans?" kit remarked. wolf gave him some scented wine and a cigarette with a curious taste, and while he smoked kit heard the measured beat of the surf. somebody on a neighbouring roof played a guitar and the music was strange and melancholy. "some of the tribes are fanatics," wolf replied. "islam was born in the desert and its driving force comes from the wilds. when the prophets were made caliphs they lost their real power. the turk has got slack and meddles with forbidden things, but the faith lives and has spread far recently. its missionaries, however, do not come from constantinople. lean john baptists appear in the desert and found fierce, reforming sects. one has grounds for imagining their job is something like this." "ah," said kit. "do they expect a new mohammed?" "i think they expect a new prophet," wolf said quietly. "not a political caliph, but a man from the wilds who will re-enforce the ancient arab laws. they have waited for him long and have sometimes been cheated. their habit is to wait. it is possible they will be cheated again." kit was young, and romance and mystery appealed. "well," he said, "i'd like to see something of north-west africa." "then the chance is yours. i am sending a steamer to the morocco coast and want a man i can trust to meet the jew merchants and put on board the maize and beans i've bought. then she'll steam south to pick up goods at rio de oro, and my agent must go inland with an interpreter to meet the tribesmen. if you like, you can go." kit's eyes sparkled. "i'll take the post," he said, and then stopped and frowned. "i forgot," he resumed. "my engagement with the _correos_ runs for some time." "this is not much of an obstacle. i am chartering the steamer from the company and expect don ramon will let you off." "if don ramon is willing, there is no obstacle," kit declared, and when wolf told him about his pay and duties his resolve was keener. he would use a power and responsibility he had not yet known and be richer than he had thought. "very well," said wolf. "when you come back from palma you had better see don ramon. in the meantime, i'll get things in trim." kit went down the street with a light step. the old spanish house, the map, and wolf's talk had fired his imagination. adventure called. in a week or two he was going to see the desert and try his powers. part ii responsibility chapter i olivia's experiment when the _correillo_ returned from palma and kit went to the company's office he was bothered by doubts. don ramon, the spanish manager, had been kind, and kit felt shabby. he had engaged to serve the company for twelve months and doubted if his asking the other to release him was justified. for all that he wanted to go to africa. he was shown into the private office, and don ramon, after indicating a chair, occupied himself for a few minutes with the papers on his desk. kit's embarrassment was obvious, and the manager was amused. "i have studied your notes about business at the ports _compeador_ touched on her new round," he said presently. "some of your suggestions are useful. i expect you wanted to talk to me about this?" "not altogether," kit replied. "then, perhaps, you meant to talk about painting the passengers' rooms?" "no," said kit. "the rooms need painting, but i really meant to ask you to let me off my engagement. i have heard about another post." don ramon studied him quietly for a few moments. kit's glance was direct, but the blood had come to his skin. the spaniard was very subtle and knew something about young englishmen; he rather approved kit. "a better post?" he said. "it is better, but i'm not altogether influenced by this," kit replied awkwardly. "i haven't much scope on board _campeador_. one likes to feel one is responsible and doing something worth while." "ah," said don ramon, "a number of your countrymen arrive at this office with the resolve to do as little as possible. however, i imagined you were satisfied on board." "in a way i am satisfied. the captain and engineer are my friends, i like the company's agents, and your clerks make things easy. in fact, if you think i ought to stop, i will stop." "you imply that you are willing to give up the better post unless we agree to your leaving us?" "of course!" said kit. "i won't urge you to agree." don ramon smiled. "after all, your joining mr. wolf has some advantages, particularly since the steamer he has chartered is ours, and i don't know that it is necessary for you to break your engagement with us. if it is not broken, you could go back to _campeador_ after the other boat's return, and, in the meantime, will get your pay. i expect mr. wolf did not state how long he wanted you." "he did not," said kit and pondered. perhaps it was strange, but he had not stipulated that he must be employed for a fixed time. he ought to have stipulated. then he was surprised because don ramon knew his object for wanting to go. don ramon was clever and his remarks hardly indicated much confidence in wolf. "you are generous," kit resumed. "however, i doubt if i can honestly work for you and wolf. you see, the office now and then buys corn at the moorish ports." "i think i see," don ramon replied with a twinkle. "you imply that so long as you take wolf's pay you are his man, and we must not expect you to study his business for our benefit? well, we do not expect this, and you will find wolf's business is, for the most part, transacted at a neighbourhood we leave alone. all the same, the chartered steamer is valuable, and although we have asked for some guarantees, we would like a company's servant on board. don erminio and macallister will join the ship." kit's hesitation vanished. his luck was strangely good, and he thanked don ramon, who presently sent him off. while his double engagement lasted he would be rich, and when he returned to the _correillo_ he wrote to his mother, asking her to make some plan for helping betty. for example, betty might take a holiday and, if mrs. musgrave used proper tact, need not know kit had borne the cost. he wanted betty to get a holiday that would brace her up. yet it was obvious he was not in love. his reflections were disturbed. a fowl, cackling in wild alarm, came down the ventilator shaft that pierced the ceiling of his small room. it struck the rack above the folding washstand, and kit's hairbrush and a box of brass buttons fell. the buttons rolled about the floor and under his berth. then the fowl swept his desk with fluttering wings and the inkpot overturned. kit frowned and put his letter in the envelope. his friends on board liked a rude joke, and a fowl had come down the shaft before. kit had thought he had spoiled the joke by painting the inside of the bowl-head on deck, but the paint did not long keep wet. he tried to catch the fowl, with the object of putting it in macallister's bed, and finding he could not, opened the door, and drove it out. soon afterward macallister came in and indicated the stained desk. "she's no' rolling, but it looks as if ye couldna' keep your inkpot right-side-up," he said. "weel, i've kenned garcia's sherry account for stranger things than yon." "i've known it account for your losing your boots," kit rejoined. macallister grinned. "the night was balmy. i was tired and my feet were sair. ye'll mind i scalded them, saving the ship when the boiler tubes burst----" "i was not on board," said kit. "anyhow, don erminio states felix, your stoker, stopped the tubes. but you certainly lost your boots." "how was i to ken the spaniards would rob me while i slumbered? and i have my doubts. mills o' the _estremedura_ was tacking along the mole, and they're no' a' gentlemen aboard yon boat. but we'll let it go. ye dinna ken what auld peter has done for ye?" "my notion is, you have done enough," kit remarked. "it's some time since the mate and you sold my clothes when i was ashore, but you haven't paid me yet." "if my luck is good, ye will be paid, and ye have not heard my news. the company is chartering the old _mossamedes_ and ye're to gang to africa on board. i got ye the job." "go on," said kit dryly. "i expect it's a romantic tale." macallister lighted his pipe and put his coaly boots on the locker cushions. "it was like this. don ramon called me to the office. 'we have chartered _mossamedes_ for a run to the morocco coast,' says he. 'captain erminio is no' much o' a navigator and the mate's eyes are no' very good, but if ye're in the engine-room, i'll ken all's weel. then we need a _sobrecargo_. whom would ye like?' "'maybe mr. musgrave would suit,' says i. 'he's slow and dour, but for a crabbit englishman, he has some parts. besides, when he gangs ashore the lassies will not bother him. he's no' the sort to charm a fastidious e'e. if ye send mr. musgrave, ye'll not go far wrang.'" "did you argue in scots or castilian?" kit inquired. "in edinburgh scots; better english than ye use. what for would i use castilian?" "i see one important obstacle," said kit. "when a man who has long been chief-engineer on board a spanish ship is forced to paint the pressure gauge and chalk the clock, in order to let his firemen know what steam must be raised----" "there's no' a shabby hotel tout who canna speak six languages," macallister rejoined. "don arturo and i use english. since i dinna convairse with foreigners, what for would i learn their language? if they want to talk to me, they must use mine." he went off and kit laughed. he owned that his conventional notion of the grim, parsimonious scot was strangely inaccurate. the scots he knew in the canaries were marked by freakish humour and rash generosity. they were kind with the kindness of a benevolent puck. in fact, all the _correilleros_ were to some extent like that, a reckless, irresponsible lot, but kit had known men with virtues shabbier than the sailors' faults. a week afterwards, he got up one evening from his revolving chair in the _mossamedes'_ saloon. she was going to sea at daybreak, and don erminio had brought his friends on board. all the chairs were occupied, and cigarette smoke drifted about the green trailers of a sweet-potato that grew across the beams. the empty bottles were numerous, and at the end of the table don erminio made a speech. kit heard something about animals and anarchists, and noted that the wine dripped from the glass in the captain's hand. at the other end of the table macallister sang. kit had had enough. he thought he had done all politeness required, and the noisy revels jarred. it was a relief to go on deck and breathe the cool night breeze. _mossamedes_ was a larger boat than the _correillo_. riding near the harbour mouth, her masts and funnel swung languidly, and her lights threw trembling reflections on the black water. a long deckhouse ran aft from the captain's room and pilot house at the bridge, and a row of stanchions carried its top level with the rail. luminous smoke rolled from the funnel; one heard the clank of shovels and hiss of steam. in the background were glimmering surf, lights that twinkled in clusters against dark rocks, and then a gap where the atlantic rolled back to africa. when he ordered his boat kit's heart beat. his last duty before the vessel sailed was to get some documents from the _commandancia_, and then he was going to mrs. austin's. mrs. austin was not at home, but olivia received him on the veranda. "harry and jacinta will not be very long," she said. "i'm sorry," said kit. "i can't stop, but i wanted to say good-bye, and thank your sister." "then you waited for some time. didn't you know jacinta was going to the metropole?" "not altogether," kit replied with some awkwardness. "i think i knew she might go, but the captain was giving a party and i couldn't get off." olivia smiled. she knew her charm, and kit was rather obvious. "when his guests started i was at the mole and i expect the port-guards will get some amusement when they come back," she said. "but why do you want to thank jacinta?" "i imagine she had something to do with my getting the new post." olivia gave him a keen glance and was quiet for a few moments. then she said, "it's possible! you feel you ought to thank her?" "of course," said kit and pondered. it looked as if olivia were angry, and this was puzzling. "the post is good," he resumed. "i could get no farther on board the _correillo_ and my work was not important. on the bigger boat i'll have some responsibility. wolf is not going with her and gives me control. you see----" "i think i do see," olivia interrupted with a touch of scornful impatience. "you imagine you are going to force people to own your talents? this, of course, is enough for you, and you see nothing else. you imagine jacinta knew your ambition and wanted to help?" "i'm satisfied she did want to help, and she has helped. mrs. austin's kind." olivia laughed. kit was very dull, but jacinta's firm rule was sometimes galling. olivia saw her object and wanted to baffle her. besides, she doubted wolf and knew austin did not like him. "kit," she said, "suppose i asked you to do something for me?" "try!" he said, rather tensely, and waited. "then don't go to africa. stop at las palmas." kit's heart beat. olivia had come nearer him; if he moved his hand he would touch her. her voice had a strange, soft note, and she fixed her eyes on his. for a moment he hesitated and then braced himself to resist. it was not for nothing he sprang from puritan stock. "but this is not for you, and i am forced to go. _mossamedes_ sails in the morning, and wolf cannot get another man. besides, the company ordered me on board, and i have the ship's papers. i can't break my engagement when the boat is ready to start." olivia gave him a glance that fired his blood, and then turned her head. at the beginning she had meant to baffle jacinta, but she had another object now. kit's stubbornness was a challenge, and if she could not move him, she must own her charm was weak. vanity accounted for something, but not for all. his resistance moved her to passion. "is it a drawback that the thing i ask is rather for your sake than mine?" she said, looking up. "would you sooner i didn't care if you ran a risk or not?" kit used stern control. olivia was very alluring, and he noted the tremble in her voice. he was strongly tempted, but although he thrilled he was not a fool. she did not belong to his circle; he was poor and her sister, with careless kindness, had tried to help him. by and by perhaps, if he got a good post---- he pulled himself up. if he meant to be honest and justify mrs. austin's kindness, he must stick to his job. besides, if there was a way at all, this was the way that led to olivia. "i think you know i'd like you to care," he said and paused. to talk like this was dangerous. "but why do you want me to stop?" he resumed with an effort for calm. "are you very dull, kit?" olivia asked quietly. kit coloured and got up. after all, he was human and knew he could not hold out long. he thrilled and his hands shook as he turned his soft hat. mrs. austin trusted him, and since he could not see another plan, he must run away. "if my luck is good and i get promotion, i won't refuse another time. now, because your sister got me the post, i must stick to it and go on board." olivia gave him a cool, level glance. "oh, well! i know your obstinacy; you baffled me before." then her look got softer and she added: "but be cautious kit! i don't like wolf." she let him go and when he went down the steps he frowned. he had tried to take the proper line, but he was young and wondered whether his scruples were extravagant. chapter ii the first voyage to some extent, kit's first voyage on board _mossamedes_ was disappointing, and he felt as if he had been cheated. nothing romantic marked the run; the boat was large, her roll was slow and regular, and while her big engines pushed her north against the trade-breeze, one could without much balancing walk the deck. on board _campeador_ one could not. her sharp plunges sent one staggering about, and one must dodge the spray that swept her like a hailstorm when the white surges burst against her forecastle. the spray and violent motion had some drawbacks, but kit got a sense of man's struggle with the sea. on the whole, he thought the morocco coast dreary. the towns were like the spanish towns, dazzlingly white on the water-front, but meaner and dirtier. in fact, to walk about the narrow streets in the dark was rash, and kit was satisfied by his first experiment. the hot, foul-smelling cafes by the harbour had no charm for him, and he lost himself in a network of alleys between straight walls. the alleys were very dark; sometimes an indistinct figure stole past, and sometimes he saw a yellow gleam in a high and narrow window. this was all, and it was a relief to get back to the beach and feel the fresh trade-breeze. as a rule, they moored _mossamedes_ some distance from the beach, and she rode uneasily, rolling on the long swell while her cable jarred against the stem. boats came off with her cargo of beans, barley and maize, and kit, watching the dust-clouds roll along the parched coast, wondered where the produce grew. when he asked yusuf, wolf's agent, the jew vaguely indicated the hinterland. he was, he said, a merchant, and the merchants stopped in the towns. the moors of the back country were strange people, and one left them alone. notwithstanding this, yusuf was obviously a good business man, for the quantity of grain he sent on board was large and when _mossamedes_ weighed anchor, kit thought wolf would find her first voyage profitable. getting off was not easy. she had swung, and her cable, sweeping the bottom, had fouled the anchor. they hove all on board in a horrible tangle, and for hours the barefooted crew were occupied in dragging the ponderous links about. in the meantime _mossamedes_ steamed slowly south, with a yellow smear on her port hand that stood for the coast. the shallows run far to sea, and the charts are not remarkably good. yusuf had sent her to load sheep at the mouth of a wady, but stated that she might wait some days before the animals arrived. miguel, the old quartermaster, steered her in. he had long sailed on board a fishing schooner and knew the shoals, for where the african coast-shelf drops to the deep atlantic, fish are numerous. fish, lightly salted and dried in the sun, make the spanish _baccalao_, and the _peons_, whose main food it is, are sometimes touched by leprosy. miguel never wore boots and stockings, although when he went home on feast days he carried raw-hide sandals. kit rather doubted if he put the sandals on. his clothes were strangely patched, and he could not read, but his manners were the manners of a spanish grandee. he was something of a mystic and believed in miracles. he told kit the moors were cruel and treacherous, but his saint was king of angels, and he was not afraid. the mate was a catalan freethinker, and believed in nothing he could not touch and see. since he wore spectacles, his vision was limited. when they reached the spot agreed upon, miguel went to the bridge, and they rigged the deep-sea lead and stopped the ship. miguel, posed like a greek statue, stood on top of the pilot-house; his thin clothes wind-pressed against his body, and his white hair blown about his red cap. there were no shore marks, and don erminio's reckoning was not always accurate. across a belt of blue sea one saw a brown and yellow streak. its outline was vague and broken; only the colour was distinct. "the _punta_!" said miguel. "the _barranco_ is a league south. a bad place, captain, and the people are without shame." kit knew _barranco_ in castilian and _wady_ in arabic mean a stony hollow where water sometimes flows. he looked for an anchorage, but saw none. in places, the belt of blue was broken by patches of pale green, and farther on, by glistening white lines. these marked ridges on the coast-shelf and shallow spots where the long rollers broke. the wind was fresh but blew obliquely off the coast. "how much water?" don erminio asked, and when miguel answered, signed to a man on the forecastle. "_veremos._ we will see," he said. the lead plunged, the line ran aft, and stopping swung upright at the poop. two men began to haul and one shouted the depth. "half a _brazo_ too much. it is very good," the captain remarked. then the screw began to throb and _mossamedes_, going half-speed, forged ahead. sometimes she crossed green belts and sometimes went round patches where the water was yellow and the swell curled as if the atlantic waves ran up an inclined bottom. kit thought miguel did not hesitate; his lined face was imperturbable, and he directed the helmsman with a firm movement of his hand. yet it was obvious they crept round banks where a ship like _mossamedes_ would not float. when miguel nodded and the captain rang his telegraph, all felt some relief. "_fondo!_" the captain shouted and the anchor leaped from the forecastle. the splash was drowned by the roar of running cable that presently stopped with a jar. she brought up, swung to the wind, and there was a strange quietness on board. "we are arrived," said don erminio. "if miguel's saint does not guard him until the sheep come, i do not think we will get to sea again. in the meantime, we will catch fish and make _baccalao_ for my señora." in the morning they launched a boat and rowed to the coast. the point was low and stony, and farther along the hammered beach a shallow hollow ran down to the sand. in the background one saw a sandy waste dotted by thick-stalked euphorbia. one could land by jumping overboard into the surf while the others held off the boat, and don erminio shot a partridge and got some bait. then they went back to the steamer, and for three days kit and the captain fished. shoals surrounded the basin where _mossamedes_ rode two miles from land. from her deck it looked as if she were at sea, for the banks that sheltered her were only marked by lines of foam. although she rolled, the motion was not violent, and kit got a sense of space and freedom. he liked the lonely anchorage better than a noisy port. in the morning they hoisted the boat's lugsail, and following the edge of the sands, stopped where fish were numerous. a disturbed swell crossed the shoals, and spray blew about. sometimes when the boat sank in the trough they could not see the ship, but the fresh breeze tempered the heat and drove along a thin haze that softened the light. kit caught strange, deep-bodied fish with square heads, and was content. one day, however, the breeze backed north and the boat could not leave the ship. it blew hard, and big, hollow-fronted seas rolled along the coast. in the distance, their ragged crests cut the sky, and the horizon was indented like the edge of a saw. in the foreground they crashed upon the shoals, and all about _mossamedes_ one saw spouting foam. brown dust-clouds tossed behind the yellow streak that marked the coast, and the sky was darkened as if by smoke. macallister was ready to start his engines, but the lead-line that crossed the steamer's rail ran straight down. although she plunged, her anchor held. kit, sitting behind the deckhouse, smoked and mused. he saw that since he arrived at las palmas he had taken greedily all his new life offered; sports he could not enjoy before, the society of cultivated people, fresh excitements and emotional thrills. now, however, a reaction had begun; he must pause and try to see where he was going. to begin with, he thought he had not neglected his duties. it looked as if don ramon at the office approved him, and if they got the sheep on board, wolf ought to be satisfied. _mossamedes_ carried a paying cargo, and kit had kept the cost of shipment low. he was making good, and now he had been given some responsibility, found he could, without much effort, carry his load. in a sense, however, this was not important; he really meant to think about olivia. olivia had carried him away and after a half-hearted struggle he had let himself go. she had beauty, pluck, and a cultivation higher than his. sometimes she was gracious, and when they jarred he thought she found the jars amusing. she laughed at him afterwards and he did not mind. he would sooner she laughed than let him alone. he could not think about her without a disturbing thrill. yet the thing was ridiculous! olivia was rich and extravagant, but he was poor; and not like austin, who had married her sister. but suppose he somehow made his mark? if don arturo, for example, gave him a good post? kit lighted a fresh cigarette and frowned, for he began to see his doubts would not be banished then. after all, he was not olivia's sort. he understood half-consciously that for him her charm was mainly physical, and he had tried to resist. he had an inherited distrust for all that appealed to his senses. with olivia he would get excitement, shocks and thrills. he would live at high tension, and she would take him far; but his vein was sober, and perhaps he would not want to go. yet he was flesh and blood, and her beauty called. the others left him alone, and when a cloud of spray, sweeping over the deck-house, drove him aft, he looked for another quiet spot. the sea was getting worse, and spindrift blew across the turmoil like a fog. _mossamedes_ rolled until her scuppers dipped, and when she swung to the savage gusts the jar of her cable pierced the rumble of the sea. the water in her bilges splashed, and a ragged plume of smoke, blown flat from her funnel, indicated that macallister kept keen watch. for all that, the anchor held, and kit, sheltering behind the after wheel-house, thought about betty. betty was his sort. she understood him, although he did not always understand her. she did not ask much and would not urge one far; betty's plan was to brighten the spot she occupied. kit had doubted its wisdom, but he began to see it had some advantages. yet if betty did not urge, now he thought about it, he had felt her gently lead and had known her way was better than his. he did not see all she saw, but sometimes he was dull. betty was calm and kind and did not think about herself. she had, however, refused him, and he had let her go. all the same, he was glad he could help her, and if his mother had used some tact---- the swinging stern lifted, and the iron deck throbbed. the foam was torn in a frothy patch; kit saw the screw spin, and the throbbing stopped. macallister had turned his engines to satisfy himself they were ready to start. on the surface he was careless and irresponsible, but when the strain came one could trust old mack. on the whole, the break in his disturbing thoughts was a relief to kit. his philosophy was rude, and he did not understand that he was moved by two antagonistic forces. one was altogether of the flesh; the other was not. he did, however, see that his business on board _mossamedes_ was with her cargo, and he began to speculate about the sheep. if the animals did not arrive soon, they ought not to stop. the anchorage was dangerous, and _mossamedes_ was the company's boat. he got up and went off to talk to don erminio. in the night the wind veered to the north-east and got lighter, and soon after daybreak a streak of smoke blew along the beach. juan, the mate, hove out a thirty-foot cargo launch, and kit went down the rope with miguel, the interpreter, and some sailors. a flock of sheep occupied the wady and five or six men, mounted on tall camels, moved the animals to the beach. the shepherds were big men, but their bodies and for the most part their dark faces, were covered by blue and white cloth. kit's job, however, was to count the flock and see all were got on board. he let the interpreter talk and helped miguel. they dropped an anchor and the boat rode in the shallow surf a few yards from the beach. when a large roller ran in they hauled her off and waited; and then, letting her drift back, jumped over and picked up as many sheep as possible before another roller broke. the work was exhausting and sometimes men and sheep washed about in the surf. when they pulled off, the boat held much water and now and then the sea-tops splashed on board. alongside _mossamedes_, the sheep were thrown into a tub, swung out by a derrick when for a few moments she stopped rolling. the tub went up and came down empty, but after the most part of the flock was on board one plunged out through the gangway and the others followed. don erminio stormed, and miguel with stolid patience steered the heavy launch in chase of the animals. she went back and brought off a number of loads, but when the last was on board kit's muscles were sore, and his burned skin smarted with salt. he had, however, got all the flock, and when he went below to bathe in fresh water the screw began to throb. miguel climbed to the top of the pilot-house and _mossamedes_ steamed out slowly between the shoals. chapter iii kit's surprise soon after his arrival at las palmas, kit started for jefferson's office. he had passed an hour with wolf, who declared himself altogether satisfied about the voyage and gave kit some compliments. kit's mood was cheerful; his employer's frank praise was encouraging, and he felt he was making good. besides, wolf would not want him again until next day and, if he were lucky, he might find olivia at home. it was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and as a rule mrs. austin's visitors did not arrive before the evening. on the voyage he had begun to see his haunting mrs. austin's veranda was rash, but as he got nearer las palmas his good resolutions melted. nevertheless he must first see jefferson. when they steamed along the morocco coast they met the _cayman_. she hove to and signalled, the steamer's engines stopped, and a message was shouted through a megaphone. since kit was keen to get to mrs. austin's to carry the message was rather a bore, but he admitted that jefferson ought to know what his captain wanted. in spanish towns a merchant's office generally occupies the ground floor of his house, and kit liked jefferson's. the narrow street was very hot, and the reflections from the white walls hurt his eyes. to enter the tunnel, guarded by a fine iron gate, and cross the shady _patio_ was a relief. in the middle, a little fountain splashed, the walls were lemon-yellow and a splendid purple bougainvillea trailed about the pillars that carried a balcony. the dark spaces behind the posts looked like cloisters. in front big heliotrope bushes occupied green tubs. as he crossed the _patio_ kit met jefferson going to the gate. "hallo!" said jefferson. "got back all right? sorry i can't stop. i've fixed it to meet a customer at the metropole." kit told him about their meeting the _cayman_ and pulled out a folded paper. "i made a note----" "thanks! i must order the truck the captain wants," said jefferson, who did not take the paper. "the port doctor allowed you had loaded up the boat and brought a good flock of sheep. what did you trade for them?" "we landed no goods; i imagined the sheep would be paid for afterwards. looks as if wolf had an agreement with somebody in the interior." "it's not usual. nobody trusts us like that," jefferson remarked in a thoughtful voice. "you carried an interpreter. did you talk to the berbers?" "not at all," said kit. "you see----" he stopped. jefferson was his friend, but after all he was to some extent his employer's antagonist. the other noted his pause. "oh, well, i reckon wolf knows his job, but i'd watch out for those fellows. they're a pretty hard crowd. anyhow, i must get along. do you mind giving my english clerk the note?" he smiled as if something amused him, and went off, and kit crossed the flags. at the arch that opened on jefferson's office, he stopped abruptly and wondered whether his imagination had cheated him. a few yards off betty sat in front of a writing-table. her head was bent; kit saw her face in profile against the coloured wall and noted the clean, flowing line. after a moment or two she looked up and kit's heart beat. his advance was impetuous, and when she gave him her hand he pulled himself up with an effort. when he last saw betty in the shabby street at liverpool, he had kissed her. it was strange and disturbing, but he had come near to kissing her again. betty, however, was very calm and her hand was cool and steady. "why kit! you looked startled!" she said. "i'm very much surprised," he admitted. "you see, i thought you were at liverpool." "at liverpool? then you didn't think i'd gone for a holiday to the south coast?" kit was embarrassed. it looked as if his mother had not used much tact, but betty's smile was gentle. "sometimes you're rather nice, kit, but all the same you ought to see i couldn't go." "we won't talk about it," kit replied. "when i came in you didn't look at all--surprised." betty gave him a calm glance, but he thought she had noted his hesitation. surprised was not altogether what he had meant. "i was not," she said. "i knew you were on board a ship that had just arrived. then i heard you talking to mr. jefferson." he pulled up a chair and studied her while she neatly folded some documents. betty was thin, but if she had been ill, she was obviously getting better. a faint colour had come to her skin, and her eyes were bright. at liverpool she had worn very plain, dark clothes, because they were economical; now her dress was white and she had pretty grey shoes. in fact, betty was prettier than he had thought. perhaps her escape from monotonous labour and the dark liverpool office accounted for much, but she was not the tired girl he had known. kit looked about the room. there was not much furniture, and all was made of canary pine that polishes a soft brown. the wall was yellow, and blue curtains hung across the arch; kit knew they were needed to keep out the morning sun. a rug was on the floor, and it was like the curtains, the dull blue one saw in morocco. betty had fastened a spray of heliotrope in her white dress. "do you like my room?" she asked. "it's just right. the strange thing is, i hadn't noticed this before; i don't think--jefferson bothered about his office. anyhow the room was his." "now it's mine. mrs. jefferson gave me the rug. i think it came from africa. she said you were a friend of hers. isn't she nice?" "she is a very good sort," kit agreed. "i'm glad you have got an office like this; the dark stuffy hole at liverpool wasn't fit for you. i haven't asked if you're getting better, because i can see. somehow you are another girl." betty said nothing, but rather thought kit another man. he looked stronger and his skin was brown. then something about his voice and carriage indicated quiet confidence. at liverpool when kit was resolute he was, so to speak, aggressive, as if he wanted others to remark his firmness. now his glance was calm, his nervous jerkiness had gone. all the same, she thought he had not got fresh qualities but developed those he had. betty knew kit. "but where do you live?" he resumed. "in a spanish town it's awkward----" "i live with mrs. jefferson. before i came we agreed on this. she's very nice and takes me about; sometimes for a drive to the mountains and sometimes in the sailing boat. when i remember my other post, i feel as if i'd got out of prison." kit was satisfied. to know betty was happy was much; she deserved the best. then she gave him a thoughtful glance. "it's strange you didn't know i was coming. mr. jefferson wrote to me a month since." "jefferson wrote?" "of course. he stated he wanted somebody to answer his english letters and undertake general office work, and he understood from you i might take the post." "i certainly did not tell jefferson anything like this," said kit. "i gave mrs. austin my mother's letter, in which she said you were ill and must leave the office. but mrs. jefferson was with mrs. austin, and perhaps they talked about it afterwards." "then, giving me the post was _mrs. austin's_ plan?" betty remarked and kit thought her voice was rather hard. "i expect it was," he agreed. "mrs. austin does things like that. i imagine she persuaded wolf to send me on board _mossamedes_." betty studied him. she did not think he saw the light he had given her. sometimes kit was dull. "don't you like mrs. austin?" he asked. "i like mrs. jefferson better," betty replied. she stopped and noting that kit was puzzled, resumed: "she is kind. so is mr. jefferson. when he comes into his office he throws away his cigar. he asks me--won't i write a note for him and count up the bills. he doesn't think because i'm paid it doesn't matter how he talks. but why did you give mrs. austin your mother's letter?" "now i think about it, i don't altogether know. she's sympathetic and i was bothered because you were ill. i imagine she saw i was bothered." "were you bothered very much?" "of course," said kit. "you were breaking down, and must stop at liverpool in the rain and cold; i had the sea and sun. sometimes i was savage because i couldn't help." "then you didn't think mrs. austin might persuade her husband to give me a post at las palmas?" "i did not. i gave her the letter, that's all. mrs. austin likes helping people, and austin and jefferson wanted an english clerk. i expect this accounts for their engaging you." betty doubted. for one thing, she had met olivia and two or three young men from the coaling wharfs, who had tried to amuse her by humorous gossip about the english people at las palmas. then mrs. austin had sent kit on board wolf's steamer, which made longer voyages than the _correillo_, and had persuaded jefferson to engage her for his clerk. betty thought mrs. austin's object was plain, but wondered much what kit had said to her. since she could not find out, she began to talk about liverpool, and kit presently narrated his adventures on the african coast. nobody disturbed them and the shady room was cool. the smell of heliotrope floated in; one heard the fountain splash and the languid rumble of the surf. betty leaned back in her revolving chair and kit lighted a cigarette. jefferson was occupied for some time at the metropole, but when he crossed the _patio_ he slackened speed in front of the arch. he was a sober merchant, but it was not very long since he was a romantic sailor, and the picture that met his glance had some charm. his pretty clerk rested her cheek in her hollowed hand; her pose was unconsciously graceful, and she studied kit with thoughtful eyes. kit talked and his face wore a strangely satisfied smile; jefferson imagined he did not know his cigarette had gone out. his thin figure was athletic, he looked keen and virile. jefferson approved them both. they had not his wife's and austin's cultivation, but they were honest, red-blooded people. in fact, they were good stuff. for all that he was puzzled; he had not thought musgrave a philanderer. besides his office was not a drawing-room and he advanced rather noisily. kit pulled out his watch and got up with a start, but betty did not plunge into her proper occupation. betty was generally marked by an attractive calm; then she knew her employer. "i expect you gave miss jordan the note about the stores for _cayman_?" jefferson said to kit. kit took out the paper. "sorry, but i did not. i must get on board. perhaps i ought to have gone before." "you can go now. come back for supper, if you like," jefferson replied with a twinkle and put down some documents. "if you can give me a few minutes, miss jordan----" when betty got to work at her typewriter he went to mrs. jefferson's drawing-room. "i have asked young musgrave to supper and reckon he'll come," he said. "don't you know if he is coming?" mrs. jefferson rejoined. "he didn't state his plans. i imagine he was rattled when i fired him out. it had probably dawned on him he'd been loafing about my office most part of the afternoon." "you knew he was a friend of miss jordan's," mrs. jefferson remarked. "i knew jacinta austin was pretty smart, but it begins to look as if she was smarter than i thought." mrs. jefferson smiled. "oh, well, you have got a good clerk and kit has got a post he likes." "but what about olivia?" "i don't think you need be disturbed about olivia," said mrs. jefferson, dryly. "anyhow, you mustn't meddle. your touch is not light." "that is so," jefferson agreed. "jacinta's touch is surely light; she can pull three or four wires at once, without your knowing how she's occupied. for all that, i've a notion she'll some time snarl the wires in a nasty tangle. can't you give her a hint she's got to leave my clerk and kit alone?" "i doubt. the thing is puzzling. you see, betty refused kit," mrs. jefferson remarked in a thoughtful voice. "however, i think two of the leading actors in the comedy know what they want. the others do not." "it rather looks as if three didn't know." "i think my calculation's accurate. however, i see no useful part for us. ours is to look on and smile when the play's amusing." "if jacinta hurts miss jordan, i won't smile," jefferson rejoined. "i'm fond of the girl, because in a way she's like you." "sometimes you're very nice," said mrs. jefferson, and went off to talk to the spanish cook in the kitchen that had, when jefferson got the house, adjoined the stable. chapter iv wolf gives a feast kit returned for _comida_, which in spanish countries is the second proper meal. at jefferson's it was served about five o'clock, and when kit arrived mrs. jefferson indicated a chair opposite betty's at the table in a big cool room. "now we can begin," she said and jefferson clapped his hands for the major-domo. in old spanish houses there are no bells, and one uses customs the moors brought long since from the east. "if i'm late, i'm sorry," kit replied. "i had to call at the _commandancia_ and they kept me longer than i thought." "i expect the _ayutante_ was getting his _comida_," jefferson remarked. "anyhow, you didn't hold up our meal. miss jordan hadn't finished some letters i wanted sent off by the castle boat." "that's some relief," kit said to mrs. jefferson. "although i hurried, i was afraid----" "to wait for one's dinner is not much relief," jefferson rejoined. "then, since you know the spanish rules, my notion is you ought to have got on a hustle earlier." mrs. jefferson gave him a quiet glance and he began to move some plates. betty did not look up, but kit thought she was not at all embarrassed. "i forgot about the _ayutante_'s _comida_. in fact----" he said, and stopped. it was strange, but he had forgotten he had meant to go to mrs. austin's. "give me the hot plates," said mrs. jefferson, and when jefferson did so one slipped and rattled. "perhaps it's lucky my touch is not light," he remarked. "if it had been lighter, i'd have broken some crockery." kit imagined there was a joke, but since the joke was not obvious he studied betty. she now wore a thin black dress, made in the spanish fashion with black lace at the short sleeves and neck. her skin was very white and smooth and kit thought she looked as if she had always worn a dinner dress. the room was spacious. mrs. jefferson's china and silver were good. a bowl of splendid roses occupied the middle of the table, and although they had no smell, the little _tierra_ roses, half hidden by the others, were seductively sweet. decanters of red and yellow wine shone among coloured fruit, and in front of betty a cluster of white muscatel grapes glimmered against dark vine leaves. one got a hint of taste and cultivation, and kit remembered that for a time after his arrival he had felt raw and awkward at houses like his host's. at liverpool betty had worn rather shabby clothes, and often when he met her going home from the office her boots were wet and muddy. now she looked as if she belonged to mrs. jefferson's circle. kit did not know if this was strange or not; he began to think he had not really known betty. all the same, he was conscious of keen satisfaction. betty had fronted poverty and smiled, but her smile was no longer forced. she had escaped, like cinderella, from dreary servitude, and kit was very glad, although he doubted if his analogy were good. cinderella was splendidly conspicuous when she went to the ball, but betty was not. her charm was her gracious quietness; she did not stand out from her background, she harmonised with it. kit thought her like the muscatels that glimmered with pearly tints among the leaves. "i guess you are thinking about wolf's cargo," jefferson remarked. "not at all," said kit. "i was thinking about liverpool. and muscatel grapes." he imagined betty's glance rested on him for a moment and was gone, but jefferson looked amused. "don't you get things mixed? when we towed out on board the old _orinoco_ in the sooty fog, liverpool wasn't much like a vineyard. however, i allow the muscatel's a pretty good fruit. doesn't catch your eye like the red grapes, but when you put the _colorado_ in the press the wine has a bite and some is mighty sour. the white wine's sweet and fragrant. all the same, you don't get the proper bouquet until the grapes are in the press. what d'you think about my philosophy, miss jordan?" "sometimes the press hurts," betty remarked quietly. "it hurts all the time," said jefferson and his thin face got grave. "you know this when you have felt the screws. well, i guess it's done with, but when i hear them sing their latin psalm _in exitu_, i understand. some of us have been in egypt----" "now you are mixing things! you were not in egypt," mrs. jefferson rejoined, and kit thought she meant to banish her husband's sombre mood. "anyhow, egypt's in africa and considerably cooler than the swamp where the _cumbria_ lay. then i reckon harry austin and i made some bricks without much straw." "jacinta helped. she has helped a number of people." "mrs. austin has helped me," kit agreed and looked at betty. it was strange, but he imagined she did not own her debt to mrs. austin. soon afterwards it got dark and they went to the flat roof. there was no moon, but the stars were bright and the sky was clear. the soft land-breeze had begun to blow and stirred the mist that rolled down the dark rocks behind the town. lights twinkled along the sweep of bay and two that swung across a lower group marked _mossamedes_ rolling at the harbour mouth. footsteps and broken talk echoed along the narrow street; one heard guitars and somebody began to sing the _africana_. kit was strangely content. betty was getting strong again, and he thought her happy; he, himself, had a post he liked, and all went well. his ambitions were not important; he was not moved, as he was moved at mrs. austin's, to efforts that would force people to own his talents. in fact, he recovered something of the tranquillity that had marked the afternoons when betty and he gathered primroses in the woods. jefferson talked about the strain and suffering on board the sailing ships. he pictured a battered wooden vessel, stripped to her topsails and staysails and kept afloat by the windmill pump, beating round cape horn while her exhausted crew got mutinous, and food got short. the story harmonised with the languid rumble of the surf, for jefferson's voice was quiet, as if he talked about things that were done with. man had come out of bondage and steam was his deliverer. kit did not want to talk; he was satisfied to be near betty and mrs. jefferson. it was plain that they were friends, and he thought them alike. neither urged her rules on one, but one felt the rules were good. one could do nothing shabby when one had been with them. in the morning, kit went to wolf's office with some documents. perhaps it was the contrast between his employer and his recent hosts, but somehow wolf jarred. kit began to feel vague doubts about the fellow. nevertheless, he admitted that wolf's approval was flattering, and they planned a dinner to be given on board _mossamedes_. the dinner was not like the captain's feast. it was served with much ceremony, and the guests were important people, for the most part spanish merchants and government officers. all the chairs at the long tables in the saloon were occupied, and don erminio, sitting at the end of one, did not look comfortable. the captain liked old english clothes, but now wore his tight, blue _correo_ uniform. moreover, since don ramon, the company's manager, was not far off, and his neighbors were _commandancia_ officials, he could not talk about animals and anarchists. kit's chair was next to jefferson's and opposite austin's, and he was satisfied to look on. he was rather interested by the captain of a french gunboat that had recently anchored behind the mole. captain revillon did not talk, but he looked about thoughtfully, and kit imagined he knew castilian. the giver of the loyal toast was a high official, who said the spanish crown stood for justice and steady progress. one lost much by rash experiments, and to modify cautiously old traditions was a better plan. a country's prosperity was built upon the efforts of all its citizens, and men must know the reward of their labour was theirs. just laws were needed and the loyal _canarios_ knew the spanish laws were good. but this was not all. effort must be made for cultivation and commerce. although the islanders were industrious, much of the soil was barren and sometimes food was short. spain owned a belt of africa with fertile oases where corn was grown and flocks were fed. the country was richer than people thought; it must be developed and extended until it made up for the territories spain had lost. this was why he wished the new venture, launched under the spanish flag, good luck. there was a shout and a rattle of glasses, but kit thought the little french captain pondered. "since france claims the back country, i expect revillon wonders how they're going to extend the rio de oro," jefferson remarked. don ramon, urbane and smiling, got up. the islanders must live by trade, he said. they were a virile race of sailors and small farmers, but since modern ships and machines cost much, they could not refuse foreign help. with english help they had made much progress and might go farther. they had built up cuba and now cuba was gone they must build up their african colony. the _mossamedes_, flying the spanish flag, was opening a new, rich field. don ramon was proud he had some part in sending her out. "he has struck the same note," austin observed. "in a way it's the note one would strike, but somehow i imagine wolf has used the tuning fork. when you make a speech to order, you rather like a hint about the line you ought to take. however, the fellow is going to talk." kit afterwards thought wolf's speech clever. to begin with, he indicated the richness of the rio de oro belt and its hinterland. his venture was small, but when he had opened the way, spanish effort would make the african oases another cuba. he paused and turned to the high official, who smiled as if he agreed. then wolf hinted at a community of interest and talked as if his gains would be his guests'. kit felt that a stranger might imagine the merchants were shareholders and the others had given the undertaking official patronage. "looks as if we were all in it," jefferson commented. "on the whole, i'm satisfied our house is not. i'd rather like to know what revillon thinks." "revillon's thoughts are not very obvious. since he has stopped at las palmas before, i expect he knows our friends are patriotic sentimentalists," austin replied. soon afterwards kit went on deck. wolf did not want him and the saloon was hot. leaning against the rails, he looked across the harbour, and his glance rested on the french gunboat. she was a small, two-masted vessel, of a type that was getting out of date but was used by french and british for police duty on the african coast. sometimes she touched at las palmas for coal, and kit understood she cruised from morocco to senegal. she was not fast, and he thought her rather deep for use in shallow water. when he was on board the _correillo_ he had seen her hauled up on the beach after grounding. hearing a step he turned and saw wolf. "i came up for a few minutes to get away from revillon; the fellow's rather curious about your voyage," said wolf. "besides, i want to talk to you. let's go into the captain's room." the captain's room was on the boat-deck below the bridge. one reached it by a ladder, and nobody was about. wolf turned on the electric light and gave kit a cigarette. "i haven't told you much about your cargo for this run, but i had some grounds for not doing so." "the cargo's ready to put on board," said kit. "not all," wolf replied meaningly. "yusuf, my agent in morocco, will supply or tell you where to get the rest. you will carry out his orders, unless, of course, you resolve to turn down the job." "then, we are to carry goods the spaniards would not allow us to land?" wolf smiled. "now you, perhaps, see why i gave the feast. my guests, so to speak, have given my venture the government's sanction. in spain it pays to have official friends, and a tactful present carries weight. the officers are not as fastidious as yours----" he stopped and kit wondered whether he had said _yours_ unconsciously. kit had thought wolf claimed to be english, but there was a hint of a sneer in his voice. "what are we to carry?" he asked. "cartridges! if you don't like the job, i think i can get another man." kit imagined all traffic with native africans in breach-loading guns and ammunition was forbidden. moreover, it was obvious the spanish government would not approve wolf's supplying the berber tribes with cartridges. this, however, was the government's business, and kit was young. romantic smuggling had some charm; but he hesitated. "why do the berbers want the cartridges?" he asked. wolf shrugged. "i don't know their plans. they're a turbulent, independent lot, and sometimes quarrel with their neighbours who are supposed to belong to france. i expect they have a dispute with another tribe in the back country about an oasis, or perhaps the control of a caravan road. anyhow, i'm sending a small quantity of ammunition, because i want to keep a good customer. well, i won't persuade you. are you going?" "i'll risk it," said kit, rather doubtfully. "does the captain know?" "of course," said wolf, smiling. "don erminio's not scrupulous and sees a chance of earning something besides his pay. all the same, he understands that while he is navigator you are my representative. but i mustn't leave the others long." he went off and kit smoked a fresh cigarette. the adventure had some charm, but he was not altogether satisfied. he had, however, agreed to go, and presently he banished his doubts. chapter v wolf's offer jefferson sat in the shade of the bougainvillea and pondered some letters. austin lounged in a basket-chair opposite and read the _diario_. they had combined their business as far as possible, but pancho brown would not agree to a formal amalgamation. all was quiet. one heard the fountain splash and betty's typewriter rattle. sometimes a voice came from the room where jefferson's spanish clerks were occupied, but this was all. presently austin put down the newspaper. "the tomato crop was light and the vines are doing badly. it's ominous that the palma import houses are cutting down their orders." "martinez allowed he wanted to get out of the deal in chemical fertilisers. trade is looking sick," jefferson agreed. "when i joined pancho brown i used to study the accounts and congratulate myself when i saw our credits going up," austin remarked with a smile. "to feel i could write a cheque for a good sum was something very new. now i'm bothered because we have money at the bank. i don't see how it's going to be usefully employed." "you want to keep money moving. well, i met wolf a day or two since, and he hinted he knew about a deal. i wasn't keen, but he said he might come around and see us. i rather expect him." "you don't trust the fellow?" "sure thing! reckon it's instinctive. i like straightforward folks. wolf's a mystery man." austin looked up and laughed. "he's coming." wolf crossed the flags, and when he stopped by the bougainvillea his face was red. he was fat and his thin, black alpaca jacket looked very tight. "sun's fierce. will you take a drink?" said jefferson, and clapping his hands for a servant, ordered _cerveza_. as a rule, in hot countries, cautious white men do not drink much beer, but wolf drained his glass of pale yellow liquor with obvious satisfaction. "the glasgow stuff is good," he said. "in fact, for british lager, it's very nearly right." "where d'you reckon to get it exactly right? chicago or munich?" jefferson inquired. wolf laughed. "it's good at both cities. at munich there's a _garten_. but i'm not going to bore you by talking about lager." betty's typewriter stopped. the light in the _patio_ was strong and to sit in her dark office and study the group outside was like watching a play on an illuminated stage. the curtains at the arch narrowed her view, and the figures of the actors, sharply distinct, occupied the opening. betty's sense of the dramatic was keen, and she had remarked that wolf sat down where a beam shone over his shoulder. then when jefferson talked about chicago and munich she thought he tried to study wolf's face, but could not. wolf had hesitated for a moment before he admitted that he knew the cities. betty rested her face in her hand and resolved to watch. for one thing, wolf was kit's employer. "trade is slack," wolf resumed. "the spanish merchants see they can't ship much produce and are cutting their orders. i don't know if you feel the slump, but my african speculation promises well. the trouble is, i can't finance it properly, and if you would like to come in----" "pancho brown is old-fashioned and not keen about new undertakings," austin replied cautiously. "do you expect to get larger lots of sheep?" "it's possible, but i thought about buying camels. i reckon i can get them for a low price, paid in trade goods, and i expect you know what they are worth just now." austin pondered. the single-humped camel is used in the canaries, particularly in the dry eastern islands, and the animals cost much. all the same, austin knew his partner doubted. "where do your customers get the camels?" jefferson asked. "i frankly don't know. the berbers are not the people to give you their confidence. it's possible they steal the camels. anyhow, they state they can get them." "well, if you are short of money, we might perhaps supply the goods you want and take the camels at a price agreed." "i can get credit for the trade-goods and sell the camels to spanish buyers as soon as they arrive. in fact, i see no particular advantage in your plan." "then, what is your proposition?" "something like this: i want you to join me in the speculation and take your share of the profit and the risk. there is some risk. the business is going to be bigger than i thought, and my capital is not large. i want partners who will help me seize all the chances that come along and will back me if i get up against an obstacle." austin lighted a cigarette and betty imagined he weighed the plan, but jefferson did not. wolf drank some beer and when he put down his glass betty thought the glance he gave the others was keen. he looked cunning, and she thought if she were austin she would let his offer go. after a few moments jefferson looked up. "harry and i will talk about it and send you a note. will you take another drink?" wolf drained his glass and went off. when he had gone jefferson turned to austin and smiled. "i reckon nothing's doing!" "then why did you promise to talk about it?" "i am talking about it," jefferson rejoined. "i didn't want wolf to imagine i'd resolved to turn down his proposition." "after all, i don't think he meant to cheat us." "not in a sense. he knows you're not a fool and don pancho's very keen." "then what does he want?" austin asked. "i don't know; i'm curious. anyhow, he doesn't want me, although if you and don pancho joined, he reckoned i'd come in. i'm not a british merchant; i'm an american." "but what has this to do with it?" "i allow i don't altogether see. anyhow, wolf's a german." austin looked puzzled and jefferson smiled. "you don't get me yet? the fellow has cultivated out his accent and claims he's english. that's important, because he got his english in the united states and doesn't claim he's american. when i talked about chicago and munich i made an experiment." "he admitted he knew the cities." "that is so. he saw i was on his track and he mustn't bluff. if i'd met wolf in the united states, i mightn't have been prejudiced, but i met him at grand canary, starting a trade with spanish africa. i reckon the spaniards are sore about morocco. at the grab-game, france and britain scooped the pool; germany and spain got stung. anyhow, i've no use for taking a part in world politics, and when musgrave has gone a voyage or two in _mossamedes_ i'll try to get him off the ship." "i wonder whether you know jacinta sent him on board?" jefferson smiled. "does jacinta trust wolf? talk to her about the deal, and if she approves i'll come in." "very well," said austin, and they started for the town. when jefferson returned to his office a clerk brought in a note. "from don enrique, sir." jefferson opened the envelope and laughed, for the note ran: "nothing doing in camels. jacinta does not approve." "sometimes a woman's judgment is sound, miss jordan," he remarked. "mrs. austin doesn't know all i know, but she gets where i get, and i think she got there first." "it is strange," betty said quietly. "one doesn't know when you're amused and when you're not," jefferson rejoined. "however, i want you to send wolf a note." "_dear mr. wolf?_" betty suggested. "i reckon _dear sir_ will meet the bill," said jefferson dryly. "then let's see, 'in reference to our conversation this morning, after careful consideration, we regret we cannot see our way to entertain your proposition.' pretty good office english?" "there are three _'tions_," betty observed. "proposition's all right," said jefferson thoughtfully. "fix the others as you like. you know the sort of thing." he went up the outside stair and found mrs. jefferson on the balcony. "if musgrave's not a philanderer, he's mighty dull," he said. "i'd like you to have seen miss jordan just now. a model clerk, very cool and business-like, manner exactly right. all the same, before i got started she saw where i was going and i guess she smiled." "it's very possible," mrs. jefferson agreed. "well, perhaps it's lucky i'm not jealous!" "you're not jealous, but if i've got an eye for fine and pretty things, you're accountable. once on a time i reckoned a big sailing ship, close-hauled on the wind with all she'd carry set, was beautiful; i hadn't seen you talking to our guests across the fruit and flowers. now i'm thankful for all beauty; things men made like sailing ships, and pretty girls. betty in white by the bougainvillea, olivia on the veranda in her black and gold. this old world is charming since you opened my eyes." "for a business man, you're sometimes extravagant," mrs. jefferson replied. "all the same, you are a dear." jefferson turned and looked over the balcony. a young man who wore spotless white flannel and a red silk belt crossed the flags. he stopped abruptly when jefferson shouted: "hello!" "we thought if you were going to haul up _cayman_ for scraping, you'd like to know our tug is off the slip," the other remarked. "thanks!" said jefferson dryly. "you needn't bother miss jordan about it. _cayman_'s gone to palma." the young man recrossed the flags and jefferson laughed. "his last brain wave was to see if _cayman_ would take coal across for ballast and he could keep us some hefty lumps. yesterday two banana men blew in with a fool proposition about my sending fruit to africa, and before they were through, walters from the cold store arrived. looks as if i'd got to put up barbed wire." "oh, well," said mrs. jefferson, "i don't suppose a sailing ship is their standard of beauty. besides, the big sailing ships are gone." betty, studying some figures in the office, heard jefferson stop the coaling clerk and smiled. young men from the coal wharfs and fruit stores arrived rather often when they thought her employer was not about, and if she was not occupied she sometimes let them talk. for the most part they were a careless, good-humoured lot and she liked their cheerfulness, but this was all. when she refused kit at liverpool she was resolved he must get his chance; now it looked as if she had got hers she was not moved. she contrasted him with the others. they frankly amused her, and sometimes kit was dull. yet she sensed in his soberness something fine that did not mark the rest. they joked and did not bother; kit bothered much. betty liked his tight-mouthed, thoughtful look. his habit was to weigh things, but when he was satisfied he went stubbornly ahead. betty wondered whether he was satisfied about olivia. then, with something of an effort, she resumed her calculations. chapter vi betty carries a message the morning was hot and betty had pulled the curtains across the arch. she typed an english letter and thought about kit. although she knew he had gone to mrs. austin's, it was some days since she had seen him and his steamer would soon sail. betty had expected him to say good-bye to her and was hurt because he had not. presently she heard jefferson's step in the _patio_. he stopped and somebody crossed the flags. "come inside, the sun is pretty fierce," he said, and olivia went through the arch. "i think you know miss jordan," jefferson resumed. betty stopped her typewriter. she was in the shadow and studied olivia, who stood where the strong light shone into the room. betty thought her clothes were made in london or paris; they were in the latest exaggerated fashion, but she admitted that miss brown's beauty justified her wearing clothes like that. betty, herself, wore plain white, and a cheap, spanish sewing woman had helped her to make the dress. "it looks as if you had got up before harry, although you kept him for some time last night," olivia said to jefferson, and took out a small packet. "he had not begun his breakfast when the mail arrived with some samples you want for morocco. harry thought mr. musgrave might leave them for your agent at saffi, but our man was not about and i was going to the shops." jefferson pulled out his watch. "thanks, i'll send the thing on board. i'm going up town. will you come along?" "i'll stop in your cool office for a few minutes," olivia replied, and jefferson turned to betty. "felix will be around soon. send him off with the packet. i expect musgrave will be at the _commandancia_. you have about half an hour." he went off and olivia lighted a cigarette. she threw the match on the floor, and although people smoke in spanish offices betty was annoyed. she wondered whether miss brown's carelessness was studied, but after a few moments olivia gave her a thoughtful look. "i understand kit musgrave is an old friend of yours." "he is my friend," said betty. "then i expect you know he's satisfied with his post. all the same, he ought to give it up." betty said nothing. she thought she saw why miss brown had brought the packet, but did not see where she led. besides, she was conscious of a subtle antagonism. the girl was not the type whose friendship was good for kit. in the meantime, olivia occupied herself with her cigarette. she had meant to make an experiment and satisfy her curiosity, for kit had not come to the veranda much since his return and she had missed him when he was away. "he ought to go back to the _correillo_," she resumed. "however, i expect you know he's obstinate." "sometimes he's firm," said betty, quietly, although quietness was hard. she did know kit was obstinate, but to allow miss brown to talk about it was another thing. besides, she was bothered about the other's object for stating kit ought to go back. "oh, well, it's really not important," olivia replied as if she were bored. "i thought perhaps you might persuade kit to rejoin the _campeador_." she paused and smiled carelessly. "i can't, i admit i tried." "why do you want mr. musgrave to leave his ship? i understand your sister got him the post." olivia was embarrassed, although her embarrassment was not obvious. she had begun by wanting to baffle mrs. austin, whose object for sending kit on board _mossamedes_ was plain. this, however, was some time since, and now she did not know what she did want. she would not acknowledge kit her lover, but she liked to know he was about. all the same, her efforts to separate him from wolf were to some extent unselfish. "i don't want kit to leave the _mossamedes_; i think it better for him to do so," she rejoined. "it's possible my sister did get him the post. jacinta does things like that, but sometimes her plans do not work as she hoped." "then, when mrs. austin sent kit to africa she had a plan?" olivia looked up sharply and threw her cigarette on the floor. she had not found out much and did not mean to argue with jefferson's clerk. "we don't get forward, and i can't stop," she said. "i'll tell you all i know. i think my sister doubts wolf; jefferson frankly distrusts him. he was talking to harry on the veranda and i was in the room behind. it was plain they were puzzled about wolf. jefferson said the fellow was playing a crooked game, and kit ought to quit. anyhow, he ought to know his boss's african scheme was a cover for something else, and he was going to use the french captain. wolf meant to give revillon a part in the plot." olivia got up. "that's all, but i rather agree with jefferson." "if you think mr. musgrave ought to be warned, why didn't you warn him?" "for one thing, i imagined you were his friend," olivia rejoined with a careless smile. "to write a note is sometimes awkward, the steamer sails very soon, and it's obvious i can't go on board and ask for the _sobrecargo_. well, you are jefferson's clerk and have the packet of samples. you can go--if you like!" the curtain swung back, and for a minute or two betty pondered. her curiosity was excited, and she wondered much how far olivia's interest in kit went; that it went some distance was plain. betty felt a keen antagonism for the fashionable and rather scornful girl. yet to some extent the other's object was good; betty thought kit ought to be warned about his employer. all the same, miss brown's statement that betty could warn him was hardly accurate. spanish conventions were strict and betty knew the gossip that marked the english circle. if she went on board the steamer, people would talk and mrs. jefferson would be annoyed. but felix, jefferson's boatman, did not arrive, and betty looked at her watch. something must be risked and perhaps she might meet kit outside the _commandancia_ office. picking up the packet, she got her hat. a _tartana_ waited for passengers at the end of the street, and she got down at the catalina mole. _mossamedes'_ windlass rattled, and her cable was coming in, but a boat with the african house-flag painted on the bow lay against the wall, and betty knew kit had not gone on board. for all that, she did not see him, and the steamer's anchor would soon be up. if he did not come in a minute or two, she would have no time for talk. then he ran out of the office, pushing some papers into his pocket, and stopped. "hallo!" he said. "you are kind to see me off." "i didn't come to see you off. at least, that wasn't all," betty replied. "oh, well," kit said, laughing, "you're generally frank. i'd rather have liked to think you did want to see me off. anyhow, i'm glad you have arrived." betty gave him the packet and he noted the address. "all right, i'll land it at saffi. i wish you had come sooner. they've broken the anchor out." she went across the mole with him and stopped at the top of the steps. he looked keen, alert and handsome. his white clothes were well made, his thin figure was athletic, and betty liked his smile. she felt rewarded; kit was glad she had come. the trouble was, she could not send him off like that. "there's another thing," she said. "jefferson thinks you ought not to stop on board _mossamedes_. he declares wolf is not to be trusted." "ah!" said kit, rather sharply. "but how do you know?" betty braced herself. she must be honest, although it was plain honesty might cost her something. "miss brown came to the office half an hour since and brought the packet. she heard jefferson talk to austin about wolf, and thought you ought to be warned." "she came to the office!" kit exclaimed, and betty saw his satisfaction. "well, she's very kind. but she sent a message?" "wolf is plotting something in africa. his business isn't what it looks. captain revillon has some part in it." kit laughed. "miss brown meant well, you mean well, but you don't understand. wolf is cheating the french captain. he'd an object for asking him to the feast. in fact, i see his plan." "i don't think miss brown was cheated," betty urged. _mossamedes'_ whistle shrieked, foam splashed about her stern and she began to forge ahead. kit shouted to the men in the boat and betty gave him her hand. "don't bother about the thing," he said. "perhaps wolf is rather tricky, but i know him and i won't get hurt. anyhow, miss brown was kind to let me know, and you're a good sort to carry the message." "still, you'll use some caution, kit," said betty, but he waved his hand and ran down the steps. _mossamedes_ circled slowly and forged by the end of the mole, her white deck-houses shining in the sun. kit's boat vanished round her stern, smoke rolled from her funnel, and with a white wave breaking at her bows she steamed out of the harbour. for a time betty watched the ship and her thoughts were moody. she had refused kit at liverpool because both were poor. tired, as she was, of badly-rewarded labour, she might have been satisfied to occupy her self with frugal housekeeping, had she not seen that for kit to marry meant bondage for him. a married clerk with kit's pay durst run no risks, he must stick to his job, indulge his employers and wait for them to offer him better wages. she might have promised to marry kit and let him go to try his luck; but she knew girls whose lovers had gone away. one had come back another man, and betty imagined he saw the girl he dutifully married was not the girl he had thought. the others had not come back at all. it was not that betty doubted kit. he was staunch and did all he engaged to do, but he was young. betty imagined his was a boy's romance and she did not want him to return for her because he thought he ought. besides, he had some talent and might make his mark abroad. if he did so, she was not going to embarrass him. in fact, she, so to speak, resolved that kit must have his chance. now he was obviously attracted by miss brown, and betty knew olivia was not the girl for him. moreover, she was persuaded olivia saw his drawbacks. kit was poor, his infatuation was ridiculous, and to find it out would hurt, but kit would find out. betty frowned because she could not help. by and by she noted that _mossamedes'_ masts and funnel were getting indistinct. the ship's hull had melted to a dark streak, seen for a moment when she plunged across a roller's crest, and betty got up. she had stopped longer than she ought and must hurry back to the office. as she went along the mole she remembered that she had been willing to risk something in order to warn kit, and he had laughed. sometimes one's fine resolutions were rewarded like that. perhaps the thing was amusing, but her smile was dreary. at the office she found jefferson reading a newspaper. "i see you haven't begun the english letters," he remarked. "did olivia stop long?" betty said the boatman had not arrived, and she had taken the packet to the mole. "well, i wanted the thing to go across. i reckon you gave it to musgrave?" "i did so," said betty and noted jefferson's twinkle. all the same, she thought his taking out his watch was unconscious. "perhaps you had better go ahead with the letters," he said. betty started her typewriter, but her thoughts were not fixed on what she wrote. she pondered about wolf and was vaguely disturbed. kit had laughed at olivia's warning, but sometimes kit was confident and rash. after all, it was possible miss brown was justified. then betty glanced at a letter she took from the machine and tore the sheet across. jefferson was not fastidious, but he liked his customers to know what he meant. she could think about wolf and kit again, and in the meantime must concentrate on her proper duty. olivia brown could indulge her romantic imagination when she liked, but betty was a merchant's clerk. chapter vii shipping camels _mossamedes_ dropped anchor as near as was safe to the flat-roofed moorish town. the roadstead was open and the harbour was only deep enough for boats, but so long as the wind did not back to the north one could ship cargo, and the agent sent off a quantity of maize and beans. in the canaries corn is scarce, and the _peons_ roast and grind such grain as they can get for their coarse _gofio_ meal. kit was rather disturbed about the cartridges, although wolf's jewish agent had so far refused to state when they would go on board. kit was the steamship company's servant, the ship was british, and he thought he ought to have warned the manager how she might be used. the trouble was, he was wolf's servant, too. besides, it was possible don ramon was informed. when the grain was on board kit went one evening to the agent's house. yusuf was old and yellow-skinned. his beard was thin and his long hair greasy with scented oil, but he had a touch of dignity. kit went through a little dark shop to his office and sat on a low, flat-topped couch. an iron chest stood against the opposite wall, and an open lamp hung by chains from the roof. a door with a horseshoe arch and a leather curtain led to the house; the door to the shop was strong and iron-bound. one very narrow window pierced the wall. the jews have long traded in morocco, but they know the risk, and kit generally found it a relief to finish his business and get back to the harbour. yusuf transacted wolf's business in the evening, and when kit arrived the copper lamp was lighted. yusuf gave him a little cup of black coffee and a cigarette with a strange, bitter taste. then he talked about the grain, and presently took a long roll of paper and some documents from the chest. "this voyage we will give you camels," he said in good castilian. "you will get them where you got the sheep. since you will not come back, i will give you the bills of lading for the captain to sign." "the rule is to sign the bills of lading when the goods are shipped," kit remarked. "in this country english rules do not go. a trader must run some risks and you will need proper documents for the spanish officers." kit agreed. wolf had told him he must trust yusuf, but he did not, although he was willing to carry out his orders. there was something secretive about the old fellow; one felt strange plans were made in his small dark shop. in fact, kit would have trusted nobody in the town. the people were a strange, silent lot; the moors stamped by an inscrutable reserve. the jews and half-breed christians looked furtive and afraid. to hear the negroes' noisy talk was a relief, but all was quiet after dark. "i understand you have some other cargo for us," he remarked. "that is so. when you go back to your boat you will find the boxes are on board." kit thought it strange. his boat lay alongside the little mole, where people could see goods carried down, and since yusuf had got the cartridges kit wondered why he had not smuggled them off overland. to use a steamer like _mossamedes_ to carry a few boxes along the coast was a strange plan; but then the business was all strange. "where must we land the goods?" he asked. "i will show you," said yusuf, and when he unrolled the long paper kit saw with some surprise it was a good chart of the african coast. "you will anchor here and signal," he said, marking a spot. "when you see smoke among the sandhills send off your boat. afterwards you will steam back to the anchorage you know and wait for the camels." "but we may wait for some time," kit objected, noting the distance between the spots. "i think not. a messenger will be sent and a good camel travels fast," yusuf replied, and kit, picking up the chart, started for the harbour. the night was not dark and when he jumped on board his boat he noted a row of small boxes stowed in the bottom. "but this stuff is heavy!" said old miguel, striking a cardboard match. kit told him to put out the match, but was relieved to see the boxes were not numerous. then they had, so to speak, been put on board openly, and kit felt that after all he need not bother don ramon about the thing. "we will go. push off," he said. the men pulled down the harbour. a smooth swell rolled in and two or three anchor lights tossed and swung. by and by engines throbbed in the dark, and kit saw moving beams of red and green. the french gunboat had arrived the day before, and her launch was coming off from the mole. for a minute or two kit was disturbed, but the launch steamed by and vanished in the dark. kit steered for _mossamedes'_ lights and when he got on board went to the captain's room. don erminio, wearing his old english clothes, fronted macallister in greasy dungarees, and between them some bottles and glasses balanced the swing-table. kit put down the bills of lading and remarked that he had agreed the captain would sign the documents. "but of course," said don erminio, "when i sign for señor wolf, i will sign all you ask. when i sign for me, it is another thing. then, if i am not cautious, somebody gets my dollars." "where are we going?" macallister asked. kit spread out the chart and indicated the spot yusuf had marked on the curve of a bay. it looked as if landing would not be hard, but although the chart did not give the political frontiers, he imagined the bay was outside the spanish belt. "i expect the coast is french. it's awkward; particularly since we carry cartridges." "senegal's french," said macallister. "the rest is nobody's; the strongest tribe uses the ground it wants. man, they're amusing fellows at the foreign offices. do they think they can parcel out africa wi' a gold fountain pen?" "sometimes the french foreign office uses the foreign legion." "must i teach ye geography? the legion leeves in algeria, and that's t'ither side the country o' kaid maclean." "it is not important," don erminio remarked. "all politicians are animals, and if the moors shoot somebody with the cartridges, it is not my affair. i will catch fish for _baccalao_ and then my señora will not want much money." kit put away the chart and went on deck. he rather envied don erminio's philosophical carelessness. the captain did not bother; if he could catch fish and shoot rabbits, he was satisfied. kit was not like that. his job was to keep things going smoothly, but things did not go smoothly when one left them alone. he was accountable to wolf and the owners of the ship, and began to see his duties might clash. walking up and down the boat-deck, he frowned when he heard the clink of glasses and don erminio's laugh. then macallister began to sing, and kit went off impatiently to his room. at daybreak they hove anchor and steamed south along the coast, until one morning a dark line on the port bow indicated land. then they turned a quarter circle, the line got faint, as if it ran back to the east, and after they took soundings _mossamedes_ steamed into a wide, shallow bay. some time after she brought up a plume of smoke blew across the sandhills, a boat was swung out and kit and the interpreter went ashore. nothing romantic marked the landing of the cartridges. a few big, dark-skinned men came down the beach, took the boxes from the sailors and vanished in the sand. the boat pulled off and kit began to think smuggling in africa was strangely flat. then _mossamedes_, stopping now and then to use the lead, steamed north dead-slow. they saw no ships, although at times a trail of smoke stained the blue horizon. liners bound for cape town kept deep water, and the captains of the guinea boats hauled off until they made cape verde. the stream of traffic flowed along, but did not touch the forbidding coast. at length don erminio headed cautiously for the beach and _mossamedes_ dropped anchor in the pool among the sands. for two or three days the captain and kit went fishing and then, when the smoke signal wavered about the mouth of the wady, kit went ashore with miguel in the big cargo launch. in a sense, perhaps, the job was not his, but he felt his responsibility. the camels were his employer's, and he must see them got on board. the morning was hot, the sea luminous green, streaked by dazzling lines of foam. sandhills and stony hummocks floated like a mirage in quivering, reflected light. farther off, dust storms tossed in spirals and dissolved. now and then the wind got light for a few minutes and kit felt he could not breathe, but there was no break in the steady beat of the white surge on the beach. when the rollers began to curl miguel threw out an anchor, and the boat drove in stern-foremost until the rope brought her up. this was possible because the headland broke the sea, but kit thought the launch would soon be swamped if the wind backed farther north. the interpreter jumped overboard, and by and by men in fluttering blue and white clothes drove the camels from the wady. when the animals reached the beach all the crew but miguel went overboard, and the hardest work kit had known began. the camels knelt while the head-ropes were fixed, but some stretched their long necks and tried to seize his arm with their yellow teeth. they grunted and made savage noises, and when they were driven to the water obstinately stopped. the single-humped camel can swim, but will not, unless it is forced, and to break the big animal's firm resolve is not easy. moreover, the launch leaped and plunged and must be hauled off when a large roller came in like a glittering wall. spray blew about; sometimes the men were knee-deep, and sometimes buried to the shoulders, in angry foam. now and then kit was knocked down and washed up the beach among the legs of a floundering camel. in the background, the group of moors sat on the beach and watched; their dark skins and harshly-coloured clothes distinct in the strong light. when miguel was satisfied he could take no more, they hauled off the boat and tied the camels by the short head-ropes along her gunwale. then the anchor was got up and they began to row, but although they pulled the long oars double-banked, did not make much progress. it looked as if the camels, supported by their halters, were satisfied to be towed. the animals floated awkwardly and their bodies were a heavy drag. to drive the boat ahead was exhausting labour in the burning sun, and by and by kit relieved a man whose efforts got slack. his clothes had dried stiff, his hair was full of sand, and the salt had crystallised on his burned skin. at length they stopped abreast of the steamer's gangway and somebody threw a rope. _mossamedes_ rolled, lifting a long belt of rusty side out of the foam. sometimes she was high above the boat, and sometimes she sank until the water splashed about the open iron doors. a man, seizing a boathook, stood ready to fend-off the launch; the others got canvas bands under the camels. then a long derrick swung out and a band was hooked to a wire rope. "_ahora! llevadlo!_" shouted miguel and a winch began to rattle. the rope tightened with a jerk, a camel rose from the water, and for a few moments swung wildly to and fro. the animal looked ridiculous, with its outstretched neck and paddling legs. then _mossamedes_ steadied and one heard running wire; the camel sank and vanished and the rope came down again. when all were on board, miguel started for the beach with a fresh crew, and kit went to see the animals fastened up and fed. the mate was accountable for their stowing, but camels were worth much at grand canary, and kit imagined his employer's interest was his. sometimes when he thought about his efforts afterwards, he smiled. he was occupied until the launch returned and he went ashore again. the tide had risen and the surf was worse, but they got another load. the launch came back half-swamped with the men exhausted and a broken oar, and on her next voyage the crew kept her off the beach until the tide fell. while she rolled and plunged at anchor kit lay in her bottom and watched the angry combers crash upon the beach. they brought off the last few animals in the dark and kit washed away the sand and salt. three or four dark bruises marked his skin, his hands were blistered and he limped because a camel had stepped upon his foot. all the same, when he put on soft clean clothes he was satisfied. _mossamedes_ would go to sea at daybreak and it was something to know the job was done. chapter viii an idle afternoon the veranda was shady, and kit sat on the top step in the cool breeze that blew between the posts. olivia occupied a basket-chair farther back; her pose was languidly graceful and sometimes she smiled. it was not for nothing she had put on clothes she liked the best of all she had, but she thought she knew why kit for the most part looked at the town and not at her. sometimes his puritanical conscience bothered him. mrs. austin's rule was to receive all her friends who liked to come after six o'clock, but kit had arrived two hours sooner, because olivia had hinted that he might. she knew jacinta would not be about, and now thought kit imagined he ought to go. the landscape he contemplated had some charm. the sun was behind the mountains, and the dark rocks were a good background for the white town and the cathedral towers. the white was not dead; the shadow had touched it with elusive grey and blue, and the rows of houses glimmered, somehow like pearls. in front the sea was a wonderful ultramarine. in the meantime, olivia studied kit's figure and his face in profile. she thought his profile good, there was something ascetic about its cleanness of line. he was thin, but his white clothes rather emphasised the firm modelling of his neck and shoulders and the curve to his waist. all the same, olivia thought his quietness tiresome. "the view from the veranda _is_ rather fine," she said. kit looked up with an apologetic smile. "you imply i'm dull? perhaps i am dull. you see, i was pretty strenuously occupied not long since." "catching fish for the captain's señora?" "we did catch some fish, but we shipped some camels through the surf, and ran into bad weather coming home. to keep the animals alive was an awkward job. the sea came on board, the fodder washed about, and the scuppers were choked. the ship got a list, and two or three feet of water splashed in the angle between her deck and side. camels can't stand getting wet, you know." "i don't know," olivia rejoined. "besides, i don't see how the bad weather accounts for your absorption in the view." "oh, well! after a job like ours you want a rest, and there's something about grand canary that makes you satisfied to loaf. the island of the golden apples, the old explorers talked about! then i think the nicest spot in grand canary is mrs. austin's veranda. anyhow, if i had talked, you might have got bored. you are bored sometimes." olivia laughed. "you are modest, but if you know when i am bored you are cleverer than i thought. however, when you first arrived you would have been hurt." "one gets philosophical and no doubt i was very raw. i hadn't known you and mrs. austin." "to know jacinta is something of an education," olivia agreed. "but you talked about the old explorers. have you ever seen the island of san borondon?" "i have not," said kit. "i'm a practical fellow and don't see things like that. all the same, our quartermaster declares he has seen san borondon, and it's possible. old miguel's a mystic and the finest sailor we have on board. the sort of fellow they'd have made a saint in columbus's days----" he mused for a few moments and resumed: "well, the story's curious. if you leave out a few desert rocks, there are six canary islands; the first explorers saw seven. the seventh was san borondon, where it is always calm. when the galleons came back to conquer it, the island was gone, but now and then somebody sees the mountains against the sunset, in the same spot as you steam west to hierro. a mirage, no doubt, but one can understand the sailors' weaving legends about san borondon." "i expect the monks wove the legends," olivia remarked. "their business was to point a moral, and the grail story's old. it looks as if they could not find a knight-adventurer like galahad. yet you imagine your quartermaster----" "old miguel is something like galahad," kit said quietly, although a touch of colour came to his skin. "believes in his saints and keeps his rules. as trustful as a child, polite as a spanish hidalgo, and brave as a lion! one does meet some fine gentlemen. jefferson's another." olivia said nothing, but on the whole she agreed. although jefferson had some drawbacks and kit's were numerous, their puritanical sincerity had charm. as a rule she had not found the type polite, but kit was getting sophisticated. his touch of colour indicated this. "i expect you are going back on board _mossamedes_?" she said by and by. "for another run. after that i don't know," kit replied. he did not know and was rather disturbed. when he was going to mrs. austin's he met don ramon, who stopped him. "has wolf talked about his future plans?" the manager asked. kit said wolf had not, and don ramon resumed: "you see, the charter does not run long, and _mossamedes_ is an expensive boat for the morocco trade." kit had thought this and was bothered about something else. he wondered whether don ramon knew about the cartridges. in a way, perhaps, the thing was not important, since the quantity was small, but kit thought don ramon ought to know. yet so long as he took wolf's pay he was wolf's man. "before you sailed on your last voyage i sent you a message," olivia resumed. "i got the message. you were very kind." "but this was all. you thought i exaggerated?" "no," said kit. "you stated wolf meant to use captain revillon. well, i thought i saw his object." "you mean, wolf meant to cheat him?" "in a way perhaps----" kit agreed and stopped. olivia laughed. "you are very staunch. in fact, you have a number of qualities one does not at first expect. all the same, i don't think you ought to go to africa often." she was sincere, because she instinctively distrusted wolf, but she wanted to keep kit about las palmas; to some extent because jacinta had planned to send him away. she did not know if she wanted him to stop for good. his firmness intrigued her, she liked his honesty and his physical attraction was strong. sometimes she hesitated and sometimes resisted. olivia was calculating rather than romantic, and frankly did not see herself marrying a steamship _sobrecargo_. "i must go for another voyage," kit replied. "i have engaged to go, and for another thing, mrs. austin got me the post. i want her to think i'm making good. it's obvious i owe her much." olivia knew he owed her sister less than he thought. sometimes kit was very dull, but he had given her an opportunity to experiment. "jacinta likes helping people and as a rule it doesn't cost her much. for example, when you told her about miss jordan, harry and jefferson wanted an english clerk. i think miss jordan's satisfied, but i doubt if she's as grateful as you." "she's altogether satisfied----" kit declared and stopped. betty's gratitude to mrs. austin was not very marked. "oh, well!" olivia resumed, "jefferson's a good sort and i think he's lucky. miss jordan is a good clerk and an attractive girl. people like her, and jefferson's _patio_ is getting a fashionable spot in the afternoon. you can study the latest styles in men's light clothes." "do you mean the coaling and banana men pretend they have some business and hang about?" "i don't know if they pretend, but they do hang about. jefferson declares if he wanted coal he could get an extra bag to the ton, and ritchie told him an ingenious plan by which he could cut down _cayman_'s fresh water bill." "ritchie's the theatrical fellow with the _sombrero_ and brigand's sash?" "he is theatrical," olivia agreed and smiled. "since he has neglected me, his theatricalness is plainer. no doubt miss jordan finds him amusing, but when _cayman_ is in port he goes to the office. looking for orders, i believe." "all the coal _cayman_ burns goes on the galley fire," kit remarked with a frown. "a ton a voyage would see her out." olivia noted his frown. she admitted that her methods were crude, but cleverness, so to speak, would be wasted on kit. in some respects, he was like a child. "after all, i don't see why miss jordan should not marry a coaling clerk," she said. "one or two are rather nice." kit set his mouth. he had not thought about betty's marrying and owned that it ought not disturb him, but it did so. his look was sternly thoughtful, and olivia touched his arm. she had made her experiment and although she did not know if she wanted kit for herself or not, she resolved he was not for betty. "you have no grounds for meddling, and miss jordan is not a fool; i think she's fastidious," she said. "when you come back we must try to get you a post at las palmas. if you get a proper start, you might go far, and perhaps the post can be got." kit's heart beat. olivia wanted him to go far, and this implied much. he forgot betty, and then looking up, saw mrs. austin and her husband on the steps. "hallo!" said austin. "i imagined you were occupied on board. as a rule, you stick to your job tighter than i stuck to mine. anyhow, since you have come ashore, you'll dine with us?" kit was somewhat embarrassed. he had seen mrs. austin give olivia a keen glance; moreover she had left her husband to ask him to stop. signing to olivia, she went into the house. "why did you put on that dress?" she asked. "it's light and cool," olivia replied and added with a smile: "sometimes you're romantic and let your imagination go." "i'd like to think i was romantic, but i doubt. anyhow, kit is flesh and blood. why can't you leave him alone?" "my dear! you really ought to keep the conventions. the proper line is to argue i oughtn't to let the young man bother me. however, it's obvious you don't mean to be nice." mrs. austin frowned and went off. she had controlled her husband and others, but olivia baffled her. if the girl resisted from obstinacy, there was perhaps no need for disturbance; the trouble was, mrs. austin did not know. besides, kit was trustful. she had meant to be his friend and was angry because her plans had not worked. kit did not enjoy his dinner. mrs. austin was polite, but he felt she was annoyed, and when he tried to talk to olivia she firmly started another subject. olivia looked amused and her amusement jarred. kit was young and if he were being punished, thought olivia ought to sympathise. soon after dinner he declared he must go on board and olivia got up. "where are you going?" mrs. austin asked. "i'm going to the gate with kit," olivia replied carelessly, and mrs. austin knew her smile meant she could not meddle when the others were about. olivia went down the path with kit and stopped at the gate. it was getting dark and some tamarisk grew between them and the house. "you don't look very cheerful," she remarked. "i'm not cheerful," kit admitted. "i'm afraid i have annoyed mrs. austin." "jacinta has her moods," olivia agreed. "however, if she wasn't very nice to you, she wasn't nice at all to me. besides, you really ought not to have stopped when she was not at home. jacinta is conventional, although she pretends she is not. we all are conventional, you know." kit looked hard at her and was hurt. olivia, herself, had fixed the time for him to come, and had kept him when he would have gone. for all that he said nothing and she resumed in a gentle voice: "well, you are going back with the steamer and i will not see you before you sail. you'll use caution, kit?" he thrilled, but said quietly: "i don't think much caution's indicated. we have gone twice and nothing has bothered us." "oh well," said olivia: "you are obstinate and i suppose you must go. perhaps i'm superstitious, but sometimes the third venture is unlucky." she touched his arm. "i don't want you to run a risk!" kit tried to seize her hand but she was gone. he saw her figure melt into the gloom among the tamarisk, and then, looking round, noted wolf coming up the path. "hallo, musgrave!" said wolf. "have you gone to the _commandancia_ for your papers?" "i went in the afternoon and got the documents," kit replied, and started for the road. wolf went to the veranda and talked to mrs. austin until some others arrived; then he crossed the floor. a chair by olivia was unoccupied, and noting wolf's advance, she gave a young man an inviting smile. the young man did not remark this and wolf got the chair. "malin deserves to pay for his dullness," he said. "then you saw me signal?" olivia rejoined. "all the same, you came!" "one sometimes gets a humorous satisfaction from baffling people. besides, i wanted to persuade you i'm not revengeful. it's obvious you don't like me." "oh well," said olivia, "i don't claim my prejudices are always logical. sometimes one likes people, and sometimes one does not." "we'll let it go and i'll try to be resigned. however, i don't think you ought to prejudice my _sobrecargo_." olivia's eyes sparkled. it looked as if wolf had seen her touch kit; he was very keen. "do you know i have prejudiced mr. musgrave?" she asked. "he has not hinted this; the young fellow is staunch, for all that, i don't imagine you approve his sailing on board my ship. do you approve?" olivia said nothing, and wolf resumed: "if it will give you much satisfaction, i'll discharge him after the next voyage." for a few moments olivia thought hard. she wanted kit to leave _mossamedes_, but she did not know yet if she wanted him to stop about las palmas altogether. then she felt that wolf was not the man to whom she would like to owe a debt. the fellow was cunning. "oh no!" she said smiling, "it's really not important, and i wouldn't like to feel accountable if he didn't get another post." "very well. if he wants to go, i'll use no arguments. if he wants to stop, you won't try to persuade him he ought not?" "i agree," said olivia, and getting up, waited until wolf went off. chapter ix the third voyage _mossamedes_ was hauling out from the mole, and kit, on his way to his room, stopped to look about. the deck was strewn with cargo, for a small steamer that had tied up alongside had just moved astern. winches rattled and a gang of men lowered some heavy wooden cases into the hold. another gang got in the slack of a big rope made fast on the wall. there was much shouting; the pilot in front of the wheel-house roared orders, don erminio ran up and down the bridge and the mate was vociferous on the forecastle. macallister looked out with ironical amusement from the door of the engine-room. as a rule the scot is not theatrical, and when others were noisy macallister's dour calm was marked. "they're pretty clothes," he said, indicating kit's white uniform. "for a' that, if i had your figure, i'd wear something thick. i alloo miss brown thought ye like a tablecloth on a pump. but why are ye no' helping the ithers at the comic opera?" "i have another job," kit rejoined, putting a bundle of documents in his pocket. "it doesn't look as if you bothered about yours!" the engines had begun to throb, and the telegraph rang violently. macallister signed to somebody below and grinned. "yon's don erminio taking the floor. he means naething and i dinna mind him. when the action kin' o' drags he shouts and gives the telegraph handle a bit pull. when ye think aboot it, temperament's a curious thing. maybe ye have seen a big boat haul out on the clyde? noo an' then an officer lifts his hand, ye hear a whistle, and a winch starts. all's calm and quiate. she's away, ten thousand tons o' her, before ye ken what's gaun on!" "you're a grim, efficient lot," kit remarked. "just now it looks as if the pilot meant to hit the coaling tug. i don't know if you can stop him; that's your business and his. i'll get to mine before she starts to roll." he went to his room, pulled up his folding stool, and threw the documents on his desk, for he was rather puzzled about some cases of agricultural machinery and tools. perhaps these were the boxes transhipped from the other boat, but, so far as kit knew, agricultural machinery was not much used in morocco. in fact, he thought the moors' methods were the methods of abraham. in the meantime, the shouts got louder, and kit imagined juan on the forecastle, disputed with the pilot on the bridge. "_pero, señor!_" the mate's expostulating cry pierced the turmoil, and then kit's inkpot jumped from the desk. he saw a dark smear on his new clothes, _mossamedes_ trembled, and he felt a heavy shock. his stool tilted, and he went over backwards and struck his head against the locker. getting up rather shakily, he remarked that the ship had listed, for the floor of his room was sharply inclined. when she lurched upright with a jerk he seized the doorpost and then, since it was obvious she was not capsizing, put the cork in the inkpot and began to pick up his papers. he had something of the sobriety that marks the puritan temperament, and it was characteristic that he occupied himself with his proper job. the papers for which he was accountable must not get stained by ink. when he had put all straight he went on deck. not far off, the coaling tug circled back for the wharf. her bulwarks were broken, some plates were bent, and she had let go the string of barges she towed. on board _mossamedes_ don erminio leaned against the bridge-screens and his face was very white. the pilot stated loudly the course the tug's _patron_ ought to have steered, and the mate and a number of sailors ran about the deck. kit did not think they were usefully employed. going to the forecastle, he found macallister leaning over the rails. a plate was bulged and the stem was bent, but it looked as if all the damage were above the water. lines of foam ran by and melted ahead, for _mossamedes_ was steaming stern-foremost out of port. "she's no' much the worse; i dinna ken aboot the tug," macallister remarked, and took kit to a spot beneath the bridge. "tell the captain to brace up and get away to sea," he resumed. "if he's no' quick, the _commandancia_ launch will come off and stop us to make reports. they'll forget a' aboot it before we're back." kit translated and don erminio, pulling himself together, advanced upon the pilot. a savage dispute began, but presently the captain stopped and spread out his hands. "the animal is not satisfied. he will not go." "aweel, i'll come up and pit him off," macallister remarked and climbed the ladder. the pilot hesitated. his duty was to take the ship outside the mole, but the engineer's look was resolute, and he retreated to the ladder at the opposite end of the bridge. when macallister reached the top the pilot had reached the bottom, and a few moments afterwards, went down a rope to his boat. "noo, if ye'll put the helm across, i'll give her a bit shove ahead and we'll get away," macallister said to the captain and rejoined kit. "nane o' it was my job and maybe on board a british ship i'd no' ha' done as much," he observed and vanished below. _mossamedes_ circled, the engines throbbed harder, the mole dropped back, and kit began to laugh. he agreed that macallister would not have done as much on board a british ship. for all that, his rude but cool efficiency was rather fine. half an hour afterwards kit took some documents to the captain's room. don erminio was stretched on a locker, and a bottle of vermouth and some palma cigars balanced the swing-table. when he saw the documents he frowned. "another day. just now i am ill," he said. "when one has an assassin for a pilot, to command a ship is not amusing. i bear much, but some time i take enrique maria contallan y clavijo by the neck and throw him in the sea. in the meantime, i have saved the ship and we will take a drink." kit refused politely and did not smile. he liked don erminio and the captain was not a fool. kit had known him calm and steady when things were awkward, and sometimes his pluck was rash. all the same, he was unstable; one could not foresee the line he would take. the spanish character frankly puzzled kit. it was marked by sharp contrasts, and one could use no rules. macallister and jefferson were not like that. their qualities, so to speak, were constant. when the strain was heavy one knew they would be cool. _mossamedes_ steered for the eastern islands, and in the morning the parched rocks of lanzarote melted in the glitter on the horizon. then she headed for africa and at sunset don erminio stopped the ship and used the lead. he got soundings on the coast-shelf, and kit, passing the chart-room, imagined the mate and captain argued about the ship's position, but when _mossamedes_ went on again the compass indicated that don erminio had hauled out to avoid shoals. when the moon rose one saw nothing but sparkling water, the swell was long and measured, and the leadsman, making another cast, got no bottom. it looked as if they had left the hummocks on the coast-shelf astern, and _mossamedes_ went full-speed. about midnight kit lounged and smoked on a locker in the engine-room. he was not sleepy, and since _mossamedes_ sailed, had thought much about olivia. on the whole, his thoughts were disturbing. when he was with olivia he forgot his poverty; all he saw was her charm. she was beautiful, she was clever and now and then he got a hint of tenderness that gave him a strange thrill. the thrill moved and braced him; while it lasted all looked possible. somehow he would mend his fortune and make his mark. austin, who had held kit's post, had done so and married olivia's sister. afterwards, when olivia was not about, kit knew himself to be a fool. to begin with, he had not austin's talents and must be satisfied to keep his proper level. then supposing he did get rich? after all, he was not olivia's sort. kit was staunch and stopped there; he would not admit that sometimes he vaguely doubted if olivia were the girl for him. instincts he had inherited from sober and frugal ancestors were strong. yet for the most part he resisted unconsciously. when one is young and carried away by an attractive girl one is not logical. lighting a fresh cigarette, he looked about. _mossamedes_ rolled and light and shadow played about the machinery. in front, the bright cranks flashed and faded in a shallow pit, the crossheads slammed between their guides and the connecting-rods, shining like silver, swung out of the gloom. above, the big cylinders throbbed and shook with the impulse that drove the ship ahead. men like shadows moved about with oilcans and tallow-swabs, but now and then a moving beam touched a face beaded by sweat. macallister occupied the top of a tool box and smoked a black pipe. kit liked the engine-room. the steady beat of the machine was soothing. one got a sense of order, measured effort and strength that matched the strain. force was not wasted but sternly controlled. in the engine-room macallister was another man, quiet, keen, concentrated, and kit understood the scots' satisfaction when all ran well. they sprang from a stock that counted rule and effort to be worth more than beauty. there was a crash, and kit jumped from the locker. _mossamedes_ stopped and the shock threw him against a column. he seized the iron and held on, conscious that he trembled. the jar was terrifying because it was not expected. a sea broke about the vessel, she shook and water rolled across the deck. a greaser shouted and kit saw macallister on the grated platform above. he had not seen him go, but his hand was on the throttle-wheel. he did not look disturbed, and signed a man to the control of the reversing-gear. if the link were pulled across, the engines would go astern. the telegraph, however, was silent and macallister did not turn the wheel. the ship lifted, lurched forward, as if a sea had borne her up, and went on. macallister waited for a few moments and then went up to the door with kit. the door on the starboard side looked out towards africa, but nothing broke the furrowed plain of glittering sea. "i'm thinking she bumped a bit hummock," macallister remarked. "she got a jolt, but the old boat was built by men who dinna scamp their job. where ye see yon house's name, ye ken the work is good." "all the same, you have started the bilge pump," said kit, for a sharp throbbing pierced the beat of machinery. "pepe will let her rin a few minutes. although i dinna expect she'll draw much water, ye keep the rules," macallister replied and turned to miguel, who came along the alleyway. "what do you think about it, friend? the third voyage has not begun well." macallister's castilian was uncouth, but miguel understood. "it is not good, don pedro! a bad coast and a treacherous people, but one is not disturbed. some of the saints were fishermen, and mine is king of all. but i go to try the after well." he went off, but kit had noted that the line he carried was neatly coiled and the sounding-rod was wet. he thought it typical that the old quartermaster had tried the forward well a few moments after the ship struck. moreover his talk about his saint somehow was not extravagant. one felt that miguel knew and trusted his great patron. "a most queer fellow," macallister remarked. "a believer in wax images and pented boards." "pented boards?" said kit. "just that," macallister rejoined. "ye'll no ken the scottish classics. when the great reformer was a galley slave they gave him the image to worship. 'a pented brod, mair fit for swimming than praying til,' says he and threw't overboard. weel, for miguel, the images are not pented things, and i've met weel-grounded scots i wouldna trust like him. he kens his job and his word goes. i alloo it's much." kit went on deck. the sea sparkled in the moon and long regular combers rolled up from the north. one could not see land and nothing indicated shoals ahead. _mossamedes_ dipped her bows to the knight-heads and showers of spray leaped about the rail. then her stern went down and the rising forecastle cut the sky. for a time kit forgot olivia and mused about the engineer and miguel. macallister's mood was sometimes freakish and his humour rude, but behind this was a stern, honest efficiency. the quartermaster was a mystic, but when the big white combers chased the cargo launch one could trust him with the steering oar. after all to know one's job was much. chapter x smoke on the horizon an angry swell rolled along the coast, dust blew across the flat-roofed town, and _mossamedes_, with two anchors out, rode uneasily. she had unloaded some cargo and kit, going ashore in the evening, speculated about the rest. he did not think he was superstitious, but the voyage had not begun well, and he wanted to get it over. there was something strange about the business in which he was engaged, and he resolved he would talk to wolf when he returned. moreover, he did not like the dirty moorish town. when it got dark the narrow streets were forbidding, but yusuf declared he could not transact the ship's business until he closed his shop. in the canaries and morocco, rich merchants keep a shop. one could buy a shipload of their goods or a few pesetas' worth. yusuf's little room was very hot. the dust had blown in, and the floor was gritty. flies hovered about the copper lamp which burned an aromatic oil. the agent gave kit coffee and a cigarette. the tobacco was bitter but soothing and kit imagined it was mixed with an eastern drug. at yusuf's he generally felt dull; perhaps it was the smell of the lamp, leather and spices. they began to talk, and presently kit remarked: "if you send your boats to-morrow, we will hoist out the last of the cargo. have you got much stuff for us?" "i have got nothing," said yusuf, smiling. "your cargo is on board." "all the goods we carry are consigned to the greek merchant here and you." "that is so, but i will endorse the bill of lading, and file a statement for the customs officers that the cases of machinery will be landed at another port." "ah!" said kit who began to see a light. "then we are to carry the cases along the coast? i was puzzled about this lot of cargo; but we got it from a spanish ship at las palmas. the cases were put on board in daylight when two of the port captain's men were on deck. "the plan was good," yusuf remarked. "when one does things openly nobody is curious." "all the same, the moorish officers know machinery is not used in the sahara." "it is not the officers' business. they are friends of mine, and in this country a present carries some weight." kit knew wolf and his agent were clever, but began to think they were cleverer than he liked. he felt he was being used, and, so to speak, kept in the dark. he did not know the others' plans, in which he was involved, but if the plans did not work, he thought he ran some risk. yusuf was subtle, and kit's instinctive antagonism hardened. for all that, he was wolf's servant and must carry out his agent's orders. "i will endorse the bill of lading," the other resumed. "you will land the boxes at the spot you got the camels, and the owner will take his goods. perhaps he will keep the document for a talisman. some of these people have a strange respect for all that is written on paper." "very well," said kit, who got up. yusuf went with him to the door, and kit starting along the street, heard the heavy bolts shoot back. to know the business was over was something of a relief. although yusuf was inscrutable at his house one got a sense of fear and secrecy. in morocco a jew trader was perhaps forced to use caution, but kit thought he would sooner deal with the wild berbers who ruled the open desert. yet he owned he had no firm grounds for doubting wolf's agent. when he got on board _mossamedes_ he went to the chart-room and found don erminio playing cards with the mate. the captain had won two pesetas and was jubilant. "juan is clever and cautious. i am not clever, but i am bold," he said. kit noted the bottle on the table. when don erminio drank a few glasses of _caña_ he philosophised. kit narrated his interview with yusuf, and the captain looked thoughtful. "it is plain the boxes hold guns," he said. "the moors do not carry guns to shoot the rabbit, and if we land the boxes somebody will get killed. however, it is not important. the moors are numerous and all are bad." "i was not thinking about the moors," kit rejoined. "the business is strange. the guns were on board a spanish ship and if the moors use them to steal camels, the camels will no doubt be stolen on soil that is claimed by france. there may be trouble afterwards. our employer knows this." don erminio picked up the cards. spanish cards are not marked like english cards, but kit thought the one the captain indicated stood for the ace of clubs. "_bastones!_" don erminio remarked and shuffled the pack. "i put it at the bottom. you see it is there? now take three away and you will find it at the top. a trick, but clever. señor wolf plays a game like this." kit carried out his instructions and laughed. "wolf is, no doubt, clever, but this is _not_ the card." don erminio frowned and swept the pack on to the floor. the swing-table tilted, but juan stretched out his hand and seized the bottle. "señor!" he expostulated. "the _caña_ cost two pesetas!" "i have forgotten something. all the same, you see the moral," don erminio resumed. "merchants are cheats and use cunning tricks. one thinks one knows their plan, but one does not. one puts one's money on the wrong card and it is gone. sailors are honest and do not get rich. well, we will carry out our orders. that is enough for me. i have drunk some _caña_ and in the morning my throat is bad." two days afterwards _mossamedes_ hove her anchors and steamed south. as a rule, the trade-breeze blows steadily, but now and then its strength varies. sometimes a little rain falls and the day is nearly calm; sometimes the wind backs north and blows hard. _mossamedes'_ holds were almost empty and her rolling was wild. when she plunged across the long swell, half her screw came out of the water and one heard the top blades thrash. don erminio followed the coast, steering as near land as he durst. he wanted to avoid the traffic, and _mossamedes_, going light, did not draw much water. she was built to cross the sands at african river mouths. one morning kit went to the bridge. the sun was not high and the air was fresh. the wind had dropped, and the faint haze that generally softens the light and glitter when the trade-breeze blows had vanished. the sky was a harsh, vivid blue, and the tops of the long rollers cut the horizon with sharp distinctness. they did not break, but rose and subsided, leaving here and there soft streaks of foam. for all that, the swell ran high, _mossamedes_ lurched about, and kit thought wind was coming. he was bothered about it. if the wind were fresh, they could not land their dangerous cargo. the mate leaned against a stanchion and searched the sky-line with his glasses. after a time he gave the glasses to kit. "look!" he said. kit saw a faint brown smear drawn across the sky. it was rather like a thin cloud, but he thought it smoke. when the wind is light, a steamer's smoke spreads far and floats for some time. the strange thing was, the steamer was there, inside the proper track. he glanced at _mossamedes'_ funnel but the last coal they had got was good and diaphanous vapour rolled astern. kit put down the glasses and went to the captain's room. don erminio came out, studied the smoke, and frowned. he wore pyjamas and a shooting jacket, torn at the back. "the animals cannot see us, but a steamer ought not to be so near the coast," he said. "then we will soon reach the spot where we land the guns." "perhaps the captain takes a drink," juan remarked. "it is possible. when i drink much _caña_, my calculations are not good," don erminio agreed. "all the same, to run a risk is foolish. we will stop and use the lead." after he got a sounding he changed his course three or four points east and steered obliquely for the land. in the meantime the smoke vanished and kit went down and told macallister to keep his fires clean. to see smoke where smoke ought not to be was disturbing, and if the others had seen _mossamedes_, they would speculate about her captain's object for navigating shallow water. when kit went on deck again the swell had begun to break and ran ominously high. the wind was not yet strong, but it strengthened and the sky in the north was black. at noon, a sailor in the rigging thought he saw smoke again. don erminio went up with his glasses, but saw nothing and gave the glasses to kit. "the norther begins," he said. in the distance, a brown fog obscured the horizon and kit knew it was a dust-storm blowing off the coast. spray leaped about _mossamedes'_ forecastle, her plunges were violent and to hold on to the rigging while the mast swung was hard. they went down and soon afterwards the look-out hailed. kit was on deck and joined don erminio on the bridge. when _mossamedes_ lifted, two masts and the top of a funnel cut the horizon. kit thought it ominous that he saw no smoke. the sea had got up and long, white-topped combers rolled after the ship. when her stern swung out of the water the engines ran away and their savage throbbing shook the deck. with her rudder lifted, she did not steer, and while the helmsman sweated at the wheel she yawed about until her quarters sank and the screw got hold. one could not drive her fast, but much of her side was above water and the savage wind helped. for a time the other vessel's smoke vanished in the thickening spray. then they saw her again, sharp and distinct. the ominous thing was, they did not, as they might have expected, see her on the quarter but abeam. it was plain that when _mossamedes_ changed her course, or soon afterwards, the stranger had changed hers. "the french gunboat!" don erminio said and clenched his fist. "somebody has sold us." going to the compass, he got the other's bearing, and kit marked his coolness. when the strain was steady the captain did not tear his hair. he took kit and the mate to the chart-room, and a few moments afterwards macallister came up. the rules of the british liners were not used on board _mossamedes_, and don erminio spread a chart on the table. then he lighted a cigarette and indicated the steamer's course along, but converging on, the coast. "the wady is not far ahead," he remarked and put a pin in the spot. "to cross the shoals might be dangerous and i doubt if our anchor would hold. however, if we do not cross, the animal will soon be nearer." it was obvious when the captain sketched a triangle, of which the gunboat occupied the apex and _mossamedes'_ course was the base. in order to clear the shoals she must shorten the base and, steaming out, lessen the distance between them; if she turned and steamed the other way the gunboat would come down obliquely and cut her line. the long chase is the stern chase, but _mossamedes_ could not make off like this because she was jambed against the coast. two things were plain: the frenchman commanded the faster vessel and had well chosen her position. "the jew has sold us, but just now it is not important," don erminio resumed. "we cannot long run away from the french animal, but i have a plan. we will throw the guns overboard and wait for him." he looked at kit, who hesitated for a few moments. the captain's plan had marked advantages and some drawbacks. for one thing, the guns were valuable and if they were sacrificed wolf must front a heavy loss. moreover, if they were not delivered, the tribes with whom he traded would refuse to trust him again. this counted for much, but kit was not altogether thinking about wolf. his rule was to do what he undertook, and to do so now might baffle the man who had cheated him. "i think not," he said. "our business is to deliver our cargo. if yusuf has plotted with the frenchman, we must spoil the plot, and i don't know a better plan than to carry out his orders. he sent us south to land the guns and we will land them. it will soon be dark, and if we get across the shoals there is some shelter behind the sands. revillon durst not cross." "_buen' muchacho!_" said the captain and looked at macallister. "it will be dark at six o'clock. can we keep in front?" macallister knitted his brows. "i'll no' say it's easy. when the screw's jumping oot o' water ye cannot get much grip to shove her along. for a' that, yon stump-tail gunboat will jump worse, and the old engine's good. if she does not shake off her screw, i'll keep ye ahead." kit began to translate, but the captain smiled. "me, i know the english. don pedro good ol' sport. _bueno; muy bueno!_ i jump much _en caballo_; now i jump the sandbank. if the other thinks he catch us, we drown the animal." kit thought it possible. _mossamedes_ was built with heavy bottom frames to bump across african river bars, and was going light. he imagined the gunboat's draught was some feet more than hers. all the same, the thing was risky. if _mossamedes_ touched the sand she might not come off. "it is good! i go for miguel sænz," juan, the mate, agreed. chapter xi miguel takes control a black cloud rolled from _mossamedes'_ funnel and blew across her bows. the beat of engines quickened and when the stern swung up their furious racing shook the ship. kit pictured macallister, sternly calm, at the throttle wheel. much depended on his skill, for if he were slow when the spinning screw came down and the runaway machinery resumed its load, something must break. kit, however, did not go to the engine-room. he stood at the door of the pilot-house, inside which miguel sænz gripped the slanted gratings with his bare feet. his face was wet by sweat and his brown hand was clenched on the steam-steering wheel. although the muscular effort was not great, steering was hard. _mossamedes_ rode high above water and the gale pressed upon her side; the combers lifted her, and screw and rudder could not get proper hold. sometimes she came up to windward and rolled until the white seas swept her rail; sometimes she yawed to lee. kit saw the bows circle and pictured the compass spinning in its bowl. so far, miguel steered by compass. don erminio had changed his course and headed obliquely for the shoals. it was not the course the gunboat's captain would expect him to steer. revillon, no doubt, imagined the line along which _mossamedes_ travelled inclined at a small angle out to sea, in order to clear the hammered sands, and he could steam down from his commanding position and cut her off. the line, however, really slanted the other way. dark clouds obscured the sky, the light was bad, and the driving spray made accurate observation hard. kit thought don erminio's plan was good, but longed for dark. sometimes he saw the gunboat's masts, and sometimes, when a comber lifted _mossamedes_, he saw her hull. she was getting indistinct and dusk was not far off. kit imagined she flew some signals, but one need not bother about the flags. revillon could not launch a boat, and there was not much use in shooting from a rolling platform at a mark that for the most part could not be seen. besides, kit thought revillon would not use his guns. commanding the faster vessel, his plan was to pin _mossamedes_ to the coast and when the gale blew out come on board and search her. then, if the cargo was not jettisoned, she might perhaps be seized. kit did not know much about international rules, but if he threw the guns overboard, revillon would after all win the game. guns lying at the bottom of the sea could not be landed in africa. kit felt his youth and responsibility. standing for his employer, he had urged the captain to hold on to the cargo. yusuf's treachery had made him savage; he felt he had been cheated like a child, but this was not all. kit did not mean to let the cunning brute rob his master. he was wolf's man and his business was to guard his interests. moreover, he was moved unconsciously by inherited stubbornness. he had engaged to land the guns and was going to do so. in the meantime he thought his luck strange. not long since he was a humble shipping clerk, occupied by tame, conventional duties; now he was a smuggler, breaking rules ambassadors and men like that had drawn. all the same, in a way, the adventure was not romantic. there was no shooting, and for the most part one could not see the pursuing ship. before long, kit hoped, one could not see her at all. the risk was rather from the sea than the gunboat. for all that, kit knew two men bore a heavy strain; macallister on his reeling platform, guarding his engines from sudden shock; and miguel at the wheel. when kit looked into the pilot-house the quartermaster's pose was rigid, his mouth was hard, and his eyes were fixed on the revolving compass. steam pulled across the rudder, but one must use nerve and sound judgment to hold _mossamedes_ straight. by and by another man climbed the ladder and went into the pilot-house. miguel came out and joined the captain. he looked slack, as if he felt the reaction now the strain was gone, and held on by the rails while he looked about. kit saw his cotton clothes were stained by sweat; the wind blew the thin material against his skin. he wore a tight red knitted cap, and the spray beat upon his face. the captain talked, and gesticulated when the turmoil of the sea drowned his voice. the light was going fast and the gunboat had melted into the gloom, but her smoke rolled in a thick black trail across the water. it looked as if she were steaming hard and revillon did not try to hide his advance. kit wondered whether he imagined he had pinned _mossamedes_ against the shoals and meant to shorten the distance in order not to lose her in the dark. _mossamedes_ made no smoke; macallister kept his fires thin and clean and it was important that the gunboat's smoke was now on her quarter. this indicated that revillon did not know she had swung off a few points and steered for the land. kit waited until the ship went up on a comber's back, and then looked ahead. the sea was angrier. some distance in front were broad white belts where the rollers broke in savage turmoil. between the belts kit thought he saw a gap, in which the seas were regular. in the distance a brown haze indicated a dust storm raging about the point. one might find some shelter behind the point, but not much. high-water was near, and although on the open atlantic coast the rise of tide is not marked, the moon was new and one might perhaps expect an extra fathom's depth. then, if _mossamedes_ could get across to the pool, when the ebb began to run the sands would lie like a breakwater between her and the sea. kit rather doubted if she could get across. one could see no marks, the captain durst not stop for proper soundings and the hand-lead, used from a platform that constantly changed its level, was not much guide. all the same, it looked as if old miguel meant to try. for a few moments he stood with his eyes fixed ahead and his lean, upright figure at an angle with the slanted bridge; then he turned and went into the wheel-house. his slackness was gone, his movements were somehow resolute. the other man came out of the house, and kit saw macallister at the top of the ladder. holding on by rails, the engineer looked about. "if miguel's saint is watching now we'll no' be independent and refuse his help." he said. "for a' that, there's a line in the _vaya_ that betther meets our bill----" he misquoted from the sailing permit of the spanish _correo_, but kit knew the line and, with the raging shoals ahead, owned its force. when one fronted the fury of the sea, words like that meant much. "the mill's good and running weel, but if miguel's no' sure and steady, there's no much use in my keeping steam," macallister resumed. "the bit spark o' human intelligence ootweighs a' the power that's bottled in my furnaces. i dinna see what's to guide him, but maybe the old fella thinks like a _baccalao_." "_baccalao_ is salt fish," said kit. "it was swimming before it was sautit," macallister rejoined. "then ye dinna get fish in deep water; they seek their meat in the channels and the tides that run across the sands. weel, miguel has his job. i'll away to mine." he went down the ladder, but kit clung to the rails. he had not a job; his part was played when he urged don erminio to steer for the land, and now as he watched the white seas curl and break he knew his rashness. the steamer's course was a zig-zag; with the savage wind on her quarter, her bows swerved about. all miguel could do was to let one divergence balance the other. in front was an ominous white crescent, running back into the dark, but broken by a gap in the middle. a man, strapped outside the bridge, hove the lead, but this was an obvious formality, because if he got shallow water _mossamedes_ could not steam out. if miguel tried to bring her round, she would drive, broadside on, against the hammered sands. there was no smoke astern. revillon, no doubt, had seen the surf and hauled off, but _mossamedes_ went inshore fast. the horns of the crescent enclosed her and kit no longer saw a gap. the sea was all a white turmoil and furious combers rolled up astern. one felt them run forward, as if they travelled up an inclined plane, and the ship rode dizzily on their spouting crests. then for a time kit saw nothing. foam enveloped _mossamedes_, her deck vanished, and he was beaten and blinded. he could hold on, but this was all; the spray came over the wheel-house like a cataract. kit knew _mossamedes_ was swinging round because the wind now blew across the house. the plunges got less violent and the spray was thinner. one saw the iron bulwarks, and the winches in the forward well, about which an angry flood washed. at the end of the bridge, don erminio's figure, looking strangely slanted, cut the sky. _mossamedes_ had run through the gap and was in deeper water behind the sands. yet the water was not all deep. another shoal occupied part of the basin and kit tried to recapture its bearings as he had noted them when he went fishing in the boat. he found he could not. when the light was strong and the swell slow, one could judge distance and know the depth by the changing colour and the measured line of foam. now there was nothing but foam that tossed in the dark. _mossamedes_ forged ahead, and kit wondered whether don erminio knew where he went. on the whole, he thought the captain did not know; sometimes one must blindly trust one's luck. she came round again, lurched by the turmoil on a sand, and steamed head to wind. then miguel came to the door of the wheel-house. "we are arrived, señor!" don erminio signed to the leadsman, who swung the plummet round his head and let go. "good! we have water enough," said the captain, and rang the telegraph. the reversed engines shook the ship and the anchor plunged. she stopped, and but for the roar of the breakers all was quiet. somehow miguel had brought her across the sands. when she dragged out her cable the guns were hoisted up and put near the gangway, where, if needful, one could heave the boxes overboard. miguel cleared the cargo launch ready for launching and they stripped the covers from a lifeboat. since they had brought their dangerous cargo to the spot agreed, kit was resolved it must be landed. to carry out yusuf's orders was perhaps the best plan to defeat his treachery, and kit thought his doing so had a touch of humour. he felt he would like to see yusuf again, but he need not bother much about revillon. the frenchman had chased _mossamedes_ and lost her; if he returned at daybreak, he would not venture across the sands. anyhow, they could get rid of the evidence against them soon after they saw the gunboat's smoke. all the same, kit meant to land the guns. when all was ready he went to the engineers' mess-room and smoked. he was highly strung and could not sleep, but to wait for daybreak was hard. the gunboat might arrive and he doubted if the cargo launch could cross the surf. one must run some risk, but he was not going to drown his men. he heard the wind, although its roar was dulled by other noises. then _mossamedes_ rolled, the water in her bilges splashed about, chains clanged on deck, and one heard hammers and shovels in the stokehold. strange echoes rolled about the empty iron hull. now and then don erminio came down and talked about shooting rabbits; sometimes macallister pulled back the curtain, lighted his pipe, and philosophised, but did not stop long. barefooted firemen and sailors flitted along the alleyway; it looked as if nobody could rest. at length, when kit's mouth was parched from smoking, he got up, shivered, and turned off the light. a pale glimmer pierced the glass, and putting on a thick jacket, he went on deck. day was breaking and it was cold. the wind was dropping, but the swell ran high, and the sand blew from the point like a brown fog. under the fog were white lines of surf. by and by don erminio climbed the rigging and kit joined him where the steel shrouds got narrow. the mast swung, carrying them with it in a reeling sweep, until they could have dropped into the sea. in the meantime the light had got stronger and presently don erminio gave the glasses to kit. so far as one could see, nothing broke the horizon. "it is good," said don erminio. "the animal is gone. we will get to work." chapter xii the retreat to the boat at the bottom of the wady it was very hot, and kit lay on the sand behind a rock. his smarting skin was crusted by salt, his clothes had dried stiff, and his muscles were sore. he had landed the guns, and it had not been easy to run the launch through the surf and hold her off the roaring beach while the boxes were brought ashore. the boat was half swamped, and the sailors laboured up to their waists in water. after the cargo was landed, a few dark-skinned men arrived, and when they loaded the boxes on their camels a dispute began. kit understood the berbers declared the rifles were not the pattern they expected to get, and wolf had not sent the number agreed. the leader, a very big, truculent fellow, had opened a box, and argued angrily with the interpreter. simon was a syrian, and since he owned that the morocco he knew was the mediterranean coast, kit imagined he did not altogether understand the other's dialect. the berber's dissatisfaction was obvious, and kit agreed to go up the wady and meet the chief. when he had gone two or three miles, the berbers, stating that they would bring the chief, left two of their party and vanished with the loaded camels among the stones. kit rather thought the two who stopped were meant for guards. they carried long guns and refused to talk to the interpreter. after waiting for some time, kit began to get disturbed. since he had left some men on board the launch, his party was not large and carried no weapons but their long spanish knives. moreover the yellow haze round the sun and the pillars of sand that span about the wady indicated a dust storm not far off. if the wind freshened much, the launch could not ride in the surf. kit resolved he would not stop long, and lighting a cigarette began to ponder. they had not seen the gunboat. it looked as if revillon imagined _mossamedes_ had got away in the dark and was searching the coast for her. he would, no doubt, come back, but since the incriminating cargo was landed this was not important. perhaps revillon had come back. the sea was hidden by the hot, stony banks, and kit was tired and languid; to climb to the parched table land was too much effort. he began to think about the rifles. so far, the tribesmen had brought the sheep and camels they had agreed to deliver; now it looked as if they thought they had been cheated. this was strange, but kit remembered that none of his friends trusted wolf. he must see the chief and if possible satisfy the fellow. all the same, he would not wait much longer. don erminio would get disturbed, and the wind was rising. if nobody arrived when his cigarette was smoked, he would start. "they are sulky fellows," he said, indicating the berbers. "the moors are very bad people," miguel agreed. "when a _baccalao_ schooner is wrecked on the coast one does not see the crew again. it is possible all are not drowned, but they vanish." kit looked at the berbers and thought their quietness sinister. their dark faces were inscrutable, and they did not move. one could hardly distinguish them from the stones. "this time they bring no sheep or camels," miguel resumed meaningly. "it is strange," said kit. "we have brought them rifles, but perhaps they have already paid for the lot." "some day they will get the rifles without payment," remarked juan, the mate. "so long as they expect another lot, they are honest, but when they get all they want they will cut your throat. they will not cut mine; i have had enough. señor wolf is clever, but the game is dangerous. if he cheats, you will pay." kit looked at simon, who knitted his brows. "i do not altogether understand, but they are angry. something is not as they had thought." the haze about the sun was thicker. puffs of fiery wind blew down the wady, a whirling pillar of dust broke and fell near the group, and the distant rumble of the surf got loud. it was very hot and the men were languid, but a sailor pulled a knife with an ornamented handle from his sleeve and began to sharpen it on his belt. kit's cigarette had burned to a stump, and he looked at his watch. juan got up. "_vamos!_ we start now," he said. "señor wolf knows much; he stops at las palmas and if his customers carry us off, it is our affair." one of the berbers began to talk in an angry voice but they set off, and to start was some relief to kit. standing for his employer, he felt himself accountable for his party, and he had waited long enough. in fact, he wondered whether he had not waited too long, since the rising surf might force the launch to return to the ship. now he was going, he wanted to go fast, but for a time did not. he was tired, the heat was enervating, and the path was rough. big stones lay about the dry river bed, and the gaps were filled by soft sand, in which one's feet sank. besides, it was prudent to use control. the others were obviously disturbed, and he must make an effort for calm. for all that, when the sand began to blow down the wady his speed got faster. the dust stuck to his hot skin and gathered on his eyelashes. he could not see properly and his breath was laboured, but when a sailor in front began to run he kept up. he frankly did not want to be left behind. perhaps it was imagination, but he began to feel as if somebody followed him. turning his head, he looked about. he saw big stones and clumps of tamarisk, but this was all. the dust might hide the berbers' camels, and a camel travels faster than a tired man. the strange thing was, although he had gone up the wady to meet the berbers, he now wanted to reach the launch before they arrived. kit admitted he was not logical, but to know the launch might have gone bothered him. at length the wady got wider, and peering through the dust-cloud, he saw the sea. the launch had not gone and the lifeboat was coming from the steamer. kit thought this strange, since the launch would carry all, but perhaps don erminio had sent to find out why they had not returned. the surf was high and a man on board the launch stood up and waved his arms, as if he signalled the party to be quick. then the dust got very thick and boats and surf vanished. juan shouted, but kit did not hear what he said. they were all running as fast as possible, slipping and stumbling across the stones. they reached the open beach and the dust rolled by. for a few moments the view was clearer and kit saw the man on the launch was not waving to him; he signalled to the lifeboat. looking back, kit understood. camels were coming down the wady. then the dust rolled up again and he saw nothing. breathing hard, he laboured across the beach. the sailors had paid out cable and the launch, with her bows to the breakers, tossed about in the surf. in a few moments he would reach her, but somebody behind seized him. he staggered and tried to turn; and then a sailor swerved and jumped. kit saw the spanish knife shine and next moment he was free. he plunged into the water and the launch's stern struck the sand close by. a broken sea rolled in and men jumped overboard. they carried oars and knives, for the _baccalao_ fishers' quarrel with the moors is old. kit seized the launch's tiller, a thick bar of african oak. men with darker skins than the spaniards were in the water, but so far as kit could see, they did not shoot. it looked as if they meant to capture the party. kit, however, could not see much. dust and sand rolled across the beach and the spray was thick. the launch was half swamped and he thought the berbers would hold her until the surf beat in her bilge. long oars and stretchers swung, miguel used an iron anchor-stock, and the mate, crouched like a cat on the stern, thrust with his knife. perhaps the struggle had gone on for a minute when the white lifeboat rode in on a comber's top. she swung to her anchor and don erminio jumped overboard. to come ashore was not the captain's business, but don erminio was a sportsman. for the next few moments the struggle was savage, but kit did not know much about it. he was knocked down and washed against the lifeboat. his head hurt, he could not get on his feet, and the surf rolled him up and down the beach. then, when he was going out with the backwash, somebody dragged him on board, and while he lay in the water under the thwarts he was dully conscious that the boat was off the beach. he knew this because she lurched violently, but did not strike the sand. spray blew about and the tops of the seas splashed across the gunwale. she made slow progress and kit thought all the oars were not manned. crawling aft under the rowers' feet, he seized a thwart and pulled himself up. don erminio lay on the sternsheets and groaned. his face was very white and his leg was not its proper shape. the launch laboured across the combers some distance off. kit pushed a man from the tiller and told him to row. his head ached, but he could steer. they were long pulling off to _mossamedes_, and then were forced to wait for some minutes. she rolled, lifting her bilge-keels out of the water, and one must watch for a chance to hook on the tackles. at length a broken sea, smaller than the others, lifted the boat and kit seized the swinging hook. the bowman was quick and got the other hook, a winch rattled, and the big boat went up. she struck the steamer's plates, but did not stop, and in a few moments the swivelling davits dropped her on the skids. macallister and a steward lifted out the captain, and kit went aft to see the launch hove up. then he went to his room and for a time knew nothing more. he was roused by macallister's bathing his face, and gave him a dull look. "i'm thinking ye'll no be very bonny for a week or two," the engineer remarked. "for a' that, ye're luckier than the captain." "is don erminio hurt?" kit asked. "his legs and some ribs are broken; maybe he was washed aneath the launch. but yon's no a'. when the boats came off juan and miguel were not on board." kit lifted himself awkwardly and leaned against the back of his bunk. his head ached horribly and his brain was dull, but he felt the throb of engines and heard water flow along the plates. _mossamedes_ was steaming hard and he must get up. he got his leg across the ledge, and then macallister pushed him firmly back. "ye'll bide! felix and i have work enough wi' the captain and two or three mair." "but you must stop her. i'm going back for miguel." "ye cannot go back. i dinna ken how we won out." "ah!" said kit, who felt the steamer's regular rise and fall. "she has crossed the shoals?" "it looks like that. when i stopped to use the big lead, we got good water." "but who took her out? miguel's not on board." "sometimes ye must trust your luck," macallister replied. "before the lifeboat went away don erminio hove the cable short, and when ye brought him off, unconscious, i broke the anchor out. there's no' a sound plank in the launch, the lifeboat's sternpost's smashed, and the sea was getting up. if juan and miguel are living, the moors have carried them off. weel, since the second mate is damaged, i reckoned my job was to get back to grand canary. i sent salvador to the wheel, started the mill, and let her gang." "you went across blind?" kit exclaimed with dull surprise. "just that! she hit the bottom, but came off and we got no extra water in the wells." the thing looked impossible; kit had thought nobody but miguel could steer _mossamedes_ across the shoals. for all that, her even movements indicated that she had reached open sea, and kit tried to brace himself. "but if the captain and second mate are knocked out, we haven't a navigator, and grand canary's small." "ye have a good engineer and a crew o' _baccalao_ fishermen," macallister rejoined. "i alloo grand canary's small, but it's high, and ye can see the peak o' teneriffe over a hundred miles. weel, i ken where we started and put over the patent log. when ye steer for an archipelago ye needna bother about a few degrees." kit nodded. six high volcanic islands rise from deep water, and _mossamedes'_ crew had manned the fishing schooners. on a short voyage one could navigate by dead-reckoning. "i'll away and look at the captain," macallister resumed. "if ye'll no promise to lie quiate until i let ye up, i'll lock ye in." kit promised, because he doubted if he could get out of his bunk, and when macallister had gone he turned awkwardly and looked at the glass on the wall. a purple mark crossed his swollen forehead, and his jaw was cut. somebody had knocked him down with a gun, or perhaps he had got under the plunging boat. all his body felt battered. for a few minutes he leaned against the side of his bunk, and then slipped back and went to sleep. part iii kit finds his level chapter i illumination _mossamedes_ steamed into las palmas harbour one evening, and as soon as she was moored kit landed don erminio and filed the necessary documents at the _commandancia_ offices. he, however, said nothing about the struggle on the beach, and accounted for the captain's injuries by stating that he was washed under the boat. the sailors' hurts were not serious, and kit had not allowed the port doctor to see the men. his visit was an embarrassment, but on the whole kit and macallister thought they had not excited his curiosity. while he lay in his bunk kit had pondered and made his plans. he meant to return and look for the mate and miguel, but if the spanish officers knew, he was persuaded they would not let him go. they would, no doubt, make exhaustive inquiries and reports, and then send a properly organised search party. speed, however, was important, and anything undertaken by the spanish government was not done soon. although it cost him some effort, he went from the _commandancia_ to the mate's house and told his story to a startled woman with a powdered face. when señora diaz was calm she asked kit what he was going to do about it, and he said: "in the morning i sail for africa. i do not think juan is hurt; the moors wanted prisoners to hold until they get satisfaction. you must not be afraid. somehow we will find him." señora diaz was comforted. kit was young, but he looked very resolute and capable. something in his quiet voice gave her confidence. "_vaya con dios!_" she said and let him go. kit felt the señora had not used conventionally the polite good-bye; anyhow he had not given her an empty promise. he was going to find her husband, and wolf was going to help. if it were necessary, kit meant to force him, for he had noted that _cayman_ was in the harbour ready for sea. wolf must charter her in the next hour or two, and she must sail before the commandante knew about the fight on the beach. responsibility had developed kit and brought into action qualities he had not altogether known were his. he could front a crisis and saw he must front one now. _cayman_ was in port, and with the fresh trade-breeze abeam, would soon reach the wady. a few resolute men might find and make some bargain with the moors, but if a gunboat landed a strong party the tribe would vanish in the desert. after the lonely anchorage and desolate surf-beaten coast, the noise and traffic in the streets were strange. bright lights burned in the shops, people crowded the pavements, enjoying the cool of the evening, and kit heard the band in the _alameda_. he felt he had nothing to do with the careless loungers, and their cheerful voices jarred. his load was heavy and he was highly strung. to reach the quiet street where wolf lived was some relief, but kit went slowly, trying to think. he had taken yusuf's selling them to revillon for granted, but he doubted if this were all. kit was satisfied wolf had not carried out his engagements with the moors, and since the fellow had cheated his customers he would not hesitate to betray his servants. he had used them unscrupulously, and now two might be forced to pay for his dishonesty, he must send them help. for a few minutes kit mused about something else. mrs. austin had got him the post, and it looked as if she knew wolf was a cheat. anyhow, olivia knew, and she was not as clever as her sister. after he had seen wolf, he was going to see mrs. austin. if there was any difficulty about wolf's chartering _cayman_, she must persuade her husband. austin was jefferson's partner and owned some shares in the boat. kit stopped at the arch that led to wolf's _patio_. all was dark inside and the iron gate was fast. he rang a bell and a man crossed the flags and pulled back the heavy bolt. his face was near the bars, and kit noted with some surprise that it was not wolf's servant. "what does your honor want?" he asked. kit said he wanted wolf and would go to the office, but the other did not open the gate. "señor wolf is not here." "not here! then, where is he?" said kit, with an effort for calm. the other spread out his hands. "_quien sabe?_ many are curious, but nobody knows. the señor went some days since. i am the landlord's servant and take care of the house." "ah!" said kit sharply. "did he leave a letter for his _sobrecargo_?" "he left nothing, señor. the boxes in the office were empty. there was a heap of ashes, as if somebody had burned papers, but this was all." kit thanked the man and went off. he knew enough. wolf was gone and one saw what his going meant. numerous steamers touched at las palmas and the fellow had, no doubt, quietly got on board. since he could buy his ticket from the purser, there was no use in inquiring at the steamship offices. well, kit must see mrs. austin. the shortest way to the house was across the _alameda_. the band was playing, lamps burned among the dusty trees, and as kit approached a group of people he stopped. olivia talked to a spanish lady, the lady's husband, two or three young spanish girls, and some coaling clerks stood about, but when olivia saw kit she left the others. going with him to a bench at a quiet spot not far off, she sat down. kit leaned against a tree and a beam from a lamp touched his face. olivia noted the dark bruise and the hardness of his mouth. he looked very tired and his eyes were dull. "why, kit! what is the matter?" she said. "i expect you know wolf is gone?" "yes, i do know. but what does it mean?" "for one thing, it means wolf's a thief and i'm a trustful fool. in the meantime, perhaps, that's enough----" "i wouldn't bother about it," said olivia soothingly. "you look ill and you have hurt your head." "i must bother," kit rejoined. "i was wolf's servant and have lost two of his men. since i stood for their employer, in a sense the men were mine. the moors have got them. wolf cheated the fellows, they followed us to the boats, and there was a fight. i got on board, but all the men who'd gone with me did not. i was their leader; i ought to have gone off last." olivia was moved by his distress and put her hand gently on his arm. "oh, kit, i'm sorry! but you're not accountable. if it had been possible to save the men you would have brought them off." her sympathy thrilled him. he was highly strung, and although he tried for control he was carried away. "the voyage was disastrous; all went wrong from the start," he said. "you warned me and talked about bad luck, but i went. perhaps i'm obstinate, but i think you knew why i did go." olivia turned her head and thought. she had known why he went, but it was plain the reserve he had used was gone. his control was broken and he would be frank. she liked him, but now he forced her to choose her line, she admitted this was all. "i think you were rather ridiculous," she said, quietly looking up. he tried to pull himself together, but could not. he had got a nasty knock. "it looks like that!" he said in a hoarse voice. "all the same, you knew my ambition and didn't hint i was ridiculous!" the blood came to olivia's skin and her eyes sparkled. to some extent she felt kit's retort was justified, but she was modern and had pluck. "i thought you lonely and we were pals," she said. "did you expect me to warn you i didn't want a lover?" "if you had warned me it would not have cost you much. perhaps i am dull, but sometimes i do understand. i thought i might, like austin, mend my fortune; he held my post and married your sister. you knew, and i expect you were amused. the thing was a joke! well, sometimes i saw i was a fool, but i wasn't logical long. when you're about one isn't logical. i _meant_ to mend my fortune." "are you logical now?" kit laughed harshly. "oh, yes; my rashness is plain enough! you had long since resolved to refuse me all i hadn't the pluck to ask. well, my luck is certainly not good. i have been refused before and in the meantime----" she stopped him by a proud gesture. "you are breaking rules, kit, and mustn't talk like this again. when you are cool you will know you ought not. what have your love affairs to do with me?" he gave her a steady look and his face got rather white. the dark bruise was plainer and the blood left his lips. "my rules are the rules of the humble folk to whom i belong. all the same, i might have tried to use yours had i been my proper self. well, perhaps i deserve some punishment. i'm poor and have no talent to help me along; i let wolf use and cheat me like a schoolboy. then, when i met you a few minutes since, i forgot about the men i'd lost. however, i'm going back to look for them and if i find them and some time get a proper job, we'll talk about my rashness again. i'll go to don pancho and state i mean to ask you to marry me. you'll no doubt refuse, but my proposal will be regular, and to refuse an offer i've some right to make won't humiliate you." olivia thought fatigue and strain accounted for much. he had got a bad knock, and she had hurt him worse. she was half sorry and half angry, but her anger was keenest against mrs. austin, who had sent him on board the ship. "you are ridiculous, kit," she said gently. "but if you are in trouble about wolf and the men in morocco, go to jacinta. i think she ought to help. that's all. you mustn't keep me. the others are curious." she rejoined the party at the band and kit went on to mrs. austin's. he agreed with olivia, but did not stop where she stopped. mrs. austin _was going_ to help. when he reached the veranda she was talking to mrs. jefferson, and nobody else was about. kit remembered this was an evening on which she did not receive guests. she glanced at him with some surprise, noting his bruised face and disturbed look, and then indicated a chair. "i don't know that you'll urge me to stop when you have heard my tale," he said. "however, is mr. austin or mr. jefferson at home?" "harry is at teneriffe, and jefferson has gone to madeira." "then my luck is bad again," said kit. "all the same, i've come to ask for something and meant to state that i expected your support. i meant to see you anyhow." mrs. austin was surprised, but said nothing. kit had not talked to her like this before. he was cool and very stern. somehow he looked older and she wondered about the bruise. "very well," he resumed. "i met miss brown at the _alameda_ and understand you know wolf is gone. i did not know until i arrived, but begin to see light. it's possible his going did not surprise you. you knew he was a rogue!" "you are taking much for granted," mrs. austin remarked quietly. "not at all," said kit. "your sister knew and warned me. people declare you're the cleverest woman at las palmas." mrs. austin pondered. if olivia had warned kit, it was possible the girl herself did not know as much as her elder sister had thought. about betty, for example. "well?" she said. "i'll tell you my story," kit replied, and narrated his adventures after landing the guns. "i begin to see," mrs. austin remarked. then, for her line of argument was sometimes not very obvious, she resumed: "you met olivia not long since by the band?" "that is so," kit replied with some dryness. "all the same, you have no grounds to be disturbed; miss brown knows my drawbacks. in fact, when you persuaded wolf to give me the post your meddling wasn't necessary. but you did get me the post, although you doubted wolf. this is important!" at las palmas mrs. austin was a great lady, and kit had gratefully owned his debt to her. now he took another line; a line that nobody she knew durst use. for all that she was sorry for kit. he looked ill and worn; she saw that losing the men weighed hard on him. "suppose i admit i sent you to wolf?" she said. "you feel you are entitled to blame me because your adventure was not fortunate?" "not at all; my object's not to blame you," said kit. "when i took the post i thought you kind. to find out that all you wanted was to get me away from las palmas hurt. however, we won't bother about this----" he paused. mrs. austin's calm was beginning to embarrass him. in fact, there was something very dignified about her quietness, although she admitted that her plotting had cost him much. kit, however, braced himself. "i meant to see you before i saw mr. austin," he resumed. "i'm going back for the men and must get a boat at once. if the commandante knew i was going he wouldn't let me sail, and he will know soon. _cayman_'s ready for sea and you must lend me her." mrs. austin smiled. "i don't think your argument is altogether sound. _cayman_ belongs to my husband and jefferson and they are away." "all that's mr. austin's is yours, and mrs. jefferson is here." "i imagine i can promise for my husband," mrs. jefferson remarked. "very well," said mrs. austin. "you may have the boat. i will give you a letter for the captain." she went off, and mrs. jefferson turned to kit. "have you seen betty?" kit started. he had forgotten betty; he was again a fool. she would understand his troubles and would sympathise. he was persuaded she would agree he ought to go. "i'd like to see her, but i cannot," he said. "we must sail at daybreak, and i have much to do. all i can think about is getting back to africa. but, if you will tell her why i didn't go to the office----" mrs. jefferson smiled. betty had qualities, but mrs. jefferson doubted if she would approve kit's sending another to tell his tale. she said nothing, and mrs. austin presently returned and gave kit an envelope. "this is an order for the captain. your adventure's rash, and i really ought not to agree," she said. "for all that, i wish you luck!" kit thanked her and when he went down the steps mrs. austin looked at mrs. jefferson. "if he wrecks _cayman_ or the crew get hurt i shall have some trouble with harry. sometimes he is firmer than people think." mrs. jefferson smiled. "on the whole i imagine jake will approve. perhaps kit was rude, but in a way he was rather fine. he won't wreck the boat, and i expect he will get the men. kit is good stuff. however, i suppose you're satisfied you were entitled to meddle?" "about olivia? yes, so far as that goes, my plan was good. my father was a steamship steward and began business at las palmas by selling tobacco on board the ships. all the same, kit musgrave is not olivia's sort. if she doesn't know this now, he and she would soon find it out. well, i'm going to be firm." "i doubt if firmness is indicated," mrs. jefferson rejoined with a twinkle. "sometimes the best plan is to leave things alone." chapter ii "cayman's" start soon after he left mrs. austin's, kit rowed off to _mossamedes_, got some clothes and talked to the interpreter, who hesitated for a time before he agreed to go with him. then he picked out three men from the crew, but ordered them to stop on board until he was ready. it was obvious that his adventure must not be talked about before he left the port. afterwards he was rowed to _cayman_ and gave mrs. austin's letter to the captain. _cayman_ was a fast and strong ketch-rigged vessel of about sixty tons. four hands could sail her and relieve the watch, but she carried six. when goods are not all landed at the ports, trading on the morocco coast has some drawbacks, and jefferson ran no risks. the captain was an old _baccalao_ fisherman and when he read the order he asked: "where do you want to go?" kit told him, and he looked thoughtful. "i know the spot. the sands are dangerous and the moors are bad." "for all that you must anchor the ketch behind the banks and wait until i come back from the desert," said kit, and stated why he meant to undertake the journey. "ah," said the captain, "that is another thing! my men will not grumble; they know the moors. well, we are not allowed to carry guns, but i can throw a knife, and maccario can kill a jumping goat with his sling. then andres, the wrestler, knows a trick. the moor he seizes will drop with a broken back." "your men will stop on board. they are señor jefferson's servants, and the job is mine. when i land three or four from the steamer will go with me." "we will talk about this again. but you had anchored behind the sands and had lost miguel. how did you get to sea?" "i don't know," said kit. "i was in my bunk and don erminio was in his, but we did get to sea. i understand don pedro took control." the captain laughed. "_el maquinista? ave maria!_ señor, for a good sailor who is not a fisherman the thing was impossible! but i know don pedro. i have seen him dance, strange dances of the north, at the wineshop by the mole. some say he is mad. all the same, the steamer is not wrecked. _ma!_" kit stopped him. it looked as if macallister's friends were numerous, but there was much to be done and he rowed the captain to the port office and left him to file his papers. one could not, without complying with some formalities, sail before daybreak, and kit thought to send to the ayutante's house was risky. engaging a _tartana_, he went to see don erminio. the captain's small house smelt of salt fish, garlic, and burned olive oil, and señora martinez received kit in the court. she was fat and her brown skin was thickly powdered. "you will not excite my husband," she said. "when he is ill he is sometimes difficult, and he has had a dispute with the doctor." she took kit up the outside stairs and along a balcony to a small, hot room. don erminio occupied the old-fashioned bed, and when kit came in looked up with a savage frown, but the frown vanished. "i thought it was the animal of a doctor coming back," he remarked. "me, i am a sailor, and he will not let me drink! the _anisado_ was on the table, he put the bottle in his pocket, and i could not get up. then he looked in the cupboard. the animal is cunning, but another time i put the bottle under the bed. however, the moors have got juan and miguel. we must do something!" kit stated his plans and the captain signed approval. he was tightly bandaged and could hardly move his head. "it is very good. but you will take don pedro?" "i think not. in fact, he does not know i am going." the captain urged, but kit was firm. caution and tact were indicated, and although macallister was generally cool, his coolness often masked a freakish rashness. "very well," don erminio agreed at length. "sometimes don pedro is humorous, but the moors are not people with whom one jokes. i will lend you my gun." he signed to señora martinez, who brought the old pinfire gun and gave it to kit. "the gun is good. if you are careful she will not go off before you want, but you must not shake her," he resumed, and frowned when he saw the mark on the box of cartridges. "what is this?" he asked his wife. "bring the number b. señor musgrave does not shoot the rabbit." señora martinez got another box and don erminio nodded. "it is good! if pepe has used the proper measure, she will kill a moor at twenty yards. but you must not shake her. the hammer-spring is loose." kit thanked him and soon afterwards went off. he had taken the gun in order to indulge the captain, since it was obvious that when he met the moors he could not use force. for all that, he had not a pistol and to some extent the old gun might give him moral support. when he was rowed across the harbour he heard a guitar badly played, and jumping down from _cayman_'s bulwarks saw macallister sitting under the anchor light. the engineer held the guitar awkwardly, and the sailors sat round and laughed. "hallo!" kit said, frowning. "why have you come on board?" "ye're a dour, crabbit englishman and no' as clever as ye think," macallister rejoined. "ye had not been gone ten minutes when i kenned what ye were after and reckoned i had got to see ye oot. ye didna ken i talk aver-r-rack?" "i doubt it now," said kit and macallister beckoned the interpreter, who had come on board with him. "ye shall judge, adjia simonidas." "is this arabic? it sounds like greek," said kit. "simon's from aleppo," macallister rejoined. "when ye trade in the levant, ye use arabic, turkish, italian and greek, and whiles ye mix the lot. there's no' a sailor's café between suez and smyrna i dinna ken. but ye're a doubting creature. weel, simon----" he began to talk and the interpreter leaned against the mast and laughed. "he is truly droll," simon remarked in french. "but i think he is safe with the moors. good moslems believe that allah guards such as him." kit lighted a cigarette. he had undertaken an awkward job and was sternly serious. mack was, of course, a good sort, but when he was not engaged in the engine-room his talents were for something like comic opera. kit would frankly sooner he had stopped on board _mossamedes_. for all that, he had known mack's reckless humour useful when sober thought was not, and he must be resigned. mack was on board and would not go back. when kit had smoked his cigarette he got two of the men to wash _cayman_'s boat and rowed across the harbour to a coaling wharf. the clerks had gone, but kit knew how the hose key worked and brought back the boat loaded with fresh water as deep as she would float. then he looked at his watch and going to the _patron_'s small cabin tried to sleep. the rattle of chain woke him and he went on deck. day was breaking and a cold wind blew off the land. mist rolled about the mountains and in the background las palmas glimmered against dark volcanic rocks. its outline was blurred and the white houses were indistinct; the town looked ghostly and unsubstantial. in the harbour, steamers with gently-swaying masts floated on the smooth swell. nobody moved about their decks and all was very quiet but for the surf that beat against the mole. some of the crew began to hoist the mainsail. they moved slackly, as if they were half-asleep, their bare feet made no noise, and kit liked to hear the thud of the canvas they threw off the boom. then blocks began to rattle, and when the gaff was up the sail flapped in the wind. they left the peak hanging and went forward to hoist the jib. the noise of running wire and chain halyard was cheerful, and kit tried to rouse himself. there is something that moves the imagination about a large steamer leaving port. one gets a sense of organised effort, of force in man's control and the triumph of his inventions. kit had vaguely felt that the _correillo_'s sailing with the mails on board was, so to speak, a social function of some importance to all. to mark a mail-boat's departure by a gun or detonating rocket was proper. but _cayman_'s start was flat and dreary. she must steal out of harbour lest she be stopped; and kit, shivering in the cold wind, was daunted. he had left his ship without leave and macallister had frankly run away. they had broken useful rules and would, no doubt, lose their posts, but this did not much bother kit. he had undertaken a job that, so far as he could see, he could not carry out. in fact, the thing was ridiculous. the moors were fierce and cunning desert thieves, and he was going to force them to agree with him. he knew no arguments they would admit, and his only protection was don erminio's old pinfire gun. kit felt his youth, but his inheritance counted for much. his code was the puritans', and its rude simplicity had advantages. one must do this because it was proper; the other was not. there was no use in arguing when one knew what was right. kit saw his duty and, if it cost him something, he must pay. all the same, he shrank. to do what he ought might cost much. _cayman_ rode to a buoy and when the jib was sheeted they brought the mooring aft and let her swing. the _patron_ went to the long tiller and wore her round, and the slack mainsail lurched across. then all went to the peak halyard and kit's spirits rose. the rattle of blocks was cheerful; he liked to see the straining figures rise and fall. the men's laboured breath and rhythmic movements gave him a bracing sense of effort. _cayman_ stole between a big cargo boat and a passenger liner, and by contrast with their lofty hulls looked absurdly small. when she began to list the water was nearly level with her covering board. the list got sharper, she forged past the end of the mole and her bowsprit splashed in the high, green swell. the _patron_ studied the mist that rolled about the mountains and turned to kit. "the wind blows up there and we will get it when we get the sun. well, we must drive her off the coast before the commandante knows why we have gone. i think we will not steer the usual course." they ran up the staysail and set the mizzen. _cayman_ leaped forward and the spray blew from her plunging bows. her white wake trailed across the tops of the seas astern, and the water that bubbled through the scuppers crept up her lee deck. for all that, the captain was not satisfied and he looked to windward, knitting his brows. "one can see far with the telescope from the isleta signal station," he remarked. "the mist is clearing. we will risk the topsail." the big sail was hoisted and _cayman_'s list got very sharp. one could not see how far the water crept up her inclined deck, because a sparkling cascade splashed across her weather bow and swelled the flood. they had hauled her on the wind and her channels dragged in the foam. one heard the wire shrouds hum and the masts groan, and now and then a sea rolled aft and broke against the boat on deck. for all that, the captain held on, and when the sun rose grand canary had melted into the silver mist. chapter iii the wady the sun was nearly overhead, and kit sat in the hot dust that lay about the wady. a low bank rose behind him and shaded his head. his eyes hurt, he was tired, and his burned skin was sore, for the dust stung as if it were mixed with alkali. in the open one could hardly front the sun, but the nights were keen, and at daybreak he had got up shivering from his hard bed behind a stone. macallister, simon, and three sailors from _mossamedes_ occupied the narrow belt of shade. their poses were cramped and awkward, for all tried to get some shelter from the sun. they had lunched frugally on _gofio_, goat's-milk cheese, and a little sour wine. _gofio_ is roasted grain, ground and mixed with water. the gritty paste stuck to kit's parched mouth, for he tried to control his thirst. the skin in which they had brought water from the ketch did not hold much. the map in wolf's office indicated an oasis not very far from the coast, and kit imagined that where water was he would find the berbers. since the wady ran nearly straight inland, he resolved to use it for a guide, and for three days the party had laboured across the dust and stones. as a rule, the hollow was not deep or sharply marked. for the most part, easy slopes led to a bare tableland where the soil, swept and consolidated by the wind, looked like rock. in places, however, the hollow pierced rolling ground and sank to a stony ravine. the country was strangely desolate, but was not the level, sandy desert kit had thought. in fact, there was not much sand, and in spots it looked as if the soil was sometimes cultivated. the bank behind kit's camp was sharply cut as if by an angry torrent, but since he had left the beach he had not seen water. there was not a rabbit or a partridge, although in the dry canaries rabbits haunt the stony ravines and red-legged partridges run in the prickly pear. nothing but a pair of buzzards, floating very high up, had crossed the sky. half closing his eyelids, kit looked about. strange reflections quivered across the stones and distant objects were magnified. in the foreground, the light was dazzling, and the hollow melted into a luminous belt of brown and yellow. a euphorbia bush with stiff, thick stalks, however, was harshly green and looked like a house, although it was but four or five feet high. the euphorbia puzzled kit; in a country where one found no water, its stalks were tender with milky sap. he glanced at his companions. their cotton clothes had gone yellow, their skin was brown, and he thought one could not distinguish them a short distance off. an hour since he imagined somebody had looked out from behind a stone. although he wanted to meet the berbers, he did not want to think they cautiously followed his track. he mused about the barrenness of the country. at lanzarote, sixty miles from the african coast, it sometimes did not rain for six or eight months, and then, when the concrete cisterns were nearly dry, it rained in floods. perhaps it was like that in morocco; sheep and camels could not live if it did not rain at all. kit began to think about the good bishop who used all his fortune to send the people of lanzarote water. a sailor shouted, and kit jumped up. a cloud of dust rolled down the wady, and in the dust, about sixty yards off, men on camels rode for the camp. kit watched their advance with dull surprise. a few moments since he had seen nobody and a camel is a large object to hide. it looked as if the berbers had sprung from the sand. then he heard the humming flight of a stone and a camel swerved. a sailor laughed hoarsely and stooped to get another stone for his sling, but kit stopped the man. he had come to meet the berbers and they carried long guns. had they meant to hurt him, they could have hidden behind the stones and shot the party. for all that, when they pulled up a few yards off, his heart beat and coolness was hard. they were big, muscular fellows and the nearest looked scornfully fierce; kit could not see the others' faces because they wore loose hoods. one or two of the spaniards had drawn their knives, but nobody moved. the little party stood against the bank and looked at the berbers. then kit braced himself and signed to the interpreter. for a few moments simon and one of the others talked, but the berber's remarks were short. his pose was easy, but very still, and the long gun he balanced somehow emphasised his height. he was like a bronze and blue statue, and kit thought his quietness forbidding. the camel moved its long neck and grunted. "he says we must go with him," simon remarked. "his chief is waiting. that is all." kit looked at macallister, who calmly cleaned his pipe. "aweel," he said, "ye wanted to find the moors and ye ought to be satisfied. yon fellow's no' for arguing. we'll just gang." the berber touched his camel and lifted his hand. his gesture was commanding, and when the others moved forward kit told the spaniards to put up their knives. the berbers did not threaten; they pushed their camels against the bank, and the men must move or be trampled. "_arrai!_" said the leader, his camel grunted, and kit's men set off, one behind the other between two rows of the clumsy animals. the camels went fast, their necks moving backwards and forwards like engine piston-rods. at the bottom of the wady the heat was intolerable, and thick dust rolled up. moreover, the ground was rough, but kit pushed on as fast as possible. he did not think the berbers would argue about the pace; it looked as if they thought his business was to keep up. he heard macallister breathe hard and sometimes simon coughed. the sailors went silently in their open rawhide shoes, the berbers said nothing, and one could not hear the camels' feet. in fact, all was strangely quiet, and somehow flat. kit had started with high resolves, but owned he had not played a romantic part. things had not gone as he had vaguely planned; the situation, so to speak, was not in his control. his party was driven along rather like a flock of sheep. although he had meant to negotiate with the chief, it looked as if he was the fellow's prisoner. the wady pierced a stony hill, and in the defile the heat got worse. kit's skin was scorched; the dust got into his nose and throat. sometimes he could hardly see; his eyes hurt and his head ached. nevertheless, it was obvious that he must keep up and he laboured on. by and by the berbers turned and climbed the side of the defile. to climb was hard, for parched soil and loose stones rolled down the slope. the camels, however, went up, and kit saw he must keep in front of the animals behind him. the track was narrow, and it did not look as if the berbers would stop. he could not see macallister. gasping men and lurching camels moved in a yellow fog. at the top they crossed a dazzling tableland where the soil was firm, and to feel the wind was some relief. when they went down again, a few miles farther on, kit saw prickly pear, thorny aloes, and in one spot short, white stubble, but there were no tents. the hollow was wide and ran on straight in front, until stones and dust melted into the quivering reflections. nothing indicated that a camp was near. the sun sank, and the camels threw grotesque shadows across the parched soil. kit began to lose the sense of feverish heat, and although he was worn out, walking was easier. when the sky was luminous red and green the wind got cool and the camels' pace was fast. somehow he kept up, and at length the berbers stopped. dark tents dotted the wady and sheep occupied a belt of dry stubble. in places an aloe lifted a tall shaft, tamarisk and prickly pear grew on the banks, but kit saw no palms. a few ruined stone huts, hardly distinguishable from the background, occupied a bend of the hollow, and a broken heap that might have been a watch tower on the ridge cut the sky. kit understood the berbers were nomads, but it looked as if somebody had long since built a village. no excitement marked the party's arrival. the leader shouted "_foocha!_" and the camels knelt; the men got down and pushed kit and the sailors forward. indistinct figures appeared at the tent doors, and he smelt acrid smoke. in front of the middle tent the leader stopped and a man came out. it was getting dark, but kit remarked that the man was not as big as the camel drivers and his skin was lighter. his mouth and jaw were covered and his blue clothes were clean. for a moment or two he studied the group and his calm glance rather annoyed kit. all the berbers he had met were marked by an imperturbable calm. then the fellow said something to a camel driver, who signed the party to go with him and took them to a hut. the front was broken and the roof had fallen, but the building gave some shelter from the keen wind. by and by another man brought them a bowl of stuff like porridge, some dried meat kit thought was goat's flesh, and dates. "what did the sheik say to the camel driver?" he asked simon. "he will talk to us in the morning; this was all. if he had meant to hurt us, he would not have sent the food. when you go, call him _wazeer_. it is not his title, but he will like it." kit doubted if the berber would be moved by flattery, but he said: "the food is good. this porridge stuff is better than the canary _gofio_. what do they call it?" "_cous-cous_," said simon. "from morocco to nigeria, all food that looks like this is _cous-cous_. it may be made with sour milk, palm oil, or water, and roasted grain, and some is very bad. in africa they do not use many names." "i'm thinking to talk much would hurt them," macallister remarked. "a very reserved people, and yon sheik's the dourest o' the lot. for a' that, when i try him wi' avar-r-rack----" kit turned impatiently to the interpreter. "we have got to negotiate with the man. since we can't buy his friendship, i don't see my line." "to be poor is not always a drawback," simon replied. "perhaps it is better he does not think us rich. in africa, one gives a present and we have some wine left. it is not good, but when one has none----" "but a mohammedan is not allowed to drink wine." simon smiled. "i will use some caution. if the headman breaks the rules, his people must not know. those who got no wine would be horrified. in this country one uses caution always. frankness is dangerous." "do you know much about the country?" "i know something," simon replied. "a levantine and a jew may go where an englishman cannot and a spaniard would be killed. in egypt i was an hotel servant, in algiers a pedlar. i have sold wine to the legion at the outposts, and in senegal i was major-domo for a french commandant. a small, fat man, with a theatrical dignity, but the black soldiers loved him. when they drilled well, he gave them sugar. he did not send an orderly; the commandant went along the line with the sugar in his cap. some french are like that. your officers are just, but one doubts if the africans love you much. well, in algiers one has adventures, but in morocco, south of casablanca, one is lucky if one keeps one's life. if you are not bored----" kit said he was not bored. to listen was some relief from his gloomy thoughts, and simon told a romantic tale. the fellow was obviously a bold and unscrupulous vagabond, but kit did not know when his narrative stopped. he was very tired and presently his head dropped forward and his shoulders slipped down the broken wall. when he awoke the stars were shining and it was very cold. two sailors lay beside him and all was quiet. kit put his head on another stone and went to sleep again. chapter iv kit negotiates in the morning before the sun was high, a berber took kit and his party to the headman's tent and signed them to sit in the sand. their clothes were smeared by dust to which the dew had stuck, and kit's boots were broken. his fatigue had not worn off much, he felt horribly dirty and dull, but he knew he must brace up. the headman and two or three others occupied the open front of the tent. in the background a row of camels, making strange noises, knelt beside a broken wall, and behind the uncouth animals stones and clumps of tamarisk melted into the widening bottom of the wady. the wind had dropped, it was not yet hot, and thin smoke with a pungent smell floated about the camp. kit studied the headman with some curiosity, since he did not know if the fellow was his host or captor, but got no hint from his inscrutable face. he understood the people were berbers, but at las palmas he had borrowed a book that stated the berbers were short and light-skinned. the tribesmen kit had met were big and dark, but the chief was lighter in build and colours than the rest. he was obviously not a savage; somehow kit thought him well-bred. "why have you come to my camp?" he asked. simon translated and afterwards carried on the talk. as a rule, it dragged, and kit imagined the interpreter was sometimes puzzled and used the _lingua franca_ of the moorish ports. "tell him i have come for the men his people carried off from the boats," said kit. "you thought to take them from us?" "no," said kit. "we knew this was impossible." "yet you brought a gun!" kit had missed the gun, but when the headman signed one of the others brought don erminio's old double-barrel. the berber studied it and kit thought him amused. "then you mean to buy the men?" he resumed. kit said he did not; he had no money, but if the men were not released, it was possible the spanish government would send soldiers to look for them. the headman let this go and asked what his and macallister's occupation was. simon replied, and the other was quiet for a few moments. then he said: "i have a better gun than yours, but sometimes it does not shoot. if this man knows machines, let him mend it." he clapped his hands and a berber brought macallister a big automatic pistol. "i doubt my luck's no' very good," macallister remarked. "a watch i ken. when ye can grip her in a vice and have tools to pick oot the works, she need not puzzle ye lang, but a pistol ye must hold on your knee is anither job. i'm thinking there might be trouble if i spoil her. for a' that, if ye have a peseta, i'll try t'." kit, with some hesitation gave him the coin. he had known macallister spoil a useful watch, and return another bearing the marks of the vice-jaws. experimenting with watches had a strange charm for him, but sometimes he made a good job, and if he mended the pistol it might help. macallister got to work with the coin and his big pocket knife, and the headman turned to kit. "i seized the men because your master cheated me. if i let them go, i will not get the goods he owes." "you will not get the goods," kit agreed. "my master is gone." the headman and one of the others talked, and simon said to kit: "they think it is so. they have found out that yusuf is gone. i expected something like this." "not long since i would have sold the men; i might have sold you all," the berber resumed. "now, however, this is perhaps not safe. we are not afraid of the soldiers, but we have enemies, and sometimes our neighbours take the white men's bribes." "he is frank, but it is like that," simon remarked. "in africa, the white man's power is not his native soldiers. one tribe hates the next and foreign money rules the desert." he paused and shrugged. "it is possible the fellow would have sold us. _baccalao_ fishermen have vanished. at the wineshops the spaniards tell stories---- but he wants to know why you bother about the sailors. they are not your servants." kit hesitated. he did not know the berber's code and if he claimed his object was unselfish the fellow might think he had another. yet he was not going to make up a plausible tale. kit's anger was quick and hot. the brute had pondered selling white men like camels. "tell him i saw somebody must look for them. when his people tried to carry me off, i think one put me on board the boat. that's all," he said. "then, they have no rich friends who would pay you if you brought them back?" the chief asked. "you have seen them!" kit rejoined and indicated his companions. "they are men like these. rich men don't labour in a steamer's boats." the berber gave him a thoughtful glance. kit was angry and his naive honesty was obvious. the berber was subtle, but it did not look as if he doubted. kit thought he weighed something; and then he looked up with a start. he had heard a sharp report, and a thin streak of smoke curled about the automatic pistol. sheep ran across the stubble, a camel got up, and kit saw a small hole in the tent. "noo i ken what's wrang with his gun," macallister remarked. holding the pistol in front he advanced towards the berbers. none moved and the headman's look was imperturbable. kit wondered whether the magazine held another cartridge and hoped nobody would move. he knew macallister. the engineer stopped opposite the headman, and for a moment their glances met. then he held out the pistol, with the butt to the other. "for a camel thief, ye're a trustful person," he said dryly. kit had not seen a berber laugh, but when simon translated it looked as if the headman smiled. he signalled and across the wady a man with a modern rifle got up from behind a stone and another crawled out of the sand. kit thought they were picked shots and had marked the range. all the same, he doubted if the headman knew there was a cartridge in the magazine. macallister, stopping by the other, opened the pistol. "noo," he said, "ye see----" his _lingua franca_ was uncouth, but when he took some pieces from the pistol with his pocket knife it looked as if the headman saw. he was obviously interested, something of his reserve vanished, and presently he signed one of the others back and macallister sat down on the piece of carpet by his side. the engineer gave kit a smile he understood. it was as if he had said, "ye dinna ken old peter yet!" kit mused. he had borne some strain and was languid, and the headman was occupied. it was strange, but macallister, by luck or talent, generally took the middle of the stage. kit was not like that, but now chance had given him a leading part, the part must be played, and he weighed the arguments he had used. he had stated that he was poor and wolf had vanished. if the chief were satisfied about this, there was obviously no use in his holding the party for ransom or to force payment of wolf's debt. then he had hinted that the spanish government might send soldiers to search the country, and the berber admitted that he had enemies who intrigued with the white men. kit did not know another argument; perhaps he had said enough, and he waited. by and by the headman talked to the interpreter, who said: "he wants to know why you landed the guns when you had not brought all." "we thought we had brought all," kit replied. "we didn't know until the french gunboat came that yusuf had cheated us. but he hasn't heard about the gunboat yet. you must try to make him understand." he narrated their escape from the gunboat. the story was long, for the berbers were not sailors and translation was difficult. sometimes simon hesitated, but the headman did not look impatient. his face was inscrutable and one got no hint about his thoughts. the sun got hot and the wind began to blow the dust about the wady. at length kit stopped and for a few moments the headman pondered. "you might have thrown the guns into the sea, but you did not," he remarked. "the guns were yours," said kit. "when we knew the jew had sold us, we resolved to deliver them. you see, we had got the camels." the headman gave him a searching look. "if i let you have the men we took, you will be satisfied?" "yes," said kit. "that is all we want." "very well," said the other. "your master robbed me, but he is gone and my debt will not be paid. i will let your men go; to keep them might be dangerous." he paused, and although he did not smile, kit imagined he was amused. "all the camels with which i paid for the guns were not mine," he went on. "some belonged to people who are friends of the french. i will send for your men. they are not here and you must wait for two or three days." he sent off a man to the camels and then touched macallister. "if you will stop with me, you shall take care of my guns and you may get rich," he said, and turned to kit. "if you can bring me the goods i want, i will trade with you." then he indicated the interpreter. "if this fellow comes back, we will shoot him." he got up, signed that the audience was over, and went into his tent. simon's eyes twinkled. "perhaps he thinks i know too much, and i know something. all the same, i will not come back. in morocco one runs risks and i have not got paid. at cairo the tourists are curious about the east and some are generous. they know simon at the big hotel. i will return." kit went off to the shade of the ruined hut. perhaps it was strange, but he trusted the haughty berber and he had not altogether trusted simon. on the whole, he thought the fellow's plan was good. if the tourists at cairo were like some at las palmas, simon would be a useful guide about the town at night. kit, himself, would sooner be a robber like the dark-skinned chief. then macallister sat down opposite and began to clean his pipe. "if i kent where to steal a handy bit steamboat, yon headman and me would make a bonnie pair o' pirates, but i've no' much use for camels," he remarked. "weel. i alloo ye took a very proper line wi' him." "i didn't see the line i ought to take. i was frank." macallister's eyes twinkled. "just that! i'm no saying ye were plausible, but the headman's no' a fool; he saw ye were a simple weel-meaning body. onyway, it's done with. we'll get off when miguel comes." three days afterwards miguel and juan arrived, riding in a frame hung across a camel. the quartermaster got down awkwardly and stretched his arms and legs. "but i am sore! it is like beating to windward in a plunging boat," he said and went up to kit. "we were anxious, señor, the moors are bad. but i did not bother very much. i knew you would come back for us, and my saint would guard you." the blood came to kit's skin. he said nothing, but gave miguel his hand. chapter v the return to the beach it was getting cooler, and long shadows marked the curves of the wady. on the other side, oblique sunbeams touched the bank. the wind had dropped, and as the dew began to fall the hot soil smelt like a brick-kiln. in the distance the surf throbbed, and kit thought its measured beat soothing. he had had enough of the parched wilderness. he was languid, for he had borne some strain, and when miguel and the mate arrived a reaction had begun. the berbers gave the party a little food and water before they broke camp and vanished in the desert, and kit started for the coast. travelling as fast as possible, he had used his short supplies with stern economy, and now, when he thought the shore was three or four miles off, he was hungry and tired. to some extent, dejection accounted for his fatigue. he had got the men for whom he went, but the thrill he felt at first was gone. wolf had run away, his wages were not paid, and since he had left his ship without leave, he expected don ramon would dismiss him when he got back. moreover, he had perhaps involved the company in trouble with captain revillon and the spanish officers. in fact, it looked as if he were ruined and disgraced. he was not going to think about olivia. she had refused him, but he had really known she would refuse. it was done with; he would be sent back to liverpool and would not see her again. there was one comfort; betty would stop. she was getting well and making progress; jefferson trusted her, and her pay was good. at liverpool he would not see betty, but, like olivia, she did not want him. in fact, nobody had much use for him. he had been easily cheated and had muddled all he undertook. still, he had got betty a good post and this was much. after a time he imagined he ought to see the bay from the top of the bank, and telling macallister where he was going, he went up the slope. the climb was laborious, and at the top he stopped for breath and shaded his eyes from the level rays. the sun was near the atlantic and in its track the water was red; the broken ground about him shone like copper. outside the crimson reflections, the sea was wrinkled and marked by thin white lines where the long rollers broke. the strong light hurt his dazzled eyes, and with a vague sense of disturbance he turned his head. when he looked again he could see the end of the point and the anchorage, but _cayman_ was gone. kit felt slack and sat down in the sand. he could not see all the bay, but a vessel could only anchor at one spot and _cayman_ was not there. kit had got a very bad jolt. the food and water would hardly last for another day, the coast was an arid desert, and he did not think he could reach the camp the berbers had left. he did not know if he hoped _cayman_ had been blown ashore, but if she were wrecked, the crew might have saved some stores. a mile or two farther on one ought to see the beach from the top of ground that now broke his view, and he was anxious to get there, but went down slowly. he must be cool and not alarm the others yet. at the bottom he joined macallister, who had waited and gave him a keen glance. "weel?" said the engineer. "_cayman_'s not riding in the pool," kit replied. macallister was quiet for a moment or two. then he said. "we have half a gallon o' smelling water, and there are eight o' us! as a rule, i ha' no' much use for water, but i mind when we broke the condensing plant on a coolie pilgrim boat. ye could not fill your tanks at every coaling station then. i got some water from the hot well; tasting o' copper and grease. we fed the boilers from the sea and drove her, with funnel flaming and tubes caked wi' salt. iron burns, ye ken, unless it's clean, and i thought the softening furnaces would blow down. she was crowded fore an' aft wi' sweating, gasping coolies, and we let her gang. when we made port i swallowed maist a gallon o' lemonade, claret and ice. man, i hear the ice tinkling against the pail!" "to talk about it makes one thirsty and we mustn't be thirsty yet," kit remarked, frowning. "say nothing to the others. we'll push on for the ridge." to push on was some relief from suspense. the rest of the party had not stopped and there was nobody but macallister to note kit's keen impatience. he wanted to reach the high ground that commanded the beach, because it was possible _cayman_ had broken her cable and driven ashore. kit felt he must know, and the shadows got longer fast. perhaps it would be dark before he got to the ridge. his burned skin was wet by sweat, and his breath was short, but he stubbornly laboured on. at length he climbed a sloping bank, and from a high spot searched the bay. the sun had gone, and the red on the sky and water was fading, but behind the point _cayman_'s mast cut the glow. kit's heart beat. the ketch was not at her anchorage, but she was not on the beach. he shaded his eyes and looked again. the mast was slightly inclined; in the glimmering reflections he could hardly distinguish the boat's hull. the tide was ebbing and he thought her keel touched bottom, but there was some water under her bilge. although the risk of hunger and thirst was gone, kit was disturbed. when he studied the water-line on the beach, it looked as if _cayman_ would presently fall over on her side. on a flat, open coast, the tides do not rise much, but there was a difference of some feet in the level, and at low ebb the boat would be nearly dry. kit wondered whether she was damaged, because one of two things had happened. when it blew fresh _cayman_ had broken her cable and driven ashore; or the captain had slipped the anchor and tried to get to sea. that he had not done so was plain, but since she had not broken up, kit imagined she lay in a hollow, sheltered to some extent by higher sands outside. to get to sea she must wait for the big tides at the new moon, and then perhaps one must land all heavy gear and ballast and put the stuff on board again when she reached the anchorage. the job would be awkward and long. pulling himself together, kit went down to the wady and told the others the ketch had grounded. the tired men saw all this implied and while the light faded made the best speed they could. when they reached the beach it was dark, but the captain had kept good watch and soon after they arrived a boat came shorewards on a smooth-topped roller. running into the water, they pushed her off and kit presently climbed on board the ketch. _cayman_'s deck was sharply slanted; sometimes she lifted her lower side and one felt her bilge work in the sand. some distance out to sea the rollers crashed upon the shoals, but the waves that broke about the ketch were small. kit dined on salt fish, potatoes and sour red wine. in the morning he would talk to the captain; now he was very tired and must sleep. he got up soon after daybreak and joined the captain on a plank hung over the side. a man with a mallet caulked an open seam and indicated three or four butt joints that were freshly tarred. when kit had looked about, the captain sat down on the plank and made a cigarette. "it blew, señor, but it blew!" he said. "when the anchor dragged we hoisted jib and mizzen, but she would not beat out. then while we hoisted the reefed mainsail she struck. a comber threw her up the sand; we lowered all sail and let her drive, until we knew by the smoother water she had crossed the shoal. then two anchors brought her up." kit nodded. "what are you going to do about it?" "when we have caulked some seams she will not leak much, and if it does not blow again, she will lie here until the tides get high. in the meantime, we will heave out the ballast and land it on the beach. then perhaps at the new moon we can kedge her across to the pool." "the job will be long," said kit. "my men must rest to-day. in the morning we will get to work." they began at sunrise next day, but the work was hard. _cayman_ had been built for speed and when sail was set would not stand up without a large quantity of ballast. the ballast was iron kentledge, moulded to fit her frames, and when the floors were up the men, crouching in the dark, pulled the heavy blocks out of the bilge-water. except for an hour or two at low tide _cayman_ did not lie quiet; when the water lifted her she rolled. the blocks were sent up in a sling and lowered into the boat, which did not carry much and must be rowed for half a mile across angry waves. near the beach an anchor was dropped, and when she swung head to sea her crew jumped over and carried the iron through the surf. sometimes they were forced to wait, and sometimes to haul off the boat. all hands were needed, and after a day or two kit's muscles ached and his bruised hands bled. when his limbs were cramped by crawling among the timbers in the hold, he went off in the boat, and clasping a fifty-six-pound lump of iron laboured up the hammered beach. sometimes a roller, frothing round his waist, urged him on, and sometimes he stopped and braced himself against the backwash. the bottom was not firm; gravel and sand rolled up and down and buried his sinking feet. moreover, he knew the iron he laboriously carried up must all be carried back. when the ballast was out the captain hesitated. on the moorish coast sheltered ports are not numerous, and for the most part _cayman_ landed and shipped cargo from anchorages behind the sands and reefs. in consequence, her main anchor and cable were very large and heavy, but the captain thought the vessel must be further lightened in order to float across the shoals. now the iron was landed, she rolled violently, and one hot afternoon, kit, holding on by a runner, leaned against the bulwarks. macallister and miguel occupied the hatch coaming, the captain the grating by the tiller. "if we do not land the anchor, she may strike when we kedge her across the sand," he said. "if she gets across and it blows hard we will need the big anchor and all the chain to hold her. we must run one of two risks." "if she strikes on the high sand she will stop for good," miguel remarked. "in two or three tides the surf would break her up." "i think that is so," the captain agreed. "in the pool she might ride to the small anchor and the kedge. it depends on the wind. i do not know if we will get much wind or not." miguel shrugged and used the castilian rejoinder, "_quien sabe?_" which implies that nobody knows. the captain lighted a cigarette. he was obviously irresolute, and kit sympathised. one could not weigh the risks and the choice was hard. "when you cannot see your way you trust your luck and drive ahead," macallister remarked in uncouth castilian. "if you do not get to the spot you want, you get somewhere and the hardest road is often shortest. land your anchor and let us start." "_bueno!_" said the captain, who got up and went to the windlass. at high tide, when _cayman_ floated, they carried out the kedge, and hove the main anchor and put it in the boat. kit went with the landing party and doubted if they could have got out the anchor had not miguel been on board. they had no mechanical help; while the boat plunged in the foaming surf the ponderous lump of iron must be lifted by muscular effort and when one struggles against an angry backwash one cannot lift much. kit was exhausted, his hands bled, and miguel's arm was torn, but they got the anchor over and returning to the ketch were fronted by another obstacle. in broken water the boat would not carry all the chain; they must take it by fifteen-fathom lengths, and the connecting shackles had rusted fast. kit thought nobody but macallister could have knocked out the pins, but at length the cable was divided and they resumed their labour in the surf. chapter vi betty demands help on the evening of austin's return to las palmas he and jefferson smoked and talked on the veranda steps. mrs. austin and mrs. jefferson were occupied with some sewing at a table near the lamp, but olivia was not about. she had gone to a concert at the metropole with a young english tourist whom mrs. austin approved. for all that, mrs. austin did not know how far olivia approved and she was bothered about kit. he had been longer than she had expected, and to some extent perhaps she was accountable for him. mrs. austin generally meant well and as a rule her plans to help people worked, but kit was headstrong and had not left much to her. she wondered what austin thought about her sending off the _cayman_. harry did not say much and he had been occupied since his return. jefferson had, no doubt, talked to muriel, but muriel was sometimes reserved. now jefferson and harry were together, mrs. austin thought she might, if she were cautious, get a useful hint. "i would rather like to get up an excursion to the mountains for mrs. gardner's party. she was muriel's friend in england, and we have not done much to amuse her," she said. "however, i expect you could not join us?" "you mustn't count on jake and me," austin replied. "we have let things go long enough." "yet the business kept going. in fact, i imagine it went pretty well." "that is so," austin agreed with a smile. "we know where you got your talents, and things do go well when don pancho resumes control. all the same, he's had enough and i am needed." mrs. austin was baffled. she had not learned much from harry, and she tried jefferson. "you have not a useful father-in-law. did you find a bad tangle when you got back?" "i have known a worse tangle when i was about," jefferson replied. "anyhow, i've a pretty good spanish clerk and miss jordan's a wonder." he paused and gave mrs. austin a thoughtful glance. "she's a girl to reckon on, but she was glad to slacken up and let me get to work. struck me she was quiet. something's bothering her, i guess." mrs. austin let it go. if they would not talk about _cayman_, she would not talk about betty, but she listened. after all, she had given them a lead. jefferson lighted a cigarette and turned to austin. "you met don ramon. were his remarks illuminating?" "don ramon is sometimes discreet; i didn't get much from him. the _commandancia_ people are his friends and so far i reckon they have not made trouble about the men musgrave left in africa. however, he stated that don arturo would shortly arrive from liverpool to see if he could settle the coaling dispute, and i imagine don ramon would sooner leave the thing to his chief." "do you think revillon lodged a formal complaint?" "on the whole, i think not. revillon's a cautious fellow and didn't get on board _mossamedes_. in fact, he hasn't very much to go upon, and it's possible the french foreign office don't want a dispute about the moorish atlantic coast. but i don't know, and the situation's interesting. my notion is, it will be handled pretty cautiously when musgrave comes back. don arturo's not a fool, and when a light touch is indicated you can trust don ramon." jefferson smiled. "in a sense musgrave's not important. his part's to put across an awkward job the spanish officers would sooner leave alone, and when the log-rolling begins he drops out. if it pays, the others may use his exploit, but we must try to see he does not get hurt. anyhow, i hope he has not piled up the boat. we'll want her soon." "that is so," austin agreed. "i've been closely engaged and haven't yet bothered about the ketch. but are you going?" mrs. jefferson said they had promised to meet some people at the catalina, and austin went with them for a short distance. the night was dark, but soon after they left the gate they met a girl going towards the house with a quick, resolute step. it was not olivia, and when she vanished in the gloom jefferson smiled. "miss jordan, i think!" he said, and his voice was rather dry. a few minutes afterwards, mrs. austin, looking up with some surprise, saw betty on the steps. "if mr. jefferson is wanted you have missed him," mrs. austin said. "i did not want mr. jefferson. i met him and the others in the road and knew you were alone." "then you wished to see me?" said mrs. austin, in a careless voice, although she would sooner austin had turned back. she indicated a chair and resumed: "very well! tell me what it is about." betty sat down. her clothes were plain but very neat. she looked business-like and resolute. mrs. austin thought her calm cost her something, but her mouth was very firm. "kit has not come back," she said after a moment or two. "i waited until a fishing schooner returned from the african coast. the _lucia_ arrived this afternoon, but her crew had not seen the _cayman_. the next boat is not expected for some time, and i saw i must come to you." mrs. austin noted that betty had informed herself about the sailing of the fishing fleet. she would sooner have sent the girl off, but since she saw no way of doing so politely, resolved to give her a lead. "i wonder why you came to me." "don't you _know_?" said betty, who gave her a searching look. "for one thing, when you persuaded mr. jefferson to engage me, you had an object. you often have an object when people think you kind!" "then you imagine i am accountable for your getting the post?" "of course!" said betty, with a touch of impatience. "kit told me about his giving you his mother's letter. i rather forced him to tell me; kit is trustful and he trusted you. well, i expect you knew that when he left liverpool he wanted me to marry him. it's plain you thought i might take him from your sister." "perhaps i did so," mrs. austin admitted. "kit's an attractive fellow, and when i was young i fought for my lover; in fact, i fought pretty hard. was it strange that i imagined you might take my line? we are all human; but perhaps you were proud and felt that kit must fight for you?" betty agreed that mrs. austin's humanity was obvious. in a way she was a great lady, an acknowledged leader of fashionable people, but she, so to speak, put off her dignity. betty was a clerk, but the other talked to her as if it were important that both were flesh and blood. "you don't altogether understand," betty rejoined. "at the beginning i did not want to keep kit away from your sister." "at the beginning! you imply you would have liked to keep him away afterwards?" "something like that," said betty quietly. "i saw miss brown was not the girl for kit." mrs. austin used some control, for betty's frankness was embarrassing. "yet you refused kit musgrave at liverpool!" "that is so," said betty and the blood came to her skin. "i'm a clerk and not beautiful like miss brown. i have no advantages and knew nothing but my business until mrs. jefferson began to teach me. kit's pay was small; i thought it might be long before he got more and our poverty would keep him down. a young man who marries on very small pay is badly handicapped. kit has some talent; i thought if he was free and lucky, he might go far. well, i saw i mustn't stop him, and i let him go." mrs. austin was moved. betty, like kit, was naively sincere, and her unselfishness was plain. it looked as if she loved kit, but her love was marked by something motherly and protective. in spite of this, however, she was now sternly resolute. "since you do not approve olivia, you ought to have been satisfied when i helped kit to get a post on board a ship that was not often at las palmas like the _correillo_," mrs. austin remarked. "i was not satisfied. all your thought was for your sister. you did not trust wolf, but you saw kit trusted you, and you let him run a risk. so long as he was not at las palmas, the risk did not matter. wolf was the cheat you thought. when he'd done with kit he sold him and the others to the french captain." mrs. austin was surprised that betty knew so much. moreover, she was beginning to get angry, because the girl's accusation was just. "what do you know about wolf's selling them? you did not see kit before he went off," she rejoined. "i did not," said betty and coloured. "he saw miss brown and did not bother about me, but mrs. jefferson told me why he wanted the boat, and i went to don erminio's." she was quiet for a few moments and mrs. austin saw her shot had reached its mark. her mood changed and she was sorry for the girl; betty had pluck and was very frank. "but you did not know where to stop," betty resumed and her eyes sparkled. "when kit wanted to go back you lent him the _cayman_. you knew he was rash, but this did not count. you thought the moors might carry him off and you would get rid of him for good. kit took the boat and thanked you. perhaps it's strange, but he had not found you out!" mrs. austin's face got red and to keep her self-control cost her something. she was, however, calm. "perhaps i can't persuade you i am not as selfish as you think, but you are not altogether just," she said. "at the beginning i did send kit to wolf, although i doubted the fellow. but i did not know the risk he ran. afterwards, when kit wanted the _cayman_, he had found me out." she stopped for a moment, and smiled when she resumed: "in fact, kit was very angry, and his statements were like yours; he declared i had planned to get rid of him. if it is much comfort, he will not trust me again. well, i did not want him at las palmas, but i did want to help. i liked kit, i liked his honesty; the young fellow is good stuff. we will let this go. i did not willingly let him take the _cayman_. he was resolved to get the boat, and kit is obstinate. he talked about my plotting against him, because he meant to force me to agree, and when i saw his losing his men weighed on him i did agree. that was all. i had no object then but to see him out." betty was persuaded. it looked as if she had exaggerated mrs. austin's unscrupulousness, but this was not important. she had come to fight for kit and the battle was not won. "anyhow, you are accountable," she urged. "you let kit go and he has not come back. perhaps he's wrecked and hiding on the coast; perhaps the moors have carried him off. we must find out, you must send another boat----" she stopped, for austin came up the steps and leaned against a post. looking about with a smile, he noted that mrs. austin's colour was rather high. betty was white and highly strung. she was obviously embarrassed by his arrival, but looked resolute. "you want us to send another boat to africa, miss jordan?" he remarked. "well, on the whole, i think we must try to indulge you. if you will wait a few minutes, i will go back with you and see jefferson about it." he went into the house and mrs. austin went after him. when he sat down at a writing table, she stood opposite. "were you long in the garden?" she asked. "not long, but perhaps long enough," he replied. "i wanted to go round by the back, but to pass through the kitchen might have excited the servants' curiosity. to feel i must steal into my house was rather ridiculous." mrs. austin gave him a searching look. "then you know the situation! it's awkward, and i'll own my trust in my cleverness has received a nasty knock. you see what i have done? i liked kit, and he thinks i cheated him. i like betty and she hates me!" "perhaps miss jordan has some grounds for annoyance, but i wouldn't exaggerate." "i did want to keep kit from olivia," mrs. austin resumed. "now he's gone back, she'll think him a hero; his going _was_ rather fine. to leave things alone would have been very much better." "meddling is sometimes risky," austin agreed. "on the other hand, olivia is really not romantic, and i imagine she is weighing young lockwood's advantages." "after all, olivia's not very important, and perhaps betty's argument was justified. i am accountable for kit's sailing on board _cayman_, and it's possible the moors have carried him off. i'm not as hard as people think. he must not get hurt." austin smiled soothingly. "exactly! somebody must go to look for him and i'll try to engage a fishing schooner. the _lucia_'s fast. well, i'll talk to jefferson." mrs. austin put her hand on his arm. "you're a very good sort, harry. i've done some foolish things, but you haven't yet let me down." chapter vii the "lucia" arrives jefferson, sitting under a lamp in his office, smoked a cigarette and studied austin with quiet amusement. he knew his partner rather well and thought him embarrassed; in fact, he thought harry had some grounds for embarrassment. jacinta austin was clever and jefferson admitted he owed her much; for one thing, he might not have married muriel had not jacinta helped. unfortunately, however, meddling was her habit, and sometimes her clever plans made trouble. jefferson thought she was sorry she had not left kit musgrave alone. "i guess we had better send the _lucia_ across," he said, when austin stopped. "_cayman_ cost a pretty good sum, and since she has not returned it's possible she has driven ashore. i'd expect the moors to get busy about a stranded vessel, and on the south coast they're not friends of ours." "your argument's plausible, jake," austin remarked. "for all that, i imagine you really don't want to let me down." jefferson smiled. "sometimes your imagination's pretty fierce. we're merchants, and when you're up against a possible loss, to spend a small sum in order to get your money back is a useful plan. there's another thing. the _patron_ of the _lucia_ knows all about catching _baccalao_, but he stops there. you wouldn't leave him to handle an awkward job, and the moors are a treacherous lot. then revillon may blow in. you see where i lead?" "it's obvious. one of us ought to go, and the job is mine." "i think not. you know the sea, but you're a steamboat man. i'm a sailor." austin had from the beginning seen that jefferson knew the part jacinta had played and knew he himself was accountable for his wife and meant to pay her debts. jake, however, would not admit this and had taken another line. he was a very good sort, in fact, he was the best. anyhow, he was a sailor, and somebody must stop at las palmas. "very well," said austin. "don erminio's house is shut, and i understand his friends don't know where he's gone. don ramon has, no doubt, sent him off. sometimes the captain talks and i expect the _commandancia_ folks are getting busy. don ramon doesn't want any complications before his chief arrives. well, suppose you bring musgrave back?" "i reckon you can leave it to don arturo," jefferson replied. "if musgrave has got the men, the spaniards will be glad he's put across an awkward job. political jealousies are pretty keen, and they have no use for sending spanish soldiers outside spanish soil. however, if kit has put it across, don arturo will soon fix up things with the commandante. i'd back don arturo and his manager to bluff revillon." austin agreed, and to agree was some relief. _cayman_ was his and jefferson's boat, and he had thought kit's using her might involve them in some trouble with the government officers. nevertheless, he must support jacinta, and jake would support him. a few moments afterwards the door opened and betty came in. jefferson got up as if he meant to fetch a chair, but betty did not advance. she stood by the door, looking very slender, straight and white. her face was quiet and her mouth was firm, but her hands moved nervously. jefferson stood by his desk and waited. his manner was the manner he would have used had a great lady come in, and austin thought that after all betty owed jacinta much. "are you going to send off a schooner in the morning?" she asked. "it's possible. we were talking about it," jefferson replied. "you _must_ send a boat," said betty firmly. jefferson said nothing, but looked at austin, who knew he must be quiet. "i don't know if i'm much use and perhaps i'm not," betty resumed. "however, if a boat does not sail, i'm going back to liverpool." she paused and added with a hint of strain: "i don't want to go." "thank you," said jefferson. "well, i allow we want you to stop. there's another thing. i understand my partner kind of promised a boat would go. sometimes he's rash, but i feel i've got to see him out." for a moment betty turned her head, but when she looked up again she was calm and businesslike. "i am sorry i disturbed you," she said. "if you think i took a line your clerk ought not to take, i will give up my post. however, you are occupied with mr. austin, and we can talk about this again----" she hesitated and the blood came to her skin. "i ought to have known you would not refuse; i really did know, but speed's important," she added, and went off. "i reckon i ought not to have kept her in suspense," jefferson remarked. "miss jordan's modest, but she has grit, and grit like hers is fine. muriel is fond of her, and i think she is happy with us. at liverpool her luck was pretty bad, but if she couldn't bluff me, she was going back. well, if kit musgrave----" he stopped and austin, understanding his embarrassment, smiled. olivia was his relation, but he agreed that if kit, for her sake, let betty go, he was a fool. austin thought he saw what betty's staunchness cost. the girl was proud, but when she imagined kit was in danger she conquered her pride. she knew jefferson knew something about kit's infatuation, and that her demand for help indicated that she loved him; but she did not count this important. austin thought that after all betty's sense of values was just. for a few minutes he and jefferson resumed their talk, and then started for the port. they found the _lucia_'s captain on board, and before long all was ready for her departure in the morning. in the meantime, kit and _cayman_'s crew were strenuously occupied. after they had landed the ballast, cable and all heavy stores, they took careful soundings in the boat and marked the best line to the pool by bearings from the shore. then, when the moon was new and high water at about twelve o'clock one hot morning they launched the boat. for about two hours there would be water enough to float _cayman_ across the highest sands, but if she did not reach the pool before the tide ebbed much she would strike and stop for good. since the ballast was landed, sail could not be used and she must, if possible, be towed by the boat. kit, however, doubted. there was some wind and towing would be hard. he thought they would soon be forced to kedge; to carry out a small anchor and heave the vessel forward by the rope. perhaps the worst was the sun was nearly overhead. the windlass clanked until the cable ran nearly straight up and down, and kit jumped into the boat. it was not his business, but flesh and blood could not long bear the strain and all must work by turns. for a minute or two they waited, and he looked about. the light on the sea was dazzling, and one saw nothing but glittering lines of foam that marked the turmoil on the sands. to tow _cayman_ across the belt of broken water looked impossible, but they must try, since kedging is slow and time was short. moreover, the shoals beyond the pool to some extent broke the sea. the _patron_ signalled, they got out the oars, and the boat went ahead. she did not go far. the tightening rope jerked her back, under _cayman_'s bowsprit, and, when they pulled ahead again, fouled the oars. then the boat sheered off at an angle and they struggled savagely to get her in line. _cayman_ floated high above water, exposing her side to the wind, and the steep swell rolled her about. her progress was not even; she advanced by awkward leaps, running up on the boat and a few moments afterwards dragging her back. when her bows swung up kit saw her copper sparkle with reflections of green and gold, but one did not see it long. the bows went down, the boat ran back, and the plunging bowsprit was over his head. he heard the others' laboured breath and set his mouth and rowed. _cayman_ was moving, but her progress was horribly slow. the men's bodies were tense with effort and the muscles on their arms swelled in knots. their legs were braced like iron, and the sweat glistened on their brown skin. kit could not see properly, and was conscious of a salt taste in his mouth. in the desert his lips had cracked and he thought they bled. perhaps he had torn them when he clenched his teeth. the others rowed stubbornly, but he knew they could not keep it up. they did not keep it up. the tightening rope fouled the steering oar, the boat was drawn back, and when she struck _cayman_'s bow a man fell off his thwart. his oar went in the water and when it was recovered the _patron_ signed them to come on board. miguel and two or three more jumped down and kit leaned slackly against the bulwarks. there was no shade, the hold and cabin were unthinkably hot, but he saw the short, thin shadow the mainmast threw across the deck had moved. this meant the sun had passed its highest point and the tide was ebbing. he could not judge the progress they had made. astern, all was dazzling white and yellow. foam and sand melted in a blaze of colour. the _patron_ stood on the steering gratings and his brows were knit. he said nothing, but kit thought he knew they could not tow her across. after a time the _patron_ signalled, a small anchor plunged, the boat came alongside, and kit helped a fresh crew to put the kedge anchor on board. to carry it ahead was easier than towing, but when they got back they must break out the other anchor and then heave _cayman_ up to the kedge. to heave by hand was fastest, and for a few minutes the row of men, singing hoarsely, strained and swung. then the singing stopped, their bodies got upright and went no farther back. the veins stood out on their brown foreheads, but the rope would not come in. they hung on, tense and rigid, unwilling to own that they were beaten. perhaps the wind had freshed, for _cayman_'s plunges were sharper. without her ballast, she rolled and jumped ridiculously like a cork, and now and then her heavy masts lengthened the swing, until it looked as if she were rolling over. there was not much sea, but on the sands its movement was horizontal; it rolled across the bottom, and for the ketch to advance she must overcome its backward impulse. the men took the rope to the windlass and laboriously hove the levers up and down. sometimes the drum would not turn; and then the sharp clink of the pawls indicated that the rope came in. when she was over the kedge all were exhausted, but the anchor must be dropped to hold the ground they had won while the boat took the kedge another cable's length ahead. when the mast was for a moment upright kit looked at the shadow and saw it had moved across another plank. he doubted if they could get across the sand, although the men were doing all men could do. the strange thing was, they held out in the scorching heat. but if they did get across, their labour would not be finished, and kit owned he shrank from reloading the ballast. when they landed the iron, the sea carried the boat ashore; when they brought it off she must be driven against the rollers. moreover, the work must be done with speed, because the anchorage was unsafe. _cayman_ had driven ashore and, if it blew hard, might drive ashore again. she could not, without her ballast, beat for open sea. somebody shouted and kit saw an object on the horizon. it was like a sail, but he was dull and his satisfaction was not keen. the other boat would not arrive for some time, and if they did not reach the pool before her, the ebbing tide would strand them on the bank. although help was perhaps coming, it might come too late. they must concentrate on getting across, and trying to brace himself, he jumped into the boat. the wind freshened and progress was slower, but the heat did not get less. kit's head swam, his arms were cramped, and the backward swing with the oar badly hurt his side. to heave at the windlass levers was worse, and he did not bother about the sail. time was going and he thought he felt _cayman_'s keel touch bottom. perhaps the sand was uneven and she had crossed a hummock. he laboured mechanically, seeing nothing but the lever he pulled up and down. all the same, he knew the kedge warp came in, because the pawls clinked; if they stopped, the men were beaten, and _cayman_ would soon strike. kit did not know the depth of water the _patron_ got, but the sea was smoother, and this indicated that the tide had sunk behind the shoals. in fact, kit thought he saw shining sand in the foam. all must brace up for a last effort. the rope came in faster, as if the resistance slackened, and when the kedge was carried out the men left the windlass and walked aft along the deck with the rope. somebody said there was good water under the keel, the long pole the captain used for sounding hardly touched bottom, and then did not touch. "_basta!_" he shouted; they made the rope fast, and kit sat down on deck. a two-masted vessel came up the channel. the sweep of her slanted green hull, outlined by curling foam, and her high, shining canvas were beautiful, but kit hardly glanced at her. he was exhausted, and leaning against the bulwarks, he shut his eyes. soon afterwards, jefferson jumped on board and stopped by kit. kit's skin was burned, and crusted by salt and sand where the spray had dried. his lips were cracked, and his torn hands bled. getting an anchor out of a plunging boat is awkward work. "hallo!" said jefferson. "you look as if you had got up against it hard." kit opened his eyes and smiled. "i think we have had enough." jefferson nodded. "we'll put you on board _lucia_; they have rigged an awning under the mainboom. we've got some ice and pepe knows how to mix a long, cool drink." he turned to the _patron_. "if there is much sea next high water, you cannot ride to the kedge. i see you have landed the best anchor." the _patron_ said he had done so and jefferson ordered his boat to the bow. "let your men rest; the _lucia_'s are fresh. but what about miguel and juan, the mate?" "they are in the forecastle, getting up another warp." jefferson gave kit a smile. "you brought them back! we'll talk about it again. i must get the anchor while there's water across the sand, and will put you on board _lucia_ before i start." kit went on board and got into a hammock under the awning. he thought jefferson's getting to work typical; jefferson's habit was to work and talk afterwards. now he had arrived kit was not going to bother. his job was finished, and things went smoothly when jefferson took control. pepe brought him a cool drink, and soon after he drained the glass he went to sleep. chapter viii "cayman's" return don arturo and his party occupied a corner of the glass-roofed _patio_ at the metropole. for the most part, the tourists had gone when las palmas got hot, and the big hotel was nearly empty, but the cook and manager had given the party's ten o'clock breakfast careful thought. the company's cold stores were searched and the finest fruit in the island was ordered. don arturo's hospitality was famous at las palmas, london and liverpool, and people talk about the feasts he gave. pioneers of colonial industry, imperialist politicians, and leaders of commerce met at the table. his guests at the metropole were a high civil officer, don ramon, austin and the _commandante de marina_. the coffee, and cigars carefully sealed in glass, were brought from the caribbean coast in the company's steamers, and grown for the presidents of south american republics; the wine was made for the rulers of central europe. as a rule don arturo's hospitality was extravagant. perhaps he found it paid, for he himself was a plain business man and had known poverty. yet, although a merchant, he was something of a prince; when famous shipbuilders and financiers crowded his waiting-room, he would stop to weigh a ship's cook's complaint. his humblest servant might appeal direct to him. he gave all audience, and his knowledge and justice were rather like haroun a raschid's. now he looked thoughtful and gave austin a quiet glance. "to some extent, wolf was your antagonist, but i don't see why you took a part in my purser's african adventure." "at the beginning i don't know that i did take a part," austin said with a smile. "mr. musgrave demanded my boat, and since i was not at home, my wife indulged him. when i sent off the other vessel, my object was mainly to get my money back." "you imagine musgrave's resolve to go was, so to speak, spontaneous?" "i don't think he was _prompted_. losing his men--in a sense, they were your men--weighed on him. all the same, if he brings them back, i imagine his going was lucky." "it is lucky," the civil officer agreed. "the men are spaniards and we cannot leave them in the hands of the moors, but to rescue them might be difficult. expeditions to africa are not popular just now, and to send a gunboat would embarrass the government." the commandante nodded. "one must reckon on the opposition newspapers, and the catalan radicals are very keen. fresh trouble about morocco would start an outcry. if one could send a small party to negotiate, it would be easier, but this might be dangerous; the moors are disturbed and threatening. to land an armed force would mean fighting and the force must be strong. besides, the moors are cunning. it is possible they have retired across our border." "i understand the french captain has not lodged a formal complaint," don arturo remarked. "captain revillon is discreet," said the civil officer. "had he seized your ship with the guns on board, it would have been another thing." "well, i suppose you are satisfied that i was cheated? you take it for granted that when my ship was chartered i did not know she would be used for smuggling?" "we know you and we know your manager," the officer replied with a polite bow. "we doubted the man who chartered the ship, but until she came back and he vanished we did not see his plan." "on the surface, his plan was obvious," don arturo remarked rather dryly. "for a time he carried on a risky business and then, when he saw the risks were greater than he thought, resolved to get a quantity of goods without proper payment. when he had got the goods and knew he must soon be found out, he intrigued with the french and tried to get some money from them. the ship was not his, and i imagine the last lot of guns were worthless. it looks plausible." "yet you think this was not all?" the commandante suggested. "i am a merchant, not a politician," don arturo rejoined. "i have got back my ship and am satisfied." "you have some grounds for satisfaction. the ship carried guns for rebels and señor musgrave was your servant as well as wolf's. i think this was a mistake, but don ramon has used much discretion, and we do not doubt your honesty." "in the meantime, my purser and the spanish sailors have not returned. what are you going to do about it?" the commandante lighted a cigar. "you must use patience. i think you see the situation is awkward, and wolf is not a common cheat. your manager knows much about our politics." "i imagine wolf's object was not altogether to earn money by smuggling and robbing the moors," don ramon agreed meaningly. the officer shrugged. "it is possible. one cannot be altogether frank, but there is some jealousy about the african coast, and a country we know feels she is shut out. well, we will imagine a ship flying the spanish flag is seized by a foreign gunboat, and french subjects are killed by the guns she landed. perhaps spanish subjects are killed; it is not important which. then the ship is really british. picture for yourself the complications! when a dispute begins, who knows where it will end?" "in spain, we are old-fashioned, and our justice is not british justice," said the commandante, whose face got very stern. "one is given some discretion. if i could find señor wolf----" "for a few days we must wait," the civil officer resumed. "perhaps the english _sobrecargo_ and our sailors will return. if they do not, we must think---- but we will talk about something else." they talked for some time and then a messenger arrived and gave don ramon a note. "it is from the office," he remarked. "the signals on the isleta are going. a schooner and a ketch come from the east." "ah," said austin with a smile, "i reckoned on something like this. i think the situation has arranged itself." "you mean, the ketch is yours?" said don arturo. "i expect she is the _cayman_ and the other is the _lucia_. it looks as if musgrave had got the men. shall we cross the harbour and see the boats arrive?" the others agreed, for all were keen to get the news, and soon afterwards they landed on the long mole, which, built of ponderous concrete blocks, runs for some distance out to sea. the morning was bright, the trade-breeze fresh, and outside the shelter of the isleta head big foam-tipped combers rolled south. shining spray blew about the mole, and one felt the surges beat the massive blocks. the echoes of the measured shocks rolled among the coal wharfs across the harbour. some distance off two sails broke the dazzling sweep of blue. they slanted, plunged and almost vanished, but they got larger, and at times when they crossed a comber's top austin saw a dark line of hull. he knew _cayman_; no other boat about the islands carried a mizzen like hers. moreover, he thought he knew kit musgrave, and since kit was coming back, was persuaded he had brought the men. he admitted that jacinta had used kit rather shabbily, and he meant, if possible, to make some amends. "what are you going to do about musgrave?" he asked don arturo. "if he is willing, he can stop with us. are you interested in the young fellow?" "musgrave is rather a friend of ours and has some useful qualities," austin replied. "for example, he undertook a very awkward job because he felt he ought. then it's important that he has carried out the job. one trusts a man like that and my business is growing----" austin knew when to stop. since he had indicated that he knew kit's value and was willing to engage him, he had perhaps gone far enough. don arturo smiled. "if musgrave has straightened out the tangle that bothers our spanish friends, he deserves a reward. however, i must think about it and study the fellow. sometimes to push on a young man fast is not an advantage." austin agreed, and when they reached the end of the mole noted that betty occupied the last large block. the spray tossed about her, and her dress streamed in the wind. she did not see austin; her eyes were fixed upon the boats. austin was not surprised that she was there. when vessels approached the port, the look-out on the isleta signalled to the town, and clerks at the shipping office knew the flags. advancing carefully, he touched betty's arm. "the smaller boat is _cayman_. i expect kit's on board." she turned and austin saw her look was strained. "you don't know yet! unless the men are with him, kit is not on board." "i know jefferson," said austin, smiling. "he went to look for kit, and the larger boat's the _lucia_. you see what this implies? i'm using your argument." in the meantime, a crowd had begun to gather. men from the fishing vessels and women with black clothes and black shawls pushed towards the end of the mole. some talked and gesticulated; some were quiet, and their dark faces were inscrutable like the moors. all kept back a little from don arturo's party, and the commandante studied them with languid interest. "if their friends do not arrive, i think we shall have a _demonstration_," he remarked to the civil officer. "we know don ramon is discreet, and i gave the _diario_ a useful hint, but it looks as if the people knew the story we meant to keep dark." "at las palmas nothing is long kept dark," don ramon replied. "i have used some caution, but one cannot stop don erminio talking. it is frankly impossible!" the officer shrugged. he was a _peninsular_ from madrid. "in a few minutes, perhaps, your islanders will curse the government and throw stones at us. but a demonstration is not important, and at barcelona they use bombs and knives----" he stopped, for the vessels were not far from the mole. _lucia_ led. her high white canvas was sharply inclined and her hull listed until the foam leaped about her rail. one saw her keen bows swing and cleave the frothy seas. she was beautiful and strangely swift, for there are no finer schooners than the canary coasting fleet. three or four small figures began to run about her deck, the big gaff-topsail tilted, fluttered and came down; a jib was lowered and the ketch behind her forged ahead. austin smiled and left the others, for he was now altogether satisfied jefferson was on board. jake was a chivalrous fellow. "all has gone well," he said to betty. "but you cannot see the people yet. it's too far." "we saw _lucia_'s topsail hauled down," austin rejoined. betty's eyes sparkled. "you mean, they want to let kit make the harbour first? well, that's like mr. jefferson!" "jefferson's a good sort," austin agreed. "anyhow, i rather think kit deserves his triumph." _cayman_ did not shorten sail. her topmast bent to leeward, her outer jib was wet, and when she plunged, her straining bowsprit sank into the sea ahead. her deck was sharply slanted; one saw her copper glimmer green, and now and then a fathom of the metal swung out of the foam. a tattered red and yellow flag, hard like a board, blew from her mizzen gaff; she leaped across the white seas as if her _patron_ felt he carried important news. the news was important. on the mole, people who did not know kit and jefferson waited with keen suspense. they could not yet see the faces of the crew and tried to count the figures, but the men moved about. some got the anchor ready and some threw down coils of rope. then, listing to a gust that buried her lee rail, _cayman_ drove past the end of the mole and the crowd began to shout. "_ambos! los veo!_ they have brought them both!" betty thrilled. her heart beat and her eyes were wet. she was moved by keen emotion, and for a moment she had seen kit. then _cayman_ went about and he was hidden by the swinging canvas. she came up to the wind again. jibs and topsail ran down, she stopped, and the anchor splashed. people shouted and pushed towards the landing steps. _cayman_'s boat was lowered. betty saw kit, macallister and some others jump on board. the boat pulled for the steps and the crowd surged along the edge of the mole. when the boat stopped, hats were thrown up, and betty knew in spain one throws one's hat to the _maestro_ after a great exploit in the bull-ring. hoarse shouts pierced the rumble of the sea. "_viva el yngles! buen' muchacho! viva el señor jefferson._" chapter ix kit's reward on the morning after their arrival, kit and macallister went to the metropole. macallister wore a neat blue uniform, a cap with the company's badge, and spotless white deck-shoes. his talk was careless and now and then his eyes twinkled. kit's look was moody, and he wore plain duck clothes. he did not know if he was the company's servant and rather thought he was not; don arturo had sent for him, and he was probably going to be dismissed. when they went up the drive to the big square hotel macallister looked about. "don arturo's a great man, but he has no' much eye for beauty," he remarked. "when his architect built the metropole his model was a block. maybe the cube style's economical. we get the maist room inside wi' the least span o' wall, but if i was a spaniard, i'd make a bomb and blow up the ugly thing." he stopped and putting his head on one side studied the hotel. "bulk has value, if it's properly relieved. the old greeks kenned; they used the square but they broke the line wi' pillars and cornices. maybe, if ye worked in two, three mouldings and ran a _loggia_ along the front----" "i didn't know you were an architect," kit said impatiently. "ye dinna ken a' old peter's talents," macallister rejoined with a grin. "architecture's useful and man has done fine work in stone, but for a pattern o' lightness, strength and beauty ye'll need to take a modern steel steamship. she must bear strains and stresses ye dinna bother aboot on land. a town hall, for example, is no designed for plunging through a steep head sea. man! wi' a rule and a scriber, i'd design ye a better building than yon hotel." kit frowned and pulled out his watch. "don arturo is waiting for us." "just that! he stated eleeven o'clock. there was no inquiry aboot my convenience. maybe the head o' a big steamship line likes to command, and deck officers touch their hats and run, but when ye send for an engineer ye use some manners." kit said nothing and started for the hotel. he was not an engineer, and at the liverpool shipping office had been drilled to prompt obedience. the clerk, however, told him to wait and sent a page with macallister to a room above. "you are some minutes late," said don arturo, indicating a chair. macallister noted that the open window commanded the front of the hotel. in fact, when he stopped to criticise its architecture he imagined his stopping might be remarked. "three minutes, sir," he admitted, pulling out a black-metal watch. "on board a spanish ship breakfast's no' very punctual." don arturo knew something about macallister; moreover he knew his type. sometimes one may bully a merchant captain, but not a scots engineer. "you left your ship without leave," he said. "are you willing to state your grounds for breaking the company's and the british board of trade's rules?" "to begin with, the ship was spanish for the time," macallister rejoined. "had there been work for me on board i might have stopped, but the captain was sick and the office had no use for the boat. then i reckoned mr. musgrave might need me in africa. in a sense, his business was the company's." don arturo pondered. it looked as if musgrave had staunch friends, but this was not important. he saw the engineer was not at all embarrassed. "mr. musgrave has pairs," macallister resumed. "for a' that, he's young and had undertaken a verra awkward job. i thought he needed a man o' sound judgment, in fact, a man like me." "so you stole away and went with him? if this is an example, i don't know that your judgment is very good, but i'm curious about your adventures." macallister instinctively felt for his pipe. don arturo glanced at the pipe and pushed across a cigar box. the cigars were packed in glass, but don arturo was a great merchant and sometimes indulged his humour. it was plain the other rather thought himself his guest than a servant who deserved a reprimand. "thank you," said macallister coolly. "weel, if ye'll no' be bored----" he narrated his journey up the wady and the encounter with the moors, but gave kit the leading part. macallister had some talent for story-telling and used no reserve. when he talked about their interview with the chief don arturo stopped him. "your carelessness with the pistol might have cost your party much," he said. macallister smiled. "it might have cost the headman mair!" "that's obvious," said don arturo, with a touch of impatience. "but suppose the bullet had struck him? you don't imagine his people would have let you go?" "it's no' altogether obvious, until ye understand. when she exploded i put my finger on the magazine. there was another cartridge. had the headman moved when i went up til him---- he didna move; he was wooden. i'm thinking he kenned the magazine wasna empty." "but you gave him the pistol?" "just that!" said macallister. "maybe the experiment was rash, but i was justified. yon moor was proud and his nerve was good." don arturo thought the engineer's was better and, allowing for the strain, his judgment was strangely quick and accurate. he did not doubt the tale; he knew much about his servants, and when some boiler tubes had burst---- "for all that, i don't see how you persuaded him to release the men," he said. "mr. musgrave persuaded him. his argument was good, though it wasna altogether his argument, but himself. the lad's honesty was plain. the moor couldna doubt him, although he might ha' doubted you or me." "sometimes frankness pays," don arturo remarked with a twinkle. "what argument did musgrave use?" "his master had gone, naebody would ransom us and the ithers, and we had naething worth the stealing. it carried weight, but no' a' the weight. the moor was a robber, but in the desert he was a kin' of prince, and a prince cannot be shabby. mr. musgrave, wi' two, three ragged sailors and a very old gun, had come seeking him. the thing was a joke, but i reckon the moor saw the joke was fine. he was a proud man and he let the sailors go." don arturo mused. he was not romantic, but, like the moor, he was sometimes generous. he pictured the little drama in the sands; the english lad's naïve honesty, and the dark moor's reserve. the tale was moving, and he was forced to approve the part his servants had played. but other business waited. "well," he said, "you have talked about musgrave, but i don't know that you have yet justified your leaving your ship." "i dinna ken i tried," macallister rejoined. "when i'm wanting it, i can get anither post, but i doubt if ye could get an engineer like me." "it's possible i could not," don arturo admitted with some dryness. "well, if you can satisfy don ramon, you may go back on board, and now you might send up mr. musgrave." macallister went off, smiling, but when kit entered he was highly strung, since he expected to be told he must give up his post. he looked worn, for fatigue and strain had left their mark. don arturo looked very business-like, and his watch was on the table. "mr. macallister has given me some particulars about your exploits and i have not much to ask," he said. "to begin with, when the french gunboat chased you, why did you resolve to land the guns?" "i don't altogether know, sir," kit replied. "it was plain wolf's agent had sold us and it looked as if he had cheated the moors. they had paid for goods they would not get, and although yusuf made the bargain, in a sense, they dealt with me." "you felt your business was to deliver the goods?" "something like that, sir," kit said awkwardly. "then, since wolf had engaged to land the guns, i thought we could best baffle him by carrying out his engagement." don arturo saw the ironical justice that marked kit's counterplot, but he said dryly, "i expect you knew you risked my ship?" "i knew this afterwards; when the gunboat steamed up i couldn't weigh the risk. i didn't know how much captain revillon knew, and if he could seize the ship had we thrown the guns overboard. it was obvious he could not seize her if we crossed the shoals. the water was not deep enough for him." "we'll let it go. why did you return for the men?" "i thought the job was mine, sir. i was the company's servant, and the captain was injured. if i'd told my story at the office and the _commandancia_---- but you can see the obstacles!" don arturo nodded. "i imagine i do see. you thought you could handle the thing better than don ramon and the spanish officers? rather a bold claim, was it not?" "they'd have been embarrassed by difficulties that did not bother me," kit replied with some hesitation. "i thought speed and quietness important; the plan was to steal off and get to work." he had stood in front of the table, but don arturo now indicated a chair. "on the whole, i think your plan was good. all the same, if you stop with us, you must run no more risks like that. your business is to carry out the company's orders." kit's heart beat, for his relief was keen. "then i may go back, sir?" "you will not go back on board the _correillo_, but don ramon is sending _mossamedes_ to cuba and has a post for you. at sea, your duties will be a purser's; at the cuban ports you will be the company's agent. all the cargo is not sold and you will negotiate with the merchants. the post carries better pay, but don ramon will give you particulars. i believe mr. macallister will join the ship, and the _correillo_'s captain takes command." kit had not thought don arturo meant to promote him, and the blood came to his skin. "thank you, sir," he said. "i'll try----" don arturo smiled and looked at his watch. "if you carry out your new duties with the resolution and honesty that marked your dealings with the moors, i expect we shall be satisfied. in the meantime, they want you at the office." kit started for the office. he was promoted, and although his promotion was perhaps not marked, he thought the head of the line had studied him and meant to help his progress. moreover, his supposition was accurate. soon after kit had gone a page brought up austin, and don arturo remarked: "i have just given musgrave rather a better post." "then i expect he will make good. if he had joined me, i'd have given him the best post i'd got." "musgrave's friends believe in him," don arturo replied. "but we must remember that caution is sometimes useful and the lad is young. i would sooner his promotion was gradual. but we have something else to talk about." in the meantime, kit went to the office and afterwards to a bench in the _alameda_. his post was better than he had thought, and he felt he had, so to speak, made a start. if he satisfied the company, he might go ahead fast, and this was important because it was bound up with something else. since he saw olivia he had pondered, and now he reviewed his efforts and ambitions. it was getting plain that when he fell in love with olivia and tried to force himself above his proper level he was rash. she had refused him and, from her point of view, she was justified, but in a sense, his proposal was not regular, and he had declared if his fortunes mended, he would renew it in proper form. he owed olivia this; the strange thing was he was rather conscious of his duty than keen. to begin with, he must see mrs. austin, since he now meant to keep the rules. she was at home and when she received him he said: "you know we got the men, and i must thank you for lending me _cayman_ and sending the schooner. if she had not arrived, i doubt if we could have brought _cayman_ home." "oh, well!" said mrs. austin, "to find you have forgiven me is some relief, but after all i don't deserve your thanks. you see, miss jordan sent the other boat!" "betty sent the _lucia_?" kit exclaimed. "she bullied me and declared i had not used you well. while we talked about it my husband arrived and rather agreed with betty's argument. nevertheless, i imagine she doubted us, because soon afterwards she bullied jefferson. she stated that if he did not go to your rescue, she would give up her post." kit coloured, and mrs. austin was amused by his embarrassment. "perhaps i did not use you well," she resumed. "from the beginning you were very kind," kit broke out. "when i last saw you, i talked like a hot-tempered fool. i didn't see all i owed you, i meant to force you to lend me the boat. the strange thing is, i hadn't thought about betty; but it was really she who helped. betty is like that----" he was quiet for a moment or two, but mrs. austin waited and he went on: "well, i have done what i undertook, and don arturo has given me a better post. perhaps the post is not very good, but i am going to ask olivia if, when i have made some progress, she will marry me." "do you expect me to approve? or do you feel i ought to know your plans?" mrs. austin asked. "i think i want to be honest," kit replied, rather dryly. mrs. austin smiled. "your honesty is obvious. well, i don't know that i would approve, but if you can persuade olivia, i'll try to be resigned." "you don't expect i can persuade her?" "perhaps i don't. do you?" "i do not," said kit. "for all that, i'm going to use some effort." "you are an obstinate fellow," mrs. austin rejoined. "however, you will understand my not wishing you good luck. in fact, i rather think you don't know your luck!" kit went off. he was puzzled. sometimes mrs. austin's remarks did puzzle him, but he began to see a light. but the light was dim. full illumination had not yet come. chapter x olivia's refusal after the five o'clock _comida_ kit went to jefferson's office. there was no use in returning to mrs. austin's, because it was an evening she received her friends, and olivia would be surrounded by the guests. besides, he wanted to see betty. he had not seen her yet, for when he went to the office she was occupied with jefferson, and he did not know she had watched his arrival from the mole. the room behind the arch was shady. a little cool breeze shook the curtain and one smelt heliotrope. kit noted the smooth polished floor, the even rows of black boxes, and the neatly-sorted documents on the big writing table. tidiness is not the rule in spain, but all was neat where betty was about. betty herself wore a plain white dress, and kit thought she looked cool and businesslike. turning her revolving chair, she gave him her hand with a friendly smile. "i was very glad to know you had got back," she said. "if you had not sent jefferson we might not have got back yet." "i expect you have seen mrs. austin, but you mustn't exaggerate," betty said calmly. "when you forced her to lend you _cayman_, she knew she was doing what she ought." "i imagined i forced her; now i doubt. she is kind and it looks as if i'm not as clever as i thought. anyhow, i didn't force her to send the other boat; if force was needed, you did that. when the _lucia_ arrived we were worn out, but all the ballast must be brought off through the surf. it had been calm unusually long, we knew the wind would soon come, and if it blew fresh before we got the big anchor on board, _cayman_ would be wrecked. i hardly durst think about the job." "you had a bad time, kit?" "perhaps i got as good a time as i deserved. when i arrived from liverpool i was very raw, but didn't know my rawness. people indulged me, and i went ahead, satisfied i could pull off all i undertook. i didn't know i was used and cheated; no doubt wolf and yusuf laughed! they'd got a dull, self-confident simpleton to play their crooked game. well, in a way, perhaps, it was lucky i lost the men. i began to see my level." betty mused. she rather liked kit's humiliation. perhaps it was extravagant, for his rash return to africa was very fine. although his venture looked hopeless, he had gone. the strange thing was, when at length he saw wolf had cheated him, he did not see another had done so. betty wanted to warn him, but knew she must not. "you were sincere and nothing you did was shabby," she said. "perhaps your luck was bad, but this is not important. you didn't think about yourself; you were not daunted----" "i was daunted," kit declared. "when i landed from _cayman_ and started for the desert with three or four sailors, i wanted to run back to the boats. you see, the thing was ridiculous. all my fine romantic plans had led to this. however, we'll let it go. you're staunch and you helped me out. now, when i'm hipped and moody you let me talk. i doubt if you know what a very good sort you are." betty gave him a level glance. she was moved and calm was rather hard, but calm was plainly indicated. "come in again when i'm not engaged, because i must send you off," she said. "jefferson goes to orotava with mrs. jefferson in the morning and some accounts must be made up before he starts." she paused and added: "i think mrs. austin and miss brown mean to join mrs. jefferson." kit went off. it was strange, but betty's news was something of a relief. after all, if he did not see olivia in the morning, he need not, for some time, resign himself to her refusal. she would, no doubt, refuse him, and he wondered whether his shrinking from the jolt accounted for his moodiness. perhaps the moodiness was not logical, but he was moody. it would have been much better had betty not refused him at liverpool. betty was his sort and had she loved him he would not have been carried away by olivia. of course, betty was justified; she knew his drawbacks, but from olivia's point of view, he had others. but in spite of this, after his rash talk in the _alameda_, he must ask her to marry him. mrs. austin knew he was going to do so, and she had smiled. in the morning he was forced to go to the office, and when don ramon sent him off he saw the _correillo_ start for teneriffe. a clerk told him mrs. austin and miss brown were on board, but a few days afterwards kit thought his luck was good. _mossamedes'_ cargo arrived slowly and don ramon resolved to send a schooner to orotava for a load. kit got leave to go, and one evening landed on the lava mole. the evening was calm and light mist floated about the shoulders of the peak. the long swell broke in sheets of foam, but its beat was slow and languid echoes rolled about the valley. one smelt oleanders and orange flowers. when kit went up the path to the hotel his look was thoughtful. he wondered whether mrs. austin had an object for leaving las palmas; but he was going to see olivia. to know he was refused was better than suspense. anyhow, he must ask her in proper form, and she must decide. if she would not frankly acknowledge him her lover, she must let him go. his luck held good, for he found her on a bench behind a tall geranium hedge. olivia wore a black evening dress with yellow bands, and in the background the red geraniums shone. kit knew she liked colour, but somehow he was jarred. olivia was strangely beautiful; one could not see her a poor man's wife. she looked up and a touch of red came to her skin. kit thought her surprised and perhaps a little startled, but this was all. he himself was very sober and looked rather grim. "kit!" she said. "when did you arrive?" "i landed not long since from a schooner. the company sent me to buy onions." olivia laughed. "you are dreadfully unromantic, but perhaps you thought you had better state your object! have you bought the onions?" "not yet. i wanted to see you first. sometimes i am romantic. it might be better if i were not." "well, perhaps romance cheats one now and then," olivia rejoined, smiling. "but we won't philosophise. if you had arrived two or three minutes since, you would have seen jacinta." "i saw mrs. austin the afternoon before you sailed," said kit. "i told her i was going to ask if you would marry me." olivia turned, rather quickly, and gave him a level glance. "oh, well! i knew your pluck. but what did jacinta remark?" "she laughed," kit replied with some dryness. "nevertheless, she declared if you were willing----" "jacinta is not often rash. i expect you doubted my willingness, but after your extravagant talk in the _alameda_, you felt you ought to ask." kit coloured, but his mouth was rather hard and his look was steady. "i did feel something like that. in the _alameda_ you were amused and your amusement hurt. i was carried away, but i wanted you. well, i said if i brought back the men and got another post---- i did bring back the men and have got a better post." olivia stopped him, but her look was gentler. "your venture was very fine, kit. i was proud of you, and if anything could have moved me---- but i'm not your sort." "you are the most beautiful girl i have known," kit declared. "yet you're a puritan and ought to know beauty isn't all; i think you really do know. well, i won't marry you, kit. we would risk too much. people think me romantic, but i'm not. in fact, i'm cold and very practical. it looks as if we had changed parts and you were the sentimentalist." "i loved you," kit said quietly. "i know," olivia admitted. "it counted for much. perhaps i liked you to love me; i own i'm selfish. but your poverty wasn't altogether the drawback. you're sober and quiet; i'm theatrical. i like the middle of the stage; i want colour, movement, and the leading part. it's plain that we would jar." kit frowned. he saw olivia was firm, and saw, rather vaguely, that her firmness was wise. in a sense, she was theatrical. red geraniums, oleanders and scented orange flowers were her proper background. olivia belonged to the south. perhaps it was strange, but he pictured betty in her neat, cool office. betty wore white clothes, sometimes with a touch of the soft virgin blue. she stood for the reserve and staunchness of the bracing north. but he had asked olivia to marry him. "if you were persuaded we would jar----" he said and stopped. olivia smiled, but her smile was kind. "you are trying to be nice, but you want to know why i let you go on? well, you were a new type. you were fresh and sincere, and sometimes very obstinate. the others indulged me; you did not. you had qualities i liked; perhaps because they were not mine. then romance called and sometimes i began to think i might take the plunge, but i hesitated. i valued all i must give up and i have not your pluck----" she paused and gave kit a quiet glance. "well, i'm sorry, but you ought to be grateful i was not rash. although you're a very good sort, you are not my sort. i could not use your rules, and you would not use mine. you must let me go and marry somebody brave and honest----" she got up and kit heard steps on the path. "some of the people from the hotel," she said. "will you come and see jacinta?" "i think not," kit replied and forced a smile. "my business is to buy onions and i must get to work." olivia gave him her hand. "perhaps i was shabby. in all you do, i wish you good luck!" she went to meet the others, and kit went down the path. he was hurt, but he had braced himself beforehand, and the hurt was less than he had thought. moreover, he knew olivia's arguments were good. he loaded the schooner and soon after he returned to las palmas jefferson came to look for him on board _mossamedes_. "if you're not altogether satisfied with the post don arturo gave you, another could be got," he said. "a spanish company is going to run two or three small, fast boats to the islands and wants an agent. i've been asked to find out if you would undertake the duties?" "i'm not a spaniard," kit replied. "why do they offer me the job?" "i rather think it is a reward. in spain, government approval pays, and perhaps the new company got a hint. it's possible the las palmas officials feel they owe you something, but can't openly acknowledge your services. however, i'd better state the duties and pay." when kit knew the pay he lighted a cigarette and pondered. then he said, "the offer's good, but i can't take the post. for one thing, i've engaged to go to cuba for don arturo." "the office would release you." "i think that is so," kit agreed. "all the same, i undertook the job; and there's another thing. i'm young and begin to see i'm rawer than i thought. in fact, i've begun to know my proper level and where i really belong. not long since i got a nasty knock and for a time i'm going slow. perhaps i may go higher, but when my chance comes i mean to be fit for the better job." jefferson nodded. "on the whole, i reckon your plan is good, and we'll let the agency offer go." he paused and resumed: "you were across at teneriffe. did you make orotava?" "i did," said kit, with a smile. "i saw miss brown and asked her to marry me. she would not, but now i can think about it calmly, i see she took a very proper line." jefferson said nothing, and soon afterwards went to his boat. for all that, he approved kit's philosophy. musgrave could take a knock and was good stuff. jefferson thought the head of the line knew his value, and kit would presently find his sticking to the post he took would pay. chapter xi daybreak _mossamedes_ sailed from cuba for buenos ayres, and on the ocean voyage kit enjoyed more leisure than he had known for long. when the sea was calm and the ship steamed steadily across the shining swell, he lounged under the awnings and gave himself to thought. perhaps it was strange, but he began to see that at las palmas he had hardly thought at all. events, so to speak, had followed each other fast; he had let himself go and was carried along. now he could ponder quietly, he sometimes frowned. he had not done much that he had meant to do and had no grounds for satisfaction, but when he thought about olivia he was calm. olivia did not belong to his circle, and he now admitted that he could not enter hers. even if he became rich, the thing was impossible. she liked, and in fact demanded, excitement, power, and a leading part; he liked to go soberly and do something useful. when she refused him she took the proper line, and he owed her and mrs. austin much. they had given him a wider view and helped him to conquer his aggressive priggishness. then perhaps he had captured something of their cultivation; anyhow they had taught him to tolerate people who jarred. for the most part, however, his thoughts dwelt on betty; betty in the primrose wood and in the shady office with the blue curtains. betty was sober and quiet; when one was with her, one's mean ambitions vanished. yet she was hopeful and never daunted. she looked ahead with steady eyes and held fast to all she knew was good. like olivia, she had refused him, but while he was resigned to olivia's refusal, he knew he was a fool to let betty go. sometimes he wondered----; and then got up impatiently and went off to study his manifests. there was no use in brooding, and he durst not look forward yet. in the meantime, his job was to see all was ready for unloading cargo when _mossamedes_ reached port. at buenos ayres, he and don erminio stopped one hot afternoon in front of an italian café in a quiet square. small tables occupied the pavement in the shade, and don erminio ordering wine and ice and aerated waters, mixed them in a bowl. "it is not like _tinto granadilla_ and snow from the peak when one has eaten much salt fish," he said. "however, to a seaman, all wine is good, and if don pedro were with us we would dance. but let us be happy, and if i go to sleep you will carry me on board." kit was satisfied macallister had not joined them. he was strenuously occupied scaling the boilers, and when kit left _mossamedes_ strange bi-lingual threats and exclamations echoed about her stokehold. by and by don erminio began to glance about. "_vaya!_" he said. "look at him! now perhaps we can amuse ourselves. i will talk to the animal." he got up, and carrying the bowl of wine, crossed the pavement. a man in white clothes occupied a chair at another table, and when he looked up kit saw it was captain revillon. kit had noted a small french cruiser at anchor in the roads. "_ola, señor!_ all sailors are friends," said don erminio. "besides, this bowl is large and my companion is sober and very dull. the wine is not spanish, but it will go, and when i drink your wormwood, in the morning my throat is bad." revillon bowed and let him fill his glass, and don erminio resumed in uncouth french: "we took you, my friend, that time on the morocco coast!" "it looks like that," revillon replied, with a touch of dryness. "still i do not see why you risked crossing the shoals. you had, no doubt, thrown the guns overboard." don erminio indicated kit, who had joined him. "he is a boy, but very obstinate. the english are obstinate and the scots are worse. me, i know. well, his bargain was to land the guns, and they were landed." "then, i think you did take me," revillon remarked with a quick, surprised glance. "had i known----" kit was intrigued. he had sometimes wondered why revillon had not looked for _mossamedes_ in the morning. the coast was dangerous and the gale was fresh, but he had thought this did not account for all. "the animal who loaded the ship sold us," said don erminio. "if you paid him, you did not get much for your money." revillon drained his glass and smiled. "your betrayer did not demand a large reward; perhaps he expected to be paid in another way. however, now it is done with, i may tell you something. to begin with i did not trust señor wolf, although i knew the guns were on board and must not be landed. to force you to throw them overboard would satisfy me." "was it not your duty to stop and search our ship?" kit asked. "in a sense, it was so. in fact, i think the man who sold you expected me to seize her," revillon agreed with some dryness. "well, i followed you and steered a course that would pin you against the shoals. i had studied the chart and pilot book, and nothing indicated that a vessel could get across." he paused and shrugged. "well, what would you have? i imagined the guns were overboard and you had run aground. my duty was not to wreck my ship. i hauled off the coast." "they have given you a larger vessel!" don erminio remarked meaningly. "i wish you luck. all sailors are honest, but not many are discreet. the politicians are animals, and i would drown the lot. well, it is not important now, and the wine is gone." kit began to understand. revillon had not been cheated; he was not very keen about seizing _mossamedes_. it looked as if wolf had engaged in dark political intrigue, and meant to use the french officer in his plot. revillon, however, had seen his object. but the thing was done with, and kit went off to the office of a merchant who was loading _mossamedes_ with grain. when her cargo was on board she sailed for teneriffe, and anchored at santa cruz to land a few barge-loads. kit, going to the agent's in the evening, met jefferson in the plaza. "mrs. jefferson and miss jordan are at the golden pine," he said. "they went to laguna for a holiday and i came over to bring them back. will you walk up to the hotel with me?" kit wanted to go, but said he could not: _mossamedes_ would start for las palmas when they had landed another load of maize. santa cruz, sheltered by the volcanic range that cuts off the trade-breeze, was very hot, and he asked why mrs. jefferson had left laguna, which occupies a cool tableland behind the town. "we meant to go back on board _campeador_ this morning," jefferson replied. "the company, however, have altered the sailing bill, and don maccario doesn't expect the boat to arrive for some days." "if mrs. jefferson can get ready soon, we'll take you across," said kit. "we ought to make las palmas about daybreak and can give you good rooms on deck." jefferson agreed and an hour afterwards his party arrived. kit's boat was waiting at the mole, and when they got on board, _mossamedes_ went to sea. for some time kit was occupied with his dispatch box, but as soon as he had sorted his manifests he went on deck. there was no moon, the sea was phosphorescent, and the wind was light. _mossamedes_ rolled languidly and the foam that ran back from her bows sparkled green and gold. mrs. jefferson, jefferson and don erminio occupied canvas chairs on the upper deck, but at first kit could not find betty. then he saw a white dress in the gloom by a boat and heard macallister's voice. kit turned back and betty laughed. he thought her laugh had a note of protest and wondered what macallister had said. "you must really stop!" betty exclaimed. macallister's reply was not distinct, but kit heard part: "weel, it's for your ain good. maybe ye might get better, but ye might get waur----" "i'm going," said betty firmly, and light steps indicated that she left the boat. kit, meeting her across the deck, thought her embarrassed and when they joined the others she did not talk much. he, however, was satisfied to sit on the deck and smoke, knowing betty was about. after a time macallister returned and leaned against the rails. he chuckled and kit noted that betty did not look up. "we're a humorous lot, though a' o' us dinna see the joke," he said. "noo i'm getting old i look on and laugh. when ye meddle ye get no thanks. for a' that, philosophy is sometimes hard. ye meet folks who dinna ken their luck." "it's possible, but i don't see where your remarks lead," mrs. jefferson rejoined and turned to the captain. "do you see?" "i am a sailor," said don erminio. "sailors are not philosophers. they are honest people and some are fools. if they were not fools, they would not go to sea. but perhaps it is better to be a fool than an animal like the men who own the ships." mrs. jefferson laughed, and they talked about something else until she got up and glanced at betty, who went with her to her room by the bridge. when the others went off kit stopped and smoked. betty had kept close to mrs. jefferson; it looked as if she did not mean to be left alone with him. at daybreak he went on deck. there was not much wind, and _mossamedes_ went steadily through the dim blue water. her mastheads swung, but one felt no motion; the engines throbbed with an even rhythm. to starboard, dark rocks pierced a bank of mist; ahead a thicker bank indicated the isleta hill and kit looked at his watch. it was six o'clock. in half an hour _mossamedes_ would steam into the harbour, and his chance of talking to betty would be gone. kit wanted to talk to betty, but was daunted. on the ocean voyage, he had seen a light. perhaps it was strange, but he knew now the light had begun to burn one april day in the primrose wood; and then, for a time, he had lost it, because olivia had dazzled him. betty knew. he thought she knew all his follies, but she was kind. coming down from the bridge, he saw her by the rail. her look was thoughtful; her brows were knit and putting her hand on a stanchion, she fixed her eyes ahead. the mist was thinner and the sky above it began to gleam like an opal. soon the haze would roll back and the sun leap up. kit advanced quietly, but betty turned as if she knew his step. somehow kit knew she had been thinking about him. a touch of colour came to his skin and his heart beat, but he was calm. when one talked to betty, one was not moved by strange, disturbing thrills; she did not dazzle one. her light was clear and steady, and kit knew it had after all been his guide. "betty," he said, "why did you refuse me at liverpool?" she gave him a quick glance, and for a moment turned her head. when she looked up her colour was rather high. "we were very young, kit." "you mean, i was very young and rashly confident. you don't think about yourself. it was for my sake you let me go." "aren't you taking something for granted?" "i think not," said kit. "i'm dull, but sometimes i do understand, and i now see all i lost. you wanted me to have my chance; you thought to be tied to you might keep me back? yet i believe you loved me. let's be frank!" "suppose i did love you?" said betty, with a blush, although her voice was quiet. "to begin with, you know how i used my freedom; you know my ridiculous ambitions." "you mean you were ridiculous when you fell in love with olivia brown?" "yes," said kit. "anyhow, it was ridiculous for me to imagine i could marry her." betty gave him a keen glance, for she was human. she liked kit's staunchness, but nevertheless sometimes it jarred. "nevertheless you did not feel you were ridiculous, when you thought you could marry me!" "i was a fool. my wanting you was all the sense i had. the strange thing was, from the beginning you were my guide, and i tried to use your rules. when i lost the men in africa, i went back to look for them because i felt you would have me go. i was accountable, the job was mine, but i would not have known this had i not known you. it was like that before and afterwards----" betty was moved, but she thought kit was not altogether just to himself. his honesty was instinctive, and he paid his debts. "but that's not all," he resumed. "at liverpool you sometimes puzzled me. you saw and followed a light i did not. once when i talked about climbing above the crowd, you said perhaps one need not climb. one ought to stop at one's proper level, and try to make things better. well, when the spaniards offered me a good post, i remembered. i'd had enough of shabby ambitions and knew my level. in fact, so to speak, the light was breaking." he was quiet for a few moments and looked about, knitting his brows. the surf was louder, the sky was red, and the mists glimmered, as if a glow shone through. betty waited and said nothing. she had waited long, but kit had returned to her. "i was a fool," he broke out. "but you know all, dear, and are very kind. somehow i think you will take me back." betty gave him a gentle smile. "it looks as if i had never quite let you go." kit took her in his arms and when he looked up a warm beam touched them and moved across the deck. the mists were rolling back, day had broken and all ahead was bright. * * * * * * transcriber's note: the following typographical errors present in the original edition have been corrected. in part i, chapter i, a quotation mark was added after "i might get up a few rounds." in part i, chapter iv, a period was added after "he started for las palmas". in part i, chapter v, "the sale fish i sent home" was changed to "the salt fish i sent home". in part i, chapter x, a missing quotation mark was added after "i knew you were moody.", "to note thinks like that" was changed to "to note things like that", and a period was changed to a comma after "he promised he'd give kit a post". in part i, chapter xi, "the caravan roads and wodys were drawn by a pen" was changed to "the caravan roads and wadys were drawn by a pen". in part ii, chapter i, a missing quotation mark was added after "if you think i ought to stop, i will stop.", a missing period was added after "'maybe mr. musgrave would suit,' says i", "since i dinno convairse" was changed to "since i dinna convairse", and a period was changed to a comma after "then she said". in part ii, chapter ii, "foul-smelling cafes by the horbour" was changed to "foul-smelling cafes by the harbour", "sailed on beard a fishing schooner" was changed to "sailed on board a fishing schooner", a comma was added after "sports he could not enjoy before", a period was added after "a cultivation higher than his", "they halued her off and waited" was changed to "they hauled her off and waited", and "brought off a number of loans" was changed to "brought off a number of loads". in part ii, chapter iii, "'i'm very much surprised,' he admitte.d" was changed to "'i'm very much surprised,' he admitted.", "its not usual. nobody trusts us like that" was changed to "it's not usual. nobody trusts us like that", "his imaginatino had cheated him" was changed to "his imagination had cheated him", and a quotation mark was added after "he'd been loafing about my office most part of the afternoon." in part ii, chapter iv, "althought he doubted if his analogy were good" was changed to "although he doubted if his analogy were good", "a dispute with another tribe in the back country about an oases" was changed to "a dispute with another tribe in the back country about an oasis", and "when he was on board the _coreillo_" was changed to "when he was on board the _correillo_". in part ii, chapter vi, "i think it better or him to do so" was changed to "i think it better for him to do so", and a quotation mark was added before "that's all, but i rather agree with jefferson." in part ii, chapter viii, "the view from the veranda" was changed to "the view from the venranda". in part ii, chapter x, "don erminio spread a chart on the tabble" was changed to "don erminio spread a chart on the table". in part ii, chapter xi, "it was swimming befoe" was changed to "it was swimming before". in part ii, chapter xii, "she struck the steamers plates" was changed to "she struck the steamer's plates", and "the lifeboat's sterpost's smashed" was changed to "the lifeboat's sternpost's smashed". in part iii, chapter iv, "smoke curled about the automatic pistal" was changed to "smoke curled about the automatic pistol", "i knew you would came back for us" was changed to "i knew you would came back for us", and periods were changed to commas after "very well", after "he said" and before "and turned to kit", and after "i knew you would came back for us". in part iii, chapter v, a period was changed to a comma after "he had used his short supplies with stern economy", and a quotation mark was removed before "we'll push on for the ridge". in part iii, chapter vi, a quotation mark was added before "you're a very good sort, harry." in part iii, chapter vii, "grit like her's is fine" was changed to "grit like hers is fine", and a period was changed to a comma after "over the kedge all were exhausted". in part iii, chapter viii, a period was added after "austin was not surprised that she was there", and a quotation mark was added after "i rather think kit deserves his triumph." in part iii, chapter ix, "somethink like that, sir" was changed to "something like that, sir". in part iii, chapter x, period were removed after "brought back the men and got another post----" and "if anything could have moved me----", "the others iindulged me" was changed to "the others indulged me", and a period was changed to a comma after "then he said" and before "the offer's good". in part iii, chapter xi, "ola, seuor!" was changed to "ola, señor!", and "a' o' us dinna see he joke" was changed to "a' o' us dinna see the joke". in addition, the heading for kit musgrave's luck which originally followed the heading for part i: the wide horizon has been moved to precede it. [illustration: katy o'grady's victory.] frank hunter's peril by horatio alger, jr. author of "ragged dick series," "luck and pluck series," "tattered tom series," etc. philadelphia henry t. coates & co. copyright, , by henry t. coates & co. contents. chapter page i. frank and ben, ii. mr. craven's courtship, iii. unwelcome news, iv. mr. craven's four-legged enemy, v. mr. craven's return, vi. the difficulty of killing a dog, vii. miss o'grady's victory, viii. frank is obstinate, ix. a stranger appears on the scene, x. a conspiracy against frank, xi. trapped, xii. two boy friends, xiii. jonathan tarbox, of squashboro', xiv. the london clerk, xv. mr. tarbox is obstinate, xvi. an adventure in london, xvii. colonel sharpley's ruse, xviii. mr. tarbox at the paris exposition, xix. frank asserts his rights, xx. frank leaves paris, xxi. the hotel du glacier, xxii. over the brink, xxiii. giving the alarm, xxiv. sharpley dissembles, xxv. a useless search, xxvi. mr. tarbox on the trail, xxvii. tarbox to the rescue, xxviii. saved as by a miracle, xxix. frank's pedestrian tour, xxx. new friends, xxxi. how the news went home, xxxii. ben brings good news, xxxiii. alpine explorations of mr. tarbox, xxxiv. the plow is a success, xxxv. mr. craven meets with unexpected difficulties, xxxvi. sharpley's return, xxxvii. mrs. craven's fixed idea, xxxviii. retribution, frank hunter's peril. chapter i. frank and ben. "is your mother at home, frank?" asked a soft voice. frank hunter was stretched on the lawn in a careless posture, but looked up quickly as the question fell upon his ear. a man of middle height and middle age was looking at him from the other side of the gate. frank rose from his grassy couch and answered coldly: "yes, sir; i believe so. i will go in and see." "oh, don't trouble yourself, my young friend," said mr. craven, opening the gate and advancing toward the door with a brisk step. "i will ring the bell; i want to see your mother on a little business." "seems to me he has a good deal of business with mother," frank said to himself. "there's something about the man i don't like, though he always treats me well enough. perhaps it's his looks." "how are you, frank?" frank looked around, and saw his particular friend, ben cameron, just entering the gate. "tip-top, ben," he answered, cordially. "i'm glad you've come." "i'm glad to hear it; i thought you might be engaged." "engaged? what do you mean, ben?" asked frank, with a puzzled expression. "engaged in entertaining your future step-father," said ben, laughing. "my future step-father!" returned frank, quickly; "you are speaking in riddles, ben." "oh! well, if i must speak out, i saw mr. craven ahead of me." "mr. craven! well, what if you did?" "why, frank, you must know the cause of his attentions to your mother." "ben," said frank, his face flushing with anger, "you are my friend, but i don't want even you to hint at such a thing as that." "have i displeased you, frank?" "no, no; i won't think of it any more." "i am afraid, frank, you will have to think of it more," said his companion, gravely. "you surely don't mean, ben, that you have the least idea that my mother would marry such a man as that?" exclaimed frank, pronouncing the last words contemptuously. "it's what all the village is talking about," said ben, significantly. "then i wish all the village would mind its own business," said frank, hotly. "i hope they are wrong, i am sure. craven's a mean, sneaking sort of man, in my opinion. i should be sorry to have him your step-father." "it's a hateful idea that such a man should take the place of my dear, noble father," exclaimed frank, with excitement. "my mother wouldn't think of it." but even as he spoke, there was a fear in his heart that there might be something in the rumor after all. he could not be blind to the frequent visits which mr. craven had made at the house of late. he knew that his mother had come to depend on him greatly in matters of business. he had heard her even consult him about her plans for himself, and this had annoyed him. once he had intimated his dislike of mr. craven, but his mother had reproved him, saying that she considered him a true friend, and did not know how to do without him. but he stifled this apprehension, and assured ben, in the most positive terms, that there was nothing whatever in the report. whether there was or not, we shall be able to judge better by entering the house and being present at the interview. mrs. hunter was sitting in a rocking-chair, with a piece of needle-work in her hand. she was a small, delicate-looking woman, still pretty, though nearer forty than thirty, and with the look of one who would never depend on herself, if she could find some one to lean upon for counsel and guidance. frank, who was strong and resolute, had inherited these characteristics not from her but from his father, who had died two years previous, his strong and vigorous constitution succumbing to a sudden fever, which in his sturdy frame found plenty to prey upon. and who was mr. craven? he was, or professed to be, a lawyer, who six months before had come to the town of shelby. he had learned that mrs. hunter was possessed of a handsome competence, and had managed an early introduction. he succeeded in getting her to employ him in some business matters, and under cover of this had called very often at her house. from the first he meant to marry her if he could, as his professional income was next to nothing, and with the money of the late mr. hunter he knew that he would be comfortably provided for for life. this very afternoon he had selected to make his proposal, and he knew so well the character and the weakness of the lady that he felt a tolerable assurance of success. he knew very well that frank did not like him, and he in turn liked our young hero no better, but he always treated him with the utmost graciousness and suavity from motives of policy. the room in which they were seated was very neatly and tastefully furnished. he looked, to employ a common phrase, "as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth," and his voice was soft and full of suavity. they had evidently been talking on business, for he is saying, "now that our business interview is over, there is another subject, my dear mrs. hunter, on which i wish to speak to you." she looked up, not suspecting what was coming, and said, "what is it, mr. craven?" "it's a very delicate matter. i hardly know how to introduce it." something in his look led her to suspect now, and she said, a little nervously, "go on, mr. craven." "my dear mrs. hunter, the frequent visits i have made here have given me such a view of your many amiable qualities, that almost without knowing it, i have come to love you." mrs. hunter dropped her work nervously, and seemed agitated. "i esteem you, mr. craven," she said, in a low voice, "but i have never thought of marrying again." "then think of it now, i entreat you. my happiness depends upon it--think of that. when i first discovered that i loved you, i tried hard to bury the secret in my own breast, but--but it became too strong for me, and now i place my fate in your hands." by this time he had edged round to her side, and lifted her hand gently in his, and pressed it to his lips. "do not drive me to despair," he murmured softly. "i--i never thought you loved me so much, mr. craven," said mrs. hunter, in agitation. "because i tried to hide it." "can you not still be my friend and give up such thoughts?" "never, never!" he answered, shaking his head. "if you deny my suit, i shall at once leave this village, and bury my sorrow and desolation of heart in some wild prairie scene, far from the haunts of men, where i shall linger out the remnant of my wretched life." "don't--pray don't, mr. craven," she said, in a tone of distress. but, feeling that surrender was at hand, he determined to carry the fortress at once. he sank down on his knees, and, lifting his eyes, said: "say yes, i entreat you, dear mrs. hunter, or i shall be miserable for life." "pray get up, mr. craven." "never, till i hear the sweet word, 'yes.'" "yes, then," she answered, hastily, scarcely knowing what she said. at this moment, while mr. craven was yet on his knees, the door opened suddenly, and katy, the irish maid-of-all-work, entered: "holy st. pathrick!" she exclaimed, as she witnessed the tableau. mrs. hunter blushed crimson, but mr. craven was master of the situation. cleverly taking advantage of it to fix the hasty consent he had obtained, he turned to katy with his habitual smirk. "katy, my good girl," he said, "you must not be too much startled. shall i explain to her, dear mrs. hunter?" the widow, with scarlet face, was about to utter a feeble remonstrance, but he did not wait for it. "your mistress and i are engaged, katy," he said, briskly. "you shall be the first to congratulate us." "indade, sir!" exclaimed katy. "is it goin' to be married, ye are?" "yes, katy." "i congratulate you, sir," she said, significantly. "plague take her!" thought mr. craven; "so she has the impudence to object, has she? i'll soon set her packing when i come into possession." but he only said, with his usual suavity: "you are quite right, katy. i feel that i am indeed fortunate." "indade, mum, i didn't think you wud marry ag'in," said katy, bluntly. "i--i didn't intend to, katy, but--" "i couldn't be happy without her," said mr. craven, playfully. "but, katy, you had something to say to mrs. hunter." "what will i get for supper, mum?" "anything you like, katy," said mrs. hunter, who felt too much flustered to give orders. "will you stay to supper, mr. craven?" "not to-night, dear mrs. hunter. i am sure you will want to think over the new plans of happiness we have formed. i will stay a few minutes yet, and then bid you farewell till to-morrow." "that's the worst news katy o'grady's heard yet," said katy, as she left the room and returned to her own department. "how can my mistress, that's a rale lady, if ever there was one, take up wid such a mane apology for a man. shure i wouldn't take him meself, not if he'd go down on forty knees to me--no, i wouldn't," and katy tossed her head. chapter ii. mr. craven's courtship. when katy left the room, mr. craven still kept his place at the side of the widow. "i hope," he said softly, "you were not very much annoyed at katy's sudden entrance?" "it was awkward," said mrs. hunter. "true, but, after all, is there anything to be ashamed of in our love?" "i am afraid, mr. craven, i do not love you." "not yet, but you will. i am sure you will when you see how completely i am devoted to you." "it seems so sudden," faltered mrs. hunter. "but, setting aside my affection, think how much it will relieve you of care. dear mrs. hunter, the care of your property and the responsibility of educating and training your son is too much for a woman." "frank never gives me any trouble," said mrs. hunter. "he is a good boy." "he is a disagreeable young scamp, in my opinion," thought mr. craven, but he said, unwittingly speaking the truth: "he is indeed a noble boy, with excellent qualities, but you will soon be called upon to form plans for his future, and here you will need the assistance of a man." "i don't know but what you are right, mr. craven. i should have consulted you." "only one who fills a father's place, dear mrs. hunter, can do him justice." "i am afraid frank won't like the idea of my marrying again," said mrs. hunter, anxiously. "he may not like it at first, but he will be amenable to reason. tell him that it is for your happiness." "but i don't know. i can't feel sure that it is." "i am having more trouble than i expected," thought mr. craven. "i must hurry up the marriage or i may lose her, and, what is of more importance, the money she represents. by the way, i had better speak on that subject." "there are some who will tell you that i have only sought you because you are rich in this world's goods--that i am a base and mercenary man, who desires to improve his circumstances by marriage, but you, i hope, dear mrs. hunter--may i say, dear mary--will never do me that injustice." "i do not suspect you of it," said mrs. hunter, who was never ready to suspect the motives of others, though in this case mr. craven had truly represented his object in seeking her. "i knew you would not, but others may try to misrepresent me, and therefore i feel it necessary to explain to you that my wealth, though not equal to your own, is still considerable." "i have never thought whether you were rich or poor," said mrs. hunter. "it would not influence my decision." while she spoke, however, it did excite in her a momentary surprise to learn that since mr. craven was rich, he should settle down in so small and unimportant a place as shelby, where he could expect little business of a professional nature. "i know your generous, disinterested character," he said; "but still i wish to explain to you frankly my position, to prove to you that i am no fortune-hunter. i have twenty thousand dollars invested in lake superior mining stocks, and i own a small house in new york city, worth about fifteen thousand dollars. it is not much," he added, modestly, "but is enough to support me comfortably, and will make it clear that i need not marry from mercenary motives. i shall ask the privilege of assisting to carry out your plans for frank, in whom i feel a warm interest." "you are very generous and kind, mr. craven," said mrs. hunter, "but his father amply provided for him. two-thirds of his property was left to frank, and will go to him on his twenty-first birth-day." "drat the boy," thought mr. craven, "he stands between me and a fortune." but this thought was not suffered to appear in his face. "i am almost sorry," he said, with consummate hypocrisy, "that he is so well provided for, since now he does not stand in need of my help, that is, in a pecuniary way. but my experience of the world can at least be of service to him, and i will do my best to make up to him for the loss of his dear father." these last words were feelingly spoken. she realized how much she was wanting in the ability to guide and direct a boy of frank's age. mr. craven was a lawyer, and a man of the world. he would be able, as he said, to relieve her from all care about his future, and it was for frank that she now lived. her feelings were not enlisted in this marriage with mr. craven. indeed, on some accounts it would be a sacrifice. the result was, that twenty minutes later, when he started homeward, mrs. hunter had ratified her promise, and consented to an early marriage. mr. craven felt that he had, indeed, achieved a victory, and left the house with a heart exulting in his coming prosperity. frank hunter and ben cameron were on the lawn, conversing, when the lawyer passed them. "good afternoon, frank," he said with suavity. "good afternoon, sir," answered frank, gravely. "the old fellow is very familiar," said ben, when mr. craven had passed out of the gate. "he is more familiar than i like," answered frank. "i don't know why it is, ben, but i can't help disliking him." he had reason to dislike mr. craven, and he was destined to have still further cause, though he did not know it at the time. chapter iii. unwelcome news. shortly after mr. craven's departure, ben announced that he must be going. left alone, frank went into the house. he felt rather sober, for though he did not believe that his mother was in any danger of marrying again--least of all, mr. craven--the mere possibility disturbed him. "is mother up stairs, katy?" he asked. "yes," said katy, looking very knowing. "she went up as soon as mr. craven went away." "he staid a long time. he seems to come here pretty often." "may be he'll come oftener and stay longer, soon," said katy, nodding her head vigorously. "what do you mean, katy? what makes you say such things?" "what do i mane? why do i say such things? you'll know pretty soon, i'm thinking." "i wish you'd tell me at once what you mean?" said frank, impatiently. "mr. craven doesn't come here for nothing, bad 'cess to him," said katy, oracularly. "you don't mean, katy--" exclaimed frank, in excitement. "i mean that you're goin' to have a step-father, master frank, and a mighty mane one, too; but if your mother's satisfied, it ain't for katy o'grady to say a word, though he isn't fit for her to wipe her shoes on him." "who told you such a ridiculous story?" demanded frank, angrily. "he told me himself shure," said katy. "didn't i pop in when he was on his knees at your mother's feet, and didn't he ask me to congratulate him, and your mother said never a word? what do you say to that master frank, now?" "i think there must be some mistake, katy," said frank, turning pale. "i will go and ask my mother." "no wonder the child can't abide havin' such a mane step-father as that," soliloquized katy. "he looks like a sneakin' hyppercrite, that he does, and i'd like to tell him so." mrs. hunter was an amiable woman, but rather weak of will, and easily controlled by a stronger spirit. she had yielded to mr. craven's persuasions because she had not the power to resist for any length of time. that she did not feel a spark of affection for him, it is hardly necessary to say, but she had already begun to feel a little reconciled to an arrangement which would relieve her from so large a share of care and responsibility. she was placidly thinking it all over when frank entered the room hastily. "have you wiped your feet, frank?" she asked, for she had a passion for neatness. "i am afraid you will track dirt into the room." "yes--no--i don't know," answered frank, whose thoughts were on another subject. "has mr. craven been here?" "yes," replied his mother, blushing a little. "he seemed to stay pretty long." "he was here about an hour." "he comes pretty often, too." "i consult him about my business affairs, frank." "look here, mother, what do you think ben cameron told me to-day?" "i don't know, i am sure, frank." "he said it was all over the village that you were going to marry him." "i--i didn't think it had got round so soon," said the widow, nervously. "so soon! why, you don't mean to say there's anything in it, mother?" said frank, impetuously. "i hope it won't displease you very much, frank," said mrs. hunter, in embarrassment. "is it true? are you really going to marry that man?" "he didn't ask me till this afternoon, and, of course, it took me by surprise, and i said so, but he urged me so much that i finally consented." "you don't love him, mother? i am sure you can't love such a man as that." "i never shall love any one again in that way, frank--never any one like your poor father." "then why do you marry him?" "he doesn't ask me to love him. but he can relieve me of a great many cares and look after you." "i don't want anybody to look after me, mother--that is, anybody but you. i hate mr. craven!" "now that is wrong, frank. he speaks very kindly of you--very kindly indeed. he says he takes a great interest in you." "i am sorry i cannot return the interest he professes. i dislike him, and i always have. i hope you won't be angry, mother, if i tell you just what i think of him. i think he's after your property, and that is what made him offer himself. he is poor as poverty, though i don't care half so much for that as i do for other things." "no, frank; you are mistaken there," said credulous mrs. hunter, eagerly. "he is not poor." "how do you know?" "he told me that he had twenty thousand dollars' worth of mining stock out west somewhere, besides owning a house in new york." frank looked astonished. "if he has as much property as that," he said, "i don't see what makes him come here. i don't believe his business brings him in three hundred dollars a year." "that's the very reason, frank. he has money enough, and doesn't mind if business is dull. he generously offered to pay--or was it help pay?--the expenses of your education; but i told him that you didn't need it." "if i did, i wouldn't take it from him. but what you tell me surprises me, mother. he doesn't look as if he was worth five hundred dollars in the world. what made him tell you all this?" "he said that some people would accuse him of being a fortune-hunter, and he wanted to convince me that he was not one." "it may be a true story, and it may not," said frank. "you are really very unjust, frank," said his mother. "i don't pretend to love mr. craven, and he doesn't expect it, but i am sure he has been very kind, and he takes a great deal of interest in you, and you will learn to know him better." "when you are married to him?" "yes." "mother," exclaimed frank, impetuously, "don't marry this man! let us live alone, as we have done. we don't want any third person to come in, no matter who he is. i'll take care of you." "you are only a boy, frank." "but i am already fifteen. i shall soon be a man at any rate, and i am sure we can get along as well as we have done." mrs. hunter was not a strong or a resolute woman, but even women of her type can be obstinate at times. she had convinced herself, chiefly through mr. craven's suggestion, that the step she was about to take was for frank's interest, and the thought pleased her that she was sacrificing herself for him. the fact that she didn't fancy mr. craven, of course heightened the sacrifice, and so frank found her far more difficult of persuasion than he anticipated. she considered that he was but a boy and did not understand his own interests, but would realize in future the wisdom of her conduct. "i have given my promise, frank," she said. "but you can recall it." "it would not be right. my dear frank, why can you not see this matter as i do? i marry for your sake." "then, mother, i have the right to ask you not to do it. it will make me unhappy." "frank, you do not know what is best. you are too young." "then you are quite determined, mother?" asked frank, sadly. "i cannot draw back now, frank. i--i hope you won't make me unhappy by opposing it." "i won't say another word, mother, since you have made up your mind," said frank, slowly. "when is it going to be?" "i do not know yet. mr. craven wants it to be soon." "you will let me know when it is decided, mother?" "certainly, frank." he left the room sad at heart. he felt that for him home would soon lose its charms, and that he would never get over the repugnance which he felt against his future step-father. chapter iv. mr. craven's four-legged enemy. mr. craven sought his office in a self-complacent mood. "by jove!" he said to himself, "i'm in luck. it's lucky i thought to tell her that i was rich. i wish somebody would come along and buy that lake superior mining stock at five cents on a dollar," he soliloquized, laughing softly; "and if he'd be good enough to let me know whereabouts that house in new york is, i should feel very much obliged. however, she believes it, and that's enough. no, on the whole, it isn't quite enough, for i must have some ready money to buy a wedding suit, as well as to pay for my wedding tour. i can't very well call upon mrs. craven that is to be for that. once married, i'm all right." the result of these cogitations was that having first secured mrs. hunter's consent to a marriage at the end of two months, he went to new york to see how he could solve the financial problem. he went straightway to a dingy room in nassau street, occupied by an old man as shabby as the apartment he occupied. yet this old man was a capitalist, who had for thirty years lent money at usurious interest, taking advantage of a tight money market and the needs of embarrassed men, and there are always plenty of the latter class in a great city like new york. in this way he had accumulated a large fortune, without altering his style of living. he slept in a small room connected with his office, and took his meals at some one of the cheap restaurants in the neighborhood. he was an old man, of nearly seventy, with bent form, long white beard, face seamed with wrinkles, and thick, bushy eyebrows, beneath which peered a pair of sharp, keen eyes. such was job green, the money-lender. "good morning," said mr. craven, entering his office. "good morning, mr. craven," answered the old man. he had not met his visitor for a long time, but he seldom forgot a face. "i haven't seen you for years." "no, i'm living in the country now." "in the country?" "yes, in the town of shelby, fifty miles from the city." "aha! you have retired on a fortune?" inquired the old man, waggishly. "not yet, but i shall soon, i hope." "indeed!" returned job, lifting his eyebrows as he emphasized the word. "then you find business better in the country than in the city?" "business doesn't amount to much." "then how will you retire on the fortune, mr. craven? i really should like to know. perhaps i might move out there myself." "i don't think, mr. green," said craven, with his soft smile, "you would take the same course to step into a fortune." "and why not?" inquired the old man, innocently. "because i am to marry a rich widow," said mr. craven. "aha! that is very good," said job, laughing. "marrying isn't exactly in my line, to be sure. who is the lucky woman?" "i will tell you, mr. green, for i want you to help me in the matter." "how can i help you? you don't want money if you are going to marry a fortune," said job, beginning to be suspicious that this was a story trumped up to deceive him. "yes, i do, and i will tell you why. she thinks i am rich." "and marries you for your money? aha! that is very good," and the man laughed. "i told her i owned twenty thousand dollars' worth of stock in a lake superior mine." "very good." "and a fifteen-thousand-dollar house in this city." "oh, you droll dog! you'll kill me with laughing, mr. craven; i shall certainly choke," and old job, struck with the drollness of regarding the man before him as a capitalist, laughed till he was seized with a coughing spell. "well, well, craven, you're a genius," said job, recovering himself. "you wouldn't--ha! ha!--like to have me advance you a few thousand on the mines, would you now, or take a mortgage on the house?" "yes, i would." "i'll give you a check on the bank of patagonia, shall i?" "i see you will have your joke, mr. green. but i do want some money, and i'll tell you why. you see i am to be married in two months, and i must have a new suit of clothes, and go on a wedding tour. that'll cost me two or three hundred dollars." "ask mrs. craven for the money." "i would, if she were mrs. craven, but it won't do to undeceive her too soon." "you don't expect me to furnish the money, craven, do you?" "yes, i do." "what security have you to offer?" "the security of my marriage." "are you sure there is to be a marriage?" demanded job, keenly. "tell me, now, is the rich widow a humbug to swindle me out of my money? aha! craven, i have you." "no, you haven't, mr. green," said craven, earnestly. "it's a real thing; it's a mrs. hunter of shelby; her husband died two years ago." "how much money has she got?" "sixty thousand dollars." "what, in her own right?" "why, there's a son--a boy of fifteen," said mr. craven, reluctantly. "aha! well how much has he got of this money?" "i'll tell you the plain truth, mr. green. he is to have two-thirds when he comes of age. his mother has the balance, and enjoys the income of the whole, of course providing for him till that time." "that's good," said job, thoughtfully. "of course, what she has i shall have," added craven. "to tell the truth," he continued, smiling softly, "i shan't spoil the young gentleman by indulgence when he is my step-son. i shan't waste much of his income on him." "perhaps the mother will raise a fuss," suggested job. "no, she won't. she's a weak, yielding woman. i can turn her round my finger." "well, what do you want then?" "i want three hundred and fifty dollars for ninety days." "and suppose i let you have it?" "i will pay you five hundred. that will allow fifty dollars a month for the loan." "but you see, craven, she might give you the slip. there's a risk about it." "come to shelby yourself, and make all the inquiries you see fit. then you will see that i have spoken the truth, and there is no risk at all." "well, well, perhaps i will. if all is right, i may let you have the money." two days afterward the old man came to shelby, stipulating that his traveling expenses should be paid by craven. he inquired around cautiously, and was convinced that the story was correct. finally he agreed to lend the money, but drove a harder bargain than first proposed--exacting six hundred dollars in return for his loan of three hundred and fifty. it was outrageous, of course, but he knew how important it was to mr. craven, and that he must consent. frank, according to his determination, said not a word further to his mother about the marriage. he avoided mentioning mr. craven's name even. but an incident about this time, though frank was quite innocent in the matter, served to increase mr. craven's dislike for him. he had spent the evening with mrs. hunter, and was about to leave the house when a watch-dog, which frank had just purchased, sprang upon him, and, seizing him by the coat-tails, shook him fiercely. mr. craven disliked dogs, and was thoroughly frightened. he gave a loud shriek, and tried to escape, but the dog held on grimly. "help, help!" he shrieked, at the top of his voice. frank heard the cry from the house, and ran out. at this juncture he managed to break away from the dog, and made a rush for the garden wall. "down, pompey! ain't you ashamed of yourself?" said frank, sternly, seizing the dog by the collar. "i am very sorry, mr. craven," he added. mr. craven turned wild with rage, and his soft voice trembled as he said: "really, frank, it is hardly fair to your visitors to keep such a fierce animal about." "he didn't know you, sir. to-morrow i will make you acquainted, and then there will be no danger of this occurring again." "i really hope not," said craven, laughing rather discordantly. "i hope he hasn't bitten you, sir." "no, but he has torn my coat badly. however, it's of no consequence. accidents will happen." "he takes it very well," thought frank, as mr. craven said good-night. but it was by a strong effort that his future step-father had done so. "curse the dog!" he said to himself, with suppressed passion. "after i am married and fairly settled down, i will shoot him. thus i will spite the boy and revenge myself on the brute at the same time." chapter v. mr. craven's return. mr. craven called the next day, as usual. frank apologized again for pompey's rude treatment of the evening previous, and, as far as he could, established friendly relations between the parties. pompey, who had nothing vicious about him, and was only anxious to do his duty, looked meek and contrite, and mr. craven, to all appearance, had quite forgiven him. "good dog!" he exclaimed, patting pompey's head. "say no more about it, frank," he said, in his usual soft voice; "it was only an accident. i foresee that pompey and i will be excellent friends in future." "i hope your coat isn't much torn, sir." "it can easily be repaired. it isn't worth mentioning. is your mother at home." "yes, sir. walk in." "he behaves very well about it," thought frank. "he may be a better man than i thought. i wish i could like him, as he is to be my step-father; but i think there are some persons it is impossible to like." so the time passed, and the wedding-day drew near. frank did not consider it honorable to make any further objection to the marriage, though he often sighed as he thought of the stranger who was about to be introduced into their small circle. "mother will seem different to me when she is that man's wife," he said to himself. "i shall love her as much, but she won't seem to belong to me as much as she did." in due time the wedding was celebrated. mrs. hunter wished it to be quiet, and mr. craven interposed no objection. quiet or not, he felt that the substantial advantages of the union would be his all the same. mrs. hunter looked a little nervous during the ceremony, but mr. craven was smiling and suave as ever. when he kissed his wife, saluting her as mrs. craven, she shuddered a little, and with difficulty restrained her tears, for it reminded her of her first marriage, so different from this, in which she wedded a man to whom she was devoted in heart and soul. the ceremony took place at eleven o'clock, and the newly-wedded pair started on a tour as previously arranged. so for two weeks frank and katy o'grady were left alone in the house. katy was a privileged character, having been in the family ever since frank was a baby, and she had no hesitation in declaring her opinion of mr. craven. "what possessed the mistress to marry such a mane specimen of a man, i can't tell," she said. "i don't like him myself," said frank; "but we must remember that he's my mother's husband now, and make the best of him." "and a mighty poor best it will be," said katy. "there you go again, katy!" "i can't help it, shure. it vexes me intirely that my dear mistress should throw herself away on such a man." "what can't be cured must be endured, you know. you mustn't talk that way after mr. craven comes back." "and what for will i not. do you think i'm afraid of him?" asked katy, defiantly. "if he is a man, i could bate him in a square fight." "i don't know but you could, katy," said frank, glancing at the muscular arms and powerful frame of the handmaiden; "but i really hope you won't get into a fight," he added, smiling. "it wouldn't look well, you know." "then he'd better not interfare wid me," said katy, shaking her head. "you must remember that he will be master of the house, katy." "but he sha'n't be master of katy o'grady," said that lady, in a very decided tone. "i don't suppose you'll have much to do with him," said frank. he sympathized with katy more than he was willing to acknowledge, and wondered how far mr. craven would see fit to exercise the authority of a step-father. he meant to treat him with the respect due to his mother's husband, but to regard him as a father was very repugnant to him. but he must be guided by circumstances, and he earnestly hoped that he would be able to live peacefully and harmoniously with mr. craven. days passed, and at length frank received a dispatch, announcing the return home. "they will be home to-night, katy," he said. "i'll be glad to see your mother, shure," said katy, "but i wish that man wasn't comin' wid her." "but we know he is, and we must treat him with respect." "i don't feel no respect for him." "you must not show your feelings, then, for my mother's sake." at five o'clock the stage deposited mr. and mrs. craven at the gate. frank ran to his mother, and was folded in her embrace. then he turned to mr. craven, who was standing by, with his usual smile, showing his white teeth. "i hope you have had a pleasant journey, sir," he said. "thank you, frank, it has been very pleasant, but we are glad to get home, are we not, my dear?" "i am very glad," said mrs. craven, thankfully, and she spoke the truth; for though mr. craven had been all attention (he had not yet thought it prudent to show himself in his true colors), there being no tie of affection between them, she had grown inexpressibly weary of the soft voice and artificial smile of her new husband, and had yearned for the companionship of frank, and even her faithful handmaiden, katy o'grady, who was standing on the lawn to welcome her, and only waiting till frank had finished his welcome. "how do you do, katy," said her mistress. "i'm well, mum, thankin' you for askin', and i'm mighty glad to see you back." "i hope you are glad to see me also, katy," said mr. craven, but his soft voice and insinuating smile didn't melt the hostility of miss o'grady. "i'm glad you've brought the mistress home safe," she said, with a low bow; "we've missed her from morning till night, sure; haven't we, master frank?" "i see she isn't my friend," thought mr. craven. "she'd better change her tune, or she won't stay long in my house." he had already begun to think of himself as the sole proprietor of the establishment, and his wife as an unimportant appendage. "i hope you have some supper for us, katy," said he, not choosing at present to betray his feelings, "for i am quite sure mrs. craven and myself have a good appetite." "mrs. craven!" repeated katy, in pretended ignorance. "oh, you mean the mistress, sure." "of course i do," said mr. craven, with a frown, for once betraying himself. "supper is all ready, ma'am," said katy, turning to mrs. craven. "it'll be ready as soon as you've took off your things." when they sat down to the table, frank made a little mistake. he had always been accustomed to sit at the head of the table, opposite his mother, and on the frequent occasions of mr. craven's taking a meal there during the engagement, the latter had taken the visitor's place at the side. so to-night, without thinking of the latter's new relations to him, frank took his old place. mr. craven noticed it, and soft and compliant as he was, he determined to assert his position at once. "i believe that is my place," he said, with an unpleasant smile. "oh, i beg pardon," said frank, his face flushing. "you forgot, i suppose," said mr. craven, still smiling. "yes, sir." "you'll soon get used to the change," said his step-father, as he seated himself in the chair frank had relinquished. mrs. craven looked a little uncomfortable. she began to realize that she had introduced a stranger into the family, and that this would interfere to a considerable extent with their old pleasant way of living. no one seemed inclined to talk except mr. craven. he seemed disposed to be sociable, and passed from one subject to another, regardless of the brief answers he received. "well, frank, and how have you got along since we were away?" he asked. "very well, sir." "and you haven't missed us then?" "i have missed my mother, and should have missed you," he added politely, "if you had been accustomed to live here." "and how is pompey?" asked mr. craven, again showing his teeth. "the same as usual. i wonder he was not out on the lawn to receive you and my mother." "i hope he wouldn't receive me in the same way as he did once," said mr. craven, again displaying his teeth. "no danger, sir. he didn't know you then." "that's true, but i will take care that he knows me now," said mr. craven, softly. "i think he will remember you, sir; he is a good dog, and very peaceable unless he thinks there are improper persons about." "i hope he didn't think me an improper person," said mr. craven. "no fear, sir." frank wondered why mr. craven should devote so much time to pompey, but he was destined to be enlightened very soon. chapter vi. the difficulty of killing a dog. if frank supposed that mr. craven had forgotten or forgiven pompey's attack upon him, he was mistaken. within a week after mr. craven had been established as a permanent member of the household, katy, looking out of the kitchen window, saw him advancing stealthily to a corner of the back yard with a piece of raw meat in his hand. he dropped it on the ground, and then, with a stealthy look around, he withdrew hastily. "what is he doin', sure?" said the astonished katy to herself; then, with a flash of intelligence, she exclaimed, "i know what he manes, the dirty villain! the meat is p'isoned, and it's put there to kill the dog. but he shan't do it, not if katy o'grady can prevint him." the resolute handmaid rushed to the pantry, cut off a piece of the meat meant for the morrow's breakfast, and carrying it out into the yard, was able, unobserved by mr. craven, to substitute it for the piece he had dropped. this she brought into the kitchen, and lifting it to her nose, smelled it. it might have been katy's imagination, but she thought she detected an uncanny smell. "it's p'isoned, sure!" she said. "i smell it plain; but it shan't harm poor pomp! i'll put it where it'll never do any harm." she wrapped it in a paper, and carrying it out into the garden, dug a hole in which she deposited it. "won't the ould villain be surprised when he sees the dog alive and well to morrow morning?" she said to herself, with exultation. fifteen minutes later, mr. craven, from an upper window, had the satisfaction of seeing the dog greedily eating what he supposed would be his last meal on earth. "that'll fix him!" he muttered, smiling viciously. "he won't attack me again very soon. young impudence will never know what hurt the brute. that's the way i mean to dispose of my enemies." probably mr. craven did not mean exactly what might be inferred from his remarks, but he certainly intended to revenge himself on all who were unwise enough to oppose him. mr. craven watched pompey till he had consumed the last morsel of the meat, and then retired from the window, little guessing that his scheme had been detected and baffled. the next morning he got up earlier than usual, on purpose to enjoy the satisfaction of seeing his four-footed enemy stretched out stiff and stark. what was his astonishment to see the dog jumping over a stick at the command of his young master. had he suddenly seen pompey's ghost (supposing dogs to have ghosts), he could scarcely have been more astonished or dismayed. "goodness gracious! that dog must have a cast-iron constitution!" he said to himself. "there was enough strychnine on that meat to kill ten men. i don't understand it at all." "he looks as if his grandmother had died and left him nothin' at all in her will," said katy to herself, slyly watching him out of the window. "the ould villain's disappinted sure, and it's katy o'grady he's got to thank for it, if he only knew it." "good morning, sir," said frank, for the first time noticing the presence of mr. craven. "good morning, frank," replied his step-father, opening his mouth with his customary smile. "pompey seems lively this morning." "yes, sir. i am teaching him to jump over this stick." "good dog!" said mr. craven, patting him softly. "oh, the ould hypocrite!" ejaculated katy, who had slyly opened the window a trifle and heard what he said. "he tries to p'ison the poor creeter, and thin calls him good dog." mr. craven meanwhile was surveying pompey curiously. "i certainly saw him eat the meat," he said to himself, "and i am sure it was tainted with a deadly poison. yet here the dog is alive and well, after devouring every morsel of it. it is certainly the most curious case i ever heard of." mr. craven went into the house, and turned to the article on strychnine in an encyclopædia, but the statements he there found corroborated his previously formed opinion as to the deadly character and great strength of the poison. pompey must certainly be an extraordinary dog. mr. craven was puzzled. meanwhile katy said to herself: "shall i tell master frank what mr. craven tried to do? not yit. i'll wait a bit, and while i'm waitin' i'll watch. he don't suspect that katy o'grady's eyes are on him, the villain!" it may not be considered suitable generally for a maid-of-all-work to speak of her employer as a villain; but then katy had some grounds for her use of this term, and being a lady very decided in her language, it is not singular that such should have been her practice. notwithstanding the apparent superiority of pompey's constitution to the deadliest poison, mr. craven's murderous intent was by no means laid aside. he concluded to try another method of getting him out of the way. he had a pistol in his trunk, and he resolved to see if pompey was bullet-proof as well as poison-proof. three days later, therefore, when frank was at school, and mrs. craven was in attendance at the house of a neighbor, at a meeting of the village sewing-circle, mr. craven slipped the pistol into his pocket and repaired to the back yard, where pompey, as he anticipated, was stretched out in the sun, having a comfortable nap. "pompey," said mr. craven, in a low tone, "come here. good dog." pompey walked up, and, grateful for attention, began to fawn upon the man who sought to lure him to death. "good dog! fine fellow!" repeated mr. craven, stroking him. pompey seemed to be gratefully appreciative of the kindness. low and soft as were his tones--for he did not wish to attract any attention--mr. craven was overheard. katy o'grady's ears were sharp, and at the first sound she drew near to the window, where, herself unobserved, she was an eye and ear witness of mr. craven's blandishments. "what is the ould villain doin' now?" she said to herself. "is he going to thry p'isonin' him again?" but no piece of meat was produced. mr. craven had other intentions. "come here, pompey," said he, soothingly; "follow me, sir." so saying, he rose and beckoned the dog to follow him. pompey rose, stretching his limbs, and obediently trotted after his deadly foe. "where's he takin' him to?" thought katy. "he manes mischief, i'll be bound. the misthress is gone, and master frank's gone, and he thinks there ain't nobody to interfere. katy o'grady, you must go after him and see what he's up to." katy was in the midst of her work, but she didn't stop for that. she had in her hand a glass tumbler, which she had been in the act of wiping, but she didn't think to put it down. throwing her apron over her head, she followed mr. craven at a little distance. he made his way into a field in the rear of the house. she went in the same direction, but on the other side of a stone wall which divided it from a neighboring field. from time to time she could catch glimpses, through the loosely laid rocks, of her employer, and she could distinctly hear what he was saying. "my friend pompey," he said, with a smile full of deadly meaning, "you are going to your death, though you don't know it. that was a bad job for you when you attacked me, my four-footed friend. you won't be likely to trouble me much longer." "what's he going to do to him?" thought katy; "it's not p'ison, for he hasn't got any meat. may be it's shootin' him he manes." mr. craven went on. "poison doesn't seem to do you any harm, but i fancy you can't stand powder and ball quite so well." "yes, he's goin' to shoot him. what will i do?" thought katy. "i'm afraid i can't save the poor creetur's life." by this time mr. craven had got so far that he considered it very unlikely that the report of the pistol would be heard at the house. he stopped short, and, with a look of triumphant malice, drew the pistol from his pocket. pompey stood still, and looked up in his face. "how can he shoot the poor creetur, and him lookin' up at him so innocent?" thought katy. "what will i do? oh, i know--i'll astonish him a little." mr. craven was just pointing the pistol at pompey, when katy flung the tumbler with force against his hat, which rolled off. in his fright at the unexpected attack, the pistol went off, but its contents were lodged in a tree near by, and pompey was unhurt. mr. craven looked around him with startled eyes, but he could not see katy crouching behind the wall, nor did he understand from what direction the missile had come. chapter vii. miss o'grady's victory. crouching behind the stone wall, katy enjoyed the effect of what she had done. she particularly enjoyed the bewildered look, of mr. craven, who, bare-headed, looked on this side and on that, unable to conjecture who had thrown the missile. pompey, unconscious of the danger he had escaped, walked up to the tumbler and smelt of it. this attracted the attention of mr. craven, who stooped and picked it up. his bewilderment increased. if it had been a stone, he would have understood better, but how a tumbler should have found its way here as a missile was incomprehensible. it slowly dawned upon him that the person who threw it must be somewhere near. then again, on examining it further, he began to suspect that it was one of his wife's tumblers, and he jumped to the conclusion that it was frank who threw it. "if it is he, i'll wring his neck!" he murmured, revengefully. "i mean to find out." "pompey," he said, calling the dog, "do you see this tumbler?" pompey wagged his tail. "who threw it?" pompey looked up, as if for instructions. "go find him!" said mr. craven, in a tone of command. the dog seemed to understand, for he put his nose to the ground and began to run along, as if in search. "oh, murther! what if he finds me?" thought katy, crouching a little lower. "won't he be mad, jist?" katy might have crawled away unobserved, very possibly, if she had started as soon as the missile was thrown. now, that dog and man were both on the lookout, escape was cut off. "will he find me?" katy asked herself, with some anxiety. the question was soon answered. pompey jumped over the wall, and a joyous bark announced his discovery. he knew katy, and seemed to fancy that she had concealed herself in joke. he jumped upon her, and wagged his tail intelligently, as if to say: "you see, i've found you out, after all." mr. craven hurried to the wall, eagerly expecting to detect frank in the person concealed. he started back in astonishment as katy o'grady rose and faced him. then he became wrathful, as he realized that his own hired servant had had the audacity to fling a tumbler at his hat. "what brings you out here, katy?" he demanded, with a frown. "shure, sir," said katy, nonchalantly, "i was tired wid stayin' in the hot kitchen, and i thought i'd come out and take the air jist." "and so you neglected the work." "the worruk will be done; niver you mind about that." "did you fling this tumbler at my head?" demanded mr. craven, sternly. "let me look at it, sir." katy looked at it scrutinizingly, and made answer: "very likely, sir." "don't you know?" "i wouldn't swear it was the same one, sir, but it looks like it." "then you admit throwing a tumbler at my head, do you?" "no, sir." "didn't you say you did just now?" "i threw it at your hat." "it is the same thing. how came you to have the cursed impudence to do such a thing?" asked her master, wrathfully. "because you was goin' to shoot the dog," said katy, coolly. "suppose i was, is it any business of yours?" "the dog doesn't belong to you, mr. craven. it belongs to master frank." "i don't think it expedient for him to keep such an ill-natured brute around." "he calls you a brute, pomp," said katy, caressing pompey--"you that's such a good dog. it's a shame!" "catherine," said mr. craven, with outraged dignity, "your conduct is very improper. you have insulted me." "by the powers, how did i do it?" asked katy, with an affectation of innocent wonder. "it was an insult to throw that tumbler at my head. i might order the constable to arrest you." "i'd like to see him thry it!" said katy, putting her arms akimbo in such a resolute fashion that mr. craven involuntarily stepped back slightly. "are you aware that i am your master?" continued mr. craven, severely. "no, i'm not," answered katy, promptly. "you are a servant in my house." "no, i'm not. the house don't belong to you at all, sir. it belongs to my mistress and master frank." "that's the same thing. according to the law, i am in control of their property," said mr. craven, resolved upon a master-stroke which, he felt confident, would overwhelm his adversary. "after the great impropriety of which you have been guilty this afternoon, i discharge you from my employment." "you discharge me!" exclaimed katy, with incredulous scorn. "i discharge you, and i desire you to leave the house to-morrow." "you discharge me!" repeated katy, with a ringing laugh. "that's a good one." mr. craven's cadaverous face colored with anger. "if you don't go quietly, i'll help you out," he added, incautiously. "come on, then," said katy, assuming a warlike attitude. "come on, then, and we'll see whether you can put out katy o'grady." "your impudence will not avail you. i am determined to get rid of you." "and do ye think i'm goin' to lave the house, and my ould misthress, and master frank, at the orders of such an interloper as you, mr. craven?" she cried, angrily. "i don't propose to multiply words about it," said mr. craven, with an assumption of dignity. "if you had behaved well, you might have stayed. now you must go." "must i?" sniffed katy, indignantly. "must i, indade?" "yes, you must, and the less fuss you make about it the better." mr. craven supposed that he had the decided advantage, and that katy, angry as she was, would eventually succumb to his authority. but he did not know the independent spirit of catherine o'grady, whose will was quite as resolute as his own. "and ye think i'm goin' at your word--i that's been in the family since master frank was a baby?" "i am sorry for you, katy," said mr. craven, in triumphant magnanimity. "but i cannot permit a servant to remain in my house who is guilty of the gross impropriety of insulting me." "i know why you want to get rid of me," said katy, nodding her head vigorously. "why?" asked craven, with some curiosity. "you want to p'ison the dog." mr. craven started. how had his secret leaked out? "what do you mean?" "mane! i mane that i saw you lavin' the p'isoned mate for the dog three days agone, and if it hadn't been for me he'd have eaten it, and the poor creetur would be stiff in death." "he did eat it. i saw him," said mr. craven, hastily. "no, he didn't. it wasn't the same mate!" said katy, triumphantly. "what was it, then?" "it was a piece i cut off and carried out to him," said katy. "the other i wrapped up in a piece of paper, and buried it in the field." mr. craven's eyes were opened. pompey's cast-iron constitution was explained. after all, he was not that natural phenomenon which mr. craven had supposed him to be. but he was angry at katy's interference no less. "say no more," he said. "you must go. you have no right to interfere with my plans." "say no more? won't i be tellin' the misthress and master frank how you tried to kill the poor dog, first with p'ison, and nixt wid a pistol?" there was something in this speech that made mr. craven hesitate and reflect. he knew that katy's revelation would provoke frank, and make him an enemy, and he feared the boy's influence on his mother, particularly as he was concocting plans for inducing his wife to place some of her money in his hand under pretext of a new investment. he must be careful not to court hostile influences, and after all, he resolved to bear with katy, much as he disliked her. "on the whole, katy," he said, after a pause, "i will accept your apology, and you may stay." "my apology!" said katy, in astonishment. "yes, your explanation. i see your motives were good, and i will think no more about it. you had better not mention this matter to mrs. craven or frank, as it might disturb them." "and won't you try to kill pomp agin?" asked katy. "no; i dislike dogs, especially as they are apt to run mad, but as frank is attached to pompey, i won't interfere. you had better take this tumbler and wash it, as it is uninjured." "all right, sir," said katy, who felt that she had gained a victory, although mr. craven assumed that it was his. "i am very glad you are so devoted to your mistress," said mr. craven, who had assumed his old suavity. "i shall propose to her to increase your wages." "he's a mighty quare man!" thought the bewildered katy, as she hurried back to her work, followed by pompey. chapter viii. frank is obstinate. mr. craven had as yet gained nothing from his marriage. he was itching to get possession of his wife's property. then his next step would be frank's more considerable property. he was beginning to be low in pocket, and in the course of a month or so mr. green's note for six hundred dollars would fall due. he knew enough of that estimable gentleman to decide that it must be met, and, of course, out of his wife's money. "my dear," he said one day, after breakfast, frank being on his way to school, "i believe i told you before our marriage that i had twenty thousand dollars invested in lake superior mines." "yes, mr. craven, i remember it." "it is a very profitable investment," continued her husband. "what per cent. do you think it pays me?" "ten per cent.," guessed mrs. craven. "more than that. during the last year it has paid me twenty per cent." "that is a great deal," said his wife, in surprise. "to be sure it is, but not at all uncommon. you, i suppose, have not got more than seven or eight per cent. for your money?" "only six per cent." mr. craven laughed softly, as if to say, "what a simpleton you must be!" "i didn't know about these investments," said his wife. "i don't know much about business." "no, no. i suppose not. few women do. well, my dear, the best thing you can do is to empower me to invest your money for you in future." "if you think it best," said mrs. craven. "certainly; it is my business to invest money. and, by the way, the income of frank's property is paid to you, i believe." "yes." "he does not come into possession till twenty-one." "that was his father's direction." "and a very proper one. he intended that you should have the benefit of the income, which is, of course, a good deal more than frank needs till he comes of age." "i thought perhaps i ought to save up the surplus for frank," said mrs. craven, hesitating. "that is not necessary. frank is amply provided for. he might be spoiled by too much money." "i don't think so. frank is an excellent boy," said his mother, warmly. "so he is," said mr. craven. "he has a noble, generous disposition, and for that very reason is more liable to be led astray." "i hope he won't be led astray. i should feel wretched if i thought anything would befall him," said his mother, shuddering. "we will look after him; we will see that he goes straight," said mr. craven, cheerfully. "but i wanted to suggest, my dear, that it would be proper that i should be appointed joint guardian with you." "i am not sure whether frank will like it," said his mother, who was aware that frank, though scrupulously polite to his step-father, had no cordial liking or respect for him. "as to that, my dear, i count upon you exerting your influence in the matter. if you recommend it he will yield." "don't you think it just as well as it is?" said mrs. craven, hesitatingly. "of course, we shall go to you for counsel and advice in anything important." "you don't seem to have confidence in me," said mr. craven, with an injured air. "i hope you won't think that, mr. craven," said his wife, hastily. "how can i help it? you know my interest in frank, yet you are unwilling to have me associated in the guardianship." "i didn't say i objected. i said frank might." "you are not willing to urge him to favor the measure." "you misunderstand me. yes, i will," said yielding mrs. craven. "thank you, my dear," said mr. craven, with one of his most unctuous smiles. "i was quite sure you would do me justice in the end. by the way, what disposition is made of frank's property if he does not live to come of age?" "you--you don't think he is likely to be taken away?" said mrs. craven, in distress. "you are a goose," said her husband, laughing softly. "of course not. but then we are all mortal. frank is strong, and will, i hope, live to smooth our dying pillows. but, of course, however improbable, the contingency is to be thought of." "i believe the property comes to me in that case, but i am sure i should not live to enjoy it." "my dear, don't make yourself miserable about nothing. our boy is strong, and has every prospect of reaching old age. but it is best to understand clearly how matters stand. by the way, you need not say anything about the guardianship to him till i tell you." mrs. craven not only complied with this request, but she surrendered to mr. craven the entire control of her money within an hour. she raised one or two timid objections, but these were overruled by her husband, and in the end she yielded. mr. craven was now in funds to pay the note held by job green, and this afforded him no little relief. a few evenings later, frank was about to take his cap and go out, when mr. craven stopped him. "frank," he said, "if you have no important engagement, your mother and i desire to speak to you on a matter of some consequence." "i was only going to call on one of my friends," said frank. "i will defer that and hear what you have to say." "thank you," said mr. craven, smiling sweetly. "i wished to speak to you on the subject of your property." "very well, sir." "your mother is your guardian, she tells me." "yes, sir." "the responsibilities of a guardian are very great," proceeded mr. craven, leaning back upon his chair. "naturally there are some of them to which a woman cannot attend as well as a man." frank began to understand what was coming, and, as it was not to his taste, he determined to declare himself at once. "i couldn't have a better guardian than my mother," he said. "of course not. (i am afraid i shall find trouble with him, thought mr. craven.) of course not. you couldn't possibly find any one as much interested in your welfare as your mother." "certainly not, sir." "as your step-father, i naturally feel a strong interest in you, but i do not pretend to have the same interest as your mother." "i never expected you would, sir," said frank, "and i don't want you to," he added, to himself. "but your mother is not used to business, and, as i said, the responsibilities of a guardian are great." "what do you propose, sir?" asked frank, gazing at his step-father steadily. "do you recommend me to change guardians--to give up my mother?" "no, by no means. it is best that your mother should retain the guardianship." "then, sir, i don't quite understand what you mean." "i mean to suggest that it would be well for another to be associated in the guardianship, who might relieve your mother of a part of her cares and responsibilities." "i suppose you mean yourself, sir," said frank. "yes--ahem!" answered mr. craven, coughing softly, "as your step-father, it would naturally occur to your mind that i am the most suitable person. your mother thinks as i do." "do you want mr. craven to be guardian with you, mother?" asked frank, turning to his mother. "mr. craven thinks it best," said his mother, in a little embarrassment. "he knows more about business matters than i do, and i have no doubt he is right." frank understood that it was entirely mr. craven's idea, and something made it very repugnant to him. he did not want to be under the control of that man. though he knew nothing to his disadvantage, he distrusted him. he had never ceased to regret that his mother married him, and he meant to have as little to do with him as politeness would permit. he answered, therefore: "i hope, mr. craven, that you won't be offended if i say that i don't wish any change in the guardianship. if another were to be added, i suppose it would be proper that you should be the one, but i am content with my mother as guardian, and wish no other." "i am afraid," said mr. craven, with a softness of tone which by no means accorded with his inward rage, "that you are unmindful of the care the sole guardianship will impose on your mother." "has it been much care for you, mother?" asked frank. "not yet," said mrs. craven, hesitating, "but perhaps it may." "i suppose mr. craven will always be ready to give you advice if you need it," said frank, though the suggestion was not altogether to his taste, "but i would rather have you only as my guardian." "well, let us drop the subject," said mr. craven, gayly. "as you say, i shall always be ready to advise, if called upon. now, my dear frank, go to your engagement, i won't detain you any longer." but when mr. craven was alone, his countenance underwent a change. "that boy is a thorn in my side," he muttered, with compressed lips. "sooner or later, he must be in my power, and his fortune under my control. patience, richard craven! a dull-witted boy cannot defeat your plans!" chapter ix. a stranger appears on the scene. "how do you like your step-father, frank," asked ben cameron as the two boys were walking home from school together. "you mean mr. craven?" "of course. he is your step-father, isn't he?" "i suppose he is, but i don't like to think of him in that way." "is he disagreeable, then?" "he treats me well enough," said frank, slowly; "but, for all that, i dislike him. his appearance, his manners, his soft voice and stealthy ways are all disagreeable to me. as he is my mother's husband, i wish i could like him, but i can't." "i don't wonder at it, frank. i don't fancy him myself." "somehow, everything seems changed since he came. he seems to separate my mother from me." "well, frank, i suppose you must make the best of it. if he doesn't interfere with you, that is one good thing. some step-fathers would, you know." "he hasn't, so far; but sometimes i fear that he will in the future." "have you any reason for thinking so?" "a day or two since he called me, just as i was leaving the house to come and see you, and asked if i were willing to have him join with my mother as my guardian." "what did you say?" "that i didn't want any change. he said the responsibility was too great for a woman." "what answer did you make?" "that my mother could get as much help and advice as she needed, even if she were sole guardian." "did he seem angry?" "not at all. he turned it off very pleasantly, and said he would not detain me any longer." "then why should you feel uneasy?" "i think there's something underhand about him. he seems to me like a cat that purrs and rubs herself against you, but has claws concealed, and is open to scratch when she gets ready." ben laughed. "the comparison does you credit, frank," said he. "there's something in it, too. mr. craven is like a cat--that is, in his ways; but i hope he won't show his claws." "when he does i shall be ready for him," said frank, stoutly. "i am not afraid of him, but i don't like the idea of having such a person in the family." they had arrived at this point in the conversation when they were met by a tall man, of dark complexion, who was evidently a stranger in the village. in a small town of two thousand inhabitants, where every person is known to every other, a strange face attracts attention, and the boys regarded this man with curiosity. he paused as they neared him, and, looking from one to the other, inquired: "can you direct me to mr. craven's office?" the two boys exchanged glances. frank answered: "it is that small building on the left-hand side of the street, but i am not sure whether he is there yet." curious to know how the boy came to know so much of mr. craven's movements, the stranger said: "do you know him?" "yes, sir; he is my step-father." it was the first time he had ever made the statement, and, true as he knew it to be, he made it with rising color and a strange reluctance. "oh, indeed!" returned the stranger, looking very much surprised. "he is your step-father?" "yes; he married my mother," said frank, hurriedly. "then you think he may not have come to the office yet?" "there he is, just opening the door," said ben, pointing to mr. craven, who, unaware of the interest his appearance excited, was just opening the door of the office, in which he was really beginning to do a little business. his marriage to a woman of property, and the reports which had leaked out that he had a competence of his own, had inspired a degree of confidence in him which before had not existed. "thank you," said the stranger. "as he is in, i will call upon him." chapter x. a conspiracy against frank. "so he's married again, the sly villain!" muttered the stranger, as, after leaving the boys, he proceeded on his way to mr. craven's office. "that will be good news for my sister, won't it? and so that's his step-son? a nice-looking, well-dressed boy. likely craven has feathered his nest, and married a fortune. if so, all the better. i may get a few feathers for my own nest, if i work my cards right." meanwhile mr. craven had seated himself at an office table, and was looking over a paper of instructions, having been commissioned to write a will for one of the town's people. he had drawn out a printed form, and had just dipped his pen in the ink, when a knock was heard at the outer door that opened upon the street. "i suppose it's mr. negley, come for the will. he'll have to wait," thought craven, and as the thought passed through his mind, he said, "come in!" the door opened. he mechanically raised his eyes, and his glance rested upon the man whom we have introduced in the last chapter. a remarkable change came over mr. craven's face. first surprise, then palpable dismay, drove the color from his cheeks, and he stood up in silent consternation. the other appeared to enjoy the sensation caused by his arrival, and laughed. "why, man, you look as if i were a ghost. no such thing. i'm alive and well, and delighted to see you again," he added, significantly. "by jove, i've had hard work finding you, but here i am, you see." "how--did--you--find--me?" asked craven, huskily. "how did i find you? well, i got upon your tracks in new york. never mind how, as long as i have found you. well, have you no welcome for me?" "what do you want of me?" asked mr. craven, sullenly. "what do i want of you?" echoed the other, with a laugh. "why, considering the relationship between us--" mr. craven's pallor increased, and he shifted his position uneasily. "considering the relationship between us, it is only natural that i should want to see you." he paused, but mr. craven did not offer any reply. "by the way, your wife is very uneasy at your long absence," continued the newcomer, fixing his eyes steadily upon the shrinking craven. "for heaven's sake stop, or speak lower!" exclaimed craven, exhibiting the greatest alarm. "come, now, craven, is any allusion to your wife so disagreeable? considering that she is my sister, it strikes me that i shall have something to say on that subject." "don't allude to her, sharpley," said the other, doggedly. "i shall never see her again. we--we didn't live happily, and are better apart." "you may think so, but do you think i am going to have my sister treated in this way--deserted and scorned?" "i can't help it," was the dogged reply. "you can't? why not?" and the man addressed as sharpley fixed his eyes upon his brother-in-law. "why do you come here to torment me?" said craven, fiercely, brought to bay. "why can't you leave me alone? your sister is better off without me. i never was a model husband." "that is where you are right, craven; but, hark you!" he added, bending forward, "do you think we are going to stand by and do nothing while you are in the enjoyment of wealth and the good things of life?" "wealth? what do you mean?" stammered craven. the other laughed slightly. "do you take me for a mole? did you suppose i wouldn't discover that you are married again, and that your marriage has brought you money?" "so you have found it out?" said mr. craven, whose worst apprehensions were now confirmed. "i met your step-son a few minutes ago, and he directed me here." "did you tell him?" asked craven, in dismay. "tell him? no, not yet. i wanted to see you first." "i'm glad you didn't. he doesn't like me. it would be all up with me if you had." "don't be frightened, craven. it may not be so bad as you think. we may be able to make some friendly arrangement. tell me about it, and then we'll consult together. only don't leave anything untold. situated as we are, i demand your entire confidence." here the door opened, and mr. negley appeared. "have you finished that 'ere dokkyment, mr. craven?" asked the old-fashioned farmer, to whom the name belonged. "no, mr. negley," said mr. craven, with his customary suavity, "not yet, i am sorry to say. i've had a great deal to do, and i am even now consulting with a client on an important matter. could you wait till to-morrow?" "sartain, mr. craven. i ain't in no hurry. only, as i was passing, i thought i'd just inquire. good mornin', squire." "good morning, mr. negley." "so you are in the lawyer's line again, craven?" said sharpley. "you are turning to good account that eight months you spent in a law office in the old country?" "yes, i do a little in that line." "now, tell me all about this affair of yours. i don't want to ruin you. may be we can make an arrangement that will be mutually satisfactory." thus adjured, and incited from time to time by questions from his visitor, mr. craven unfolded the particulars of his situation. "well, the upshot of it is, craven, that you've feathered your nest, and made yourself comfortable. that's all very well; but it seems to me, that your english wife has some rights in the matter." "you need not tell her," said craven, hastily. "what good will it do?" "it won't do you any good, but it may benefit her and me." "how can it benefit 'her and me?' how can it benefit either of you, if i am found out, and obliged to flee from this place into penury?" "why, not exactly in that way. in fact, i may feel disposed to let you alone, if you'll come down handsomely. the fact is, craven, my circumstances are not over prosperous, and of course i don't forget that i have a rich brother-in-law." "you call me rich. you are mistaken. i get a living, but the money is my wife's." "if it is hers, you can easily get possession of it." "only one-third of it belongs to her. two-thirds belong to that boy you met--my step-son." "suppose he dies?" "it goes to my wife." "then you have some chance of it." "not much; he is a stout, healthy boy." "look here, craven, you must make up your mind to do something for me. give me a thousand dollars down." "i couldn't without my wife finding out. besides you would be coming back for more." "well, perhaps i might," said the other, coolly. "you would ruin me," exclaimed craven, sullenly. "do you think i am made of money?" "i know this--that it will be better for you to share your prosperity with me, and so insure not being disturbed. half a loaf is better than no bread." mr. craven fixed his eyes upon the table, seriously disturbed. "how much is the boy worth?" asked sharpley, after a pause. "forty thousand dollars." "forty thousand dollars!" exclaimed sharpley, his eyes sparkling with greed. "that's splendid." "for him, yes. it doesn't do me any good." "didn't you say, that in the event of his death the money would go to your wife?" "yes." "he may die." "so may we. that's more likely. he's a stout boy, as you must have observed, since you have met him." "life is uncertain. suppose he should have a fever, or meet with an accident." "suppose he shouldn't." "my dear craven," said sharpley, drawing his chair nearer that of his brother-in-law, "it strikes me that you are slightly obtuse, and you a lawyer, too. fie upon you! my meaning is plain enough, it strikes me." "what do you mean?" inquired craven, coloring, and shifting uneasily in his chair. "you wouldn't have me murder him, would you?" "don't name such a thing. i only mean, that if we got a good opportunity to expose him to some sickness, and he happened to die of it, it would be money in our pockets." craven looked startled, and his sallow face betrayed by its pallor his inward disturbance. "that is absurd," he said. "there is no chance of that here. if the boy should die i shouldn't mourn much, but he may live to eighty. there's not much chance of any pestilence reaching this town." "perhaps so," said the other, shrugging his shoulders, "but then this little village isn't the whole world." "you seem to have some plan to propose," said mr. craven, eagerly. "what is it?" "i propose," said sharpley, "that you send the boy to europe with me." "to europe?" "yes; on a traveling tour, for his education, improvement, anything. only send him under my paternal care, and--possibly he might never come back." mr. craven was not a scrupulous man, and this proposal didn't shock him as it should have done, but he was a timid man, and he could not suppress a tremor of alarm. "but isn't there danger in it?" he faltered. "not if it is rightly managed," said sharpley. "and how do you mean to manage it?" "can't tell yet," answered the other, carelessly. "the thought has just occurred to me, and i have had no time to think it over. but that needn't trouble you. you can safely leave all that to me." mr. craven leaned his head on his hand and reflected. here was a way out of two embarrassments. this plan offered him present safety and a continuance of his good fortune, with the chance of soon obtaining control of frank's fortune. "well, what do you say?" asked sharpley. "i should like it well enough, but i don't know what my wife and the boy will say." "has mrs. craven the--second--a will of her own?" "no, she is very yielding." "doesn't trouble you, eh? by the way, what did she see in you, craven, or my sister either, for that matter, to attract her? there's no accounting for tastes, surely." "that is not to the point," said craven, impatiently. "you are right. that is not to the point. suppose we come to the point, then. if your wife is not strong-minded she can be brought over, and the boy, if he is like most boys, will be eager to embrace the chance of visiting europe, say for three months. it will be best, i suppose, that the offer should come from me. i'll tell you what you must do. invite me to supper to-night and offer me a bed, and i'll lay the train. shall it be so?" "agreed," said craven, and thus the iniquitous compact was made. chapter xi. trapped. "mrs. craven, i have pleasure in introducing to you one of my oldest friends, colonel sharpley." as this was the first friend of her husband who had come in her way, his wife regarded the stranger with some curiosity, which, however, was veiled by her quiet manner. "i am glad to meet a friend of yours, mr. craven," she said, offering her hand. "i have invited the colonel to supper, and pass the night with us, mary." "i am glad you did so. i will see that a chamber is got ready." after she had left the room, sharpley looked about him approvingly. "on my life, craven, you are well provided for. this house is decidedly comfortable." "it is the best in the village," said craven, complacently. "evidently, your predecessor had taste as well as money. it is a pity that there is a little legal impediment in the way of your permanent enjoyment of all this luxury." "hush, hush, sharpley!" said mr. craven, nervously. "you might be heard." "so i might, and as that would interfere with my plans as well as yours, i will be careful. by the way, that's a good idea making me a colonel. it sounds well--colonel sharpley, eh? let me see. i'll call myself an officer in the english service--served for a while in the east indies, and for a short period in canada." "whatever you like. but here's my step-son coming in." "the young man i'm to take charge of. i must ingratiate myself with him." here frank entered the room. he paused when he saw the stranger. "frank," said mr. craven, "this is my friend, colonel sharpley. i believe you have already made his acquaintance." "yes, sir, i saw him this morning." "i didn't suspect when i first spoke to you that you were related to my old friend, craven," said sharpley, smiling. mr. sharpley was a man not overburdened--in fact, not burdened at all--with principle, but he could make himself personally more agreeable than mr. craven, nor did frank feel for him the instinctive aversion which he entertained for his step-father. the stranger had drifted about the world, and, being naturally intelligent and observing, he had accumulated a fund of information which enabled him to make himself agreeable to those who were unacquainted with his real character. he laid himself out now to entertain frank. "ah, my young friend," he said, "how i envy you your youth and hope. i am an old, battered man of the world, who has been everywhere, seen a great deal, and yet, in all the wide world, i am without a home." "have you traveled much, sir," asked frank. "i have been in europe, asia, africa, america and australia," answered sharpley. "yes, botany bay," thought craven, but it was not his cue to insinuate suspicions of his friend. "how much you must have seen!" said frank, interested. "you're right; i've seen a great deal." "have you ever been in switzerland?" "yes, i've clambered about among the alps. i tried to ascend mont blanc, but had not endurance enough." frank was interested. he had read books of travels, and he had dreamed of visiting foreign lands. he had thought more than once how much he should enjoy roaming about in countries beyond the sea, but he had never, in his quiet country home, even met one who had made this journey, and he eagerly listened to what colonel sharpley had to tell him about these distant lands. here supper was announced, and the four sat down. "do you take your tea strong, colonel sharpley?" asked mrs. craven. "as strong as you can make it. tea is a favorite drink of mine. i have drunk it in its native land--in fact, everywhere." "have you been in china, colonel sharpley?" "yes, madam. i spent three months there--learned to talk broken china a little," he added, with a laugh. "yes, mrs. craven, i have been a rover." "he has been telling me about switzerland, mother," said frank, eagerly. "how splendid it must be to travel there." "i am going back to europe in three or four weeks," said sharpley, ready now to spring his trap. "were you ever there, mrs. craven?" "no, sir; i am timid about traveling." "i was going to ask why you and my friend craven didn't pull up stakes and go abroad for a time?" "i am afraid i am getting too old to travel, colonel sharpley." "old! my dear madam? why you're in the prime of life. if you are getting old, what shall i say about myself?" "i suppose i am not quite venerable," said mrs. craven, smiling, "but i should shrink from the voyage." "i may persuade her to go some time," said mr. craven, with a glance at his wife, "just now it would be a little inconvenient for me to leave my business." "i fancy this young man would like to go," said sharpley, turning to frank. "indeed i should," said frank, eagerly. "there is nothing in the world i should like better." "come, i have an idea to propose," said sharpley, as if it had struck him; "if you'll let him go with me, i will look after him, and at the end of three months, or any other period you may name, i will put him on board a steamer bound for new york. it will do him an immense deal of good." mrs. craven was startled by the suddenness of the proposal. "how could he come home alone?" she said. "he couldn't leave the steamer till it reached new york, and i am sure he could find his way home from there, or you could meet him at the steamer." "oh, mother, let me go!" said frank, all on fire with the idea. "it would seem lonely without you, frank." "i would write twice--three times a week, and i should have ever so much to tell you after i got home." "what do you think, mr. craven?" asked his wife, hesitatingly. "i think it a very good plan, mary, but, as you know, i don't wish to interfere with your management of frank. if you say yes, i have no sort of objection." just at that moment frank felt more kindly toward mr. craven than he had ever done before. he could not, of course, penetrate the treachery which he meditated. "i hardly know what to say. do you think there would be any danger?" "i have great confidence in my friend, colonel sharpley. he is an experienced traveler--has been everywhere, as he has told you. i really wish i could go myself in the party." this frank did not wish, though he would prefer to go with mr. craven rather than stay at home. "would it not interrupt his studies?" asked his mother, as a final objection. "summer is near at hand, and he would have a vacation at any rate. he will probably study all the better after he returns." "that i will," said frank. "then, if you really think it best, i will consent," said mrs. craven. frank was so overjoyed that he jumped from his chair and threw his arms around his mother's neck. a flush of pleasure came to her cheek, and she felt repaid for the sacrifice she must make of frank's society. she knew beforehand that her husband's company would not go far toward compensating that. "i congratulate you, my young friend," said colonel sharpley (for we may as well address him by his stolen title), "upon the pleasure before you." "i am very much obliged to you, sir, for being willing to take so much trouble on my account." "no need of thanks on that score. the fact is, i shall enjoy the trip all the more in watching your enjoyment. i am rather _blase_ myself, but it will be a treat to me to see what impressions foreign scenes make on you." "how soon do you go, sir?" asked frank, eagerly. "let me see; this is the fifth. i will engage passage for the nineteenth--that is, if you can get ready at such short notice." "no fear of that," said frank, confidently. "he'll be on hand promptly, you may be sure," said mr. craven, smiling. "really, frank, we shall miss you very much." "thank you, sir," said frank, feeling almost cordial to his step-father; "but it won't be long, and i shall write home regularly." during the evening frank kept sharpley busy telling him about foreign parts. mr. craven listened, with a crafty smile, watching him as a spider does an entangled fly. "he's trapped!" he said to himself poor frank! how little could he read of the future! chapter xii. two boy friends. "going to europe, frank!" repeated his friend, ben cameron, in unbounded astonishment. "i can hardly believe it." "i can hardly believe it myself; but it's true." "how did it come about?" "colonel sharpley, mr. craven's friend, is going, and offered to take me." "didn't mr. craven object?" "no; why should he? he thought it was a good plan." "and your mother?" "she was a little afraid at first that something might happen to me; but, as colonel sharpley and mr. craven were in favor of it, she yielded." "well, frank, all i can say is, that i wish i were in your shoes." "i wish you were going with me, ben. wouldn't it be jolly?" "unfortunately, frank, i wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth, like you. you are the son of rich parents, while my father is a poor carpenter, working by the day." "i like you as much as if you were worth half a million, ben." "i know you do, frank; but that doesn't give me the half-million. i must postpone going to europe till i have earned money enough with my own hands." "don't be too sure of that, ben." "what do you mean, frank?" "i mean this, that when i am twenty-one i come into possession of about forty thousand dollars. now, the interest on that is two thousand four hundred. i'll invite you to go abroad with me, and spend a year there. if the interest isn't enough to pay our expenses, i will take a few hundred dollars of the principal." "that's a generous offer, frank," said ben; "but you don't consider that at that time i shall be a journeyman carpenter, very likely, while you will be a young gentleman, just graduated from college. you may not want such company then." "my dear ben," said frank, laying his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder, "if you think i'm a snob or likely to become one, say so at once; but i hope you think better of me than to believe that i will ever be ashamed of my dearest friend, even if he is a journeyman carpenter. i should despise myself if i thought such a thing possible." "then i won't think so, frank." "that's right, ben. we'll be friends for life, or, if we are not, it shall be your fault, not mine. but there's one favor i am going to ask of you." "what is it?" "that while i am gone you will call round often and see mother. she will miss me a great deal, for i have always been with her, and it will be a pleasure to her to see you, whom she knows to be my dearest friend, and talk with you about me. will you go?" "certainly i will, frank, if you think she would like to have me." "i know she would. you see, ben, though mr. craven and my mother get along well enough, i am sure she doesn't love him. he may be a fair sort of man, and i am bound to say that i have no fault to find with him, but i don't think she finds a great deal of pleasure in his society. of course, ben, you won't repeat this?" "certainly not." "and you will call often?" "yes, frank." "i will tell mother so. then i shall leave home with a light heart. just think of it, ben--it's now the sixth of the month, and on the nineteenth i sail. i wish it were to-morrow." "it will soon be here, frank." "yes, i know it. i am afraid i can't fix my mind on my studies much for the next week or so. i shall be thinking of europe all the time." meanwhile, mr. craven and colonel sharpley, in the office of the former, were discussing the same subject. "so we have succeeded, craven," said sharpley, taking out a cigar and beginning to smoke. "yes, you managed it quite cleverly." "neither mrs. craven nor the boy will suspect that you are particularly interested in getting him out of the country." "no," said craven, complacently; "i believe i scored a point in my favor with the boy by favoring the project. had i opposed it, his mother would not have consented, and he knows it." "yes, that is well. it will avert suspicion hereafter. now there is an important point to be considered. what funds are you going to place in my hands to start with?" "how much shall you need?" "well, you must supply me with money at once to pay for tickets--say two hundred and fifty dollars, and a bill of exchange for a thousand dollars, to begin with. more can be sent afterward." "i hope you won't be too extravagant, sharpley," said mr. craven, a little uneasily. "extravagant! why, zounds, man, two persons can't travel for nothing. besides, the money doesn't come out of your purse; it comes out of the boy's fortune." "if i draw too much, his mother, who is his guardian, will be startled." "then draw part from her funds. you have the control of those." "i don't know as i have a right to." "pooh, man, get over your ridiculous scruples. i know your real reason. you look upon her money as yours, and don't like to part with any of it. but just consider, if things turn out as we expect, you will shortly get possession of the boy's forty thousand dollars, and can then pay yourself. don't you see it?" "perhaps the boy may return in safety," suggested craven. "in that case our plans are all dished." "don't be afraid of that," said sharpley, with wicked significance. "i will take care of that." "it shall be as you say, then," said craven. "you shall have two hundred dollars for the purchase of tickets and a bill of exchange for a thousand." "you may as well say three hundred, craven, as there will be some extra preliminary expenses, and you had better give me the money now, as i am going up to the city this morning to procure tickets." "very well, three hundred let it be." "and there's another point to be settled, a very important one, and we may as well settle it now." "what is it?" "how much am i to receive in case our plans work well?" "how much?" repeated craven, hesitatingly. "yes, how much?" "well, say two thousand dollars." "two thousand devils!" exclaimed sharpley, indignantly. "why, craven, you must take me for a fool." mr. craven hastily disclaimed this imputation. "you expect me to do your dirty work for any such paltry sum as that! no! i don't sell myself so cheap." "two thousand dollars is a good deal of money." "not for such services as that, especially as it leaves you nineteen times as much. craven, it won't do!" "say five thousand dollars, then!" said craven, reluctantly. "that's a little more like the figure, but it isn't enough." "what will satisfy you, then?" "ten thousand." "ten thousand!" repeated craven, in dismay. "yes, ten thousand," said sharpley, firmly. "not a cent less." mr. craven expostulated, but his expostulations were all in vain. his companion felt that he had him in his power, and was not disposed to abate his demands. finally the agreement was made. "shall it be in writing, craven?" asked sharpley, jocosely. "no, no." "i didn't know but you might want to bind me. when does the train leave for new york?" "in an hour." "then i'll trouble you to look up three hundred dollars for me, and i'll take it." by the ten o'clock train colonel sharpley was a passenger. mr. craven saw him off, and then returned thoughtfully to his office. "it's a bold plan," thus he soliloquized; "but i think it will succeed. if it does, i shall no longer be dependent upon the will or caprice of my wife. i shall be my own master, and possessed of an abundant fortune. "if only sharpley and the boy could die together, it would be a great relief. while that man lives i shall not feel wholly safe. however, one at a time. let the boy be got out of the way, and i will see what can be done for the other. the cards are in my favor, and if i play a crafty game, i shall win in the end." chapter xiii. jonathan tarbox, of squashboro'. a great steamer was plowing its way through the atlantic waves. fifteen hundred miles were traversed, and nearly the same remained to be crossed. the sea had been rough in consequence of a storm, and even now there was considerable motion. a few passengers were on deck, among them our young hero, who felt better in the open air than in the closer atmosphere below; besides, he admired the grandeur of the sea, spreading out on all sides of him, farther than his eyes could reach. he had got over his first sadness at parting with his mother, and he was now looking forward with the most eager anticipation to setting foot upon european soil. he shared a state-room with sharpley, but the latter spent little time in the boy's company. he had discovered some congenial company among the other passengers, and spent most of the time smoking with them or playing cards below. frank did not miss him much, as he found plenty to engage his attention on board. as he stood looking out on the wild waste of waters, trying to see if anywhere he could discover another vessel, he was aroused by the salutation: "i say, you boy!" looking around, he saw a tall, thin man, dressed in a blue swallow-tail coat with brass buttons, a high standing dickey, and pants three or four inches too short in the legs. he was an admirable specimen of the yankee--as he is represented on the stage--an exceptional specimen, though some of our foreign friends may regard him as the rule. it was not the first time frank had seen him. two or three times he had appeared at the table; but he had been stricken with seasickness, and for the greater part of the voyage thus far had remained in his state-room. "good morning, sir," said frank, politely. "you have been seasick, haven't you?" "seasick! i guess i have," returned the other, energetically. "i thought i was goin' to kick the bucket more'n once." "it is not a very agreeable feeling," said frank. "i guess not. if i'd known what kind of a time i was a-goin' to have, i wouldn't have left squashboro', you bet!" "are you from squashboro'?" asked frank, amused. "yes, i'm from squashboro', state of maine, and i wish i was there just now, i tell you." "you won't feel so when you get on the other side," said frank, consolingly. "well, may be not; but i tell you, boy, it feels kinder risky bein' out here on the mill-pond with nothin' but a plank between you and drownin'. i guess i wouldn't make a very good sailor." "are you going to travel much?" asked frank. "wal, you see, i go mostly on business. my name's jonathan tarbox. my father's name is elnathan tarbox. he's got a nice farm in squashboro', next to old deacon perkins'. was you ever in squashboro'?" "no; i think not." "it's a thrivin' place, is squashboro'. wal, now, i guess you are wonderin' what sets me out to go to europe, ain't you?" "i suppose you want to see the country, mr. tarbox." "ef that was all, you wouldn't catch me goin' over and spendin' a heap of money, all for nothin'. that ain't business." "then i suppose you go on business?" "i guess i do. you see i've invented a new plow, that, i guess, is goin' to take the shine off of any other that's in use, and it kinder struck me that ef i should take it to the paris exhibition, i might, may be, make somethin' out of it. i've heerd that they're a good deal behind in farm tools in the old european countries, and i guess i'll open their eyes a little with my plow." "i hope you'll succeed, mr. tarbox," said frank, politely. "i guess i shall. you see, i've risked considerable money onto it--that is, in travelin' expenses and such like. you see, my uncle abner--he wasn't my real uncle, that is, by blood, but he was the husband of my aunt matilda, my mother's oldest sister--didn't have no children of his own, so he left me two thousand dollars in his will." mr. tarbox paused in order to see what effect the mention of this great inheritance would have upon his auditor. "indeed you were lucky, mr. tarbox," said frank. "i guess i felt tickled when i heard of it. i jist kicked like a two-year-old colt. wal, now, dad wanted me to buy a thirty-acre farm that was for sale about half a mile from his'n, but i wouldn't. i'd about fetched my plow out right, and i wa'n't goin' to settle down on no two-thousand-dollar farm. catch me! no; i heerd of this paris exhibition, and i vowed i'd come out here and see what could be did. so here i am. i ain't sorry i cum, though i was about sick enough to die. thought i should a-turned inside out one night when the vessel was goin' every which way." "i was sick myself that night," said frank. mr. tarbox having now communicated all his own business, naturally felt a degree of curiosity about that of his young companion. "are you goin' to the paris exhibition?" he asked. "i suppose so. it depends upon colonel sharpley." "the man you're travelin' with? yes; i saw him at the table--tall man, black hair, and slim, ain't he?" "yes, sir." "so he's a colonel, is he?" "yes." "did he fight in any of our wars?" "no, he's an englishman." "oh!" exclaimed mr. tarbox, with a slight contempt in his voice. "he wouldn't be no match for an american officer." "i don't know," said frank. "wal, i do--the yankees always could whip any other nation, not but the colonel seems a respectable man, though he's a foreigner." "it is we who will be foreigners when we get to england," said frank. this aroused the controversial spirit of mr. tarbox. "do you mean to say that you and me will turn to furriners?" he asked, indignantly. "we shall be foreigners in england." "no, we won't," said jonathan, energetically. "at any rate, i won't. i shall always be a free-born american citizen, and a free-born american citizen can't be a furriner." "not in america, mr. tarbox, but in england, i am saying." "a free-born american citizen ain't a furriner anywhere," said mr. tarbox, emphatically. frank was amused, but felt it wise to discontinue the discussion. "are you goin' to europe on business?" inquired the other. "no, only for pleasure." "sho! i guess you must have a considerable pile of money!" suggested mr. tarbox, inquiringly. "i have a little money," said frank, modestly. "left you?" "yes, by my father." "wal, so you're in luck, too. is the colonel related to you?" "no. he is a friend of my step-father." "sho! so your mother married again. how long are you going to stay on the other side?" "only three or four months, i think." "do you know how much they ask for board in paris?" asked jonathan, with considerable interest. "no, mr. tarbox, i have no idea. i suppose it's according to what kind of rooms and board you take." "wal, you see, mr.--what did you say your name was?" "hunter." "i once knowed a hunter--i think he was took up for stealing." "i don't think he was any relation of mine, mr. tarbox." "likely not. what was i a-goin' to say? oh, mr. hunter, i ain't very particular about my fodder. i don't mind havin' baked beans half the time--pork and beans--and you know them are cheap." "so i've heard." "and as to a room, i don't mind it's bein' fixed up with fiddle-de-dee work and sich. ef it's only comfortable--that'll suit me." "then i think you'll be able to get along cheap, mr. tarbox." "that's what i calc'late. likely i'll see you over there. what's that bell for?" "lunch." "let's go down. fact is, i've been so tarnal sea-sick i'm empty as a well-bucket dried in the sun. i guess i can eat to-day." they went down to the saloon, and mr. tarbox's prophecy was verified. he shoveled in the food with great energy, and did considerable toward making up for past deficiencies. frank looked on amused. he was rather inclined to like his countryman, though he acknowledged him to be very deficient in polish and refinements. chapter xiv. the london clerk. jonathan tarbox seemed to have taken a fancy to our hero, for immediately after lunch he followed him on deck. "i want to show you a drawin' of my plow, mr. hunter," he said. "i should like to see it, mr. tarbox, but i am no judge of such things." mr. tarbox drew a paper from his coat-pocket containing a sketch of his invention. he entered into a voluble explanation of it, to which frank listened good-naturedly, though without much comprehension. "do you think it'll work?" asked the inventor. "i should think it might. mr. tarbox, but then i don't know much about such things." "i don't believe they've got anything in europe that'll come up to it," said mr. tarbox, complacently. "ef i can get it introduced into england and france, it'll pay me handsome." "have you shown it to any englishman yet?" "no, i haven't. i don't know any." "there are some on board this steamer." "are there? where?" "there's one." frank pointed out a young man with weak eyes and auburn hair, a london clerk, who visited the united states on a business errand, and was now returning. he was at this moment standing on deck, with his arms folded, looking out to sea. "i guess i'll go and speak to him," said mr. tarbox. "may be he can help me introduce my plow in london." frank watched with some amusement the interview between mr. tarbox and the london clerk, which he shrewdly suspected was not likely to lead to any satisfactory results. mr. tarbox approached the englishman from behind, and unceremoniously slapped him on the back. the clerk whirled round suddenly and surveyed mr. tarbox with mingled surprise and indignation. "what did you say?" he inquired. "how are you, old hoss?" "do you mean to call me a 'oss?" "no, i call you a hoss. how do you feel?" "i don't feel any better for your hitting me on the back, sir," said the clerk, angrily. "sho! your back must be weak. been sea-sick?" "i have suffered some from sea-sickness," returned the person addressed, with an air of restraint. "so have i. i tell you i thought something was goin' to cave in." "of what earthly interest does he suppose that is to me?" thought the clerk, superciliously. "fact is," continued mr. tarbox, "i'd a good deal rather be to home in squashboro', livin' on baked beans, than be here livin' on all their chicken fixin's. i suppose you've heard of squashboro' hain't you?" "i can't say i have," said the clerk, coldly, adjusting his eye-glasses, and turning away from his uncongenial companion. "squashboro', state o' maine. it's a pooty smart place--got three stores, a blacksmith's shop, a grist mill, and two meetin'-houses." "really, my friend," said the englishman, "squashboro' may be as smart a place as you say, but it doesn't interest me." "don't it? that's because you haven't been there. we've got some smart men in squashboro'." "you don't say so?" said the other, in a sarcastic tone. "there's squire perkins, selectman, town clerk and auctioneer. you'd ought to hear his tongue go when he auctioneers. then there's parson pratt--knows a sight of latin, greek and hebrew." "are you one of the smart men of squashboro'?" asked the clerk, in the same tone. "wal, that ain't for me to say," answered mr. tarbox, modestly. "you never can tell what may happen, as the hen said when she hatched a lot of geese. but i'll tell you what, mr. englishman--" "my name is robinson," interrupted the other, stiffly. "why, howdy do, mr. robinson!" exclaimed jonathan, seizing the unwilling hand of the other and shaking it vigorously. "my name is tarbox--jonathan tarbox, named after my grandfather. his name was jonathan, too." "really, your family history is very interesting." "glad you think so. but as i was sayin', when you spoke about me bein' smart, i've got up a new plow that's goin' to take the shine off all that's goin'," and he plunged his hand into his pocket. "you don't carry a plow round in your pocket, do you?" asked mr. robinson, arching his eyebrows. "come, now, mr. robinson, that's a good joke for you. i've got a plan of it here on this piece of paper. if you'll squat down somewhere, i'll explain it to you." "i prefer standing, mr.--mr. tarbarrel." "tarbox is my name." "ah--tarbox, then. no great difference." "you see, mr. robberson--" "robinson, sir." "ah--is it?" said jonathan, innocently. "no great difference." mr. robinson looked suspicious, but the expression of his companion's face was unchanged, and betrayed no malice prepense. "i don't know anything about plows," said the clerk, coldly. "you'd better show it to somebody else--i never saw a plow in my life." "never saw a plow!" ejaculated jonathan, in the utmost surprise. "why, where have you been livin' all your life?" "in london." "and don't they have plows in the stores?" "i suppose they may, but they're not in my line." "why, i knowed a plow as soon as i could walk," said mr. tarbox. "i leave such things to laborers," said mr. robinson, superciliously. "i feel no interest in them." "ain't you a laborer yourself?" asked jonathan. "i--a laborer!" exclaimed mr. robinson, with natural indignation. "do you mean to insult me?" "i never insult nobody. but don't you work for a livin'? that's what i mean." "i am engaged in trade," answered the clerk, haughtily. "then you do work for a livin', and so, of course, you're a laborer." "sir, men in my business are not laborers--they are merchants." "what's the difference?" "i perceive, sir, that you are not accustomed to society. i excuse you on account of your ignorance." "ignorance! what do you mean by that?" demanded mr. tarbox, in his turn indignant. jonathan looked threatening, and as he was physically the englishman's superior, the latter answered hastily: "i only meant to say that you were not versed in the requirements and conventionalities of society." "is that english?" asked jonathan, with a puzzled look. "i believe so." "well, i never heard sich jawbreakers before, but, if it's an apology, it's all right. won't you look at the plow, then?" "it would be of no use, mr. tarbox--i don't know about such things, i assure you. you had better show it to somebody else. my life has been passed in london, and i really am profoundly ignorant of agricultural implements." as he spoke, he turned away and walked down stairs. mr. tarbox followed him with his eyes, ejaculating: "that's a queer critter. he's over thirty years old, i guess, and he's never sot eyes on a plow! he'd ought to be ashamed of his ignorance." "well, mr. tarbox," said frank, when his new friend rejoined him, "did you explain your new invention to the englishman?" "i was goin' to, but he said he never seed one in the whole course of his life, and didn't take no interest in them. what do you think of that?" "he can't have been in the country much, i should think." "he keeps store in london, he says; but he's a poor, ignorant creetur, and he don't want to learn. i wanted to explain all about my invention, but he wouldn't look at it." "there are other englishmen who will take more interest in it, mr. tarbox--men who live in the country and cultivate the land." "i hope so. i hope they ain't all as ignorant as that creetur. do you think that colonel that you're travelin' with would like to look at it?" "i don't believe he would, mr. tarbox. i don't know much about him, but he seems to me like a man that has always lived in the city." "just as you say. i'd just as lief explain it to him." "are you going to put it in the exhibition?" "yes; i've got it packed in my trunk in pieces. i'm going to put it together on the other side, and take it along with me." this was not the last conversation frank had with mr. tarbox. he always listened with sympathy to the recital of the other's plans and purposes, and jonathan showed a marked predilection for the society of our young hero. without knowing it, frank was making a friend who would be of value in the future. chapter xv. mr. tarbox is obstinate. early on wednesday morning, eleven days from the date of sailing, the good steamer which bore our hero as passenger, steamed into the harbor of liverpool. as may readily be supposed, frank was on deck, gazing with eager expectation at the great city before him, with its solid docks, and the indications of its wide-spreading commerce. "well, frank, we are almost there," said colonel sharpley. "yes, sir. isn't it glorious!" exclaimed our hero, with enthusiasm. "i don't see anything glorious," said a voice at his side. the speaker was mr. tarbox, of squashboro', state o' maine. "don't you like it, mr. tarbox?" asked frank. "liverpool ain't a circumstance to new york," said the yankee, with patriotic pride. "new york's bigger and finer than this town ever will see." "i don't care whether it's bigger or not," said frank. "it's jolly being here. what a splendid time i mean to have." "enjoy yourself while you may," said sharpley to himself. "your time is short." "what tavern are you goin' to put up at?" asked mr. tarbox. "i don't know," said frank. "perhaps colonel sharpley can tell you." sharpley turned around, and looked at the yankee superciliously. "i really have not decided," he said. "i thought i'd like to put up at the same," said mr. tarbox, "seein' as i know you. may be we might ride in the same carriage to the tavern." "i prefer not to add to my party, sir," said colonel sharpley, frigidly. "oh, you needn't flare up," said jonathan tarbox, coolly. "i'm willin' to pay my share of the bill." "i must decline making any arrangement with you, sir," said sharpley as he moved away. "kinder offish, ain't he?" said mr. tarbox, addressing frank. "he seems a little so," said frank; "but i hope, mr. tarbox, you won't think i am unwilling to be in your company." "no, i don't," said the yankee, cordially. "you ain't a bit stuck up. i'd like to let that chap know that i'm as good as he is, if he does call himself colonel." "no doubt of it." "and if i can only make my plow go, i'll be rich some day." "i hope you will, mr. tarbox." "so do i. do you know what i'll do then?" "what?" "you see, there's a gal in our town; her name is sally sprague, and she's about the nicest gal i ever sot eyes on. ef things goes well with me, that gal will have a chance to be mrs. tarbox," said jonathan, energetically. "i hope she will," said frank, in amused sympathy. "i like you--i do!" said mr. tarbox. "ef ever i git a chance to do you a good turn, i'll do it." "thank you, mr. tarbox. i am sorry colonel sharpley was rude to you." "i can stand it," said jonathan; "and i mean to go to the same tavern, too." the custom-house officials came on board and examined the luggage. this over, the passengers were permitted to land. on shore they encountered a crowd of hackmen. "to the st. george hotel," said colonel sharpley, selecting one of the number. "here, frank, get in." just behind was mr. tarbox, standing guard over a dilapidated trunk and a green chest, the latter of which contained his precious plow. "have a cab, sir?" asked a short, stout hackman. "what are you goin' to charge?" asked jonathan. "where do you want me to drive, sir?" "st. george tavern. oh, stop a minute. do they pile up the prices steep there?" "it's reasonable, sir." "that's all i want. i ain't goin' to pay no fancy prices. how much are you goin' to charge for carryin' me there?" "half a crown, sir." "what in thunder's half a crown?" "ain't he precious green?" thought cabby. but he answered, respectfully: "it's two-and-six, sir." "two dollars and six cents?" "no, sir; two shillin's and sixpence." "it's too much." "reg'lar price." "i don't believe it. here, you other chap," beckoning to another cabman, "what'll you charge to take me to the st. george tavern?" this brought the first cabby to terms. "jump in, sir. i'll take you round for two shillin's," he said. "all right," said jonathan. "i'll help you with that chist. now put her over the road. i'm hungry, and want some vittles." five minutes after frank arrived at the st. george with his guardian, mr. tarbox drove up, bag and baggage. "you see i'm here most as soon as you," said tarbox, nodding. "we ain't separated yet. it's a pooty nice tavern, mr. sharpley," accosting frank's guardian with easy forgetfulness of the latter's repellant manner. "what is your object in following us, sir?" asked sharpley, frigidly. "you haven't engaged this tavern all to yourself, have you?" demanded jonathan. "ain't it free to other travelers?" sharpley saw the other had him at advantage. "didn't you come here because we were here?" he asked. "may be i did, and then again may be i didn't," the other replied. "there ain't any law ag'in it, is there?" "i should hardly suppose you would wish to thrust yourself into the society of those who don't want you." "i won't run up no bills on your account," said mr. tarbox; "but i'm goin' just where i please, even if you are there already. frank here ain't no way troubled about it." "frank, as you call him, is under my guardianship," said mr. sharpley, with a sneer. "i don't wish him to associate with improper persons." "do you call me an improper person?" demanded mr. tarbox, offended. "you can draw your own inferences, mr.--i really don't know who." "tarbox, of squashboro', state o' maine." "then, mr. tarbox, of squashboro', state o' maine, i have already wasted as much time as i choose to do on you, and must close the conversation." "all right, sir. you'd better shut up frank in a glass case, if you don't want him to associate with any improper persons." but colonel sharpley had turned on his heel and moved away. "i can't have that fellow following us everywhere," he said to himself. "the task i have before me is one which demands secrecy, in order to avert all suspicion in case anything happens. this inquisitive, prying yankee may spoil all. he won't take a hint, and i suspect it would be dangerous to try a kick. the trouble with these yankees is that they are afraid of nothing, and are bent on carrying out their own purposes, however disagreeable to others. i must ask frank about this fellow and his plans." "frank," he commenced, when they were alone, "i must congratulate you on this yankee friend of yours. he has fastened on us like a leech." "he is a good-natured fellow," said frank. "he is an impudent scoundrel!" said sharpley, impatiently. "not so bad as that. he is not used to the ways of the world, and he seems to have taken a fancy to me." "he ought to see that his company's not wanted." "he is not disagreeable to me. i am rather amused by his odd ways and talk." "i am not. he is confoundedly disagreeable to me. we must shake him off. we can't have him following us all over europe." "he won't do that. he is going to the paris exposition." "what's he going to do there--exhibit himself?" "not exactly," said frank, good humoredly. "he's invented a plow that will take the shine off all others, so he says. so he will be detained there for some time." "i am glad to hear that; but i mean to get rid of him beforehand. when we leave here we mustn't tell where we are going." "i can't," answered frank; "for i don't know, unless it is to london." "then i won't tell you, or you might let it out accidentally." meanwhile, jonathan, who had ordered a couple of chops, was sitting in the coffee-room, making a vigorous onslaught upon them. "i wonder what makes that sharpley so skittish about me and frank bein' together?" he thought. "he needn't think i want to stick near him. i wouldn't give half a cent for his company. but that boy's a good sort of a chap and a gentleman. i'll keep him in sight if i can." chapter xvi. an adventure in london. the next day sharpley took advantage of mr. tarbox's temporary absence from the hotel to hurry frank off to the london train. "i hope we have seen the last of that intrusive yankee," said sharpley to our hero, when they were fairly installed in the railway carriage. "i should like to have bidden him good-by," said frank. "you can associate with him as much as you like after we have parted company," said sharpley. "but, for my part, i don't want to see anything of him." "i wonder what makes him so prejudiced," thought frank. "it can't be because he is a yankee, for i am a yankee, myself, and yet he takes the trouble of looking after me." sharpley was not very social. he bought a paper, and spent most of the time in reading. but frank did not find the time hang heavily upon his hands. he was in england, that was his glad thought. on either side, as the train sped along, was spread out a beautiful english landscape, and his eyes were never tired of watching it. to sharpley there was no novelty in the scene. he had enough to think of in his past life--enough to occupy his mind in planning how to carry out his present wicked designs upon the life of the innocent boy at his side. at last they reached london, and drove in a hansom to a quiet hotel, located in one of the streets leading from the strand, a business thoroughfare well known to all who have ever visited the great metropolis. "how long are we going to stay in london, colonel sharpley?" asked frank. "two or three days. i can't tell exactly how long." "that will be rather a short time to see so large a city," returned frank, considerably disappointed. "i am in a hurry to go to the continent," was the reply. "we can stop here longer on our return." with this frank was forced to be content, though he would have preferred to remain in london long enough now to see the principal objects of interest. there was, he could not help remarking, a considerable difference in colonel sharpley's manner from that which he exhibited when he first called upon his step-father. then he was very social and agreeable; now he was taciturn, and at times sullen and irritable. whatever the reason might be, the change was very marked. "perhaps he has some business that annoys him," thought frank, charitably. "i will give him as little trouble as possible. but for his kind offer, i should not have my present chance of seeing foreign countries." the next morning sharpley said: "frank, you must wander around by yourself, as i have business to attend to." "all right, sir," said frank. in fact, he was rather pleased with the idea of finding his own way in the great city of which he had heard so much, and which he had just entered as a stranger. he felt a little like the celebrated explorer, dr. livingstone, as he set out to explore a region as new and blind to him as the mysterious tracts of central africa to the older traveler. but he had this advantage over the eminent doctor, that, whereas the latter had no maps or charts to guide him, he was able for the small sum of an english shilling, or about twenty-five cents, to obtain a map of london. when his eye glanced for the first time over the labyrinth, he felt bewildered and lost, but after a short time he made up his mind what course to take, and found his way to charing cross, and from thence to piccadilly, rupert street, and the parks. time flew by, and in the delight of the ever-recurring novelty, he found that it was two o'clock. he stepped into a pastry-cook's to get some lunch. then he hailed a passing stage, and rode a long distance, but whether he was near or far from his hotel he could not tell. he decided to leave the stage, and inquire in some shop near by where he was, and then, by examining his map, ascertain the most direct course to his hotel. as he reached the sidewalk, a little girl of ten years, apparently, with a thin, sad face, fixed her eyes upon him. she said nothing, but there was a mute appeal in her look which frank, who was by nature compassionate, could not resist. "what is the matter, little girl?" he asked. "mother is sick, and we have nothing to eat," answered the little girl, sorrowfully. "have you no father?" "he has gone away." "where?" "i don't know." "has your mother been sick long?" "she made herself sick working so hard to buy us bread." "then you are not the only child," inquired frank. "i have a little sister, four years old." "how old are you?" "i am ten." "what is your name?" "alice craven." the announcement of her name made frank start. "what!" he exclaimed, for, except his step-father, he had never till now met anyone by that name. "alice craven," answered the little girl, supposing he had not understood aright. "where does your mother live?" asked frank. "in hurst court." "is it far from here?" "only about five minutes' walk." "i will go with you," said frank, with sudden resolution, "and if i find your mother is as badly off as you say, i will give you something." "come, then, sir; i will show you the way." frank followed the little girl till he found himself in a miserable court, shut in by wretched tenements. alice entered one of the dirtiest of these, and frank followed her up a rickety staircase to the fourth floor. here, his guide opened a door and led the way into a dark room, almost bare of furniture, where, upon a bed in the corner, lay a wan, attenuated woman. beside her sat the little girl of four to whom alice had referred. "mother," said alice, "here is a kind young gentleman, who has come to help us." "heaven bless him!" said the woman, feebly. "we are in dire want of help." "how long have you been sick?" asked frank, compassionately. "it is long since i have been well," answered the invalid, "but i have been able to work till two weeks since. for two weeks i have earned nothing, and, but for the neighbors, i and my two poor children would have starved." "is your husband dead?" "i do not know. he left me three years ago, and i have never seen him since." "did he desert you?" asked frank, indignantly. "did he leave you to shift for yourself?" "he promised to come back, but he has never come," said the woman, sighing. "your little girl tells me your name is craven." "yes, sir. that is my husband's name." "i know a gentleman by that name." "where?" asked the invalid, eagerly. "in america. but it cannot be your husband," he added, quickly, not caring to excite hope in the poor woman's breast, only to be succeeded by disappointment, "for he has a wife there. i didn't know but it might be your husband's brother." "my husband had no brother," said the woman, sinking back, her momentary hope extinguished. "oh, if he only knew how hard it has been for me to struggle for food for these poor children, he would surely come back." frank's heart was filled with pity. he drew from his pocket two gold sovereigns, and placed them in the hands of alice. "it won't last you long," he said, "but it will give you some relief." "bless you, bless you!" said the invalid, gratefully. "it will keep us till i am well again and can work for my children. what is your name, generous, noble boy?" "frank hunter," said our hero, modestly; "but don't think too much of what i have done. i shall fare no worse for parting with this money." "i will remember you in my prayers," said mrs. craven. "so young and so generous!" "give me your address, mrs. craven, and when i am in london again i will come and see you." "no. hurst court," said the invalid. "i will put it down." frank now left the court, and, as it was late, hailed a cab, and was soon set down in front of his hotel. "where have you been so long," asked sharpley. "it is past three o'clock." "i went about seeing the sights," said frank. "i saw the parks, and buckingham palace, and regent street; but i have just left a poor woman who was very destitute, whom i visited in her miserable room. oddly enough, her name was craven." "craven," repeated sharpley, his attention at once roused. "yes; she had two children, the oldest, alice, a girl of ten." "great heaven!" ejaculated sharpley. frank looked at him in surprise. "i daresay they were humbugs," said sharpley. "did you give them any money?" "two sovereigns; but i am sure they were not humbugs." "'a fool and his money are soon parted,'" sneered sharpley. "where did you find them?" "no. hurst court." "i advise you not to be so ready to part with your money the next time. i'll wager they are imposters." "what cursed chance brought him in contact with these people?" said sharpley to himself after frank had left him to arrange his toilet. "he little dreams that the woman he has relieved is the true wife of the man who has married his mother." chapter xvii. colonel sharpley's ruse. later in the day mr. sharpley found his way to hurst court, and paused before number . though a selfish man, he was not without feeling, and the miserable quarters in which he found his sister excited his pity. he made inquiry of some of the lower tenants, and soon stood at his sister's door. without waiting to knock, he opened the door and stepped in. the sick woman looked up mechanically, supposing it to be a neighbor who had been kind to her. but when she recognized her brother, she uttered a feeble cry of joy. "oh, robert, have you come back?" she cried. "how long it is since i have seen you!" he was shocked at her wan and wasted appearance. "helen," he said, taking a seat beside the bed, "you look very sick." "no, robert, not very sick. it is only the effect of overwork and scanty food." "that is enough. how long have you been sick?" "a fortnight. things looked very dark for me. i feared my poor children would starve, but this morning a noble boy, whom providence must have sent to me in my extremity, gave me two sovereigns, and they will last me till i am well. but where have you been, robert?" "i have been to america." "and did you--did you see anything of my husband?" she asked, fixing her eyes anxiously upon him. "do you think of him still? he does not deserve it. he has treated you like a scoundrel." "i know he has not treated me right, robert, but he is the father of my children. then you did not find him?" "i obtained a clew," said sharpley, evasively. "it may or may not lead to anything. i am about to leave london now on a journey connected with that clew. if it results in anything, i will let you know." "where are you going?" "on the continent. i cannot say precisely where, but you will hear from me. but what a hole you are living in," and he looked around him in disgust at the bare walls and naked condition of the miserable room. "i don't mind it, robert. i feel glad to have the shelter of any roof." "have you been so poor?" "so poor that i could not well be poorer." "come, this must be remedied. i am not rich, but i can do something for you. to-morrow morning i will move you to a better room. do you think you can bear to be moved?" "yes, brother. you are very kind," murmured the sick woman, not aware that her brother's motives were complex, and that his chief reason for the removal was not dictated by sympathy or pity. "then i shall be here to-morrow at ten, with a cab. you must all of you be ready. by the way, do you know any of the people in the house?" "yes; they are poor, but some of them have been kind to me." "don't let them know where you are moving to?" said sharpley. "not let them know!" repeated mrs. craven, in surprise. "why not?" "i have a reason, but i don't want to tell you." "i don't understand it, robert. what harm can it do?" sharpley bit his lip. he was annoyed by her persistency, but he was not prepared to give the real reason. fortunately, a plausible explanation occurred to him. "listen, sister," he said. "you have an enemy." "an enemy!" "yes, who is trying to find you out. he has a clew, and if you remain here he may succeed." "but how can i have an enemy, and what could he do to me?" "suppose he should kidnap one of your children?" the suggestion was made on the spur of the moment, but the effect was immediate. the poor woman turned pale--paler even than before--and trembled. "say no more, robert," she answered. "i will promise." "you promise to let no one of your neighbors know where you are going?" "yes. but, robert, is it my husband--is it mr. craven who is in search of me?" "ask no more," said sharpley. "you may know some time, but i have told you all i wish you at present to know. but i must be going. to-morrow, at ten, remember." "i will be ready." "cleverly managed!" said sharpley to himself. "i must take care that that boy does not meet my sister again. the name has already struck him. if he sees her again he may come to suspect the truth, and suspicion once aroused, he may suspect me." he didn't at once return to the hotel, but going to a part of london two miles distant, engaged a somewhat better lodging for his sister. the next morning he went to hurst court, and, finding her ready, moved her at once to her new home. "how kind you are, robert!" she said. "i would do more if i had the means. i may be richer soon. i have a good prospect before me, but it requires me to go away for a time." "how long will you be gone?" "i cannot tell. it may be a month; it may be two or three. i have paid the rent of this lodging for three months in advance. there is the receipt." she looked at it mechanically, then handed it back. "this is not the receipt," she said. "the name is wrong." "how is it wrong?" "it is made out to mrs. chipman." "it is the right paper." "but my name is not mrs. chipman." "yes, it is." "what do you mean, robert?" asked his sister, lifting her eyes in surprise. "just what i say. i want you to be mrs. chipman." "but why should i give up my name?" "do you remember what i told you yesterday--about the man who was on your track?" "you didn't say it was a man." "well, i say so now." "well, robert?" "he will find it harder to trace you if you change your name." "if you think it right, robert, i will be guided by your advice." "i do think it best for reasons which i cannot fully explain. you must tell your children, also." "i will do so." "have you any of the money that boy gave you?" "i have nearly all." "here are three sovereigns more. with your rent paid for three months, if you use it economically, you will not again be reduced to destitution." "i shall feel rich with so much money," said mrs. craven, smiling faintly. "take care that you are not robbed." "i will be careful. but it seems strange to me that i should have occasion for any fears." "before the three months are over, i shall probably be back in london. i will come to you at once, and let you know if i have heard anything." "thank you, robert. good-by, then, for the present." "good-by. i hope you will soon be well." "i shall. it was anxiety for my children that was wearing upon me. now, thanks to your kindness, i am easy in mind. but, brother, there is one question i forgot to ask. how came you to know that i lived at hurst court?" sharpley was posed for a moment, and knew not what to say. he could not, of course, tell the truth; but he was a man fertile in suggestions, and he was silent for a moment only. "i employed a detective," he answered. "these london detectives are wonderfully sharp. he soon found you out." "and you took all this trouble about me," said mrs. craven, gratefully, not for a moment doubting the accuracy of the story. "is it strange that i should take the trouble to find my only sister? but i cannot delay longer. good-by, helen." he stooped and lightly touched her cheek with his lips, and hurried from the room. "there," he said to himself, after reaching the street; "i have cut off all possibility of a second meeting between frank and my sister during the brief remainder of our stay in london. when i come back it will be alone!" four days afterward they left london for paris. the day before, frank made his way again to hurst court, meaning to leave a little more money with mrs. craven, questioning her at the same time about her husband, whom he could not help connecting in some way with his step-father. but his visit was made in vain. mrs. craven had disappeared, and not one of the tenants could say where she had gone: but all agreed that she had been taken away in a cab by a tall gentleman. it seemed mysterious, but no suspicion as to the identity of the gentleman entered frank's mind. "i hope she has found a friend able to help her," he said to himself, and then dismissed the subject from his mind. chapter xviii. mr. tarbox at the paris exposition. "so this is paris," said frank to himself, as he rode into the court-yard of the hotel de rivoli, situated on the fine street of the same name. he had already, from the carriage window, obtained a good view of the palace of the tuileries, occupied at that time by louis napoleon, in the plentitude of his power, and of the large garden which it faces. the sun was shining brightly, and as he glanced at the signs on either side of the streets through which he passed, he realized, even more clearly than on english soil, that he was in a foreign country. "what a beautiful city!" he exclaimed, turning to his companion. "humph! so, so," said sharpley, in a tone quite devoid of enthusiasm. "i suppose you have been here before, colonel sharpley?" "often." "but it is new to me; so i suppose it strikes me more." "it is always enjoyed best the first time. can you speak french?" "a little. i can read the language pretty well. shall we stay here long?" "i can't tell yet." the exhibition was open, and the city was full to overflowing. they were compelled to take rooms high up, the most desirable being already occupied. but for this frank cared little. he was in paris; he was going to see its wonders, and this thought filled him with happiness. the next day they went to the exhibition together, but colonel sharpley soon tired of it. after an hour, he turned to frank, saying: "do you want to stay longer?" "yes; i have scarcely seen anything yet." "i suppose you can find your way back to the hotel?" "oh, yes." "then i will go out. i don't care much for this sort of thing." so frank wandered on alone--alone, but surrounded by a crowd of all nationalities, visitors like himself to the great exhibition. on all sides he was surrounded by triumphs of art and skill gathered from all parts of the world. "i wish i had some friend with me," he thought. "it's a splendid sight, but i should enjoy it better if i had somebody i liked to talk to. wouldn't it be jolly if ben cameron were here! how he would enjoy it! poor fellow! he's got his own way to make in the world--though i don't know as that is much of a misfortune, after all. i don't think i would mind it, though, of course, it's pleasant to have money." as these thoughts passed through our hero's mind, he suddenly heard his name called in a loud voice, whose nasal twang could not be mistaken. turning in the direction from which it came, his face lighted up with pleasure as he recognized his fellow-passenger, jonathan tarbox. the yankee, looking as countrified as ever in the midst of the brilliant scene, was standing guard over his plow, which had been put together, and was occupying a place assigned it by the committee of arrangements. "why, mr. tarbox, i'm glad to see you!" said frank, heartily, hurrying through the crowd and offering his hand, which was seized in a tight grip. "how long have you been here?" "three days," said jonathan, "and i'm eenamost tired to death, standin' here, with nobody to talk to." "i should think you would be lonely. i have only just come. where are you staying?" "i put up over to the latin quarter," said mr. tarbox; "though why they call it latin, when they don't talk latin there, i don't know. it's cheap livin' there, and i don't want to spend too much. there was a feller on the cars took me in when i jest come. as i heard him talk english, i asked him if he could recommend a good, cheap tavern for me to stop at. he told me the best he knew for a cheap one was the hotel de villy. so i hired a boy to lead me there. it was a big walk, and when i got there i found the scamp had sent me to the town hall of paris. i'd like to give him a lickin'! but i met another chap that was more polite, and he directed me to where i am. he lives there himself. he is a poor artist, and i've took the room jest opposite to his. where are you stoppin'?" "at the hotel rivoli." "that's a hotel where the big-bugs stop, ain't it--near lewis napoleon's house." "yes, i believe so," said frank, smiling; "but i don't claim to be a big-bug." "that colonel you're traveling with sets up for one. is he here?" "he is in the city. he came to the exhibition with me, but he didn't stop long. how do you like paris, mr. tarbox?" "i really don't know, frank. the streets and buildin's are pooty handsome, but they do talk the most outlandish stuff i ever heerd. they rattle off jest like parrots, and i can't understand a word." [illustration: jonathan tarbox greets an old friend.] "i suppose you have not studied the french language," said frank, smiling. "no, and i don't want to. i'd be ashamed o' myself to talk like them. why in thunder don't they talk english?" asked jonathan, with an expression of disgust. "i suppose they wonder that americans don't speak french." "why, they do say that young ones call their mothers a mare," continued mr. tarbox. "that's what i call sassy. ef i'd called my mother a mare when i was a youngster, she'd have keeled me over quicker'n a wink. then a gal is called a filly. that's most as bad. and what do you think i saw on the programme at the restorant where i go to get dinner?" "what was it?" asked frank, amused. "it was poison, only it wasn't spelled right. the ignorant critters spelled it with a double s. i say they'd ought to be indicted for keepin' p'ison among their vittles." "you have made a little mistake, mr. tarbox. the word you refer to--_poisson_--is the french word for fish." "by gracious!" ejaculated jonathan; "you don't say so! then it's a mighty queer language, that's all i've got to say. but speakin' of eatin', i ain't had a decent meal of vittles since i came here." "i am surprised to hear you say that, mr. tarbox. the french have a high reputation for their cookery." "i can't help that. i haven't lived so mean since i was born." "perhaps it is because you don't know the names of the dishes you want." "wall, there may be somethin' in that. why, the first day i p'inted to the first thing in the programme. it was among the pottages. they brought me some thin, watery stuff that would turn a pig sick. somebody told me it was meant for soup. when my mother made soup, she put potatoes and meat in it, and carrots and turnips. her soup was satisfying and would stay a feller's stummick. it wa'n't like this thin stuff. it would take a hogshead of it to keep a baby alive till night." "what else did you get, mr. tarbox," asked frank. "i looked all through the programme for baked beans, and, would you believe it, they didn't have it at all." "i believe it is not a french dish." "then the french don't know what's good, i can tell 'em that. folks say they eat frogs, and it stands to reason if they like frogs, and don't like baked beans, they must be an ignorant set. i didn't understand any of the darned names, but i come across pommy de terry, and i thought that might be somethin' solid, so i told the gossoon to bring it. what do you think he brought?" "potatoes." "yes; i was so wild i come near flinging 'em in his face, but i concluded to keep 'em, and happened to see some mutton put down on the bill, though they didn't spell it right, so i pointed it out to the gossoon, and he brought it. it was pretty fair, but i tell you my mother can beat all the french cooks that's goin'. i jest wish she was here." "we must go together some time, mr. tarbox. i know some french, and i can tell you the names of some things you like, though i am afraid you will have to do without baked beans." "i wish you would go with me, frank. may be i can get along better with you." "how about your invention, mr. tarbox? is it attracting attention?" "nobody looks at it," said jonathan, a little depressed. "the ladies turn up their noses, as if it wa'n't worth lookin' at. one old frenchman come up and began to ask me about it, but i couldn't make head or tail of what he said. then he offered me a pinch of snuff. i saw he meant to be polite, so i took a good dose, and 'most sneezed my head off. but about the plow; i've been thinkin' whether lewis napoleon would let me plow a few furrers in his garden, jest to let the french see how it works. do you think he would?" "i hardly think he would." "you see, folks can't get much idea about it, jest lookin' at it here." "you don't have to stay by it all the time, do you?" "no." "then suppose you take a little walk with me round the buildings." being socially disposed, mr. tarbox accepted the proposal, and the two sauntered about together, frank being continually amused by the unconsciously droll remarks of his countryman. chapter xix. frank asserts his rights. "who was that you were walking with yesterday, frank?" asked sharpley. "mr. tarbox." "what, that confounded yankee?" ejaculated sharpley, roughly. "what harm is there in him?" asked frank, quietly. "he is an ignorant barbarian. mr. craven wouldn't like to have you associate with such a man." "i care very little what mr. craven would like," said frank. "he is your step-father." "if he is, i can't help it. i am only responsible to my mother for my conduct, and she would not object to my keeping company with a countryman." "i shouldn't want to own it," sneered sharpley. "why not?" "this tarbox, if that is his name, is as green as his native hills, and an ignorant boor." "i don't agree with you, colonel sharpley," said frank, undaunted. "he is not well educated, but he has brains enough to have invented a plow of an improved pattern, which he is exhibiting here. he is young yet, and if he succeeds he will get rid of his awkwardness, and may in time occupy a prominent position in the community." "i don't approve of elevating the rabble," said sharpley; "and as you are my ward, i desire you not to associate with this tarbox." "if you had any good reason to offer, colonel sharpley, or if mr. tarbox were an improper person, i would obey; but, under the present circumstances, i must decline." "what! you dare to defy me!" exclaimed sharpley, who was in a worse temper than usual, having lost money at cards the evening before. "i don't wish to defy you, sir, but i must beg you to be reasonable." "do you dare insinuate that i am unreasonable?" said sharpley, advancing as if to strike him. frank looked calmly in his face and didn't shrink. there was something in his eye which prevented the blow from falling. sharpley bethought himself of another way of "coming up with" his rebellious charge. "if you are going to act in this way," he said, "i shall send you home." "i don't propose to go home, colonel sharpley," said frank, firmly. "now that i am here, i shall stay through the summer." "do you think you can compel me to keep charge of you?" "no, sir; but since it is a trouble to you, i will place myself under the charge of mr. tarbox, though i feel quite competent to travel alone. if you will place in his hands what funds you have of mine, this will relieve you of all trouble." "the deuce it will!" thought sharpley, who knew that such a course would leave him absolutely helpless and penniless. he began to see that he had overshot the mark. he would risk the utter failure of all his plans if a separation should take place between them. so, though it went against his grain, he resolved to make up with frank. forcing a smile, therefore, he said: "are you really anxious to leave me, frank?" our hero was bewildered by the unexpected change of manner. "i thought you were tired of me, sir," he said. "i am afraid i give you trouble and interfere with your plans." "not at all. i am sorry if i have given you such an impression. the fact is, i am vexed and irritated at some news i have heard, and that made me disposed to vent my irritation on you." "i am sorry, sir, if you have had bad news. is it anything serious?" "not very serious," said sharpley; "but," he added, with ready invention, "it is vexatious to hear that i have lost a thousand pounds." "yes; that is a serious loss," said frank, with sympathy. "it was invested, as i thought, safely; but the concern proves to be rotten, and my loss is total." "i hope it won't seriously inconvenience you, colonel sharpley?" "oh, no; it is fortunately but a small part of my fortune," said sharpley, with barefaced falsehood. "still, it is annoying. but let it pass. to-morrow i shall feel all right. meanwhile, if you really care to associate with this tarbox, do so by all means. i confess he is not to my taste." "he is not a countryman of yours, sir; he reminds me of home." "just so. by the way, i have letters for you from home." "oh, give them to me!" said frank, eagerly. "i am longing to hear." he eagerly opened the letters. one, a long one, crossed and recrossed, was from his mother. i will only quote one paragraph: "i need hardly tell you, my dear son, how much i miss you. the house seems very dull and lonely without you. but i am glad you are enjoying yourself amid new scenes, and look forward with great interest to hear your accounts of what you have seen. i send a great deal of love, and hope to hear from you often. "your affectionate mother, "mary craven. "p.s.--mr. craven has written a note to you, which will go by the same mail as this." the other letter, written in a masculine hand, frank opened with some curiosity. he had not expected to hear from mr. craven, and wondered what he would have to say. his letter being short, will be given entire: "my dear frank: as your mother is writing you, i cannot resist the temptation of sending a line also. we both miss you very much, but are consoled for your absence by the knowledge that you are enjoying and improving yourself in the old world. had circumstances been favorable, how pleasant it would have been if your mother and myself could have accompanied you. let us hope that sometime such a plan may be carried out. meanwhile, i feel truly happy to think that you are under the care of my friend, colonel sharpley, whom i know to be a gentleman every way qualified for such a responsible trust. we are hoping to receive letters from you describing your travels. i will not write more now, but subscribe myself "your affectionate step-father, "samuel craven." there was nothing to complain of in this letter. it was kind and cordial, and exhibited a strong and affectionate interest in our hero. yet frank read it without any special feeling of gratitude; nor was he drawn by it any nearer to the writer. he blamed himself for his coldness. "why can't i like him?" he said to himself. "he seems very kind, and wants me to enjoy myself. i suppose he was partly the means of my coming out on this tour. yet that doesn't make me like him." frank could not tell why he felt so, but it was an instinctive perception of mr. craven's insincerity, and the falseness of his character and professions that influenced him. he folded the letters, first reading his mother's a second time, and went out, colonel sharpley having already departed. he bent his steps to the exhibition building, and made his way to mr. tarbox. "good morning, mr. tarbox," he said. "how do you feel to-day?" "pooty smart. you look as if you've heerd good news." "i have had two letters from home." "so have i." "any news?" "yes," said jonathan; "the brindle cow's got a calf." frank smiled. "that's my cow," said mr. tarbox, seriously; "she's a stunner for givin' milk; she gives a pailful in the mornin', and two pailfuls at night. i'm goin' to make money out of that cow." "and out of that plow, too, i hope." "i don't know," said mr. tarbox, shaking his head. "these ignorant furriners don't seem to care nothin' about plows. they care more about silks and laces, and sich like." "was that all the news you got--about the cow, i mean?" "no," said jonathan, chuckling a little, and lowering his voice; "i got a letter from her." "from her?" "yes, from my gal." "oh, i understand," said frank, laughing. "how glad you must be." "yes, sir-ee. i feel like a fly in a molasses keg--all over sweetness." "then she hasn't forgotten you?" "i guess not. how do you think she ended her letter?" "i can't tell." "wait a minute, and i'll read you the endin' off. here it is: 'if you love me as i love you, no knife can cut our love in two.' "arn't that scrumptious?" "i should think it was. i hope you'll introduce me some day, when she's mrs. tarbox." "yes, i will. you must come up to the farm, and stay a week in the summer." "by that time you'll have made your fortune out of the plow." "i hope so. where are you goin'?" "i am going to visit the french department of the exhibition." "wal, i'll go along with you. i want to see if they've got any plow here to compare with mine. i don't believe they know enough to make anything useful." mr. tarbox certainly did the french injustice, but he was under the sway of prejudice, and was quite disposed to exalt the useful at the expense of the beautiful. chapter xx. frank leaves paris. there was a letter from mr. craven to sharpley, which came by the same mail as those mentioned in the preceding chapter. it contained the following paragraph: "i suppose you will travel to switzerland with frank. i suppose so, because in the summer it is very attractive to the tourist. as accidents are very apt to happen to careless travelers, let me request you to keep a good lookout for him, and not let him approach too near the edge of precipices, or clefts in the mountains. he might easily fall over, and i shudder, not only to think of his fate in that case, but of the grief which would overwhelm his mother and myself. i beg you will keep us apprised of his health, and should any accident happen, write at once." sharpley read over this passage with attention. then he folded the letter, and muttered to himself: "what a consummate hypocrite that villain craven is! any one, to read this letter, would suppose that he was actuated by the warmest attachment for his step-son; and all the while he is planning his death, and coolly suggesting to me an easy way of bringing it about. i am bad enough, or i would not lend myself to carry out his plans, but i'm not such a miserable hypocrite as he is. however, i've seen too much of the world to be shocked at anybody's depravity, having a fair share of wickedness myself. as to the suggestion, i must confess that it's a good one, and relieves me from a good deal of anxious thought. i've been considering how best i could get rid of the young incumbrance. it occurred to me that i could lock him up, and set some charcoal to burning in his room; but, heating the room--it's too hot already. then, again, i thought of poison. but there's a chance of a post-mortem examination. that won't do. but craven's plan is best. as far as i can see it will be effectual, and free from danger also. as soon as i can decently get away from paris, i'll take the boy to switzerland. i must stay here a week at least, especially as the exhibition is open, or it might draw suspicion upon me. when i'm rid of the boy i shall breathe freer. then for america, and a final reckoning with craven. with ten thousand dollars--and more, if i can extort it from him--i will set up for respectability, and develop into a substantial citizen. good-by, then, to the gambling table. it has been my bane, but, with a fair competence, i will try to resist its fascinations." sharpley and our hero met at the _table d'hôte_ dinner and at breakfast. for the remainder of the day frank was left to his own devices; but for this he cared little. either alone, or in company with mr. tarbox, he went about the city, often as an outside passenger on the street stages which ply from one end of paris to the other, and in this way he came to have a very good idea of the plan of the brilliant capital. on the sixth day, while they were at dinner, sharpley said: "well, frank, have you seen considerable of paris?" "oh, yes, sir; i am getting to know my way around pretty well." "i am sorry i have not been able to go about with you more." "that is of no consequence, sir. i have got on very well alone." "have you written home?" "yes, sir." "i am afraid you will be disappointed at what i am going to say." "what is it, sir?" "i have arranged for our leaving paris to-morrow evening." "not to go back to england?" asked frank, hastily. "no. i propose to go to switzerland." "i should like that," said our hero, brightening up. "i have always wanted to see switzerland." "i didn't know but you would be sorry to leave paris." "so i should be if i thought we were not coming back this way. we shall, sha'n't we?" "yes." "and we shall have time to stay here a little while then?" "no doubt." "then i can defer the rest of my sight-seeing till then. what route shall we take?" "as to that, there is a variety of routes. it doesn't matter much to me. i will leave the choice to you." "will you?" said frank, eagerly. "then i will get out my map after dinner and pick it out." "very well. you can tell me to-morrow morning." the next morning sharpley put the question to frank: "well, have you decided by what route you would like to travel?" "can't we go east to the rhine, and go up that river to mayence, and thence to geneva by rail?" "certainly, if you like. it will be quite a pleasant route." "i always thought i should like to go up the rhine. i have been up the hudson, which i have often heard compared to the rhine." "there is no comparison between them," said sharpley, who, not being an american, was not influenced by a patriotic prejudice in favor of the hudson. "the rhine has ruined castles and vine-clad hills, and is far more interesting." "very likely," said frank. "at any rate, i want to see it." "we will start to-morrow night, then. morning will bring us across the frontier. you will be ready, of course?" "yes, sir." the next morning frank went to the exposition to acquaint mr. tarbox with his approaching departure. "are you goin'? i'm real sorry, frank," said the yankee. "i shall kinder hanker arter you, boy. you seem like home. as to them chatterin', frog-eatin' furriners, i can't understand a word they say, and ef i could i wouldn't want to." "i am afraid you are prejudiced, mr. tarbox. i have met some very agreeable french people." "i haven't," said mr. tarbox. "they don't suit me. there ain't nothin' solid or substantial about 'em." "you may get acquainted with some english people. you can understand them." "i don't like 'em," said jonathan. "they think they can whip all creation. we gave 'em a lesson, i guess, at bunker hill." "let by-gones be by-gones, mr. tarbox; or, as longfellow says: "'let the dead past bury its dead.'" "did longfellow write that?" "yes." "then he ain't so smart as i thought he was. how can anybody that's dead bury himself, i'd like to know? it's ridiculous." "i suppose it's figurative." "it ain't sense. but that aint to the point. where-abouts in switzerland are you goin', frank?" "i don't know, except that we go to geneva." "can you write me a letter from there?" "certainly. i will do so with pleasure, and shall be glad to hear from you." "all right. i ain't much on scribblin'. i can hold a plow better'n a pen. but i guess i can write a few pot-hooks, jest to let yer know i'm alive an' kickin'." "it's a bargain, then." "jest give me your name on a piece of paper, so i shall know where to write." "all right. i happen to know where we are going to stop there. mr. sharpley mentioned that we should stop at the hotel des bergues. i haven't got a card with me, but i'll put the address on an old envelope." frank took from his pocket what he supposed to be mr. craven's letter to him, and on the reverse side wrote: frank hunter, _hotel des bergues_, geneva, switzerland. mr. tarbox took it and surveyed it critically; then read it as follows: "'frank hunter, hotel dese bugs.' wal, that's a queer name for a tavern," he said. "i s'pose that's french for bugs?" "it means that the big bugs stop there," said frank, jocosely. "some of the big bugs are humbugs," said jonathan, laughing grimly at his own wit. when, after leaving mr. tarbox, frank happened to examine his pockets, he drew out the two letters he had received. this puzzled him. what letter was that which he had given his yankee friend, then? he could not tell. we are wiser. sharpley had incautiously left on the table craven's letter to him, and frank had put it into his pocket, supposing it to be his. this it was which had passed into the possession of mr. tarbox. three days later mr. tarbox discovered the letter, and curiosity made him unscrupulous. he read it through, including the paragraph already quoted. "by hokey!" he muttered. "that's queer. 'should any accident happen, write at once.' he seems to expect an accident will happen. i'll bet that man is a snake in the grass. he's frank's guardian, and he's got up some plot ag'in him. i always disliked that sharpley. he's a skunk. i'll start for switzerland to-morrow, and let the old plow go to thunder. i'm bound to look out for frank." mr. tarbox was energetic. he went to his lodgings, packed his carpet-bag, and early next morning started in pursuit of frank and sharpley. chapter xxi. the hotel du glacier. high up among the bernese alps stands the hotel du glacier. it is a small hotel, of limited accommodations, but during the season it is generally full of visitors. the advantage is, that a comparatively short walk carries one to a point where he has a fine view of that mountain scenery which is the glory of switzerland, and draws thither thousands of pilgrims annually. in rustic chairs outside sat at eight o'clock in the morning our young hero, frank hunter, and his temporary guardian, colonel sharpley. in front a beautiful prospect spread out before the two travelers. snowy peaks, their rough surface softened by distance, abounding in beetling cliffs and fearful gorges, but overlooking smiling valleys, were plainly visible. "isn't it magnificent?" exclaimed frank, with the enthusiasm of youth. "yes, i dare say," said sharpley, yawning, "but i'm not romantic; i've outlived all that." "i don't believe i shall ever outlive my admiration for such scenery as this," thought frank. "don't you enjoy it?" he asked. "oh, so so; but the fact is, i came here chiefly because i thought you would like it. i've been the regular swiss tour more than once." "you are very kind to take so much trouble on my account," said frank. "oh, i might as well be here as anywhere," said sharpley. "just at present there is nothing in particular to take up my attention. did you order breakfast?" "yes, colonel sharpley." "go and ask if it isn't ready, will you?" frank entered the inn, and soon returned with the information that breakfast was ready. they entered a small dining-room, where they found the simple meal awaiting them. the regular swiss breakfast consists of coffee, bread and butter, and honey, and costs, let me add, for the gratification of my reader's curiosity, thirty cents in gold. dinner comprises soup, three courses of meat, and a pudding or fruit, and costs from sixty cents to a dollar, according to the pretensions of the hotel. in fact, so far as hotel expenses go, two dollars a day in gold will be quite sufficient in the majority of cases. if meat is required for breakfast, that is additional. "how good the coffee is," said frank. "i never tasted it as good in america." "they know how to make it here, but why didn't you order breakfast?" "i thought they would supply meat without an order." "i always want meat; i have got beyond my bread-and-butter days," said sharpley, with a dash of sarcasm. "i have not," said frank, "especially when both are so good. what are your plans for the day, colonel sharpley?" "i think we'll take a climb after breakfast," said sharpley. "what do you say?" "i should like nothing better," said frank, eagerly. "but," he added, "i am afraid you are going entirely on my account." "how well the boy has guessed it," thought sharpley. "it is on his account i am going, but he must not know that." "oh, no," he said; "i feel like taking a ramble among the hills. it would be stupid staying at the inn." "then," said frank, with satisfaction, "i shall be glad to go. shall we take a guide?" "not this morning," said sharpley. "let us have the pleasure of exploring independently. to-morrow we will arrange a long excursion with guides." "i suppose it is quite safe?" "oh, yes, if we don't wander too far. i shall be ready in about half an hour." "i will be ready," said frank. "and i'll smoke a cigar." just then a gentleman came up, whose acquaintance they had made the previous day. it was a mr. abercrombie, an american gentleman, from chicago, who was accompanied by his son henry, a boy about frank's age. "what are your plans for to-day, mr. sharpley?" he asked. "i hope he isn't going to thrust himself upon us," thought sharpley, savagely, for he was impatient of anything that was likely to interfere with his wicked design. "i have none in particular," he answered. "you are not going to remain at the inn, are you? that would be dull." "confound the man's curiosity!" muttered sharpley, to himself. "i may wander about a little, but i shall make no excursion worth speaking of till to-morrow." "why can't we join company?" said mr. abercrombie, in a friendly manner. "our young people are well acquainted, and we can keep each other company. enlarge your plan a little, and take a guide." "i wish the man was back in america," thought sharpley. "why won't he see that he's a bore?" "really," he said, stiffly, "you must excuse me; i don't feel equal to any sort of an excursion to-day." "then," said the other, still in a friendly way, "let your boy come with us. i will look after him, and my son will like his company." frank heard this application, and as he had taken a fancy to henry and his father, he hoped that sharpley would reply favorably. he felt that he should enjoy their company better than his guardian's. sharpley was greatly irritated, but obliged to keep within the bounds of politeness to avoid suspicion, when something had happened, as he meant something should happen before the sun set. "i hope you won't think me impolite," he said, "but i mean, by and by, to walk a little, and would like frank's company. to-morrow i shall be very happy to join you." nothing more could be said, of course, but henry abercrombie whispered to frank: "i'm sorry we're not going to be together to-day." "so am i," answered frank; "but we'll have a bully time to-morrow. i suppose i ought to stay with colonel sharpley." "he isn't any relation of yours, is he?" "oh, no; i am only traveling in his company." "so i thought. you don't look much alike." "no; i suppose not." half an hour passed, but the abercrombies were still there. "shall we go?" asked frank. "not, yet," said sharpley, shortly. he did not mean to start till the other travelers were gone, lest he should be followed. for he had screwed his courage to the sticking point, and made up his mind that he would that day do the deed which he had covenanted with mr. craven to do. the sooner the better, he thought, for it would bring him nearer the large sum of money which he expected to realize as the price of our hero's murder. twenty minutes afterward the abercrombies, equipped for a mountain walk, swinging their alpenstocks, started off, accompanied by a guide. "won't you reconsider your determination and go?" asked the father. sharpley shook his head. "i don't feel equal to the exertion," he answered. "i hope you'll have a pleasant excursion, henry," said frank, looking wistfully after his young friend. "it would be pleasanter if you were going along," said henry. "thank you." frank said no more, but waited till sharpley had smoked another cigar. by this time twenty minutes had elapsed. "i think we'll go now, frank," said sharpley. at the welcome intimation frank jumped up briskly. "shall i order some lunch to be packed for us?" he asked. "no; we sha'n't need it," said sharpley. frank laughed. "i think i'll get some for myself," said frank, laughing, as he added: "i've got a healthy appetite, colonel sharpley, and i am sure the exertion of climbing these hills will make me fearfully hungry." "i don't want to be delayed," said sharpley, frowning. "we sha'n't be gone long enough to need lunch." "it won't take me a minute," said frank, running into the inn. "it is strange he is so much in a hurry all at once," thought our young hero, "when he has been lounging about for an hour without appearing in the least haste." however, he did not spend much thought on sharpley's wayward humor, which he was beginning to see was regulated by no rules. less than five minutes afterward he appeared, provided with a tourist's lunch-box. "i've got enough for you, colonel sharpley," he said, "in case we stay out longer than we anticipate." the landlord closely followed him, and addressed himself to sharpley: "will not monsieur have a guide?" he asked. "no," said sharpley. "my son, baptiste, is an experienced guide, and can show monsieur and his young friend the finest prospects." "i shall need no guide," said sharpley, impatiently. "frank, come along." "it will only be six francs," persisted the landlord, "and baptiste--" "i don't want baptiste," said sharpley, gruffly. "plague take the man!" he muttered to himself. "he is making himself a regular nuisance." "i wish he would take a guide," thought frank, no suspicion of the importance to himself of having one entering his mind. chapter xxii. over the brink. they started on their walk provided with alpenstocks, for just above them was the snow-line, and they could not go far without encountering ice also. the hotel du glacier stood thousands of feet above the sea-level, and was a favorite resort with those who enjoyed the sublimity of mountain scenery. though sharpley was by no means the companion he would have best liked, frank was in high spirits, as he realized that he was really four thousand miles from home, surrounded by the famous mountains of which he had so often read. "have you ever been up this mountain before, colonel sharpley?" asked frank. "not up this mountain. i have ascended others, however. i once crossed over mount cenis to italy." "how? did you walk?" "no. i went in a diligence." "it must have been fine. shall we go into italy?" "perhaps so." "i should like it very much. i have read so much about italy." "how i wish ben cameron were here!" said frank, after a pause. he did not so much mean to say this to sharpley, but the thought entered his mind, and he unconsciously uttered it aloud. "who is ben cameron?" "he is a friend of mine at home. we were a great deal together." "was he the boy that was with you when i first met you?" "yes, sir." "humph! i have no desire for his company," thought sharpley. "have you a glass with you, colonel sharpley?" asked frank. "yes. would you like to use it?" "if you please." it was a small spy-glass, not powerful, but serviceable. frank adjusted it to his eye, and looked earnestly in a certain direction. "what do you see?" asked his companion. "wait a minute. i am not certain. yes, it is they." "who?" demanded sharpley, impatiently. "the abercrombies. they are higher up than we, over there, but not very much out of our way. shall we join them?" asked frank, hopefully. "where are they? let me see," said sharpley, seizing the glass. he thought frank might be mistaken, but a glance through the glass satisfied him that he was right. there was mr. abercrombie, toiling up a steep ascent, with his son following, the latter assisted by the guide. "do you see them?" "yes." "don't you think we can overtake them?" "perhaps we might, but i for one don't intend to try." frank looked at him inquiringly. "why not?" "i thought you heard me decline to join them at the hotel. i have no fancy for company to-day." "excuse me," said frank, politely. "i might have remembered it." "you can join them to-morrow if you feel like it," said sharpley, emphasizing the last clause. frank noticed the emphasis, and wondered at it a little. it seemed to imply that he might not choose to do it, and that did not seem very likely. however, possibly the emphasis was unconscious, and his mind did not dwell upon it. they were now walking along a ledge scarcely more than six feet wide, terminating in a sheer precipice. "i wonder if accidents often happen here?" suggested frank. "such as what?" sharply interrogated his companion. "i mean such as slipping over these cliffs." "not often, i presume," said sharpley. "no one who exercises common prudence need fear slipping." his heart began to beat quicker, for he saw that the moment was approaching in which his fearful work was to be done. "the dangers of the alps are very greatly exaggerated," he said, indifferently. "it looks dangerous," said frank. "yes, i presume so. suppose we approach the edge cautiously and look down." there is a fatal fascination about danger. just as the moth hovers persistently about the flame, to which in the end he falls a victim, so we are disposed to draw near dangers at which we shudder. we like to see it for ourselves, and, shuddering, to say: "suppose i should fall in." our young hero was of a daring disposition. he had never been timid or nervous, inheriting his father's physical traits, not his mother's. so sharpley's proposal struck him favorably, being an appeal to his courage. "i should like to look over," he said. as he spoke he drew near the fatal brink, not observing that his companion was not at his side, but just behind him. "now for it!" thought sharpley, his breath coming thick and fast. one push from behind, and frank was over the ledge, falling--falling--falling. there was one scream of terror, and sharpley found himself alone upon the cliff. chapter xxiii. giving the alarm. there are not many men who can commit a crime of violence without an inward shudder and a thrill of horror. sharpley was not a professional murderer. he had never before taken life. his offences against law had been many, but none had stained his soul with blood till now. he felt faint as he saw the disappearance of his young ward, sped by his own hand to a death so fearful. "it is done and can't be undone," he muttered. "he will never know what hurt him. i am glad it's over. it was a dirty job, but i had to do it. craven forced me to this. he must pay well for it." "shall i look over the cliff?" he asked himself. [illustration: over the ledge.] he advanced a step, but drew back with a shudder. "no, i can't do it," he said to himself. "it will make me dizzy. i shall run the risk of falling over myself." he retraced his steps for a few rods, and then sat down to think. it was necessary that he should concoct some plausible account of the accident, in order to avoid suspicion, though that was not likely to fall upon him. who could dream of any motive that would impel him to such a deed? yet there was such a motive, as he well knew, but the only one who shared the knowledge was in america, and he was criminally connected with the crime. sharpley soon determined upon his course and his explanation. the latter would necessitate a search for the boy, and this made him pause. "but, pshaw!" he said, "the boy is dead. he must have been killed at once; and the dead tell no tales. i must get back to the hotel and give the alarm." an hour later sharpley approached the inn. he had walked quietly till then, but now he had a part to play. he rushed into the inn in breathless haste, nearly knocking over the portly landlord, whom he encountered in the passage. "what is the matter, monsieur?" asked the landlord, with eyes distended. "the boy!" gasped sharpley. "what of the boy, monsieur?" "he has fallen over a precipice," he exclaimed. "_oh, ciel!_" exclaimed the landlord. "how did it happen?" "we were walking on a narrow ledge," explained sharpley. "on one side there was a steep descent. i don't know how many hundreds of feet deep. the boy approached the edge. i warned him to be careful, but he was very rash. he did not obey me. he leaned too far, lost his balance, and fell over. i sprang forward to save him, but it was too late." "it is horrible!" said the landlord. "was he your son?" "no, but he was the son of a dear friend. oh, how shall i break the sad tidings to his father and mother? is there no hope of his life being saved?" "i fear not," said the landlord, gravely. "you should have taken baptiste with you, as i advised." "oh, my friend, i wish i had!" said the hypocrite, fervently. "where is baptiste? let us go and see if we can find the poor boy?" "here i am at your service, monsieur," said baptiste. "i will take a comrade with me. we will save him if we can, but i fear there is no hope." ten minutes later sharpley, accompanied by two guides, and some of the guests of the hotel, who had been struck with horror on hearing the news, were wending their way up the mountain in quest of our hero. chapter xxiv. sharpley dissembles. there was some delay about starting, but at length the party got under way. very little conversation took place, and that little related only to the accident. the spell of the awful tragedy was upon them, and their faces were grave and their spirits depressed. and what shall we say of the guilty man, who alone could unlock the mystery?--who alone could account for the boy's tragic end? his mind was in a tumult of contradictory emotions. he was glad that it was all over--that the fearful task which in america he had agreed to execute, which had haunted him for these many days and nights, was no longer before him to do, that it was already done. he saw before him, mercenary wretch that he was, the promised reward, in a sum of money which would be to him a competence, and which, carefully husbanded, would relieve all his money anxieties for the future. but, on the other hand, there came the shuddering thought that he had wrought the death of an unoffending boy, who had looked up to him as a guide and protector, but whom he had only lured to his ruin. "are accidents frequent among the mountains?" asked one of the guests, addressing baptiste, the guide. "no, monsieur; not in this part. when travelers are hurt or killed, it is because they are careless or go without guides." "as i did," said sharpley, who felt it would be polite to take upon himself this blame, and so skilfully evade suspicion of a graver fault. "you are right, and i am much to blame; but i did not expect to go so far, nor did i think frank would be so imprudent. but it is not for me to blame the poor boy, who has been so fearfully punished for his boldness. you would not have let him go so near the edge of the cliff?" "no, monsieur; or, if he went, i would have held him while he looked down." "it is what i should have done. oh, how horrible it was to see him fall over the cliff!" and sharpley shuddered, a genuine shudder; for, guilty as he was, the picture was one to appall him. "oh, how shall i tell his poor mother?" he continued, acting wonderfully well. the rest were silent, respecting what they thought to be his grief. they had, perhaps, half achieved the ascent, when they fell in with the abercrombies, who were just returning from their excursion. they regarded the ascending party with surprise. "what!" said mr. abercrombie to sharpley, "are you just going up the mountain? you are very late." "where is frank?" asked henry abercrombie, looking in vain among the party for our hero, to whom, as already said, he had taken a fancy. there was silence at first, each of those in the secret regarding the rest. but it was to sharpley that mr. abercrombie looked for a reply. the delay surprised him. "what is the matter?" he asked, at length. "has anything happened?" "somebody tell him," said sharpley, in pretended emotion. baptiste was the one to respond. "monsieur," he said, gravely, "a terrible thing has happened. the poor boy has fallen into a ravine." "what!" exclaimed father and son, in horror. "frank fallen? why i saw him only this morning. i asked him to go with us. is this true?" said henry. "it is only too true, my boy," said sharpley, covering his face. and he repeated his version of the accident with well-counterfeited emotion. "is there no hope?" asked henry, with pale face. baptiste shook his head. "i am afraid not," he said; "but i can tell better when i see the place." "how can there be any hope?" asked mr. abercrombie. "he might have fallen on the deep snow, or on some intermediate ledge, and so saved his life." "good heaven!" thought sharpley, in dismay. "suppose it should be so? suppose he is alive, and should expose me? i should be ruined. but no! it cannot be. there is not one chance in a hundred. yet that one chance disturbs me. i must find out as soon as possible, in order that my mind may be at ease." "come on!" he said, aloud. "while we are lingering here the boy may die. let us make haste." "i will go with you," said mr. abercrombie. "and i," said henry. chapter xxv. a useless search. "is this the place?" asked baptiste, as, half an hour later, they stood on the fatal cliff. "this is the place," said sharpley. "let me look over," said henry, advancing to the edge. "are you mad?" exclaimed his father, drawing him back hastily. "i will look, gentlemen," said the guide. "it will be safest for me." he threw himself flat upon his stomach, and thus in safety peeped into the chasm. "do you see anything?" asked sharpley, agitated. "wait till i look earnestly," and after a breathless pause, he answered slowly: "no, i see nothing; but the cliff is not so steep or so high as i thought. there are some bushes growing in parts. he might be stopped by these." "you can't see any traces of him, can you?" another pause. "no. the snow seems disturbed in one place, but if he had fallen there, he would be there still." "might he not have fallen there and rolled to the bottom?" "perhaps so. i cannot tell." "let me look," said sharpley. the suggestion of the possibility that frank might have escaped was fraught to him with danger. all his hopes of safety and success depended upon the boy's death. he wanted to see for himself. the guide rose, and sharpley, imitating his posture, threw himself on the ground and looked over, borrowing the glass. but such a sense of horror, brought on by his own criminality, overcame him as he lay there that his vision was blurred, and he came near dropping the glass. he rose, trembling. "i can see nothing of him," he said. "he is certainly dead. poor boy! he could not possibly have escaped." "let me look," said abercrombie. but he also could see no trace of the body. "i think," he said, rising, "that our best course will be to descend and explore at the bottom of the cliff." "it will be of no use," said sharpley. "we can at least find the body and give it decent burial. baptiste, is there no way of descending?" "yes," said baptiste, "but we shall need to go a long distance around." "how long will it take?" "an hour; perhaps more." "i am ready to go, for one," said mr. abercrombie. "will you go, mr. sharpley?" "i do not feel equal to the exertion. i am too agitated." glances of pity were directed toward him. "baptiste," said abercrombie, "if you will guide me, and any one else who chooses to join the expedition, i will pay you double price." "monsieur," said baptiste, who had feelings, though not indifferent to money, "i will guide you for nothing, out of regard for the poor boy." "you are an honest fellow," said mr. abercrombie, grasping his hand warmly. "you shall not lose by it." "may i go, father?" asked henry. "no, my son. the exertion will be too great for you. go home with the rest of the party." in silence the party returned to the hotel du glacier. most were appalled by the sad fate of frank hunter, but sharpley was moved by another feeling. there was not much chance of frank's being found alive, or in a condition to expose his murderous attempt, but, of course, there was a slight possibility. while that existed he felt ill at ease. he would gladly have left the place at once, but this he could not do without exciting suspicion. he must wait till the return of the party. it was not till nightfall that the party were seen returning. sharpley waited for their report in great suspense. "have you found him?" he demanded, pale with excitement. baptiste shook his head. he gave a sigh of quiet relief, which was interpreted to be a sigh of sorrow. "i thought you would not," he said. the next day he left the hotel. "i must go to america," he said, "to tell frank's mother the terrible truth. i cannot trust it to a letter." "but suppose the body is found," said baptiste. "bury it decently and write instantly to me, and i will transmit the necessary sum. or, hold, here are a hundred and fifty francs. if he is not found, keep them yourself." an hour later he was on his way to paris. chapter xxvi. mr. tarbox on the trail. "so this is the hotel de bugs," said jonathan tarbox, as, carpet-bag in hand, he approached, with long strides, the well-known hotel des bergues in geneva. "it looks like a nice sort of a hotel. i wonder if frank and that rascally humbug are stoppin' here. i'd give twenty-five cents to see that boy's face. strange what a fancy i've took to him. he's a reg'lar gentleman; as quick and sharp as a steel-trap." mr. tarbox had walked from the railway station. he was naturally economical, and, having all his life been accustomed to walk, thought it a waste and extravagance to take a carriage. he had inquired his way by simply pronouncing the name of the hotel as above. the similarity in sound was sufficient to insure a correction. he entered the hotel and found the landlord. "i say, captain, i want to put up here to-night." "will monsieur have a room?" asked the host, politely. "if you mean me, that's what i want; but i ain't a monseer at all. i'm a yankee." "monsieur yang-kee?" said the landlord, a little puzzled. "look here, captain, i ain't a monseer--i don't eat frogs. do i look like it. no, i'm a straight-down, dyed-in-the-wool yankee, from squashboro', state o' maine." "will you have a room?" asked the landlord, avoiding the word monsieur, which he perceived the other disclaimed, for some reason which he could not very well comprehend. "yes, i will, if i can get one cheap. i don't want none of your big apartments, that cost like blazes. i want a little room, with a bed in it, and a chair." "we have _petits apartements_--very small price." "give me one, then. oh, hold on; is there a boy named frank hunter stoppin' here, with a man named sharpley?" "_non_, monsieur. he has been here, but he is gone." "gone? when did he go?" "three days ago." "three days!" repeated mr. tarbox, thoughtfully. "he didn't stay long, then?" "only one night." "seems to me he was in a hurry. isn't there nothin' worth seein' round here?" "oh, yes, monsieur," said the landlord, with animation. "_geneve_ is a very interesting city. would you not like to see how they make the watches, and the boxes of _musique_? there are many places here that strangers do visit. there is the cathedral and the _musee_. monsieur should stay here one--two weeks." "and put up at your tavern?" "eh?" "and stop up at your hotel?" "_certainement_, monsieur." "that's what i thought. anyhow, i'll stay here till to-morrow. but about this old rascal--" "monsieur?" "i mean this sharpley, and the boy--where did they go?" "i know not, monsieur. they went to see the mountains." "well, captain, as mountains in this neighborhood are about as thick as huckleberry bushes in a pastur', i ain't none the wiser for that. couldn't you tell me a little plainer?" but this the landlord, or captain, as mr. tarbox insisted upon calling him, was unable to do. as there was nothing else to be done, our yankee friend selected a room on the top floor, which, by reason of its elevation, he was enabled to get for two francs a day. in european hotels the rooms become cheaper the higher up they are, and thus various prices are paid at the same hotel. it is not necessarily expensive, therefore, sojourning at a first-class hotel abroad; and, indeed, it is better than to take lower rooms in an inferior inn, supposing the traveler's means to be limited. "well," said mr. tarbox, looking about him, when he was fairly installed in his room, "my journey ain't going to cost me so much, after all. i come third class to geneva for less'n ten dollars, and i can live here pretty cheap. but that ain't the question. where-abouts among these hills is frank? that's what i'd like to know. i wonder what that step-father of his meant by his talk about accidents? if anything happens to frank, and i find it out, i'll stir 'em up, as sure as my name's jonathan tarbox. but i'm getting hungry; i'll go down and see what kind of fodder they can give me. i guess i'd better clean up first, for i'm as dirty as ef i'd been out in the field plowin'." mr. tarbox made a satisfactory supper at moderate expense. he didn't go to the _table d'hôte_, for, as he said, "they bring you a mouthful of this, and a mouthful of that, and when you're through ten or eleven courses, you have to pay a dollar, more or less, and are as hungry as when you began. i'd rather order something _a la carte_, as they call it, though what it has to do with a cart is more than i can tell, and then i can get enough, and don't have so much to pay neither." mr. tarbox made further inquiries the next day, but could not ascertain definitely in what direction the travelers had gone. there were several possible routes, and they were as likely to have gone by one as by another. under the circumstances it seemed to him that it was better to remain where he was. there was a chance of the two returning by way of geneva, and they would be likely to come to the same hotel; while if he started off in one direction, it would very probably turn out that they had gone by another. one circumstance certainly favored his decision--it was cheaper remaining in geneva than in journeying off at random in search of frank, and mr. tarbox, therefore, decided to patronize the hotel des bergues for a short time at least, trying, meanwhile, to get some clew to the whereabouts of the travelers. he improved the time by visiting the objects of interest in geneva, bewildering the natives by his singular remarks, and amusing strangers with whom he came in contact. some were disposed to regard him as a specimen of the average american. indeed, he bore a striking resemblance to the typical american introduced by our english friends in their books of travel and in their dramatic productions. he did indeed possess some national characteristics. he was independent, fearless, self-reliant, hating injustice and oppression, but he was without the polish, or culture, or refinement which are to be found in the traveling americans quite as commonly as in the traveling englishman or german. he is presented here as a type of a class which does exist, but not as an average american. it struck mr. tarbox that he might obtain some information of those whom he sought by inquiring of the travelers who came daily to the hotel, whether they had met with such a party. no diffidence held him back from questioning closely all who came. some treated him with hauteur, and tried to abash him by impressing him with the unwarrantable liberty he was taking in intruding himself upon their notice. in general, however, these were snobs, of some wealth, but doubtful social position, who felt it necessary to assert themselves upon all occasions. but mr. tarbox was not one to be daunted by coldness, or abashed by a repellant manner. he persisted in his questions until he learned what he wanted. but his questions were without a satisfactory answer until one day he saw a gentleman and his son, whom by their appearance he took to be fellow-countrymen. they were, in fact, henry abercrombie and his father, fresh from the scene of the accident. mr. tarbox introduced himself and propounded his question. father and son exchanged a look of sadness. "he means poor frank, father," said henry. "poor frank!" repeated mr. tarbox, eagerly. "what makes you say that?" "were you a friend of the boy?" asked mr. abercrombie. "yes, and i am still. he's a tip-top fellow, frank is." "i am sorry, then, to be the bearer of sad tidings." "what do you mean?" asked jonathan, quickly. "don't say anything has happened to the boy." "but there has. he fell over a cliff, and though his body has not been found, he was probably killed instantly." "who was with him when he fell?" asked mr. tarbox, excited. "his guardian, mr. sharpley. the two had wandered off by themselves, without a guide. frank approached too near the edge of the cliff, lost his balance, and fell." "that confounded skunk pushed him over!" exclaimed mr. tarbox, in high excitement. "you don't mean colonel sharpley?" exclaimed mr. abercrombie, in surprise. "yes, i do. i followed them from paris, because i was afraid of it." "but it is incredible. i assure you colonel sharpley showed great sorrow for the accident." "then he's a hypocrite! if you want proof of what i say, just read that letter." chapter xxvii. tarbox to the rescue. thus invited, mr. abercrombie read the letter of mr. craven, in which he referred to the possibility of an accident befalling frank. "what does this prove?" asked the reader, looking up. "it proves that sharpley pushed frank over the cliff," said mr. tarbox, excitedly. "i don't see that it does." "don't you see how he speaks of what is to be done if an accident happens?" "yes, but--" "doesn't that show that he expects it?" "but we must establish a motive. what reason could mr. craven have for the murder of his step-son?" "i'll tell you, for frank told me all about it. frank's got money, and so has his mother, but frank's got the most. if he dies, his property goes to his mother. his loss will kill her, for she's delicate, so frank says, and then this craven will step into the whole of it. don't you see?" "there is something in that," said mr. abercrombie, thoughtfully. "indeed, it would explain a part of colonel sharpley's conduct on the day of the accident." "what did he do?" asked mr. tarbox, eagerly. "i invited him to accompany my son and myself on an excursion. he refused, saying that he didn't feel like the exertion of an ascent. then i invited frank to accompany us, but he refused to let him go. he said he might take a short tramp, and wanted his company." "the skunk!" "again, though urged afterward to take a guide, he refused to do so, but took a long walk--he and the boy being alone." "i'd like to wring his neck!" ejaculated jonathan. "besides, frank could not have fallen unless he was very imprudent. now, he never struck me as a rash or heedless boy." "he wasn't." "it doesn't seem at all like him voluntarily to place himself in such peril, yet colonel sharpley says he did." "he lies, the murderous skunk!" "it did not strike me at first, but i fear that you are right, and that the poor boy has been foully dealt with." "isn't there any hope?" asked mr. tarbox, blowing his nose violently in order to get a chance to wipe away the tears which the supposed sad fate of our hero called forth. "how high was the hill?" "i fear there is no hope. we searched for the body, but did not find it." "then he may be living," said mr. tarbox, brightening up. "there is hardly a chance of it, i should say," returned mr. abercrombie, gravely. "the descent was deep and precipitous." "where is the villain sharpley?" "he left the next day. he said he should hurry back to america to carry the sad news to the parents of the poor boy." "and get his pay from craven." "i hope, mr. tarbox, that your suspicions are groundless. i should be very unwilling to believe in such wickedness." "i hope so, too. if it was an accident i should think it was the will of god; but if that villain has murdered him i know it ain't. i wish i could overhaul sharpley." "what do you propose to do, mr. tarbox?" "i'll tell you, mr. abercrombie. fust and foremost, i'm going to that place where the accident happened, and i mean to find frank dead or alive. if he's dead, i'll try to find out if he was murdered or not. if he's alive, i'll take care of him, and he'll tell me all about it." "mr. tarbox," said the other, taking his hand, "i respect you for the strength of your attachment to the poor lad. i saw but little of him, but enough to be assured that he was a bold, manly boy, of a noble nature and a kind disposition. pardon me for the offer i am about to make, but i hope you will allow me to pay the expenses of this investigation. you give your time; let me give my money, which is of less value." "thank you, mr. abercrombie," said mr. tarbox. "you're a gentleman; but i've got a little money, and i'd just as lief use it for frank. i'll pay my own expenses." "at any rate, i will give you my address, and if you get short of money i hope you will apply to me without fail." "i will, squire," said jonathan. so they parted. mr. tarbox set out immediately for the hotel du glacier. chapter xxviii. saved as by a miracle. but where all this while was frank? had he really fallen a victim to the murderous designs of his treacherous guardian? my readers have been kept too long in suspense as to his fate. at the moment of falling he was fully conscious, but too late, of his companion's treachery. in that terrible moment there flashed upon him a full knowledge of the plot of which he was a victim, and he had time to connect with it his step-father as the prime author and instigator of the deed. it was indeed a terrible experience. in the full flush of youthful life and strength the gates of death swung open before him, and he gave himself up for lost, resigning himself to his fearful fate as well as he could. but there was one thought of anguish--his mother! how would she grieve over his untimely death! and the wretch who had instigated his murder, would he stop short, content, or would he next assail her? in times of danger the mind acts quickly. all these thoughts passed through the mind of our hero as he fell, but all at once there was a violent shock. he had stopped falling, yet he was not dead, only stunned. there was a ledge part way down, a hollow filled with soft snow--making a natural bed, and it was upon this that he had fallen. yet, soft as it was, the shock was sufficient to deprive him of consciousness. when he became sensible of surrounding objects--that is, when his consciousness returned--he looked about him in bewilderment. where was he? not surely on the ledge, for, looking around him, he saw the walls of a small and humble apartment, scantily provided with needful furniture. he was lying upon a bed, a poor wooden bedstead. there was another person in the room--a woman, so humbly attired that he knew she was a swiss peasant. "where am i?" he asked, bewildered. the woman turned quickly, and her homely, sun-browned face glowed with pleasure. "you are awake, monsieur?" she said, in the french language. i have already said that frank was a french scholar, and could understand the language to a limited extent, as well as speak it somewhat. he understood her, and answered in french: "yes, madame, i am awake. will you kindly tell me where i am?" "you met with an accident, monsieur. my husband and my brother were upon the mountain, and found you on a ledge covered with snow." "i remember," said frank, shuddering. "when was that?" "yesterday. you have slept since then. how do you feel?" "i feel sore and bruised. are any of my limbs broken?" he moved his arms and legs, but, to his great joy, ascertained that though sore, no bones were broken. "it was a wonderful escape," said the woman. "you must have fallen from the cliff above." "i did." "but for falling on the ledge, you would have been killed." "yes," answered frank, "but heaven be thanked, i have escaped." "how did you fall?" asked the woman. "that was what my husband and my brother, antoine, could not understand. you must have been leaning over." frank paused. "i cannot tell you now," he answered. "perhaps i will soon." "when you please, monsieur, but you must be hungry." "i am indeed hungry, madame. i suppose it is more than twenty-four hours since i have tasted anything." "poor boy!" said the woman, compassionately. "i will at once get you something to eat. we are poor people, monsieur, and you may not like our plain fare." "don't speak of it, madame. you are only too kind to me. i can eat anything." frank had only spoken the truth. he was almost famished; and when the food was set before him, plain as it was, he ate with eager satisfaction, to the evident pleasure of his kindly hostess. but in sitting up, he realized by the soreness of his limbs and the aching of his back, that though no bones were broken, he was far from being in a condition to get up. it was with a feeling of relief that he sank back upon the bed, and with listless eyes watched the movements of his hostess. he was not equal to the exertion of forming plans for the future. chapter xxix. frank's pedestrian tour. although frank was pretty well bruised by his fall, his youth and the vigor of his constitution enabled him to recover rapidly from the effects of the shock. on the third day he got up and took a short walk. on the fifth day he felt well enough to leave his hospitable entertainers. but where should he go? should he return to the hotel du glacier and place himself again in the clutches of his treacherous guardian? he felt that to be out of the question. besides, he rightly conjectured that sharpley had already left the hotel. no, he must detach himself wholly from his enemy. he must rely upon himself. he must get home the best way he could, and then expose the conspirators, for he was convinced that mr. craven was involved in it. but a serious difficulty presented itself. he was about four thousand miles from home, and to return, as well as to stay where he was, required money. this led him to an examination of his finances. he never carried much money with him. sharpley being treasurer. opening his pocket-book, he found he had sixty francs only, or about twelve dollars in gold. now, as my readers will readily judge, twelve dollars is hardly adequate for a return journey from switzerland to america. had frank been dismayed at this situation it would hardly have created surprise, but, on the contrary, he felt in very good spirits. "i don't believe i shall starve," he said to himself. "if i can only get to paris, i will seek out mr. tarbox, and i am sure he will lend me money enough to get home." but had he enough to get to paris? barely enough to travel third class; but then he must remember the good people who had found and taken care of him. for this alone, twelve dollars was inadequate. but he could take their names, and promise to send them more from america. his difficulty would have been far less great had he known that at that very moment mr. tarbox had just arrived at the hotel du glacier in search of him, prepared to help him to the best of his ability. but of this he knew nothing. so, on the morning of the fifth day, frank announced to his humble friends that he must leave them. "but are you strong enough, monsieur?" asked the peasant's wife. "oh, yes, madame; thanks to your kind care, i am quite recovered." "and monsieur will go to his friends?" "i have no friends in europe." "what! so young and alone?" "i did not come alone. i came in charge of a man whom i thought friendly, but it was he who threw me over the cliff and nearly killed me." "surely, monsieur is mistaken!" exclaimed the woman, astonished. "no," answered frank. "he is my enemy. it is a long story; but at home i am rich, and i think he is employed by my step-father to kill me." in answer to questions, frank gave a general account of the circumstances to the worthy people, and closed by saying: "when i have returned to america, i shall send you suitable compensation for your kindness. now, i can only give you enough to pay what you have expended for me." he drew from his pocket two napoleons (two-thirds of his available means), and insisted upon their acceptance. they at first refused to take the money, but finally accepted it. had they known that frank would be left with but twenty francs himself, they would have taken nothing, but americans abroad are popularly supposed to be even richer than they are, and it never occurred to them to suspect our hero's present poverty. they stood in the doorway, watching him as he started off with a firm step, and a heart almost as light as his purse, and heartily joined in the wish, "bon voyage, monsieur." frank waved his hat, smiling, and set out on his way. had our hero been well provided with money, nothing could have been more agreeable than a pedestrian journey amid the beautiful scenery of the alps. even as it was, frank felt the exhilarating influences of the fresh morning air and the grand scenery, visible on all sides, for he was hemmed in by mountains. his proposed terminus being paris, he kept a general northwesterly course, making inquiries when at all at a loss as to the road. at midday he found himself in a little village. by this time he was hungry. he did not go to a hotel. he felt that his slender store of money would not justify it. he stopped, instead, at a cottage, and for a few cents obtained a pint of milk and a small loaf. this fare was plain enough, but appetite is the best sauce, and his hunger made it taste delicious. he rested for three hours, then, when the sun's rays were less powerful, he resumed his journey. at seven o'clock in the evening he had accomplished about twenty-five miles, and was foot-sore and weary. he selected another cottage, and made application for supper and a bed. "monsieur will do better to go to the hotel," said the peasant. "we are poor people, and our accommodations are too humble for a gentleman like monsieur." frank smiled. he saw that they judged of his means by his clothing, which was of fine texture and fashionable cut, for he had purchased a traveling suit in london. "i have been robbed of nearly all my money," he explained (this was true, for it was in sharpley's possession), "and i cannot afford to go to the hotel. if you will let me stay here, i will gladly accept what accommodations you have to offer." "oh, in that case, monsieur," said the peasant's wife, cheerfully, "you are quite welcome. come right in." frank entered. he soon had set before him a supper of bread, milk and honey, to which he did ample justice. then he asked permission to bathe his feet, which were sore. at nine o'clock he went to bed, and, as might have been expected, enjoyed a sound sleep, which refreshed him not a little. i have described this one day as a specimen of the manner in which frank traveled. the charges were so small that he made his money go a long way. but the stock was so small that it steadily became less with formidable rapidity, and our young hero found himself with poverty staring him in the face. he had traveled over a hundred miles, nearly a hundred and fifty, when, on counting his money, he found that he had but forty cents (or two francs) left. this was a serious state of things. "what shall i do?" thought frank, as he sat down by the wayside to reflect on his situation. "to-morrow i shall be penniless, and i must be six or seven hundred miles from paris, more or less. one thing is certain, i can't travel for nothing. what shall i do?" frank reflected that if he were in america he would seek for a job at sawing wood, or any other kind of unskilled labor for which he was competent. he could hire himself out for a month, till he could obtain money enough to prosecute his journey. but it was evident that there was very little chance of this resource here. the peasants at whose cottages he stopped were poor in money; they had none to spare, and they did their own work. besides, it was not likely that his services would be worth much to them. there was one thing he might do. he might remain over a few days somewhere, and write meanwhile to jonathan tarbox, in paris, asking him to send him fifty francs or so. but, somehow, frank did not like to do this. as we know, it would have done no good, as mr. tarbox was now in switzerland seeking him. he felt that he would like to make his way to paris unaided if possible. but how to do it was a difficult problem. he was plunged in deep reflection on this point when his attention was called to a boy of seven, who came running past crying and sobbing. "_qu' avez vous?_" asked frank; or, "what is the matter with you?" "oh, i can't understand french," said the boy. "what is the matter?" asked our hero, in english. "i am lost," was the reply. "i don't know where papa or sister is." "don't cry. i will help you to find them. but, first, tell me what is your name, and how you happened to get lost." "my name is herbert grosvenor," answered the little fellow. he went on to say that his father was a london merchant, who was traveling with himself and his sister beatrice. he had walked out in charge of a servant, but the latter had stopped at an inn and became drunk. then he became so violent that herbert was afraid and ran away. but he was too young to know the road, and had lost his way. "i shall never see my papa again," he sobbed. "oh, yes, you will," said frank, encouragingly. "i will take you to him. do you remember where he is stopping?" the boy was luckily able to answer correctly that his father was stopping at the hotel de la couronne, in a large town, which frank knew to be only two miles distant. "come, herbert," he said, cheerfully, "i will carry you back to your father. take my hand, and we will set out at once, if you are not tired." "oh, no, i am not tired. i can walk," said the little boy, brightening up, and putting his hand with confidence in that of his young protector. chapter xxx. new friends. when frank arrived at the hotel with his young charge he found the grosvenor family in great dismay. the servant had returned, evidently under the influence of liquor, quite unable to give any account of the little boy. a party, headed by mr. grosvenor, was about starting out in search of him, when he made his appearance, clinging trustfully to the hand of our hero. "oh, you naughty runaway!" said his sister beatrice, a lovely girl of twelve, folding herbert in a sisterly embrace. "how you have frightened us!" "i couldn't help it, sister," said herbert. "what made you run away from thomas, my boy?" asked his father. "i was afraid of him," said herbert. "he was so strange." the cause of the strange conduct was evident enough to any one who saw the servant's present condition, for he was too stupefied even to defend himself. [illustration: the little runaway.] "it's a shame, father," said beatrice. "only think, our darling little herbie might have been lost. i hope you will never trust him again with thomas." "i shall not," said the father, decidedly. "thomas has forfeited my confidence, and he must leave my service. i shall pay his passage back to london, and there he must shift for himself." "you have not thanked the young gentleman who brought him back, father," said beatrice, in a low voice. mr. grosvenor turned to frank. "accept my warmest thanks, young gentleman," he said, "for your kindness to my little son." "it was only a trifle, sir," said our hero, modestly. "it was no trifle to us. how did you happen to meet him?" "i was resting by the road-side, when he came along, crying. i asked him what was the matter, and he told me. then i offered to guide him to you." "and thereby relieved our deep anxiety. we were very much frightened when thomas returned without him." "i don't wonder, sir." "you are english, i infer," said mr. grosvenor. "no, sir; i am an american." "you are not traveling alone--at your age?" said the merchant, in surprise. "i was not--that is, i came from america with another person, but i parted from him in switzerland." frank refrained from explaining under what circumstances he parted from sharpley, partly from a natural reluctance to revive so unpleasant a subject, partly because he did not like to trouble the grosvenors with his affairs. "it must be lonely traveling without friends," said mr. grosvenor. "my daughter and i would feel glad to have you join our party." "oh, yes, papa!" said beatrice. frank turned towards the beautiful girl who spoke so impulsively, and he could not help feeling that it would indeed be a pleasure to travel in her society. i don't mean to represent him as in love, for at his age that would be foolish; but he had never had a sister, and it seemed to him that he would have been glad to have such a sister as beatrice. but how could he, with less than forty sous to defray his traveling expenses, join the party of a wealthy london merchant? had he the money that rightfully belonged to him, now in sharpley's hands, there would have been no difficulty. "you hesitate," said mr. grosvenor. "perhaps it would interfere with your plans to go with us." "no, sir; it is not that," and frank hesitated again. it was an embarrassing moment, but he decided quickly to make the merchant acquainted with his circumstances. "if you will favor me with five minutes' private conversation," he said, "i will tell you why i hesitate." "certainly," said mr. grosvenor, politely, and led the way into the hotel. the nature of frank's explanation is, of course, anticipated by the reader. he related, as briefly as possible, the particulars of sharpley's plot. the merchant listened with surprise. "this is certainly a singular story," he said, "and you have been treated with the blackest treachery. do you know, or do you guess, what has become of this man?" "i don't know. i think he has started to return to america, or will do so soon." "and what are your plans?" "i mean to go to paris. there i have a friend who i think will help me--an american with whom i became acquainted on the voyage over." "i suppose you are poorly provided with money?" "i have less than two francs left," frank acknowledged. the merchant looked amazed. "you were actually reduced to that?" he exclaimed. "yes, sir." "how did you expect to get to paris?" frank smiled. "that is what puzzled me," he owned. "i was sitting by the road-side thinking how i should accomplish it when your little boy came along." now it was mr. grosvenor's turn to smile. "he solved it," he said. "who, sir?" asked frank. "my little boy," said mr. grosvenor, still smiling. "i don't understand," said our hero, puzzled. "i mean that herbert shall act as your banker. that is, on account of your kindness to him, i propose to add you to my party, and advance you such sums as you may require." "you are very kind, sir," said frank, relieved and grateful. "i really don't know what i should have done without some such assistance." "then it is arranged, and you will join us at dinner, which is already ordered. i will order a room to be made ready for you." "i hope, sir, you will excuse my dress," said frank, who, it must be confessed, might have looked neater. he had walked for several days, and was in consequence very dusty. then again, his shirt and collar had been worn ever since his accident, and were decidedly dirty. "i am ashamed of my appearance, sir," continued our hero; "but colonel sharpley's treachery compelled me to travel without my trunk, and i have not even a change of linen." mr. grosvenor could not forbear smiling. "you are certainly in an awkward condition," he said. "i will apologize for you to beatrice, the only lady of our party, and we will see after dinner if we cannot repair your loss." frank used a brush diligently, and succeeded in making his outer clothes presentable; but, alas! no brush could restore the original whiteness of his dingy linen; and he flushed crimson as he entered the dining-room, and by direction of mr. grosvenor took a seat next to beatrice, who looked so fresh and rosy and clean as to make the contrast even more glaring. but her cordial greeting soon put him at ease. "papa has been telling me of that horrid man who tried to kill you," she commenced. "what a wretch he must be!" "i think he is one," said frank; "but until the accident happened--that is, till he pushed me over the cliff--i had no idea of his design." "and he left you without any money, didn't he?" "with very little--just what i happened to have about me. i paid most of that to the peasant who found me and took care of me." "didn't you almost starve?" "no; but my meals were very plain. i didn't dare to eat as much as i would have liked." "and i suppose that horrid man has gone off with your money?" said beatrice, indignantly. "yes, miss." "her name isn't miss," said little herbert. "it's beatrice." "herbert is right," said beatrice, smiling. "i am not a young lady yet--i am only twelve." "then," said our hero, who was fast getting to feel at home in his new surroundings, "as i am not a young gentleman yet, i suppose you will call me frank." "i will call you frank," said herbert. "then i suppose i must do so to be in fashion," said beatrice, laughing. "i certainly don't look like a young gentleman in these dirty clothes," said our hero. "perhaps herbert will lend me a suit?" "i think," said mr. grosvenor, "we shall be able to refit you without drawing from herbert's wardrobe." so the conversation went on, and our hero, before the dinner closed, found himself entirely at his ease in spite of his soiled clothes. chapter xxxi. how the news went home. frank had one source of anxiety and embarrassment connected with his recent adventure which had occupied a considerable space of his thoughts. it was this. how could he let his mother know that he was still alive without its coming to the knowledge of mr. craven? convinced, as he was, that his step-father was at the bottom of the treacherous plot to which he had nearly fallen a victim, he wished him to suppose that it had succeeded in order to see what course he would pursue in consequence. his subsequent course would confirm his share in the plot or relieve him from any complicity, and frank wanted to know, once for all, whether he was to regard his step-father as a disguised and dangerous foe or not. but he was not willing that his mother should rest long under the impression that he had perished among the alps. in her delicate state of health he feared that it would prove too much for her, and that it might bring on a fit of sickness. he wished, therefore, in some way, to communicate to her secretly the knowledge that he had escaped. but if he wrote mr. craven would see the letter or know that one had been received. evidently, therefore, he could not write directly to her. after some perplexity, he saw a way out of the difficulty. he had recently received a letter from his old friend and school companion, ben cameron, stating that the latter had gone to wakefield, ten miles distant, to spend two months with an uncle, and asking frank to direct his next letter there. it flashed upon our hero that he could write to ben, giving him an account of what had happened, and asking him to acquaint his mother secretly, saying nothing of this letter in case he should hear that he, frank, was dead. the day after he joined the grosvenor party he carried out this plan, writing a long letter to ben, which terminated as follows: "i feel sure that mr. craven is at the bottom of this attempt upon my life, and i think that his plan is to get possession of my money. he knows that mother's health would be very much affected by the news of any fatal accident to me, and that she would easily be induced to put all business into his hands. he would find it very easy to cheat a woman. you may ask why colonel sharpley should be induced to join in such a plot. that i can't tell, but i think he is not very rich, and that mr. craven has offered to divide with him in case they succeed. otherwise, i can think of no motive he could have for attempting to kill me. we have always been on good terms so far as i know. "i may be wrong in all this, but i don't think i am. i suppose colonel sharpley has written home that i am dead, and i think that he will soon go to america to receive his pay for the deed. now, ben, as you are my friend, i want you to manage to see my mother privately, and tell her that i am well--perfectly well--that i have escaped almost by a miracle, and that though without money, i have found friends who will supply all my needs and give me money to return to america. she is not to let anybody know that she has heard from me, but to wait till i come home, as i shall soon. especially if mr. craven tries to get hold of my property, tell mother to resist and refuse utterly to allow it. i advise her also to take care how she trusts mr. craven with her own money. "i shall not write you again, ben, for fear my letters might be seen. but some day i shall come home unexpectedly. let mother see this letter and then destroy it. "your affectionate friend, "frank hunter." it was fortunate that frank wrote this letter; but we must precede it, and, after a long interval, look in upon the home he had left. one day mr. craven took from the village post-office a letter. he opened it eagerly, and, as he read it, his face showed the gratification which he felt. but lest this should be noticed, he immediately smoothed his face and assumed a look of grave and hypocritical sadness. this was the letter: "dear mr craven:--it is with great sorrow that i sit down to write you this letter. i would, if i could, commit to another hand the task of communicating the terrible news which i have to impart. not to keep you longer in suspense, your step-son, frank hunter, met with a fatal accident yesterday, while ascending the alps with me. he approached too near the edge of a precipice, though i warned him of his danger, and insisted on looking over. whether he became dizzy or slipped i cannot explain, but, to my horror, a moment later i saw the unfortunate boy slip over the edge and fall into the terrible abyss. i sprang forward, hoping to catch him, but was too late. i nearly fell over myself in the vain attempt to save him. i almost wish i had done so; for, though the act was the result of his own imprudence, i cannot help feeling responsible. i ought to have exercised my authority and forcibly restrained him from drawing near the fatal brink. yet i did not like to be too strict with a boy of his age; i feared he would dislike me. but i wish i had run that risk. anything would have been better than to feel that i might have saved him and neglected to do it. "i sympathize deeply with you and his mother in your sorrow at this bereavement. i shall sail for america in two or three weeks, in order to give mrs. craven and yourself a detailed account of this calamity. i will bring home what things i have of frank's, thinking that it may be a sad satisfaction to his mother to have them. "i cannot write further. i have a terrible head-ache, and am completely used up by the sad scene through which i have passed. "yours truly, "sharpley." mr. craven took out this letter and read it a second time on his way home. "that's a good letter," he said to himself, sardonically, "so full of sympathy, regret, and that sort of thing. i couldn't have done it better myself, and i have rather a talent for such things. egad! sharpley has surpassed himself. i didn't give the fellow credit for so much hypocrisy. so he's coming to america to give us a detailed account of this calamity, is he? i know why he's coming. it's to get pay for his share of the plot. well, if all goes well, i can afford to pay him well, though i really think his price was too high. now that the young one is out of the way, i must manage his mother, so as to get his property into my hands. forty thousand dollars! it will relieve me from all money cares for the rest of my life." as mr. craven approached the house, his face assumed a grave and sorrowful expression. he was preparing to inflict a crushing blow upon the devoted mother, who was even then counting the days to the probable return of her beloved boy. entering the house, he met katy in the hall. "is your mistress in?" he asked. "yes, sir; she's up stairs. have you heard from frank, sir?" "yes, katy," he answered in a significantly doleful tone. "is anything the matter of him, sir?" asked katy, taking the hint. "oh, katy, i've heard bad news," said mr. craven, pulling out his white handkerchief, and elaborately wiping his eyes. "bad news! what is it, sir?" demanded katy. "i can't tell it," wailed mr. craven. "spit it out like a man!" exclaimed katy, impatiently. "is the dear boy sick?" "worse." "he ain't dead!" ejaculated katy, horror-struck. "yes, he is; he fell over a precipice in the alps, and was instantly killed." "what's a precipice, sir?" "he was on a steep hill and he slipped over the edge." katy uttered a loud shriek, and sank on the lower stair, and throwing her apron over her face, began to utter what can only be designated as howls of grief. mrs. craven from above was drawn to the head of the landing by what she heard. "what's the matter?" she asked, in affright. "oh! it's master frank, mum. he's kilt dead, he is!" "is this true?" ejaculated mrs. craven, looking toward her husband with pale face. "yes, my dear." there was a low shriek, and the poor mother sank to the floor in a dead faint. chapter xxxii. ben brings good news. the news of frank's death--or supposed death--was a terrible shock to mrs. craven. she was of a nervous organization, and her attachment to her son was the greater because he was her only child. she felt that after his death she would have nothing left worth living for. all her future plans and prospects of happiness were connected with him. her husband, as we know, was nothing to her. she had married him partly because she thought he might be useful to frank. "i wish i could die, katy," she wailed, addressing her faithful attendant. in this hour of her affliction, katy was nearer to her than mr. craven. "don't say that, missis," said katy, sobbing herself the while. "what have i to live for, now that my poor boy is dead?" and she indulged in a fresh outburst of grief. "my heart is broken, katy." "so is mine, mum--broke right in two!" answered katy, sympathetically. "to think that my poor boy should have met with such a terrible death." "he never knew what hurt him, mum. that's one comfort." "but i shall never see him again, katy," said the poor mother, sobbing. "yes, you will, mum--in heaven." "then i hope i shall go there soon. oh, i wish i had never let him go." "so do i, mum. he was so bright when he went away, poor lad. he little thought what was coming." it was a comfort to mrs. craven in her distress to speak to katy, whose devotion she knew. to mr. craven she did not feel like speaking much. she knew that frank had never liked him, and this closed her lips. she even, poor woman, accused herself for marrying again, since, had she not done so, frank would not have gone abroad, and would still be spared to her. mr. craven wisely kept out of the way for a time. he wanted to introduce business matters, and so carry out the concluding portion of his arrangement, but he felt that it would be impolitic to do it at once. mrs. craven was in no frame of mind to give attention to such things. he could wait, though it was irksome to do so. several days passed. mrs. craven's sharp sorrow had given way to a dull feeling of utter despondency. she kept to her room the greater part of the time, looking as if she had just emerged from a lengthened sickness. mr. craven wandered about the village, suppressing his good spirits with difficulty when he was at home, and assuming an expression of sympathetic sadness. but, when by himself, he would rub his hands and congratulate himself on the near accomplishment of his plans. one day, when matters were in this state of depression, ben cameron knocked at the door. he had received frank's letter, and had come over at once to deliver his message. the door was opened by katy, who knew ben well as the most intimate friend of our hero. "oh, ben, we've had bad news," said katy, wiping her eyes. "yes, i've heard it," said ben. "how is mrs. craven?" "poor lady! she's struck down wid grief. it's killin' her. she doted on that boy." "can i see her?" asked ben. "she don't feel like seein' anybody." "i think she'll see me, because i was frank's friend." "may be she will. she know'd you was always intimate friends." "is mr. craven at home?" "no. did you want to see him?" "no. i wanted to see mrs. craven alone." "you don't like him no better'n i do," said katy. "i hate him!" exclaimed ben, energetically, bearing in mind frank's suspicions that mr. craven was concerned in the attack upon him. "good on your head!" said katy, whose manners and education did not preclude her making occasional use of the slang of the day. "i'll go up and see if my missis will see you." she returned almost immediately. "come right up," she said. "she'll be glad to see frank's friend." when ben entered the room where mrs. craven, pale and wasted, sat in a rocking-chair, she burst into tears. the sight of ben brought her boy more vividly to mind. "how do you do, mrs. craven?" said ben. "my heart is broken, benjamin," she answered, sadly. "you have heard of my poor boy's death?" "yes, i have heard of it." "you were his friend. you know how good he was." "yes, frank is the best fellow i know," said ben, warmly. "you say is. alas! you forget that he is no more." katy had descended to the kitchen. ben looked cautiously around him. "mrs. craven," he said, "can you keep a secret?" she looked surprised. "yes," she answered, faintly. "i am going to tell you something which must be kept secret for awhile. can you bear good news? frank is alive!" "alive!" exclaimed the mother, jumping from her chair, and fixing her eyes imploringly, almost incredulously, on her visitor. "yes. don't be agitated, mrs. craven. i have received a letter from him." "is it true? oh, tell me quickly. didn't he fall over the precipice?" "yes, he fell, but it was on a soft spot, and he was saved." "heaven be praised! bless you for bringing such news. tell me all about it." ben told the story in a few words, and then showed the letter. how it eased and comforted the poor mother's heart i need not say. she felt as if life had been restored to her once more. "you see, mrs. craven, that there is need of silence and secrecy. we cannot tell whether frank's suspicions have any foundation or not. we must wait and see." "do you think mr. craven could have had anything to do with the wicked plot?" exclaimed mrs. craven, indignantly. "frank thinks so." "i will tax him with it. if he framed such a plot he shall answer for it." "hush, mrs. craven. remember frank's wish. it will defeat his plans." "it is true. i forgot. but how can i live in the same house with a man who sought the life of my poor boy?" "we are not sure of it." "do not fear. i will do as my boy wishes. but i may tell him that i do not think he is dead?" "yes, if you give no reason." "and i should like to tell katy. she, poor girl, loves frank almost as much as i do." "do you think katy can keep it secret?" "yes, if i ask her to, and tell her it is frank's wish." "then i think you can venture. i will take the letter and destroy it, as frank wanted me to." "don't destroy it. you can keep it where no one will see it." when ben went out he told katy that her mistress wished to see her. she went up, and to her surprise found that mrs. craven had thrown open the blind of the hitherto darkened chamber, and actually received her with a smile. katy looked bewildered. "come here, katy," said her mistress. then she whispered in katy's ear, "katy, he's alive!" "what!" exclaimed the handmaiden, incredulously. "yes, it's true. he's written to ben. but you must keep it secret. sit down, and i'll tell you all about it." "oh, the ould villain!" was katy's comment upon the story. "i'd like to wring his neck," meaning mr. craven's. "you must be careful, katy. he isn't to know we've heard anything." "but he'll guess from your lavin' off mournin'." "i'll tell him i have dreamed that my boy escaped." "that'll do, mum. when will master frank be comin' home?" "soon, i hope, but now i can wait patiently since heaven has spared him to me." when mr. craven returned home at the close of the afternoon, he was astonished to hear katy singing at her work, and to find mrs. craven dressed and down stairs, quite self-controlled, though grave. in the morning she was in the depths of despondency, and katy was gloomy and sad. "what's up?" he thought. "my dear," he said, "i am glad that you are bearing your affliction better. it is a terrible loss, but we should be resigned to the will of the almighty." "i don't think frank is dead," answered mrs. craven. "not think he is dead? i wish there were any chance of your being right, but i cannot encourage you in such a delusion. there is, unhappily, no chance of the poor boy surviving such a fearful accident." "you may call it foolish, if you will, mr. craven, but i have a presentiment that he is alive." "but, my dear, it is impossible." "katy thinks so, too." mr. craven shrugged his shoulders. "i wish it were true, but there is no hope. you saw my friend's letter?" "yes." "he said there was no hope." "he thought so. i am firmly convinced that frank is alive." mr. craven tried to undermine her confidence, but, of course, without avail. he was troubled, for if she continued to cherish this belief she would not take possession of frank's fortune, and thus he would be cut off from it. chapter xxxiii. alpine explorations of mr. tarbox. arrived at the hotel du glacier, mr. tarbox immediately instituted inquiries about the fate of frank, and soon learned all that was known by the people at the inn. being a decidedly straightforward person, he did not fail to insinuate, or rather to make direct charges, against sharpley, but these found no credence. sharpley's hypocritical sorrow, and his plausible explanation, had imposed upon them, and they informed mr. tarbox that colonel sharpley was an excellent gentleman, and was deeply affected by the accident which had befallen monsieur frank. "deeply affected--in a horn!" returned the disgusted jonathan. "in a horn!" repeated the landlord, with a perplexed expression. "what is it to be deeply affected in a horn?" "over the left, then," amended mr. tarbox, impatiently. "i do not understand over the left," said the other. "look here, my friend. where was you raised?" demanded mr. tarbox. "raised?" "yes; brought up--born." "i was born here, among these mountains, monsieur." "did you ever go to school?" "to school--_a l'cole? certainement._ i am not one ignorant person," said the landlord, beginning to get angry. "and you never learned 'in a horn,' or 'over the left?'" "_non_, monsieur." "then," said mr. tarbox, "it is high time the schools in switzerland were reorganized. i should like to speak to your school committee." "school committee?" "yes. you have a school committee, haven't you?" "_non_, monsieur." "that accounts for it. you need a smart school committee to see that the right things are taught in your schools. but about frank--has his body been found?" "_non_, monsieur." "not been found! why not?" "we have looked for it, but we cannot find it." "poor boy!" said mr. tarbox, wiping away a tear. "so he has been left all the time lying dead in some hole in the mountains." "we have looked for him." "then you didn't look sharp. i'll look for him myself, and when i've found the poor boy i'll give him decent burial. i'd rather bury that skunk sharpley a darned sight. i'd bury him with pleasure, and i wouldn't grudge the expense of the coffin. now tell me where the poor boy fell." "my son baptiste shall go and show monsieur the way." "all right. it don't make any difference to me if he is a baptist. i'm a methodist myself, and there ain't much difference, i guess. so just tell the baptist to hurry up and we'll set out. what's his name?" "my son's name?" "yes." "did i not say it was baptiste?" "oh, that's his name, is it? i thought it was his religion. funny name, ain't it? but that makes no difference." baptiste was soon ready, and the two set out together. the guide found it rather difficult to follow mr. tarbox in his eccentric remarks, but they got on very well together, and after a time stood on the fatal ledge. "here it was the poor boy fell off," said baptiste. "i don't believe it," said mr. tarbox. "the boy wasn't a fool, and he couldn't have fell unless he was--it was that skunk, sharpley, that pushed him off." "monsieur sharpley was deeply grieved. how could he push him off?" it will be remembered that sharpley left a sum of money in the hands of the guide to defray the burial expenses in case frank's body was found. this naturally made an impression in his favor on baptiste's mind, particularly as the money had not been required, and the probability was that he would be free to convert it to his own use. accordingly, both he and his father were ready to defend the absent sharpley against the accusations of mr. tarbox. "how could he push him off? jest as easy as winking," replied jonathan. "jest as easy as i could push you off," and mr. tarbox placed his hand on the guide's shoulder. baptiste jumped back in affright. "why, you didn't think i was goin' to do it, you jackass!" said the yankee. "you're scared before you're hurt. i only wanted to show you how it could be done. now, jest hold on to my coat-tail while i look over." "monsieur had better lie down and look over. it is more safe." "i don't know but you're right, baptiste," and mr. tarbox proceeded to follow his advice. "it's a pesky ways to fall," he said, after a pause. "poor frank! it don't seem as if there was much chance of his bein' alive." "no, monsieur. he is doubtless dead!" "then, where is his body? it is strange that it is not found." "yes, it is strange." "i mean to look for it myself. is there any way to get down here?" "yes, but it is a long way." "never mind that. we will try it. i've got a good pair of legs, and i can hold out if you can." "very well, monsieur." they accordingly descended and explored the chasm beneath, climbing part way up, looking everywhere for the remains of our hero, but, as we know, there was a very good reason why they were not found. frank was, at that very moment, eating a hearty breakfast with his friends, the grosvenors, in coblentz, preparatory to crossing the river and ascending the heights of ehrenbreitstein. he little dreamed that his yankee friend was at that moment looking for his body. had mr. tarbox been able to see the said body, he would have been relieved from all apprehensions. after continuing his search for the greater part of a day, mr. tarbox was obliged to give it up. though possessed of a considerable share of physical strength, obtained by working on his father's farm from the age of ten, he was obliged to own that he was about "tuckered out." he was surprised to find that the guide appeared comparatively fresh. "ain't you tired, baptiste?" he asked. "_non_, monsieur." "well, that's strange. you're a little feller, compared with me. i could swaller you almost, and i'm as tired as a dog--clean tuckered out." "i was born among these mountains, monsieur. i have always been accustomed to climbing among them; and that is the reason." "i guess you're right, baptiste. i don't think i shall take up the business of an alpine guide jest yet. what sort of plows do you have in switzerland, baptiste?" "i will show monsieur when we go back." "all right. you see, baptiste, i've invented a plow that goes ahead of all your old-fashioned concerns, and i'd like to introduce it into switzerland." "you can speak to my father, monsieur, i have nothing to do with the plowing." mr. tarbox did speak to the landlord, after first expressing his disgust at the manner in which agricultural operations were carried on in switzerland; but he soon found that the swiss mind is not one that yearns for new inventions, and that the prospect of selling his patent in switzerland for a good round sum was very small. as he had failed in his search for frank, and as there seemed no business inducements for remaining, he decided to leave the hotel du glacier and return at once to paris. he did so with a heavy heart, for he really felt attached to frank, and was grieved by his unhappy fate. chapter xxxiv. the plow is a success. the grosvenors traveled in a leisurely manner, stopping at places of interest on the way, so that they did not reach paris for a fortnight. mr. tarbox had been back over a week before frank arrived at the hotel du louvre. our hero had by this time got very well acquainted with his party, and the favorable impression which he at first made was considerably strengthened. little herbert took a great fancy to him, and frank allowed the little boy to accompany him in many of his walks. frequently, also, beatrice was of the party. she, too, was much pleased with our hero, and treated him in a frank, sisterly way, which frank found agreeable. mr. grosvenor noticed the intimacy established between his children and frank, but he saw that our hero was well brought up, and very polite and gentlemanly, and therefore was not displeased by it. in fact he was gratified, for he saw that it added considerably to the pleasure which they derived from the journey. on the morning after their arrival in paris frank prepared to go out. "where are you going, frank?" asked little herbert. beatrice also looked up, inquiringly. "to see a friend of mine, herbert." "what is his name?" "it seems to me that you are inquisitive, herbert," said his father. "oh, it is no secret," said frank, laughing. "it is jonathan tarbox, of squashboro', state o' maine." "what a funny name!" "yes, it is a queer name, and its owner is a little queer, also, but he is a good fellow for all that. he is a genuine specimen of the yankee, mr. grosvenor." "i should like to see him," said mr. grosvenor, smiling. "invite him to call." "i will, sir, thank you. though he is unpolished, i believe you will find that he has something in him." mr. tarbox was back in his place in the exposition building. he had not ceased to mourn for frank. still he felt in better spirits than usual, for he had had an interview with a wealthy american capitalist, who had looked into the merits of his plow, and half-promised that he would pay him ten thousand dollars for a half ownership of the patent. this would make mr. tarbox a man of great wealth in his native place (squashboro', state o' maine), and enable him to triumph over his friends and relations, who had thought him a fool for going to the expense of a trip to europe, when he might have invested the same sum in a small farm at home. he was busily engaged in thinking over his prospects, when he was startled by a familiar voice. "how do you do, mr. tarbox?" said frank, saluting him. "what!" gasped mr. tarbox, fixing his eyes upon our hero in a strange mixture of incredulity, wonder, bewilderment and joy. "why, mr. tarbox, you don't seem glad to see me," said frank. "you haven't forgotten me, have you?" "are you alive?" asked mr. tarbox, cautiously, eying him askance. "alive? i rather think i am. just give me your hand." the yankee mechanically extended his hand, and frank gave him a grip which convinced him that he was flesh and blood. "but i thought you were dead!" "you see i am not." "i saw the cliff where you tumbled off, and broke your neck." "i got it mended again," said frank, laughing. "but you say you saw the cliff. have you been to switzerland?" "yes. i mistrusted something was goin' to happen to you." "how could you mistrust? what led to your suspicions?" "a letter that your step-father wrote to that skunk, sharpley, in which he talks about your meeting with an accident." "but," inquired frank, in surprise, "how did you get hold of such a letter? i knew nothing about it." "you left it here one day by accident." "where is it? let me read it." "first, let me ask you a question. didn't that skunk push you off the cliff?" "yes," said frank, gravely. "and how did you escape?" "some peasants found me on a snow-covered ledge on which i had fallen. they took me home, and nursed me till i was well enough to travel." "are you with that skunk now?" "no; i never would travel with him again," said frank, shuddering. "where is he?" "i don't know. but let me have the letter." he read in silence the paragraph which has been quoted in an earlier chapter. when he had finished he looked up. "i am afraid," he said, gravely, "there is no doubt that mr. craven employed colonel sharpley to make away with me." "then he is a skunk, too!" "mr. tarbox, i would not mind it so much but for one thing." "what is that, frank?" "he is married to my mother. if he lays this plot for me, what will he do against her?" "he will try to get hold of her money." "i fear so, and if she resists i am afraid he will try to injure her." "may be you're right, frank." "i think i ought to go home at once; don't you think so?" "i don't know but you're right, frank. i'm almost ready to go too." "oh, i forgot to ask you what luck you had met with." "i expect i'll do first-rate. there's a gentleman that's talkin' of buyin' one-half my plow for ten thousand dollars." "i congratulate you, mr. tarbox," said frank, heartily; "i hope he'll do it." "i guess he won't back out. he's been inquirin' about it pretty close. he thinks it's a big thing." "i've no doubt he's right, mr. tarbox." "it'll take the shine off all the plows that's goin'." "perhaps business will detain you, then, mr. tarbox." "no, mr. peterson--that's his name--is goin' back to america in a week or two, and if he strikes a bargain i'll go too. won't dad open his eyes when his son comes home with ten thousand dollars in his pocket? may be he won't think me quite such a fool as he thought when i started off for europe, and wouldn't buy a farm, as he wanted me to, with that money i got as a legacy." "but you will have half your patent also." "of course i will, and if that don't bring me in a fortun' it's because folks can't tell a good plow when they see it. but there's one thing i can't understand, frank." "what's that?" "where did you get all your money to travel after you got pitched over the precipice by that skunk?" "oh, i didn't tell you that. well, after i was able to travel i examined my purse, and found i had only twelve dollars." "that wa'n't much." "no, particularly as i had to pay ten dollars to the good people who picked me up. i shall send them more as soon as i have it." "jest draw on me, frank. i ain't rich, but ef you want a hundred dollars or more, jest say so." "thank you, mr. tarbox," said frank, gratefully. "i wouldn't hesitate to accept your very kind offer, but i do not now need it." he then proceeded to explain his meeting with the grosvenors just when he stood in most need of assistance. he dwelt upon the kindness they had shown him, and the pleasure he had experienced in their society. "i'm glad you've been so lucky. grosvenor is a brick, but it ain't surprisin' he should take a fancy to you." "i suppose that is a compliment, mr. tarbox," said frank, smiling. "perhaps it is. i don't know much about compliments, but i know i felt awful bad when i thought you was dead. i wanted to thrash that skunk within an inch of his life." "i guess you could do it," said frank, surveying the athletic form of his yankee friend. "i'll do it now if i ever come across him. where do you think he is?" "i think he has gone to america to ask pay for disposing of me." "i guess so, too. they told me at that hotel du glacier (the last word mr. tarbox pronounced in two syllables) that he was goin' home to break the news to your folks. i guess your step-father won't break his heart badly." "i must follow him," said frank. "i shall feel uneasy till i reach home and unmask their villany." "i hope we'll go together." "i'll let you know, mr. tarbox, when i take passage. then, if your business is concluded, we will be fellow-passengers once more." chapter xxxv. mr. craven meets with unexpected difficulties. mrs. craven was placed in a difficult position. at the special request of frank, as conveyed in his letter, she had agreed to keep secret her knowledge of his safety. of course, she could no longer indulge in her sorrow, which at first overwhelmed her. her only course was to affirm her belief in his deliverance, though she was not at liberty to name the grounds upon which her belief was based. this must necessarily seem strange, as a "presentiment" was a very slender reason for the change in her manner. had she been willing to play a part, mrs. craven might still have counterfeited grief, but this, again, was not in accordance with her nature. she preferred to be misunderstood, and to excite surprise in those who were ignorant of the facts. but this was not her only perplexity. there was the haunting suspicion that the man whom, unhappily for herself, she called husband, had instigated the wicked plot against the life of her only son. frank believed it. it might not be true; yet, while there was a possibility of its truth, how could she continue to treat him with her usual courtesy? she sought to do it, but she could not. though studiously polite, her manner became very cold--almost repellent. when mr. craven approached her she could hardly avoid shuddering. of course, this change became perceptible to him, and he was puzzled and disturbed. it upset all his calculations. he thought she would accept the fact of frank's death--of which, by the way, he had no doubt himself--and would be so overcome by sorrow that he could readily obtain her consent to those business steps which would place the entire control of frank's fortune in his hands. yet here she was, declining to believe that he was dead, and evidently her confidence in him was, for some reason, chilled and impaired. mr. craven was impatient to broach the subject, and finding his wife's manner still the same, and with no prospect of alteration, he devised a plausible mode of approaching the subject which was so near his heart. one evening, after the supper dishes were removed, just as mrs. craven was leaving the room, he called her back. "my dear," he said, "will you sit down a few minutes? i have a few words to say to you." she complied with his request. "ahem!" he commenced. "i have taken a step to-day of which i wish to apprize you." "indeed." "yes, my dear. sensible of the uncertainty of life, i have to-day made my will." "indeed!" she said again, exhibiting no particular interest in mr. craven's communication. "you do not ask me in what way i have left my money!" "i do not suppose it concerns me." "but it does, materially. i have no near relatives--at least, none that i care for. i have bequeathed all my property to you." as mr. craven possessed nothing whatever apart from the money which his wife permitted him to control, this magnanimous liberality did not require any great self-denial or evince any special affection on his part. however, his wife did not know that, and upon her ignorance he relied. he expected her to thank him, but her manner continued cold. "i am obliged to you for your intention," she said, "but i am not likely to survive you." "we cannot tell, my dear. should you live to be my widow, i should wish you to inherit all i left behind me." "thank you, but i should prefer that you would leave all you possess to the relatives you refer to." "i have none that i care for." "i suppose we must sometimes leave property to those we do not particularly like." mr. craven was very much disappointed by the coldness with which his liberality was received. he wanted to suggest that his wife should follow his example and leave him her fortune, increased as it was by frank's, of which she was the legal heir. but this proposal was not so easy to make. nevertheless, he determined, at any rate, to try for the control of frank's estate. "there's but one thing more i want to mention," he said. "but first let me say, that my will must stand without alteration. of course, you can make such disposition of my property as you like when it falls to you, but to you it must go. now, for the other matter. i beg you will excuse me from saying anything to grieve you, but it must be said. it is necessary for us to take some measures about poor frank's property." "why is it necessary?" "since he is dead--" "but he is not dead," said mrs. craven, quickly. "not dead? have we not colonel sharpley's testimony? he saw the poor boy fall over the cliff." mr. craven drew out his handkerchief and pressed it to his eyes, but his wife displayed no emotion. "then i don't believe colonel sharpley," said mrs. craven. "don't believe him!" exclaimed mr. craven. "what possible motive can he have for stating what is not true?" "it may be that frank fell, but that would not necessarily kill him." still she shuddered, as fancy conjured up the terrible scene. mr. craven shook his head. "my dear," he said, "i regret to destroy your hopes. if such a fancy could be indulged without interfering with what ought to be done, i would say nothing to disturb your dream, wild and improbable as it is. but frank left property. the law requires that it should be legally administered." "let it accumulate till my boy returns." "that would be foolish and idle. the poor boy will never need it more;" and again mr. craven buried his emotion in the depth of his handkerchief. "his bright and promising career is over for this world. he has gone where worldly riches will never benefit him more." but for her private knowledge of frank's safety, mrs. craven would have been moved by his pathetic reference; but, as it was, she stood it without manifesting any emotion, thus plunging her husband into deeper and more angry bewilderment. "as i said before," returned his wife, "i firmly believe that frank is still alive." "what proof--what reason can you offer?" demanded mr. craven, impatiently. "none, except my fixed conviction." "based upon nothing at all, and contradicted by the most convincing testimony of eye-witnesses." "that is your view." "it is the view of common sense." "there is no need of doing anything about the property at present, is there? i am the legal heir, am i not?" "ahem! yes." "then it is for me to say what shall be done. i am in no hurry to assume possession of my boy's fortune." mr. craven bit his lip. here was an impracticable woman. apparently, nothing could be done with her--at least as long as she shared this delusion. "i shall soon be able to convince you," he said, "that you are laboring under a happy but an untenable delusion. i expect colonel sharpley in the next steamer." mrs. craven looked up now. "is he coming here?" she asked. "yes; so he writes. he wishes to tell you all about the accident--how it happened, and some details of poor frank's last experiences in europe. he felt that it would be a satisfaction to you to hear them from his own lips. he has, therefore, made this journey expressly on your account." mrs. craven looked upon sharpley as the murderer of her boy. it was his hand, she believed, that thrust him from the cliff and meant to compass his death. could she receive such a man as a guest? "mr. craven," she said, abruptly, "if colonel sharpley comes here, i have one request to make." "what is it, my dear?" "that you do not invite him to stay in this house." "why, my dear? i thought you would like to see the last companion of poor frank," returned mr. craven, surprised. "i cannot bear the sight of that man. but for him, frank would not have incurred such peril." "but sharpley is not to blame for an accident. he could not help it. i regret that you should be so unreasonably prejudiced." "call it prejudice if you will. i could not endure the thought of entertaining him as a guest." "this is very strange, my dear. what will he think?" "i cannot say, but you must not invite him here." mrs. craven left the room, leaving her husband angry and perplexed. "surely she can't suspect anything!" he thought, startled at the suggestion. "but no, it is impossible. we have covered our tracks too carefully for that. on my soul, i don't know what to do. this obstinate woman threatens to upset all my plans. i will consult sharpley when he comes." chapter xxxvi. sharpley's return. a few days later, as mr. craven sat in his office smoking a cigar, while meditating upon the best method of overcoming his wife's opposition to his plans, the outer door opened, and sharpley entered. "well, craven," he said, coolly, "you appear to be taking it easy." "when did you arrive?" asked mr. craven. "yesterday. you ought to feel complimented by my first call. you see i've lost no time in waiting upon you." "i received your letter," said craven. "both of them?" "yes." "then you know that your apprehensions were verified," said sharpley, significantly. "the boy was as imprudent as you anticipated. he actually leaned over too far, in looking over an alpine precipice, and tumbled. singular coincidence, wasn't it?" "then he is really dead?" said mr. craven, anxiously. "dead? i should think so. a boy couldn't fall three or four hundred feet, more or less, without breaking his neck. unless he was made of india rubber, he'd be apt to smash something." "did you find his body?" "no; i didn't stop long enough. i came away the next day. but, fearing that i might seem indifferent, and that might arouse, suspicion, i left some money with a guide, the son of the landlord of the hotel du glacier, to find him and bury him." "i would rather you had yourself seen the body interred. it would have been more satisfactory." "oh, well, i'll swear that he is dead. that will be sufficient for all purposes. but how does your wife take it?" "in a very singular way," answered mr. craven. "in a singular way? i suppose she is overwhelmed with grief, but i shouldn't call that singular--under the circumstances." "but you are mistaken. she is not overwhelmed with grief." sharpley started. "you don't mean to say she doesn't mind it?" he asked. "no, it isn't that." "what is it, then?" "she won't believe the boy's dead." "won't believe he is dead? did you show her my letter?" "yes." "that ought to have been convincing." "of course it ought. nothing could be more direct or straightforward. at first it did seem to have the proper effect. she fainted away, and for days kept her room, refusing to see any one, even me." "well, that must have been a sacrifice," said sharpley, ironically; "not to see her devoted husband." "but all at once there was a change. one day i came home at the close of the afternoon, supposing, as usual, that my wife was in her room, but, to my surprise, she was below. she had ceased weeping and seemed even cheerful--though cold in her manner. on complimenting her upon her resignation, she astonished me by saying that she was convinced that frank was still alive." "did she assign any reason for this belief?" asked sharpley, thoughtfully. "only that she had a presentiment that he had escaped." "nothing more than this?" "nothing more." "pooh! she is only hoping to the last." "it seems to be something more than that. if it was only hope, she would have fear also, and would show all the suspicion and anxiety of such a state of mind. but she is calm and cheerful, and appears to suffer no anxiety." "that is singular to be sure," said sharpley; "but i suppose it will not interfere with our designs?" "but it will. when i ventured delicately to insinuate that frank's property ought, according to law, to be administered upon, she absolutely declined, saying that there would be time enough for that when he was proved to be dead." "i can remove that difficulty," said sharpley. "she will hardly need more than my oral testimony." mr. craven shook his head. "i forgot to say that she has taken an unaccountable prejudice against you. she doesn't want me to invite you to the house. she insists that she is not willing to meet you as her guest." "what does this mean?" asked sharpley, abruptly. "do you think," he continued, in a lower tone, "that she has any suspicions?" "i don't see how she can," answered craven. "then why should she take such a prejudice against me?" "she says, that but for you, frank would never have gone abroad." "and so, of course, not have met with this accident?" "yes." "then, it's all right. it's a woman's unreasonable whim," said sharpley, apparently relieved by this explanation. "that may be; but it is equally inconvenient. she won't believe your testimony, and will still insist that frank is alive." a new suspicion entered sharpley's mind--this time, a suspicion of the good faith of his confederate, of whom, truth to tell, he had very little reason to form a good opinion. "look here, craven," he said, his countenance changing. "i believe you are at the bottom of this." "at the bottom of what?" exclaimed mr. craven, in genuine astonishment. "i believe you've put your wife up to this." "what should i do that for? why should i bite my own nose off--in other words frustrate my own plans?" "i am not sure that you would," returned sharpley, suspiciously. "how could it be otherwise?" "you want to cheat me out of the sum i was to receive for this service." "how?" "by pretending you can't get possession of the boy's property. then you can plead inability, and keep it all yourself." "on my honor, you do me injustice," said craven, earnestly. "your honor!" sneered sharpley. "the least said about that the better." "be it so; but you must see that my interests are identified with yours. i will prove to you that all i have said is true." "how will you prove it?" "by bringing you face to face with mrs. craven. by asking you to come home with me." "she said she did not want to receive me." "you shall learn that from her manner. after you are convinced of it, after you find she won't credit your tale of frank's death, we will consult as to what shall be done.' "very well. it will be strange if, after what has already been accomplished, we cannot circumvent an obstinate woman." "i think we can, with your help." "very well. when shall we try the experiment?" "at once." mr. craven took his hat and led the way out of his office, followed by sharpley. they walked at a good pace to the handsome dwelling already referred to, and entered. "katy," said mr. craven, "go up stairs and tell your mistress that colonel sharpley is here. he has just returned from europe." "yes, sir," said katy, looking askance at sharpley, whom, in common with her mistress, she regarded as a would-be murderer. "ma'am," said she, a moment later, in mrs. craven's chamber, "he's here." "who's here?" "that murderin' villain, ma'am." "what! colonel sharpley?" said mrs. craven, dropping her work in agitation. "yes, ma'am; and mr. craven wants you to come down and see him." "how can i see that man, who tried to take the life of my dear boy?" said mrs. craven, in continued agitation. "what shall i do, katy?" "i'll tell you what i'd do, ma'am. i'd go down and see what i can find out about it. jest ax him questions, and see what he's got to say for himself." mrs. craven hesitated, but she wanted to learn something of her absent boy, and followed katy's advice. as she entered the room, sharpley advanced to meet her, with extended hand. she did not seem to see it, but passed him coldly and sank into a rocking chair. he bit his lip with vexation, but otherwise did not show his chagrin. chapter xxxvii. mrs. craven's fixed idea. "you will probably wish to ask colonel sharpley about the circumstances attending poor frank's loss," said craven, in a soft voice. "i am ready to hear what colonel sharpley has to say," returned mrs. craven, coldly. "i see you are displeased with me, madame," said sharpley. "i can understand your feelings. you associate me with the loss of your son." "i do!" said mrs. craven, with emphasis. "but that is not just, my dear," said mr. craven. "accidents may happen at any time--they are beyond human foresight or control. it is my friend sharpley's misfortune that our frank came to his sad end while in his company." "while in his company?" repeated mrs. craven, looking keenly at sharpley. "you think i should have prevented it, mrs. craven. gladly would i have done so, but frank was too quick for me. with a boy's curiosity he leaned over the precipice, lost his balance and fell." "when did this happen--what day of the month?" "it was the eighteenth of august." mrs. craven remembered with joy that the letter which she had read, addressed to ben cameron, was dated a week later; it was a convincing proof of frank's safety. "you are sure that it was the eighteenth?" "yes, perfectly so," answered sharpley, not, of course, seeing the drift of her question. "did you find frank's body?" asked mrs. craven, with less emotion than sharpley expected from the nature of the question. "no," he answered, and immediately afterward wished he had said yes. "then," said mrs. craven, "frank may be alive." "impossible!" exclaimed mr. craven and sharpley in unison. "why impossible?" "the precipice was too high; it was absolutely impossible that any one could have fallen from such a height and not lose his life." "but you did not find the body?" "because i started for home the very next day to let you know what had happened. i left directions with a guide to search for and bury the body when found. he has doubtless done it. a letter from him may be on the way to me now announcing his success." "when you receive the letter you can show it to me," said mrs. craven, quietly. "certainly," said sharpley. then he regretted that he had not, while in europe, forged such a letter, or, failing this, that he had not positively declared that he had personally witnessed frank's burial. this would have removed all difficulty. "i have not expressed my sympathy in your loss," said sharpley; "but that is hardly necessary." "it is not at all necessary," said mrs. craven, "for i believe frank to be alive." "how can you believe it," asked sharpley, with difficulty repressing his irritation, "in the face of my testimony?" "you are not sure of frank's death." "i am as sure as i can be." "i am not," said mrs. craven, quietly. "but, permit me to ask, how could he possibly escape from the consequences of such a fall?" "that i cannot explain; but there have been escapes quite as wonderful. i have a presentiment that frank is alive." "i did not think you were so superstitious, my dear," said mr. craven. "call it superstition if you please. with me it is conviction." involuntarily the eyes of the two--craven and sharpley--met. there were irritation and perplexity in the expression of each. what could be done with such a perverse woman, so wholly inaccessible to reason? "confound it!" thought sharpley. "if i had foreseen all this trouble, i would have stayed and seen the brat under ground. of all the unreasonable women i ever met, mrs. craven takes the palm." "i have not yet told the circumstances," he said, aloud. "let me do so. you will then, probably, understand that your hopes have nothing to rest upon." he gave a detailed account, exaggerating the dangerous character of the cliff purposely. "what do you think now, my dear?" asked mr. craven. "i believe that frank escaped. if he has, he will come home, sooner or later. i shall wait patiently. i must now beg to be excused." she rose from her chair, and left the room. "what do you think of that, sharpley?" demanded craven, when she was out of ear-shot. "did i not tell you the truth?" "yes, your wife is the most perverse, unreasonable woman it was ever my lot to encounter." "you see the difficulty of our position, don't you?" "as to the property?" "yes. of course, that's all i care for. believing, as she does, that frank is alive, she won't have his property touched." "it is a pity you are not the guardian, instead of your wife." "it is a thousand pities. but what can we do? i want your advice." sharpley sat in silent thought for five minutes. "will it answer if i show your wife a certificate from the guide that he has found and buried frank?" "where will you get such a certificate?" "write it myself if necessary." "that's a good plan," said craven, nodding. "do you think she will resist the weight of such a document as that?" "i don't see how she can." "then it shall be tried." three days later, as soon as it was deemed prudent, sharpley called again at the house. he had boarded meanwhile at the hotel in the village, comprehending very clearly that mr. craven was not at liberty to receive him as a guest. mrs. craven descended, at her husband's request, to meet the man whom she detested. she had received a second call from ben, who, with all secrecy, showed her a line from frank, to the effect that he was well, had found good friends, and should very shortly embark for america. it was an effort for the mother to conceal her joy, but she did so for the sake of expediency. "when i was last here, mrs. craven," said sharpley, "you expressed doubt as to your son's death." "i did." "i wish you had had good reason for your doubt, but i knew only too well that there was no chance for his safety." "well?" "i am now prepared to prove to you that he is dead." "how will you prove it?" "read that, madame," he said, extending a paper. she took the paper extended to her, and read as follows: "honored sir:--as you requested, i searched for the body of the poor boy who fell over the cliff. i found it concealed among some bushes at the bottom of the cliff. it was very much bruised and disfigured, but the face was less harmed than the body, so that we knew it at once. as you directed, i had it buried in our little cemetery. i will point out the grave to you when you come this way. "i hope what i have done will meet your approval, and i remain, honored sir, your servant, "baptiste lamoureux, "alpine guide." "that removes every doubt," said mr. craven, applying his handkerchief to his eyes. "poor frank!" "when did you receive this letter, colonel sharpley?" asked mrs. craven. "yesterday." "it was written by a swiss guide?" "yes, madame." "he shows an astonishing knowledge of the english language," she said, with quiet meaning. "he probably got some one to write it for him," said sharpley, hastily. "so i thought," she said, significantly. "what difference can that make, my dear?" demanded mr. craven. "it seems to me of no importance whether he wrote it himself, or some traveler for him. you can't doubt frank's death now?" "i do." "good heavens! what do you mean?" "i mean that i am confident that my boy is alive. no one can convince me to the contrary," and she rose and left the room. "the woman is mad!" muttered sharpley. "so she is," said craven, rubbing his hands, as an evil thought entered his mind. "she is the subject of a mad delusion. now i see my way clear." "what do you mean?" "i mean this. i will obtain a certificate of her madness from two physicians, and have her confined in an asylum. of course, a mad woman cannot control property. everything will come into my hands, and all will be right." "you've hit it at last, craven!" said sharpley, with exultation. "that plan will work. we'll feather our nests, and then she may come out of the asylum, or stay there, it will be all the same to us." chapter xxxviii. retribution. the two rogues lost no time in carrying out their villanous design. they thirsted for the gold, and were impatient to get rid of the only obstacle to its acquisition. sharpley found two disreputable hangers-on upon the medical profession in the city of new york who, for twenty-five dollars a piece, agreed to pronounce mrs. craven insane. they came to the village, and were introduced to mrs. craven as business friends. the subject of frank's loss was cunningly introduced, and she once more affirmed her belief in his safety. this was enough. an hour later, in mr. craven's office, the two physicians signed a paper certifying that his wife was insane. they received their money and went back to the city. the next day was fixed upon by the conspirators for taking mrs. craven to an insane asylum. late the day previous a cunard steamer arrived at its dock. among the passengers were two of our acquaintances. one was frank hunter, our hero, sun-browned and healthy, heavier and taller, and more self-reliant than when, three months before, he sailed from the port of new york bound for liverpool. the other no one can mistake. the blue coat and brass buttons, the tall and somewhat awkward form, the thin but shrewd and good-humored face, are those of jonathan tarbox, of squashboro', state o' maine. "well, frank, i'm tarnal glad to be here," said mr. tarbox. "it seems kind of nat'ral. wonder what they'll say in squashboro' when they see me come home a man of fortun'." "your plow is a great success, mr. tarbox. you ought to be proud of it." "i be, frank. my pardner says he wouldn't take twenty thousand for his half of the invention, but i'm satisfied with the ten thousand he gave me. i didn't never expect to be worth ten thousand dollars." "you'll be worth a hundred thousand before you're through." "sho! you don't mean it. any how, i guess sally sprague'll be glad she's going to be mrs. tarbox. i say, frank we'll live in style. sally shall sit in the parlor, and play on the pianner. she wouldn't have done that if she'd took up with tom north. he's a shiftless, good-for-nothin' feller. but, i say, frank, what'll your folks say to see you?" "mother'll be overjoyed, but mr. craven won't laugh much. i hope," he added, gravely, "he hain't been playing any of his tricks on mother." "do you think that skunk, sharpley, has got back?" "i think he has, and it makes me anxious. mr. tarbox, will you do me a favor?" "sartin, frank." "then, come home with me. i may need a friend." "i'll do it, frank," said jonathan, grasping our hero's hand. "ef that skunk's round the neighborhood, i'll give him a piece of my mind." "thank you," said frank. "i am not afraid of him, but i am only a boy, and they might be too much for me. with you i have no cause to fear." they reached the village depot, and set out to walk. frank met two or three friends, who looked upon him as one raised from the dead. he merely spoke and hurried on. when a few rods from the house, their attention was called to a woman, who was running up the street, without any covering upon her head, sobbing like one in distress. "why, it's our katy!" exclaimed frank, in great agitation. "good heavens! what can have happened?" "katy!" he cried out. "oh, master frank, is it you?" exclaimed katy, laughing hysterically. "you're come in time. run home as fast as ever you can." "why, what's the matter?" demanded frank, in great alarm. "them rascals, mr. craven and sharpley, pretend that your mother is crazy, just because she won't hear to your bein' dead, and they're takin' her to the crazy 'sylum. i couldn't stand it, and i run out to see if i couldn't get help." "the blamed skunk!" exclaimed mr. tarbox, swinging his arms threateningly. "let me get a hold of him and he won't never know what hurt him." meanwhile, craven and sharpley had forced mrs. craven into a close carriage, and they were just driving out of the yard when our hero and his friend rushed to the rescue. mr. tarbox sprang to the horses' heads and brought them to a stop, while frank hurried to the door of the coach, which he pulled open. inside were mrs. craven, her husband and sharpley. they looked angrily to the door, but their dismay may be conceived when they met the angry face of one whom both believed to be dead. "oh, frank!" screamed mrs. craven. "you are come home at last." "yes, mother. let me help you out of the carriage." "you shall not go!" said mr. craven, desperately. "frank, your mother's insane. we are taking her to the asylum. it is for her good." "save me, frank!" implored mrs. craven. "i will save you, mother," said frank, firmly. "drive on!" shouted sharpley, savagely. "look a here!" exclaimed a new voice, that of jonathan tarbox, who was now peeping into the carriage. "that is the skunk that tried to murder you." "what do you mean, fellow?" demanded sharpley. "if you don't understand, come out and i'll lick it into you, you skunk! tell your mother to come out, and let that skunk stop her if he dares!" and mr. tarbox coolly drew out a revolver and pointed it at sharpley. "i'll get out, too," said mr. craven, faintly. "no, you won't. i've got a letter of yourn, written to that skunk, advisin' him to pitch frank over a precipice." "it's a lie!" ejaculated craven, pallid with fear. "it comes to the same thing," said mr. tarbox, coolly. "when he's tried for murder, you'll come in second fiddle." sharpley saw his danger. mr. craven was already out of the carriage. he made a dash for the door, but found himself in jonathan's powerful grasp. in a moment he was sprawling on his back in the yard. "jest lie there till i tell you to get up," he said. by this time two neighbors--athletic farmers--entered the yard. frank briefly explained the matter to them, and mr. tarbox asked their assistance to secure sharpley and craven. "let me go, frank. i'm your step-father," implored craven. "if that man has attempted your life, i know nothing of it. blame him; not me." "oh, that is your game," said sharpley, "you cowardly hound! you want to sell me and go scot-free yourself. then, gentlemen, it becomes my duty to say that this man has no business here. at the time he married this boys mother he had a wife living in london." "it's a lie!" faltered craven. "it's the truth. i saw her two months since, and so did the boy. you remember mrs. craven, whom you relieved?" "yes," said frank, in astonishment. "she is that man's wife." "thank heaven!" exclaimed frank. "then my mother is free." "moreover, he hired me to carry you abroad, with the understanding that you should not return, in order that he might enjoy your fortune." "you miserable snake in the grass!" exclaimed mr. tarbox, energetically. mr. craven, who was a coward at heart, was thoroughly overwhelmed at the revelations of his baseness, and made no resistance when taken into custody. sharpley and he were closely confined until indictments could be found against them, and, to anticipate matters a little, were tried, convicted and sentenced to ten years in the state prison. it was found that mr. craven had squandered several thousand dollars belonging to his wife, but frank's fortune was intact, and they indulged in no useless regrets for the money that was gone. frank went back to school, where he remained until the next summer, when he induced his mother to visit europe under his guidance. they visited his friends, the grosvenors, by whom they were cordially received. they went to switzerland, where mrs. hunter (craven no longer), beheld, with a shudder, the scene of her son's fall and escape. some years have now elapsed. frank is a young man, and junior partner in a prosperous new york firm. he is not married, but rumor has it that next fall he is to visit london for the purpose of uniting his fortunes to those of beatrice grosvenor, whose early fancy for our hero has ripened into a mature affection. it is probable that mr. grosvenor will be induced, after his daughter's marriage, to establish himself in new york, in order to be near her. frank's mother still lives, happy in the goodness and the prosperity of her son. she has improved in health, and is likely to live many years, an honored member of frank's household. our yankee friend, jonathan tarbox, is one of the magnates of squashboro', state o' maine. he and his partner have built a large manufactory, from which plows are turned out by hundreds and thousands annually. he is now squire tarbox, and sally sprague has changed her last name for one beginning with t. i should not be surprised to see him a member of congress, or governor of maine some time. frank has settled a pension upon the real mrs. craven, who will probably never see her husband again, as he is reported in poor health, and not likely to leave the prison alive. sharpley succeeded in effecting his escape, and it is not known where he has taken refuge. ben cameron is a trusted clerk in frank's employ, and our hero will take care that his old school friend prospers. though his path lies in sunshine, frank is not likely to forget the peril from which he so narrowly escaped. the end. -------------------------------------------- transcriber's notes: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). punctuation has been silently corrected. archaic and variable spelling have been preserved. variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.