25427	----	None 
20741	----	file was produced from images generously made available by The University of Florida, The Internet Archive/Children's Library) THE ADVENTURES OF A DOG, AND A GOOD DOG TOO BY ALFRED ELWES [Illustration: Cover] [Illustration: A FAMILY PARTY] THE ADVENTURES OF A DOG, AND A GOOD DOG TOO. BY ALFRED ELWES, AUTHOR OF "THE ADVENTURES OF A BEAR," "OCEAN AND HER RULERS," ETC., ETC. WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY HARRISON WEIR. LONDON: GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND CO., FARRINGDON STREET, AND 18, BEEKMAN STREET, NEW YORK. 1857. LONDON: THOMAS HARRILD, PRINTER, 11, SALISBURY SQUARE, FLEET STREET. CONTENTS. PAGE INTRODUCTION BY MISS MINETTE GATTINA 7 EARLY DAYS 12 CHANGES 18 UPS AND DOWNS 25 THE INUNDATION 37 PAINS AND PLEASURES 46 DUTY 55 ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE A FAMILY PARTY (FRONTISPIECE) 8 LADY BULL 17 GOOD DOG! 22 A CANINE BUTCHER 36 AFLOAT 45 A WORTHY SUBJECT 54 A SEVERE BLOW 60 CONSOLATION 62 PREFACE. I love dogs. Who does not? It is a natural feeling to love those who love us; and dogs were always fond of me. Thousands can say the same; and I shall therefore find plenty of sympathy while unfolding my dog's tale. This attachment of mine to the canine family in general, and their affection towards myself, have induced me, like the Vizier in the "Arabian Nights," of happy memory, to devote some time to the study of their language. Its idiom is not so difficult as many would suppose. There is a simplicity about it that often shames the dialects of man; which have been so altered and refined that we discover people often saying one thing when they mean exactly the reverse. Nothing of the sort is visible in the great canine tongue. Whether the tone in which it is uttered be gruff or polished, sharp or insinuating, it is at least sincere. Mankind would often be puzzled how to use it. Like many others, its meaning is assisted by gestures of the body, and, above all, by the expression of the eye. If ever language had its seat in that organ, as phrenologists pretend, it lies in the eye of the dog. Yet, a good portion finds its way to his tail. The motion of that eloquent member is full of meaning. There is the slow wag of anger; the gentle wag of contentment; the brisker wag of joy: and what can be more mutely expressive than the limp states of sorrow, humility, and fear? If the tongue of the dog present such distinctive traits, the qualities of the animal himself are not less striking. Although the dispositions of dogs are as various as their forms--although education, connections, the society they keep, have all their influence--to the credit of their name be it said, a dog never sullies his mouth with an untruth. His emotions of pleasure are genuine, never forced. His grief is not the semblance of woe, but comes from the heart. His devotion is unmixed with other feelings. It is single, unselfish, profound. Prosperity affects it not; adversity cannot make it swerve. Ingratitude, that saddest of human vices, is unknown to the dog. He does not forget past favours, but, when attached by benefits received, his love endures through life. But I shall have never done with reciting the praises of this noble animal; the subject is inexhaustible. My purpose now has narrower limits. From the archives of the city of Caneville, I lately drew the materials of a Bear's Biography. From the same source I now derive my "Adventures of a Dog." My task has been less that of a composer than a translator, for a feline editoress, a Miss Minette Gattina, had already performed her part. This latter animal appears, however, to have been so learned a cat--one may say so deep a puss--that she had furnished more notes than there was original matter. Another peculiarity which distinguished her labours was the obscurity of her style; I call it a peculiarity, and not a defect, because I am not quite certain whether the difficulty of getting at her meaning lay in her mode of expressing herself or my deficiency in the delicacies of her language. I think myself a tolerable linguist, yet have too great a respect for puss to say that any fault is attributable to her. The same feeling has, naturally, made me careful in rendering those portions which were exclusively her own. I have preferred letting her say little to allowing her to express anything she did not intend. Her notes, which, doubtless, drew many a purr of approval from her own breast, and many a wag of approbation from the tails of her choice acquaintance, I have preferred leaving out altogether; and I have so curtailed the labours of her paw, and the workings of her brain, as to condense into half-a-dozen pages her little volume of introduction. The autobiography itself, most luckily, required no alteration. It is the work of a simple mind, detailing the events of a simple but not uneventful life. Whether I have succeeded in conveying to my readers' intelligence the impression which this Dog's Adventures made on mine, they alone can decide. A. E. LYNDHURST ROAD, PECKHAM. INTRODUCTION. BY MISS MINETTE GATTINA. It may seem peculiar to any but an inhabitant of this renowned city of Caneville, that one of _our_ nation should venture on the task of bringing to the notice of the world the memoir I have undertaken to edit. But, besides that in this favoured place animals of all kinds learn to dwell in tolerable harmony together, the subject of this biography had so endeared himself to all classes and to every tribe by his kindness of heart, noble devotion, and other dog-like qualities, that there was not a cat, in spite of the supposed natural antipathy existing between the great feline and canine races, who would not have set up her back and fought to the last gasp in defence of this dear old fellow. Many a time has he saved me from the rough treatment of rude and ill-conducted curs, when I have been returning from a concert, or tripping quietly home after a pleasant chat with a friend. Often and often, when a kitten, has he carried me on his back through the streets, in order that I might not wet my velvet slippers on a rainy day: and once, ah! well do I remember it, he did me even greater service; for a wicked Tom of our race, who had often annoyed me with his attentions, had actually formed a plan of carrying me off to some foreign land, and would have succeeded too, if dear Doggy had not got scent of the affair, and pounced on that treacherous Tom just as he was on the point of executing his odious project. I can speak of these things _now_ without the slightest fear of being accused of vanity. If I say my eyes were beautifully round and green, they are so no longer. If I boast of the former lightness of my step, it drags, alas! but too heavily now. If I dwell on the sweetness of my voice and melody of my purr at one period, little can be said in their favour at the present day, and I feel therefore less scruple in dilating on the elegance of my figure, and the taste of my _toilette_, as, when speaking of them, I seem to be referring to another individual Puss, with whom the actual snuffy old Tabby has little or no connection. But, it will be said, these last matters have not much to do with the object I have in hand. I must not attempt to palm off on my readers any adventures of my own under the shadow of a dog. I must rather allow my Cat's-paw to perform the office for which it has become noted, namely, that of aiding in the recovery of what its owner is not intended to participate. I must endeavour to place before the world of Caneville, to be thence transmitted to the less civilized portions of the globe, those incidents in our Dog's life which he has been too modest to relate himself, in order that after-generations may fully appreciate all the goodness of his character. To _greatness_, he had no pretension, although few animals are aware how close is the relation between these two qualities. I think I see the dear old Dog now, as it has been often my privilege to behold him, seated in his large arm-chair, his hair quite silvered with age, shading his thoughtful, yet kindly face, his pipe in his paw, his faithful old friend by his side, and surrounded by a group of attentive listeners of both sexes, who seemed to hang upon every word of wisdom as it dropped from his mouth; all these spring to my mind when I recal his image, and if I were a painter I think I should have no difficulty in presenting to my readers this pleasant "family party." The very room in which these meetings were held comes as strongly to my recollection as the various young and old dogs who were wont to assemble there. Plainly furnished, it yet boasted some articles of luxury; works of statuary and painting, presented to old Job by those who admired his goodness, or had been the objects of his devotion. One of these, a statuette representing a fast little dog upon a tasteful pedestal, used often to excite my curiosity, the more because Job showed no inclination to gratify it. I managed, however, at last to get at the incident which made Job the possessor of this comical little figure, and as the circumstance worthily illustrates his character, I will relate it as the anecdote was told to me. It was once a fashion in Caneville, encouraged by puppies of the superior classes, to indulge in habits of so strange a nature as to meet on stated occasions for the express purpose of trying their skill and strength in set combats; and although the most frightful consequences often ensued, these assemblies were still held until put down by the sharp tooth of the law. The results which ensued were not merely dangerous to life, but created such a quarrelsome disposition, that many of these dogs were never happy but when fighting; and the force granted them by nature for self-defence was too often used most wantonly to the annoyance of their neighbours. It one day happened that Job was sitting quietly on a steep bank of the river where it runs into the wood at some distance from the city, at one moment watching the birds as they skimmed over the water, at another following the movements of a large fish, just distinguishable from the height, as it rose at the flies that dropped upon the stream; when three dogs, among the most celebrated fighters of the time, passed by that way. Two of them were of the common class, about the size and weight of Job; the other was a young puppy of good family, whose tastes had unfortunately led him into such low society. Seeing the mild expression of Job's face, and confident in their own prowess, they resolved to amuse themselves at his expense, and to this end drew near to him. Unobserved by their intended victim, with a rapid motion they endeavoured to push him head foremost into the river, Master Puppy having dexterously seized hold of his tail to make the somersault more complete. Job, although thus unexpectedly set upon from behind, was enabled, by the exertion of great strength, to defeat the object of his assailants. In the struggle which ensued, his adversaries discovered that, in spite of their boasted skill, they had more than found their match. One of them got rolled over into the stream, out of which he managed to crawl with considerable difficulty half a mile lower down; the second took to his heels, with his coat torn, and his person otherwise disordered; and the fashionable Pup, to his great horror, found himself seized in the formidable jaws of the unoffending but own angry dog. Imagine how much his terror was increased when Job, carrying him, as I would a mouse, to the edge of the precipitous bank, held him sheer over the roaring river. The poor fellow could not swim, he had a perfect antipathy to the water, and he felt himself at that moment on the point of being consigned to certain death without a chance of safety. But he did not know the noble heart of the animal he had offended. Job let him feel for a few dreadful seconds the danger to which he had been so thoughtlessly and in joke about to consign himself, and then placed him in safety on the bank, with the admonition to reflect for the future on the probable result of his diversions before he indulged in them, and to consider whether, although amusing to himself, such games might not be fatal to the animals on whom they were played off. The shivering puppy was too much alarmed at the time to attend either to the magnanimity of his antagonist or the wisdom of his advice, but they were evidently not lost upon him. Many can bear testimony to the change which that hour wrought in his character; and some weeks after the event, Job received that statue of his little adversary, which had so often struck me, executed by a native artist, with a long letter in verse, a beautiful specimen of doggrel; indeed, gifts both equally creditable to the sculptor and the writer, and most honourable to the animal in whose favour they had been executed. My task will scarce be thought complete without a few words concerning the personal appearance of my old friend; although, perhaps, few things could be more difficult for me to describe. Dogs and cats are apt to admire such very different forms of beauty, that the former often call beautiful what we think just the reverse. He was tall, strong, and rather stout, with a large bushy tail, which waved with every emotion of his mind, for he rarely disguised his feelings. His features were considered regular, though large, his eyes being particularly bright and full, and the upper part of his head was broad and high. But none who knew Job ever thought of his being handsome or otherwise. You seemed to love him for something more than you could see, something which had little to do with face, or body, or tail, and yet appeared in them all, and shone clearly out of his eyes; I mean the spirit of goodness, which made him so remarkable, and was so much a part of Job, that I do believe a lock of his hair worn near one's own heart would help to make it beat more kindly to one's fellow creatures. This idea may be considered too fanciful, too cat-like, but I believe it notwithstanding. Such was the Dog whose autobiography I have great pleasure in presenting to the world. Many may object to the unpolished style in which his memoirs are clothed, but all who knew him will easily pardon every want of elegance in his language; and those who had not the honour of his acquaintance, will learn to appreciate his character from the plain spirit of truth which breathes in every line he wrote. I again affirm that I need make no apology for attaching my name to that of one so worthy the esteem of his co-dogs, ay, and co-cats too; for in spite of the differences which have so often raised up a barrier between the members of his race and ours, not even the noblest among us could be degraded by raising a "mew" to the honour of such a thoroughly honest dog. MINETTE GATTINA. THE UPPER MEWS, CANEVILLE. EARLY DAYS. I was not born in this city of Caneville, but was brought here at so young an age, that I have no recollection of any other place. I do not remember either my father or my mother. An old doggess,[A] who was the only creature I can recal to mind when I was a pup, took care of me. At least, she said she did. But from what I recollect, I had to take most care of myself. It was from her I learnt what I know about my parents. She has told me that my father was a foreign dog of high rank; from a country many, many miles away, called Newfoundland, and that my mother was a member of the Mastiff family. But how I came to be under the care of herself, and how it happened, if my parents were such superior animals, that I should be forced to be so poor and dirty, I cannot tell. I have sometimes ventured to ask her; but as she always replied with a snarl or a bite, I soon got tired of putting any questions to her. I do not think she was a very good temper; but I should not like to say so positively, because I was still young when she died, and perhaps the blows she gave me, and the bites she inflicted, were only intended for my good; though I did not think so at the time. [Footnote A: I have preferred adopting this word in speaking of female dogs, as it comes nearer to the original, _zaïyen_.] As we were very poor, we were forced to live in a wretched kennel in the dampest part of the town, among dogs no better off than ourselves. The place we occupied overhung the water, and one day when the old doggess was punishing me for something I had done, the corner in which I was crouched being rotten, gave way, and I fell plump into the river. I had never been in the water before, and I was very frightened, for the stream was so rapid that it carried me off and past the kennels I knew, in an instant. I opened my mouth to call out for help; but as I was almost choked with the water that got into it, I shut it again, and made an effort to reach the land. To my surprise I found that, by moving my paws and legs, I not only got my head well above the water, but was able to guide myself to the bank, on to which I at length dragged myself, very tired and out of breath, but quite recovered from my fear. I ran over the grass towards the town as fast as I could, stopping now and then to shake my coat, which was not so wet, however, as you would suppose; but before I had got half way home I met the doggess, hopping along, with her tongue out of her mouth, panting for breath, she having run all the way from the kennel, out of which I had popped so suddenly, along the bank, with the hope of picking me up somewhere. She knew, she said, that I should never be drowned. But how she _could_ know that was more than I could then imagine. When we met, after I had escaped so great a danger, I flew to her paws, in the hope of getting a tender lick; but as soon as she recovered breath, she caught hold of one of my ears with her teeth, and bit it till I howled with pain, and then set off running with me at a pace which I found it difficult to keep up with. I remember at the time thinking it was not very kind of her; but I have since reflected that perhaps she only did it to brighten me up and prevent me taking cold. This was my first adventure, and also my first acquaintance with the water. From that day I often ventured into the river, and in the end became so good a swimmer, that there were few dogs in Caneville who could surpass me in strength and dexterity afloat. Many moons came and passed away, and I was getting a big dog. My appetite grew with my size, and as there was little to eat at home, I was forced to wander through the streets to look after stray bones; but I was not the only animal employed thus hunting for a livelihood, and the bits scattered about the streets being very few and small, some of us, as may be imagined, got scanty dinners. There was such quarrelling and fighting, also, for the possession of every morsel, that if you were not willing to let go any piece you had seized upon, you were certain to have half-a-dozen curs upon your back to force you to do so; and the poor weakly dog, whose only hope of a meal lay in what he might pick up, ran a sad chance of being starved. One of the fiercest fights I have ever been engaged in occurred upon one of these occasions. I had had no breakfast, and it was already past the hour when the rich dogs of Caneville were used to dine. Hungry and disconsolate, I was trotting slowly past a large house, when a side-door opened, and a servant jerked a piece of meat into the road. In the greatest joy I pounced upon the prize, but not so quickly but that two ragged curs, who were no doubt as hungry as myself, managed to rush to the spot in time to get hold of the other end of it. Then came a struggle for the dainty; and those who do not know how hard dogs will fight for their dinner, when they have had no breakfast, should have been there to learn the lesson. After giving and receiving many severe bites, the two dogs walked off--perhaps they did not think the meat was worth the trouble of contending for any longer--and I was left to enjoy my meal in peace. I had scarcely, however, squatted down, with the morsel between my paws, than a miserable little puppy, who seemed as if he had had neither dinner nor breakfast for the last week, came and sat himself at a little distance from me, and without saying a word, brushed the pebbles about with his ragged tail, licked his chops, and blinked his little eyes at me so hopefully, that, hungry as I was, I could not begin my meat. As I looked at him, I observed two tears gather at the side of his nose, and grow bigger and bigger until they would no longer stop there, but tumbled on to the ground. I could bear it no longer. I do not know even now what ailed me; but my own eyes grew so dim, that there seemed a mist before them which prevented my seeing anything plainly. I started up, and pushing to the poor whelp the piece of meat which had cost me three new rents in my coat and a split ear, I trotted slowly away. I stopped at the corner to see whether he appeared to enjoy it, and partly to watch that no other dog should take it from him. The road was quite clear, and the poor pup quite lost in the unusual treat of a good meal; so I took my way homewards, with an empty stomach but a full heart. I was so pleased to see that little fellow enjoy his dinner so thoroughly. This sort of life, wherein one was compelled either to fight for every bit one could get to eat or go without food altogether, became at last so tiresome to me that I set about for some other means of providing for my wants. I could not understand how the old doggess used to manage, but though she never had anything to give me, she did not seem to be without food herself. She was getting so much more cross and quarrelsome, perhaps on account of her age and infirmities, that I now saw but little of her, as I often, on a fine night, preferred curling myself up under a doorway or beneath a tree, to returning to the kennel and listening to her feeble growls. She never seemed to want me there, so I had less difficulty in keeping away from her. Chance assisted me in the choice of my new attempt at getting a living. I was walking along one of the narrow streets of Caneville, when I was stopped by an old dog, who was known to be very rich and very miserly. He had lately invented a novel kind of match for lighting pipes and cigars, which he called "a fire-fly," the composition of which was so dangerous that it had already caused a good deal of damage in the town from its exploding; and he wanted some active young dogs to dispose of his wares to the passers-by according to the custom of Caneville. As he expected a good deal of opposition from the venders of a rival article, it was necessary to make choice of such agents as would not be easily turned from their purpose for fear of an odd bite or two. I suppose he thought I was well fitted for the object he had in view. I was very poor--one good reason, for his employing me, as I would be contented with little; I was strong, and should therefore be able to get through the work; I was willing, and bore a reputation for honesty--all sufficient causes for old Fily (that was his name) to stop me this fine morning and propose my entering his service. Terms are easily arranged where both parties are willing to come to an agreement. After being regaled with a mouldy bone, and dressed out in an old suit of clothes belonging to my new master, which, in spite of a great hole in one of the knees, I was not a little proud of, with a bundle of wares under my arm and a box of the famous "fire-flies" in my paw, I began my commercial career. But, alas! either the good dogs of Caneville were little disposed to speculate that day, or I was very awkward in my occupation, but no one seemed willing to make a trial of my "fire-flies." In vain I used the most enticing words to set off my goods, even going so far as to say that cigars lighted with these matches would have a very much finer flavour, and could not possibly go out. This I said on the authority of my employer, who assured me of the fact. It was of no use; not a single "fire-fly" blazed in consequence, and I began to fear that I was not destined to make my fortune as a match-seller. At length there came sweeping down the street a party which at once attracted me, and I resolved to use my best efforts to dispose, at least, of one of my boxes, if it were only to convince my master that I had done my best. The principal animal of the group was a lady doggess, beautifully dressed, with sufficient stuff in her gown to cover a dozen ordinary dogs, a large muff to keep her paws from the cold, and a very open bonnet with a garden-full of flowers round her face, which, in spite of her rich clothes, I did not think a very pretty one. A little behind her was another doggess, not quite so superbly dressed, holding a puppy by the paw. It was very certain that they were great animals, for two or three dogs they had just passed had taken off their hats as they went by, and then put their noses together as if they were saying something about them. [Illustration: LADY BULL] I drew near, and for the first time in my life was timid and abashed. The fine clothes, no doubt, had something to do with making me feel so, but--I was still very young. Taking courage, I went on tiptoe to the great lady, and begged her to buy a box of "fire-flies" of a poor dog who had no other means of gaining his bread. Now, you must know that these matches had not a pleasant smell--few matches have; but as they were shut up in the box, the odour could not have been _very_ sensible. However, when I held up the article towards her ladyship, she put her paw to her nose--as though to shut out the odour--uttered a low howl, and, though big enough and strong enough to have sent me head over heels with a single blow, seemed on the point of falling to the ground. But at the instant, two male servants, whom I had not seen, ran to her assistance, while I, who was the innocent cause of all this commotion, stood like a silly dog that I was, with my box in the air and my mouth wide open, wondering what it all meant. I was not suffered to remain long in ignorance; for the two hounds in livery, turning to me, so belaboured my poor back that I thought at first my bones were broken; while the young puppy, who, it appears, was her ladyship's youngest son, running behind me, while I was in this condition, gave my tail such a pull as to cause me the greatest pain. They then left me in the middle of the road, to reflect on my ill success in trade, and gather up my stock as I best could. I do not know what it was which made me so anxious to learn the name and rank of the lady doggess who had been the cause of my severe punishment, but I eagerly inquired of a kind mongrel, who stopped to help me collect my scattered goods, if he knew anything about her. He said, she was called Lady Bull; that her husband. Sir John Bull, had made a large fortune somehow, and that they lived in a splendid house, had about thirty puppies, little and big, had plenty of servants, and spent a great deal of money. He could hardly imagine, he said, that it was the odour of the "fire-flies" which had occasioned me to be knocked down for upsetting her ladyship, as she had been a butcher's daughter, and was used to queer smells, unless her nose had perhaps got more delicate with her change of position. He said much more about her and her peculiarities than I either remember or care to repeat; but, imagining he had some private reasons for saying what he did, I thanked him for his trouble, and bid him good day. Whatever the cause of my failure, it seemed that I was not fitted for the match-business. At all events, the experience of that morning did not encourage me sufficiently to proceed. So, returning the unsold "fire-flies" to old Fily, I made him a present of the time I had already spent in his service, and, with a thoughtful face and aching bones, took my way towards the kennel by the water-side. CHANGES. The sun was just going down as I came in sight of the river and the row of poor kennels which stood on the bank, many of them, like our own, projecting half over the water. I could not help wondering at the pretty effect they made at a distance, with the blue river dancing gaily by their side, the large trees of the wood on the opposite bank waving in beauty, and the brilliant sun changing everything that his rays fell upon into gold. He made the poor kennels look so splendid for the time, that no one would have thought the animals who lived in them could ever be poor or unhappy. But when the rich light was gone,--gone with the sun which made it to some other land,--it seemed as if the whole place was changed. The trees shivered as though a cold wind was stirring them. The river ran dark and sullenly by the poor houses; and the houses themselves looked more wretched, I thought, than they had ever appeared before. Yet, somehow, they were more homelike in their dismal state than when they had a golden roof and purple sides, so, resuming my walk, for I had stopped to admire the pretty picture, I soon came near the door. It was open, as usual. But what was _not_ usual, was to hear other sounds from within than the voice of the old doggess, making ceaseless moans. Now it seemed as if all the doggesses of the neighbourhood had met in the poor hut to pass the evening, for there was such confusion of tongues, and such a rustling sound, as told me, before I peeped inside, that there was a large party got together, and that tails were wagging at a fearful rate. When I stood before the open door, all the scene broke upon me. On her bed of straw, evidently at the point of death, lay my poor doggess. Her eyes had almost lost their fierce expression, and were becoming fixed and glassy--a slight tremor in her legs and movement of her stumpy tail, were all that told she was yet living; not even her breast was seen to heave. I had not much reason to bear love to the old creature for any kindness she had ever shown me, but this sight overcame me at once. Springing to her aide, and upsetting half a dozen of the gossips by the movement, I laid my paw on hers; and, involuntarily raising my head in the air, I sent forth a howl which shook the rotten timbers of the old kennel, and so frightened the assembled party as to make them scamper out of the place like mad things. The sound even called back the departing senses of the dying doggess. She drew me to her with her paws, and made an effort to lick me. The action quite melted me. I put down my head to hers and felt a singular pleasure mixed with grief whilst I licked and caressed her, I could not help thinking then, as I have often thought since, of how much happiness we had lost by not being more indulgent to each other's faults, forgiving and loving one another. She also seemed to be of this opinion, if I might judge by the grateful look and passive manner in which she received my attentions. Perhaps the near approach of her end gave a softness to her nature which was unusual to her; it is not unlikely; but, of a certainty, I never felt before how much I was losing, as when I saw that poor doggess's life thus ebbing away. Night had come on while I sat watching by her side. Everything about the single room had become more and more indistinct, until all objects were alike blended in the darkness. I could no longer distinguish the shape of my companion, and, but that I _knew_ she was there, I could have thought myself alone. The wind had fallen; the water seemed to run more gently than it was wont to do; and the noises which generally make themselves heard in the streets of Caneville appeared to be singularly quieted. But once only, at another period of my life, which I shall speak of in its proper place, do I ever remember to have been so struck by the silence, and to have felt myself so entirely alone. The moon appeared to rise quicker that night, as though it pitied the poor forlorn dog. It peeped over an opposite house, and directly after, shone coldly but kindly through the open door. At least, its light seemed to come like the visit of a friend, in spite of its showing me what I feared, that I was _indeed_ alone in the world. The poor doggess had died in the darkness between the setting of the sun and the moon's rise. I was sure that she was dead, yet I howled no more. My grief was very great; for it is a sad, sad thing when you are young to find you are without friends; perhaps sadder when you are old; but that, I fortunately do not myself know, for I am old, and have many friends. I recollect putting my nose between my paws, and lying at full length on the floor, waiting till the bright sun should come again, and thinking of my forlorn condition. I must have slept and dreamed--yet I thought I was still in the old kennel with the dead doggess by my side. But everything seemed to have found a voice, and to be saying kind things to me. The river, as it ran and shook the supports of the old kennel, appeared to cry out in a rough but gay tone: "Job, Job, my dog, cheer up, cheer up; the world is before you, Job, cheer up, cheer up." The light wind that was coming by that way stopped to speak to me as it passed. It flew round the little room, and whispered as it went: "Poor dog, poor dog, you are very lonely; but the good need not be so; the good may have friends, dear Job, however poor!" The trees, as they waved their heads, sent kindly words across the water, that made their way to my heart right through the chinks of the old cabin; and when morning broke, and a bright sky smiled beautifully upon the streets of Caneville, I woke up, sad indeed, but full of hope. Some ragged curs arrived, and carried the old doggess away. She was very heavy, and they were forced to use all their strength. I saw her cast into the water, which she disliked so much alive; I watched her floating form until the rapid current bore it into the wood, and I stayed sitting on the brink of the river wondering where it would reach at last, and what sort of places must lie beyond the trees. I had an idea in my own mind that the sun rested there all night, only I could not imagine how it came up again in the morning in quite an opposite quarter; but then I was such a young and ignorant puppy! After thinking about this and a good many other matters of no importance to my story, I got upon my legs, and trotted gently along the bank, towards a part of the city which I did not remember to have seen before. The houses were very few, but they were large and handsome, and all had pretty gardens in nice order, with flowers which smelt so sweet, that I thought the dogs who could always enjoy such advantages must be very happy. But one of the houses, larger than all the rest, very much struck me, for I had never an idea of such a splendid place being in Caneville. It was upon a little hill that stood at some distance from the river, and the ground which sloped down from the house into the water was covered with such beautiful grass, that it made one long to nibble and roll upon it. While I was quietly looking at this charming scene, I was startled by a loud noise of barking and howling higher up the river, and a confused sound, as if a great many dogs were assembled at one place, all calling out together. I ran at once in the direction of the hubbub, partly out of curiosity and in part from some other motive, perhaps the notion of being able to render some help. A little before me the river had a sudden bend, and the bank rose high, which prevented me seeing the cause of the noise; but when I reached the top, the whole scene was before me. On my side of the river a great crowd had assembled, who were looking intently upon something in the water; and on the opposite bank there was a complete stream of dogs, running down to the hill which belonged to the beautiful house I had been admiring. Every dog, as he ran, seemed to be trying to make as much noise as he could; and those I spoke to were barking so loudly, and jumping about in such a way, that I could at first get no explanation of what was the matter. At last I saw that the struggling object in the water was a young puppy, which seemed very nicely dressed, and at the same moment the mongrel, who had helped me to pick up my matches the day before, came alongside of me, and said: "Ah, young firefly, how are you? Isn't this a game? That old Lady Bull who got you such a drubbing yesterday, is in a pretty mess. Her thirty-second pup has just tumbled into the water, and will certainly be drowned. Isn't she making a fuss? just look!" One rapid glance showed me the grand lady he spoke of, howling most fearfully on the other side of the stream, while two pups, about the same size as the one in the water, and a stout dog, who looked like the papa, were sometimes catching hold of her and then running about, not knowing what to do. I stopped no longer. I threw off my over-coat, and running to a higher part of the bank, leapt into the water, the mongrel's voice calling after me: "What are you going to do? Don't you know its the son of the old doggess who had you beat so soundly? Look at your shoulder, where the hair has been all knocked off with the blows?" Without paying the least attention to these words, which I could not help hearing they were called out so loudly, I used all my strength to reach the poor little pup, who, tired with his efforts to help himself, had already floated on to his back, while his tiny legs and paws were moving feebly in the air. I reached him after a few more efforts, and seizing his clothes with my teeth, I got his head above the water, and swam with my load slowly towards the bank. As I got nearer, I could see Lady Bull, still superbly dressed, but without her bonnet, throw up her paws and nose towards the sky, and fall back into the arms of her husband; while the two pups by her side expressed their feelings in different ways; for one stuffed his little fists into his eyes, and the other waved his cap in the air, and broke forth into a succession of infantile bow-wows. [Illustration: GOOD DOG!] On reaching, the bank, I placed my load at the feet of his poor mother, who threw herself by his side and hugged him to her breast, in a way which proved how much tenderness was under those fine clothes and affected manners. The others stood around her uttering low moans of sympathy, and I, seeing all so engaged and taken up with the recovered dog, quietly, and, as I thought, unseen by all, slid back into the water, and permitted myself to be carried by the current down the river. I crawled out at some short distance from the spot where this scene had taken place, and threw myself on to the grass, in order to rest from my fatigue and allow the warm sun to dry my saturated clothes. What I felt I can scarce describe, although I remember so distinctly everything connected with that morning. My principal sensation was that of savage joy, to think I had saved the son of the doggess who had caused me such unkind treatment. I was cruel enough, I am sorry to say, to figure to myself her pain at receiving such a favour from me--but that idea soon passed away, on reflecting that perhaps she would not even know to whom she owed her son's escape from death. In the midst of my ruminations, a light step behind me caused me to raise my head. I was positively startled at the beautiful object which I beheld. It was a lady puppy about my own age, but so small in size, and with such an innocent sweet look, that she seemed much younger. Her dress was of the richest kind, and her bonnet, which had fallen back from her head, showed her glossy dark hair and drooping ears that hung gracefully beside her cheeks. Poorly as I was dressed, and wet as I still was from my bath, she sat herself beside me, and putting her little soft paw upon my shoulder, said, with a smile-- "Ah, Job!--for I know that's your name--did you think you could get off so quietly without any one seeing you, or stopping you, or saying one single 'thank you, Job,' for being such a good noble dog as you are? Did you think there was not one sharp eye in Caneville to watch the saver, but that all were fixed upon the saved? That every tongue was so engaged in sympathizing with the mother, that not one was left to praise the brave? If you thought this, dear Job, you did me and others wrong, great wrong. There are some dogs, at least, who may forget an injury, but who never forget a noble action, and I have too great a love for my species to let you think so. I shall see you again, dear Job, though I must leave you now. I should be blamed if it were known that I came here to talk to you as I have done; but I could not help it, I could not let you believe that a noble heart was not understood in Caneville. Adieu. Do not forget the name of Fida." She stooped down, and for a moment her silky hair waved on my rough cheek, while her soft tongue gently licked my face. Before I could open my mouth in reply--before, indeed, I had recovered from my surprise, and the admiration which this beautiful creature caused me, she was gone. I sprang on to my legs to observe which way she went, but not a trace of her could I see, and I thought it would not be proper to follow her. When I felt certain of being alone, I could hardly restrain my feelings. I threw myself on my back, I rolled upon the grass, I turned head over heels in the boisterousness of my spirit, and then gambolled round and round like a mad thing. Did I believe all the flattering praises which the lovely Fida had bestowed on me? I might perhaps have done so then, and in my inexperience might have fancied that I was quite a hero. Time has taught me another lesson. It has impressed upon me the truth, that when we do our duty we do only what should be expected of every dog; only what every dog ought to do. Of the two, Fida had done the nobler action. She had shown not only a promptness to feel what she considered good, but she had had the courage to say so in private to the doer, although he was of the poorest and she of the richest class of Caneville society. In saving the little pup's life, I had risked nothing; I knew my strength, and felt certain I could bring him safely to the shore. If I had _not_ tried to save the poor little fellow I should have been in part guilty of his death. But she, in bestowing secret praise and encouragement upon a poor dog who had no friends to admire her for so doing, while her action would perhaps bring blame upon her from her proud friends, did that which was truly good and noble. The thought of returning to my solitary home after the sad scene of the night before, and particularly after the new feelings just excited, was not a pleasant one. The bright sky and fresh air seemed to suit me better than black walls and the smell of damp straw. Resolving in my mind, however, to leave it as soon as possible, I re-crossed the river, and, with a slower step than usual, took the road which led thither. UPS AND DOWNS. I should not probably have spoken of these last incidents in my life, as the relation of them savours rather too much of vanity, but for certain results of the highest importance to my future fortunes. When I reached the old kennel I found, waiting my return, two terrier dogs in livery, with bulls' heads grinning from such a quantity of buttons upon their lace coats that it was quite startling. They brought a polite message from Sir John and Lady Bull, begging me to call upon them without delay. As the servants had orders to show me the road, we set off at once. I was very silent on the journey, for my companions were so splendidly dressed that I could not help thinking they must be very superior dogs indeed; and I was rather surprised, when they spoke to each other, to find that they talked just like any other animals, and a good deal more commonly than many that I knew. But such is the effect of fine clothes upon those who know no better. We soon reached the grounds of the mansion, having crossed the river in a boat that was waiting for us; and after passing through a garden more beautiful than my poor dog's brain had ever imagined, we at last stood before the house itself. I need not describe to you, who know the place so well, the vastness of the building or the splendour of its appearance. What struck me more even than the palace, was the number of the servants and the richness of their clothes. Each of them seemed fine enough to be the master of the place, and appeared really to think so, if I could judge by the way they strutted about and the look they gave at my poor apparel. I was much abashed at first to find myself in such a company and make so miserable a figure; but I was consoled with the thought that not one of them that morning had ventured, in spite of his eating his master's meat and living in his master's house, to plunge into the water to save his master's son. Silly dog that I was! it did not enter my head at the same time to inquire whether any of them had learnt to swim. If the outside of the mansion had surprised me by its beauty, the interior appeared of course much more extraordinary to my ignorant mind. Every thing I was unused to looked funny or wonderful; and if I had not been restrained by the presence of such great dogs, I should have sometimes laughed outright, and at others broken forth into expressions of surprise. The stout Sir John Bull was standing in the middle of the room when I entered it, while the stouter Lady Bull was lying on a kind of sofa, that seemed quite to sink beneath her weight. I found out afterwards that it was the softness of the sofa which made it appear so; for sitting on it myself, at my Lady's request, I jumped up in the greatest alarm, on finding the heaviest part of my body sink lower and lower down, and my tail come flapping into my face. Sir John and Lady Bull now thanked me very warmly for what I had done, and said a great many things which it is not worth while to repeat. I remember they were very pleasing to me then, but I am sure cannot be interesting to you now. After their thanks, Sir John began to talk to me about myself--about my parents--my wishes--what I intended to do--and what were my means? To his great surprise he learnt that parents I had none; that my only wishes were the desire to do some good for myself and others, and earn my meat; that I had no notion what I intended doing, and had no means whatever to do anything with. It may be believed that I willingly accepted his offer to watch over a portion of his grounds, to save them from the depredations of thieves, on condition of my receiving good clothes, plenty of food, and a comfortable house to live in. It was now my turn to be thankful. But although my heart was full at this piece of good fortune, and I could _think_ of a great many things to say to show my gratitude, not a single word could I find to express it in, but stood before them like a dumb dog, with only the wave of my tail to explain my thanks. They seemed, however, to understand it, and I was at once ordered a complete suit of clothes and everything fitted for my new position. I was also supplied with the most abundant supper I had ever had in my life, and went to rest upon the most delightful bed; so that before I went to sleep, and I do believe afterwards too, I kept saying to myself, "Job, Job, you have surely got some other dog's place; all this good luck can't be meant for you; what have you done, Job, that you should eat such meat, and sleep on so soft a bed, and be spoken to so kindly? Don't forget yourself, Job; there must be some mistake." But when I got up in the morning, and found a breakfast for me as nice as the supper, and looked at my clothes, which, if not so smart as some of the others, were better and finer than any I could ever have thought I should have worn, I was at last convinced, that although I was poor Job, and although I did not, perhaps, deserve all the happiness I felt, that it was not a dream, but real, plain truth. "As it is so," I said again, "I must do my duty as well as I am able, for that is the only way a poor dog like me can show his gratitude." After breakfast, I accompanied Sir John to the place of my future home. A quarter of an hour's walk brought us to a gentle hill, which, similar to the one whereon the mansion itself was situated, sloped downwards to the water. One or two trees, like giant sentinels, stood near the top, and behind them waved the branches of scores more, while beyond for many a mile spread the dark mass of the thick forest of which I have more than once made mention. Nearly at the foot of the hill, beneath a spreading oak, was a cottage, a very picture of peace and neatness; and as we paused, Sir John pointed out the peculiarities of the position and explained my duties. It appeared that this part of his grounds was noted for a delicate kind of bird, much esteemed by himself and his family, and which was induced to flock there by regular feeding and the quiet of the situation. This fact was, however, perfectly well known to others besides Sir John; and as these others were just as fond of the birds as himself, they were accustomed to pay nightly visits to the forbidden ground, and carry off many of the plumpest fowl. The wood was known to shelter many a wandering fox, who, although dwelling so near the city, could not be prevailed on to abandon their roguish habits and live in a civilised manner. These birds were particularly to their taste, and it required the greatest agility to keep off the cunning invaders, for, though they had no great courage, and would not attempt to resist a bold dog, they frequently succeeded in eluding all vigilance and getting off with their booty. Often, too, a stray cur, sometimes two or three together, from the lowest classes of the population, would, when moved by hunger, make a descent on the preserves, and battles of a fierce character not seldom occurred, for, unlike the foxes, they were never unwilling to fight, but showed the utmost ferocity when attacked, and were often the aggressors. But those were not all. The grounds were exactly opposite that part of the city of Caneville known as the "Mews," and occupied by the cat population, who have a general affection for most birds, and held these preserved ones in particular esteem. Fortunately, the water that interposed was a formidable barrier for the feline visitors, as few pussies like to wet their feet; but, by some means or other, they frequently found their way across, and by their dexterity, swiftness, and the quiet of their movements, committed terrible ravages among the birds. When Sir John had told me all this, he led the way down the hill to the small house under the tree. It had two rooms, with a kennel at the back. The front room was the parlour, and I thought few places could have been so neat and pretty. The back was the sleeping-room, and the windows of both looked out upon the soft grass and trees, and showed a fine view of the river. "This," said Sir John, "is your house, and I hope you will be happy in it yourself, and be of service to me. You will not be alone, for there"--pointing to the kennel at the back--"sleeps an old servant of the family, who will assist you in your duties." He then called out "Nip," when a rumbling noise was heard from the kennel, and directly after a lame hound came hopping round to the door. The sight of this old fellow was not pleasant at first, for his hair was a grizzly brown and his head partly bald; his eyes were sunk, and, indeed, almost hidden beneath his bushy brows, and his cheeks hung down below his mouth and shook with every step he took. I soon found out that he was as singular in his manners as in his looks, and had such a dislike to talking that it was a rare thing for him to say more than two or three words at one time. Sir John told him who I was, and desired him to obey my orders; commanded us both to be good friends and not quarrel, as strange dogs were rather apt to do; and after some more advice left us to ourselves, I in a perfect dream of wonderment, and "Nip" sitting winking at me in a way that I thought more funny than agreeable. After we had sat looking at one another for some time, I said, just to break the silence, which was becoming tiresome-- "A pretty place this!" Nip winked. "Have you been here long?" I asked. "Think so," said Nip. "All alone?" I inquired. "Almost," Nip replied. "Much work to do, eh?" I asked. The only answer Nip gave to this was by winking first one eye and then the other, and making his cheeks rise and fall in a way so droll that I could not help laughing, at which Nip seemed to take offence, for without waiting for any farther questions he hopped out of the room, and I saw him, soon after, crawling softly up the hill, as if on the look out for some of the thieves Sir John had spoken of. I, too, went off upon the watch. I took my way along the bank, I glided among the bushes, ran after a young fox whose sharp nose I spied pointed up a tree, but without catching him, and finally returned to my new home by the opposite direction. Nip came in shortly after, and we sat down to our dinner. Although this portion of my life was, perhaps, the happiest I have ever known, it has few events worth relating. The stormy scenes which are so painful to the dog who suffers them, are those which are most interesting to the hearer; while the quiet days, that glide peacefully away, are so like each other, that an account of one of them is a description of many. A few hours can be so full of action, as to require volumes to describe them properly, and the history of whole years can be written on a single page. I tried, as I became fixed in my new position, to do what I had resolved when I entered it; namely, my duty. I think I succeeded; I certainly obtained my master's praise, and sometimes my own; for I had a habit of talking to myself, as Nip so rarely opened his mouth, and would praise or blame myself just as I thought I deserved it. I am afraid I was not always just, but too often said, "Well done, Job; that's right, Job;" when I ought to have called out, "You're wrong, Job; you ought to feel, Job, that you're wrong;" but it is not so easy a thing to be just, even to ourselves. One good lesson I learned in that little cottage, which has been of use to me all my life through; and that was, to be very careful about judging dogs by their looks. There was old Nip: when I first saw him, I thought I had never beheld such an ugly fellow in my life, and could not imagine how anything good was to be expected from so cross a looking, ragged old hound. And yet nothing could be more beautiful, more loveable than dear old Nip, when you came to know him well. All the misfortunes he had suffered, all the knocks he had received in passing through the world, seemed to have made his heart more tender; and he was so entirely good-natured, that in all the time we were together, I never heard him say an unkind thing of living or dead animal. I believe his very silence was caused by the goodness of his disposition; for as he could not help seeing many things he did not like, but could not alter, he preferred holding his tongue to saying what could not be agreeable. Dear, dear Nip! if ever it should be resolved to erect a statue of goodness in the public place of Caneville, they ought to take you for a model; you would not be so pleasant to look on as many finer dogs, but when once known, your image would be loved, dear Nip, as I learned to love the rugged original. It can be of no interest to you to hear the many fights we had in protecting the property of our master during the first few moons after my arrival. Almost every night we were put in danger of lives, for the curs came in such large numbers that there was a chance of our being pulled to pieces in the struggle. Yet we kept steady watch; and after a time, finding, I suppose, that we were never sleeping at our post, and that our courage rose with every fresh attack, the thieves gradually gave up open war, and only sought to entrap the birds by artifice; and, like the foxes and cats, came sneaking into the grounds, and trusted to the swiftness of their legs rather than the sharpness of their teeth when Nip or I caught sight of them. And thus a long, long time passed away. I had, meanwhile, grown to my full size, and was very strong and active: not so stout as I have got in these later years, when my toes sometimes ache with the weight which rests on them, but robust and agile, and as comely, I believe, as most dogs of my age and descent. The uniformity of my life, which I have spoken of as making me so happy, was interrupted only by incidents that did not certainly cause me displeasure. I renewed my acquaintance with "Fida," no longer _little_ Fida, for she had grown to be a beautiful lady-dog. Our second meeting was by chance, but we talked like old friends, so much had our first done to remove all strangeness. I don't think the next time we saw each other was quite by accident. If I remember rightly, it was not; and we often met afterwards. We agreed that we should do all we could to assist one another, though what _I_ could do for so rich and clever a lady-dog I could not imagine, although I made the promise very willingly. On her part, she did for me what I can never sufficiently repay. She taught me to read, lending me books containing strange stories of far-off countries, and beautiful poetry, written by some deep dogs of the city; she taught me to write; and in order to exercise me, made me compose letters to herself, which Nip carried to her, bringing me back such answers as would astonish you; for when you thought you had got to the end, they began all over again in another direction. Besides these, she taught me to speak and act properly, in the way that well-behaved dogs ought to do; for I had been used to the company of such low and poor animals, that it was not surprising if I should make sad blunders in speech and manners. I need not say that she taught me to love herself, for that you will guess I had done from the first day I saw her, when I was wet from my jump in the river, and she spoke to me such flattering words. No; she could not teach me more love for herself than I already knew. That lesson had been learnt _by heart_, and at a single sitting. Our peaceful days were drawing to a close. Sir John died. Lady Bull lived on for a short time longer. Many said, when she followed, that she ate herself to death; but I mention the rumour in order to deny it, for I am sure it was grief that killed her. It is a pity some dogs will repeat everything they hear, without considering the mischief such tittle-tattle may occasion--although it has been asserted by many that in this case the false intelligence came from the Cats, who had no great affection for poor Lady Bull. Whatever the cause, she died, and with her the employment of poor Nip and myself. The young Bulls who came into possession of the estate, sold the preserves to a stranger; and as the new proprietor intended killing off the birds, and did not require keepers, there being no longer anything for them to do, we were turned upon the world. The news came upon us so suddenly, that we were quite unprepared for it; and we were, besides, so far from being rich, that it was a rather serious matter to find out how we should live until we could get some other occupation. I was not troubled for myself; for, though I had been used to good feeding lately, I did not forget the time when I was often forced to go the whole day with scarce a bit to eat; but the thought of how poor old Nip would manage gave me some pain. Having bid adieu to the peaceful cottage, where we had spent such happy times, we left the green fields and pleasant trees and proceeded to the town, where, after some difficulty, we found a humble little house which suited our change of fortune. Here we began seriously to muse over what we should do. I proposed making a ferry-boat of my back, and, stationing myself at the waterside near the "Mews," swim across the river with such cats as required to go over and did not like to walk as far as where the boat was accustomed to be. By these means I calculated on making enough money to keep us both comfortably. Nip thought not. He said that the cats would not trust me--few cats ever did trust the dogs--and then, though he did not dislike cats, not at all, for he knew a great many very sensible cats, and very good ones too, he did not like the idea of seeing his friend walked over by cats or dogs, or any other animal, stranger or domestic. Besides, there were other objections. Strong as I was, I could not expect, if I made a boat of myself, that I could go on and on without wanting repair any more than a real boat; but where was the carpenter to put _me_ to rights, or take out _my_ rotten timbers and put in fresh ones. No; that would not do; we must think of something else. It must not be imagined that Nip made all this long speech in one breath, or in a dozen breaths. It took him a whole morning to explain himself even as clearly as I have tried to do; and perhaps I may still have written what he did not quite intend, for his words came out with a jump, one or two at a time, and often so suddenly that it would have startled a dog who was not used to his manner. Nip himself made the next proposal, and though I did not exactly like it, there seemed so little choice, that I at once agreed to do my part in the scheme. Nip was the son of a butcher, and though he had followed the trade but a short time himself, he was a very good judge of meat. He, therefore, explained that if I would undertake to become the seller, he would purchase and prepare the meat, and he thought he could make it look nice enough to induce the dogs to come and buy. Our stock of money being very small, a house-shop was out of the question, so there was no chance of getting customers from the better class,--a thing which I regretted, as I had little taste for the society of the vulgar; but, again, as it could not be helped, the only thing to do was to make the best of it. A wheelbarrow was therefore bought by Nip, with what else was necessary to make me a complete "walking butcher," and having got in a stock of meat the day before, Nip cut, and contrived, and shaped, and skewered, in so quiet and business-like a way as proved he knew perfectly well what he was about. With early morning, after Nip had arranged my dress with the same care as he had bestowed upon the barrow and its contents, I wheeled my shop into the street, and amid a great many winks of satisfaction from my dear old friend, I went trudging along, bringing many a doggess to the windows of the little houses by my loud cry of "Me-eet! Fresh me-eet!" As I was strange in my new business, and did not feel quite at my ease, I fancied every dog I met, and every eye that peeped from door and casement, stared at me in a particular manner, as if they knew I was playing my part for the first time, and were watching to see how I did it. The looks that were cast at my meat, were all, I thought, intended for me, and when a little puppy leered suspiciously at the barrow as he was crossing the road, no doubt to see that it did not run over him, I could only imagine that he was thinking of the strange figure I made, and my awkward attempt at getting a living. Feelings like these no doubt alarm every new beginner; but time and habit, if they do not reconcile us to our lot, will make it at least easier to perform, and thus, after some two hours' journeying through the narrow lanes of Caneville, I did what my business required of me with more assurance than when I first set out. One thing, however, was very distasteful to me, and I could so little bear to see it, that I even spoke of it aloud, and ran the risk of offending some of my customers. I mean the _way_ in which several of the dogs devoured the meat after they had bought it. You will think that when they had purchased their food and paid for it, they had a right to eat it as they pleased: I confess it; nothing can be more true; but still, my ideas had changed so of late, that it annoyed me very much to see many of these curs, living as they did in the most civilized city in this part of the world, gnawing their meat as they held it on the ground with their paws, and growling if any one came near as though there was no such thing as a police in Caneville. I forgot when I was scolding these poor dogs, that perhaps they had never been taught better, and deserved pity rather than blame. I forgot too that I had myself behaved as they did before I had been blessed with happier fortune, and that, even then, if I had looked into my own conduct, I should have found many things more worthy of censure than these poor curs' mode of devouring their food. The lane I was passing along was cut across by a broad and open street, the favourite promenade of the fashionables of Caneville. There might be seen about mid-day, when the sun was shining, troops of well-dressed dogs and a few superior cats, some attended by servants, others walking alone, and many in groups of two or three, the male dogs smoking cigars, the ladies busily talking, while they looked at and admired one another's pretty dresses and bonnets. By the time I had got thus far, I had become tolerably used to my new work, and could imagine that when the passers-by cast their eyes on my barrow, their glances had more to do with the meat than with myself. But I did not like the idea of crossing the road where such grand dogs were showing off their finery. After a little inward conversation with myself, which finished with my muttering between my teeth, "Job, brother Job, I am ashamed of you! where is your courage, brother Job? Go on; go on;" I went on without further delay. I had got half-way across, and was already beginning to praise myself for the ease with which I turned my barrow in and out of the crowd without running over the toes of any of the puppies, who were far too much engaged to look after them themselves when a dirty little cur stopped me to buy a penn'orth of meat. I set down my load just in time to avoid upsetting a very fat and splendidly dressed doggess, who must, if I had run the wheel into her back, and it was very near it, have gone head foremost into the barrow. This little incident made me very hot, and I did not get cooler when my customer squatted down in the midst of the well-dressed crowd, and began tearing his meat in the way I have before described as being so unpleasant. At the same moment another dog by his side, with a very ragged coat, and queer little face, held up his paw to ask for "a little bit," as he was very hungry, "only a little bit." I should, probably, have given him a morsel, as I remembered the time when I wanted it as much as he seemed to do, but for an unexpected meeting. Turning my head at a rustling just behind me, I saw a well-dressed dog, with a hat of the last fashion placed so nicely on his head that it seemed to be resting on the bridge of his nose, the smoke from a cigar issuing gracefully from his mouth, and his head kept in an upright posture by a very stiff collar which ran round the back of his neck, and entirely prevented his turning round his head without a great deal of care and deliberation, while a tuft of hair curled nicely from beneath his chin, and gave a fine finish to the whole dog. But though I have spoken of this Caneville fashionable, it was not he who caused the rustling noise, or who most attracted my attention. Tripping beside him, with her soft paw beneath his, was a lady-dog, whose very dress told her name, at least in my eyes, before I saw her face. I felt sure that it was Fida, and I wished myself anywhere rather than in front of that barrow with an ill-bred cur at my feet gnawing the penn'orth of meat he had just bought of me. Before I had time to catch up my load and depart, a touch on my shoulder, so gentle that it would not have hurt a fly, and yet which made me tremble more than if it had been the grip of a giant animal, forced me again to turn. It _was_ Fida; as beautiful and as fresh as ever, who gave me a sweet smile of recognition and encouragement as she passed with her companion, and left me standing there as stupid and uncomfortable as if I had been caught doing something wrong. [Illustration: A CANINE BUTCHER] You will say that it was very ridiculous in me to feel so ashamed and disconcerted at being seen by her or any other dog or doggess in my common dress, and following an honest occupation. I do not deny it. And in telling you these things I have no wish to spare myself, I have no excuse to offer, but only to relate events and describe feelings precisely as they were. THE INUNDATION. That evening it seemed as if Nip and I had changed characters. It was he who did all the talking, while I sat in a corner, full of thought, and answered yes or no to everything he said, and sometimes in the wrong place, I am sure; for once or twice he looked at me very attentively, and winked in a way which proved that he was puzzled by my manner. The reason of his talkativeness was the success I had attained in my first morning's walk, for I had sold nearly all the meat, and brought home a pocket full of small money. The cause of my silence was the unexpected meeting with Fida, and the annoyance I felt at having been seen by her in such a position. This was the first time I had set eyes on her for several days. When we left our pretty country lodging, I wrote her a letter, which Nip carried as usual to her house, but he was told that she had gone on a visit to some friends at a distance, but that the letter should be given to her on her return. I had not, therefore, been able to inform her of what we had been compelled to do, as I would have wished; but thus, without preparation, quite unexpectedly, I had been met by her in the public street, acting the poor dogs' butcher, with the implements of my business before me, and a dirty cur growling and gnawing his dinner at my feet. What made the matter more serious, for serious it seemed to me, though I can but smile _now_ to think why such a thing should have made me uncomfortable, was, that the whole scene had taken place in so open a part, with so many grand and gay dogs all round, to be witnesses of my confusion. I did not reflect that, of all the puppies who were strutting past, there was probably not one who could have remembered so common an event as the passing of a butcher's barrow; and if they looked at me at all, it was, doubtless, for no other reason than to avoid running against my greasy coat and spoiling their fine clothes. These confessions will prove to you that I was very far from being a wise dog or even a sensible one; all the books I had read had, as yet, served no other purpose than that of feeding my vanity and making me believe I was a very superior animal; and you may learn from this incident, that those who wish to make a proper figure in the world, and play the part they are called on to perform in a decent manner, must study their lesson in the world itself, by mingling with their fellows, for books alone can no more teach such knowledge than it can teach a dog to swim without his going into the water. Nip and I had our dinner; and when it was over, my old friend went out to procure a supply of meat for the next day's business. I sat at the window with my nose resting on the ledge, at times watching some heavy clouds which were rolling up the sky, as if to attend a great meeting overhead; at another moment, looking at the curs in the streets, who were playing all sorts of games, which generally turned into a fight, and often staring at the house opposite without seeing a single stone in the wall, but in their place, Fidas, and puppies with stiff collars, and barrows with piles of meat, ready cut and skewered. I was awoke from this day-dream by the voice of an old, but very clean doggess, inquiring if my name was Mr. Job? I answered that I was so called, when she drew from her pocket and gave me a pink-coloured note, which smelt like a nice garden, and even brought one to my view as plainly as if it had suddenly danced before me, and saying there was no reply, returned by the way she had come. I did not require to be told by whom it was sent. I knew the writing too well. The neat folding, the small but clean address assured me that a lady's paw had done it all, and every word of the direction-- +---------------------------------------+ | MASTER JOB, | | | | In the Little Dogs' Street, | | | | F. LOWER CANEVILLE. | +---------------------------------------+ spoke to me of Fida, and did not even need the F. in the corner to convince me of the fact. With her permission, I here give you the contents:-- "MY DEAR JOB, "I am sorry I was away from home when your letter arrived, and would have told you I was going, but that I thought the news might cause you pain, as I, by some mischance, had got my tail jammed in a door, and was forced to leave home in order to visit a famous doctor, who lives at some distance. He fortunately cured me after a few days' illness, and the tail wags now as freely as ever, although it was very annoying, as well as ridiculous, to see me walking up and down the room with that wounded member so wrapped up that it was as thick as my whole body, and was quite a load to drag about. "But, dear Job, I do not write this to talk about myself, though I am forced to give you this explanation of my silence: what I wish is to say something about _you_. And to begin, as you have always been a good, kind dog, and listened to me patiently when I have praised, you must now be just as kind and good, and even more patient, because I am going to scold. "Dear Job, when I met you this morning in your new dress and occupation, I had not then read your letter. I had but just returned, and was taking a walk with my brother, who had arrived from abroad during my absence. I knew you at once, in spite of your change of costume, and though I did not particularly like the business you had chosen, I felt certain you had good reasons for having selected it. But when I looked in your face, instead of the smile of welcome which I expected from you, I could read nothing but shame, confusion, and annoyance. Why? dear Job, why? If you were _ashamed_ of your occupation, why had you chosen it? I suppose when you took it up, you resolved to do your duty in it properly; then why feel _shame_ because _your friend_ sees you, as you must have thought she would one day see you, since the nature of your new business carries you into different parts of the city? "But, dear Job, I feel certain, and I would like you to be equally sure, that there is no need of _shame_ in following any busines which is _honest_, and which can be carried on without doing injury to others. It is not the business, believe me, dear Job, which lowers a dog; _he himself_ is alone capable of _lowering_ himself, and one dog may be truly good and noble, though he drive a meat-barrow about the streets, while another may be a miserable, mean animal, though living in a palace and never soiling his paws. "I have a great deal more to say, my dear Job, upon this subject, but I must leave the rest till I see you. I have already crossed and recrossed my note, and may be most difficult to understand where I most want to be clear. Here is a nice open space, however, in the corner, which I seize on with pleasure to write myself most distinctly, "Your friend, "FIDA." A variety of feelings passed through my mind as I read these lines. But they were all lost in my wonder at Fida's cleverness in being able to read my face, as if it had been a book. I was grateful to her for the good advice she gave me, and now felt ashamed for having been ashamed before. The best way I thought to prove my thankfulness would be to act openly and naturally as Fida had pointed out, for I could not help confessing, as my eyes looked again and again over her note, that she was quite right, and that I had acted like a very silly animal. I was interrupted during my reflections by the bursting of rain upon the house-roofs, and the stream which rose from the streets as the large drops came faster and faster down. I went to the door to look for my old friend, but not a dog was to be seen. I was surprised at the sight of the sky where I had observed the clouds rising a little while before, for now those same clouds looked like big rocks piled one above another, with patches of light shining through great caverns. As I stared eagerly down the street, torrents of water poured from above, which, instead of diminishing, seemed to be growing more terrible every moment. I had never seen so fearful a storm. It did not appear like mere rain which was falling; the water came down in broad sheets, and changed the road into a river. I got more and more anxious about old Nip. It was getting dark, and I knew he was not strong. My hope was that he had taken shelter somewhere; but I could not rest, for I was sure he would try and get home, if only to quiet me. While running in and out in my anxiety--the water having meanwhile risen above the sill of the door, and poured into our little house, where it was already above my paws--I spied a dark figure crawling along the street, and with great difficulty making way against the beating of the storm. I at once rushed out, and swimming rather than running towards the object, I found my poor friend almost spent with fatigue, and scarcely able to move, having a heavy load to carry besides his own old limbs, which were not fit to battle with such a tempest. I caught up his package; and assisting him as well as I was able, we at length got to our cottage, though we were forced to get upon the bench that stood by the wall to keep our legs out of the water. The rain had now become a perfect deluge. A stream of water went hissing down the street, and rushed in and out of the houses as if they had been baths. When Nip recovered breath, he told me that terrible things were happening in the parts of the city by the waterside. The river had swollen so much, that some kennels had been carried away by the current, and it was impossible to learn how many poor dogs had been drowned. This news made me jump again from the bench where I had been sitting. "What is it?" said Nip. "I am going out, Nip," replied I. "I must not be idle here, when I can, perhaps, be of use somewhere else." "That is true," said Nip; "but, Job, strong as you are, the storm is stronger." "Yes, Nip," answered I; "but there are dogs weaker than myself who may require such assistance as I can give them, and it is not a time for a dog to sit with his tail curled round him, when there are fellow-creatures who may want a helping paw. So good-bye, old friend; try and go to sleep; you have done your duty as long as your strength let you, it is now for me to do mine." Without waiting for a reply, I rushed out at the door. It did not need much exertion to get through our street or the next, or the next after that, for as they all sloped downwards, the water more than once took me off my legs, and carried me along. Sad as Nip's news had been, I was not prepared for the terrible scene which met my eyes when I got near the river. The houses at the lower part of the street I had reached had been swept away by the torrent, and a crowd of shivering dogs stood looking at the groaning river as it rolled past in great waves as white as milk, in which black objects, either portions of some kennel or articles of furniture, were floating. Every now and then, a howl would break from a doggess in the crowd, as a dead body was seen tossed about by the angry water; and the same dolorous cries might be heard from different quarters, mixed up with the roar of the river. While standing with a group of three or four, staring with astonishment at the frightful scene, uncertain what to do, a howl was heard from another direction, so piercing that it made many of us run to learn the cause. The pale light showed us that the torrent had snapped the supports of a house at some distance from the river's bank, but which the swollen stream had now reached, and carried away at least half the building. By some curious chance, the broken timbers had become fixed for the moment in the boiling water, which, angry at the obstruction, was rushing round or flying completely over them; and it was easy to see that in a very short time the mass would be swept away. Upon the timbers thus exposed were three little pups scarce two months old, yelping most dismally as they crouched together, or crawled to the edge of their raft; while on the floor of the ruin from which this side had been torn away, was their poor mother, whose fearful howl had attracted us thither, and who was running from side to side of the shattered hut as if she was frantic. Great as the danger was, I could not bear to think the wretched mother should see her little ones swallowed up by the stormy water, before her very eyes, without a single attempt being made to save them. Although I could scarcely hope even to reach them in safety, and in no case could bring more than one of them to land at once, if I even got so far, I resolved to make the trial. Better save one, I thought, than let all die. Holding my breath, I launched into the current in the direction of the raft, and soon found that I had not been wrong in calculating the difficulties and dangers of the undertaking. It was not the water alone which made the peril so great, though the eddies seemed at every moment to be pulling me to the bottom, but there were so many things rushing along with the stream as to threaten to crush me as they flew by; and had they struck me, there is no doubt there would have been an end of my adventures. Avoiding them all, though I know not how, I was getting near the spot where the little pups were crying for their mother, when I felt myself caught in an eddy and dragged beneath the water. Without losing courage, but not allowing myself to breathe, I made a strong effort, and at last, got my head above the surface again; but where was the raft? Where were the helpless puppies? All had gone--not a trace was left to tell where they had been--the river foamed over the spot that had held them for a time, and was now rushing along as if boasting of its strength. Seeing my intentions thus defeated, I turned my head towards the shore, resolving to swim to land. To my surprise, I found that I made no progress. I put out all my strength--I fought with the water--I threw myself forward--it was in vain--I could not move a paw's breadth against the current. I turned to another point--I again used every exertion--all was useless--I felt my tired limbs sink under me--I felt the stream sweeping me away--my head turned round in the agony of that moment, and I moaned aloud. My strength was now gone--I could scarce move a paw to keep my head down the river. A dark object came near--it was a large piece of timber, probably a portion of some ruined building. Seizing it as well as my weakness would permit me, I laid my paws over the floating wood, and, dragging my body a little more out of the water, got some rest from my terrible labours. [Illustration: AFLOAT] Where was I hurrying to? I knew not. Every familiar object must have been long passed, but it was too obscure to make out anything except the angry torrent. On, on I went, in darkness and in fear--yes, great fear, not of death, but a fear caused by the strangeness of my position, and the uncertainty before me; on, on, till the black shores seemed to fly from each other, and the river to grow and grow until all land had disappeared, and nothing but the water met my aching eyes. I closed them to shut out the scene, and tried to forget my misery. Had I slept? And what was the loud noise which startled me so that I had nearly let go my hold? I roused myself--I looked around--I was tossing up and down with a regular motion, but could see nothing clearly, I was no longer carried forward so swiftly as before, but the dim light prevented me making out the place I was now in. Suddenly, a flash broke from the black clouds, and for a single moment shed a blue light over everything. What a spectacle! All around, for miles and miles and miles, was nothing but dancing water, like shining hills with milky tops, but not a living creature beside myself to keep me company, or say a kind word, or listen to me when I spoke, or pity me when I moaned! Oh! who could tell what I then felt, what I feared, and what I suffered! Alone! alone! When I think, as I often do now, of that terrible scene, and figure to myself my drenched body clinging to that piece of timber, I seem to feel a strange pity for the miserable dog thus left, as it seemed, to die, away from all his fellows, without a friendly howl raised, to show there was a single being to regret his loss--and I cannot help at such times murmuring to myself, as if it were some other animal, "Poor Job! poor dog!" I remember a dimness coming over my eyes after I had beheld that world of water--I have a faint recollection of thinking of Fida--of poor Nip--of the drowning puppies I had tried in vain, to save--of my passing through the streets of Caneville with my meat-barrow, and wondering how I could have been so foolish as to feel ashamed of doing so--and then--and then--I remember nothing more. PAINS AND PLEASURES. When I again opened my eyes after the deep sleep which had fallen upon me, morning was just breaking, and a grey light was in the sky and on the clouds which dotted it all over. As I looked round, you may well think, with hope and anxiety, still nothing met my view but the great world of water, broken up into a multitude of little hills. I now understood that I was on the sea, where I had been borne by the rushing river; that sea of which I had often read, but which I could form no idea about till this moment. The sad thought struck me that I must stop there, tossed about by the wind and beaten by the waves, until I should die of hunger, or that, spent with fatigue, my limbs would refuse to sustain me longer, and I should be devoured by some of the monsters of the deep, who are always on the watch for prey. Such reflections did not help to make my position more comfortable, and it was painful enough in itself without them. It was certain, however, that complaint or sorrow could be of no service, and might be just the contrary, as the indulging in either would, probably, prevent my doing what was necessary to try and save myself should an opportunity offer. The grey light, in the meantime, had become warmer and warmer in its tone, until the face of every cloud towards the east was tinged with gold. While I was admiring the beautiful sight, for it was so beautiful that it made me forget for a time my sad position, my eyes were caught by the shining arch of the rising sun, as it sprang all of a sudden above the surface of the sea. Oh! never shall I forget the view! Between me and the brilliant orb lay a pathway of gold, which rose, and fell, and glittered, and got at last so broad and dazzling, that my eyes could look at it no longer. I knew it was but the sun's light upon the water, but it looked so firm, that I could almost fancy I should be able to spring upon it, and run on and on until I reached some friendly country. But alas! there seemed little chance of such a thing happening as my ever reaching land again. As the sun got high up, and poured his rays on to the sea, I began to feel a craving for food, and, though surrounded with water, yet the want of some to drink. When the thirst came upon me, I at first lapped up a few drops of the sea-water with avidity, but I soon found that it was not fit to drink, and that the little I had taken only made my thirst the greater. In the midst of my suffering, a poor bird came fluttering heavily along, as if his wings were scarce able to support his weight. Every little object was interesting to me just then, and as I sat upon my piece of timber I looked up at the trembling creature, and began comparing his fate with my own. "Ah, Job," I said, half-aloud, "you thought, perhaps, that you were the only unhappy being in the world. Look at that poor fowl; there he is, far away from land, from his home, from his friends, perhaps his little ones (for many birds have large families), with tired wings, and not a piece of ground as broad as his own tail for him to rest upon. He must go on, fatigued though he may be, for if he fall, nothing can prevent his death; the water will pour among his feathers, clog his wings, and not only prevent him ever rising more into the air, but pull him down until his life is gone. So, Job, badly off as you are just now, there is another, as you see, whose fate is worse; and who shall say that in other places, where your eye cannot reach, there are not others yet so very, very miserable, that they would willingly, oh! how willingly! change places with you, or with that poor fluttering bird?" This talk with myself quieted me for a time, and I felt a certain joy when I saw the bird slowly descend, and having spied my uncomfortable boat, perch heavily on the other end of it. He did not do so until he had looked at me with evident alarm; and, worn out as he was, and his heart beating as though it would burst through his yellow coat, he still kept his eyes fixed upon me, ready to take wing and resume his journey, wherever he might be going, at the least motion I should make. Some time passed over in this way; myself in the middle, and Dicky at the end of the beam. We did not say a word to each other; for, as I spoke no other language but my own, and he seemed about as clever as myself, we merely talked with our eyes. A thought now came into my head. My thirst returned, and I felt very hungry. What if I should suddenly dart on little Dicky, and make a meal of him? I did not consider at the instant that, by so doing, I should be acting a very base part, for Dicky had placed confidence in me; and killing him for trusting to my honour, and eating him because he was poor and unfortunate, would be neither a good return nor a kind action. Luckily for Dicky, and even for myself, although he was not able to speak foreign languages, he could read my meaning in my eyes; for when I turned them slowly towards him, just to see my distance, he took alarm, and rose into the air with a swiftness which I envied. I am sorry to say my only thought at first was the having lost my dinner: but as I watched him through the air, flying on and on, until he diminished to a misty speck, and then disappeared, my better feelings came back to me and said, "Oh, Job! I would not have believed this of you!" "But," replied my empty stomach, "I am so hungry; without food, I shall fall in, and Job will die." "Let Job die," said my better self again, in a cold, firm tone; "let Job rather die, than do what he would live to feel ashamed of." As the day wore on, I began to think that death only could relieve me; and the thought was very, very painful. Nothing before and around but the salt waves--nothing above but the blue sky and hot sun--not even a cloud on which to rest my aching eyes. The want of water which I could drink was now becoming terrible. When I thought of it, my head began to turn; my brain seemed to be on fire; and the public basins of Caneville, where only the lowest curs used to quench their thirst, danced before me to add to my torture; for I thought, though I despised them once, how I could give treasures of gold for one good draught at the worst of them just then. There is not a misfortune happens to us from which we may not derive good if our hearts are not quite hardened, and our minds not totally impenetrable. Great as my sufferings were during this incident of my life, I learnt from it much that has been useful to me in after years. But even if it had taught me no other truth than that we should despise nothing which is good and wholesome, merely because it is ordinary, I should not have passed through those sad hours in vain. We dogs are so apt, when in prosperity, to pamper our appetites, and, commonly speaking, to turn up our noses at simple food, that we require, from time to time, to be reminded on how little canine life can be preserved. All have not had the advantage of the lesson which I was blessed with; for it _was_ a blessing; one that has so impressed itself on my memory, that sometimes when I fancy I cannot eat anything that is put before me, because it is too much done, or not done enough, or has some other real or supposed defect, I say to myself, "Job, Job, what would you have given for a tiny bit of the worst part of it when you were at sea?" And then I take it at once, and find it excellent. As the sun got lower, clouds, the same in shape that had welcomed him in the morning, rose up from the sea as if to show their pleasure at his return. He sunk into the midst of them and disappeared; and then the clouds came up and covered all the sky. I suffered less in the cool evening air, and found with pleasure that it was growing into a breeze. My pleasure soon got greater still, for, with the wind, I felt some drops of rain! The first fell upon my burning nose; but the idea of fresh water was such a piece of good fortune, that I dared not give loose to my joy until the drops began to fall thickly on and around me, and there was a heavy shower. I could scarcely give my rough coat time to get thoroughly wet before I began sucking at it. It was not nice at first, being mixed with the salt spray by which I had been so often covered; but as the rain still came down, the taste was fresher every moment, and soon got most delicious. I seemed to recover strength as I licked my dripping breast and shoulders; and though evening changed to dark night, and the rain was followed by a strong wind, which got more and more fierce, and appeared to drive me and my friendly log over the waves as if we had been bits of straw, I felt no fear, but clung to the timber, and actually gave way to hope. I must have slept again, for daylight was once more in the sky when I unclosed my eyes. Where was I now? My sight was dim, and though I could see there was no longer darkness, I could make out nothing else. Was I still on the rolling water? Surely not; for I felt no motion. I passed my paw quickly across my eyes to brush away the mist which covered them. I roused myself. The beam of wood was still beneath me, but my legs surely touched the ground! My sight came back to me, and showed me, true, the sea stretching on, on, on, in the distance, but showed me also that _I_--oh, joy!--_I_ had reached the shore! When my mind was able to believe the truth, I sprang on to the solid land with a cry which rings in my ears even now. What though my weakness was so great that I tumbled over on to the beach and filled my mouth with sand? I could have licked every blade of grass, every stone, in my ecstacy; and when forced to lie down from inability to stand upon my legs, I drove my paws into the earth, and held up portions to my face, to convince myself that I was indeed on shore. I did not trouble myself much with questions as to how I got there. I did not puzzle my brain to inquire whether the wind which had risen the evening before, and which I felt driving me on so freely, had at length chased me to the land. All I seemed to value was the fact that I was indeed _there_; and all I could persuade myself to say or think was the single, blessed word, SAVED! I must have lain some time upon the sand before I tried again to move, for when I scrambled on to my legs the sun was high and hot--so hot, that it had completely dried my coat, and made me wish for shelter. Dragging myself with some trouble to a mound of earth, green and sparkling with grass and flowers, I managed to get on top of it; and when I had recovered from the effort, for I was very weak, looked about me with curiosity to observe the place where I had been thrown. The ground was level close to where I stood, but at a little distance it rose into gentle grassy hills, with short bushes here and there; and just peeping over them, were the tops of trees still farther off, with mountains beyond, of curious forms and rich blue colour. While considering this prospect, I suddenly observed an animal on one of the hills coming towards me, and I lay down at full length on the grass to examine who he might be. As he drew nearer, I was surprised at his form and look (I afterwards learnt that he was called an ape), and thought I had never beheld so queer a being. He had a stick in his right hand, and a bundle in his left, and kept his eyes fixed on the ground as he walked along. When he was quite close, I rose again, to ask him where I could procure food and water, of which I felt great want. The motion startled him; and stepping back, he took his stick in both hands as if to protect himself. The next moment he put it down, and coming up to me, to my surprise addressed me in my own language, by inquiring how I came there. My astonishment was so great at first that I could not reply; and when I did speak, it was to ask him how it happened that he used my language. To this he answered, that he had been a great traveller in his day, and among other places had visited my city, where he had studied and been treated kindly for a long time; that he loved dogs, and should be only too happy now to return some of the favours he had received. This speech opened my heart; but before he would let me say more, he untied his bundle, and spread what it contained before me. As there were several savoury morsels, you may believe I devoured them with great appetite--indeed, I hope Master Ximio's opinion of me was not formed from the greediness with which I ate up his provisions. After I had refreshed myself at a spring of water, we sat down, and I told him my story. He heard me patiently to the end, when, after a pause, he exclaimed-- "Come, Job, come with me. A few days' rest will restore your strength, and you can return to your own city. It is not a long journey over land; and with stout limbs like those, you will soon be able to get back and lick old Nip again." I need not dwell upon this part of my story, although I could fill many pages with the narration of Master Ximio's dwelling, and above all of his kindness; he kept me two or three days at his house, and would have detained me much longer, but, besides that I was anxious to return to Nip, I felt certain pains in my limbs, which made me wish to get back to Caneville, as I did not like the idea of troubling my good friend with the care of a sick dog. He was so kind-hearted, however, and showed me such attention, that I was afraid to say anything about my aches, lest he should insist on keeping me. He seemed to think it was quite natural I should desire to get home; and when he saw my impatience to depart, he assisted to get me ready. Having supplied me with everything I could want on my journey, and pressed upon me many gifts besides, he led me by a little path through the wood, until we came to the sea. "Along this shore," he said, "your road lies. Follow the winding of the coast until you reach the mouth of a broad river, the waters of which empty themselves into the sea. That river is the same which runs through your city. Keep along its banks and you will shortly arrive at Caneville, where I hope you may find everything you wish--for I am sure you wish nothing that is unreasonable. If pleasure awaits you there, do not, in the midst of it, forget Ximio. If, against my hopes, you should find yourself unhappy, remember there is a home always open to you here, and a friend who will do his best to make you forget sorrow. Farewell!" I was greatly moved at his words and the memory of his kindness. We licked each other tenderly--murmured something, which meant a good deal more than it expressed--and then we parted. I turned my head often as I went, and each time beheld Ximio waving his hand in the air; at last a dip in the ground hid him from my sight, and I continued my journey alone. It was fortunate I had been well furnished with provisions by my good friend, for as I proceeded, I found the pains in my limbs so great that I could scarce drag one leg after the other, and should probably have died of hunger, as I had no strength left to procure food, and did not meet with any more Ximios to assist me had I stood in need. With long rests, from which I rose each time with greater difficulty,--with increasing anxiety as I drew near my home, to learn all that had taken place during my absence,--and yet with legs which almost refused to carry me; after many days that seemed to have grown into months,--they were so full of care and suffering,--I toiled up a hill, which had, I thought, the power of getting steeper as I ascended. At length I reached the top, and to my joy discovered the well-known city of Caneville, lying in the plain beneath me. The sight gave me strength again. I at once resumed my journey, and trotted down the hill at a pace which surprised myself. As I got warm with my exertions, the stiffness seemed by degrees to leave my limbs; I ran, I bounded along, over grass and stone through broad patches of mud which showed too plainly to what height the river had lately risen, out of breath, yet with a spirit that would not let me flag, I still flew on, nor slackened my speed until I had got to the first few houses of the town. There I stopped indeed, and fell; for it then seemed as if my bones were all breaking asunder. My eyes grew dim; strange noises sounded in my ears; and though I fancied I could distinguish voices which I knew, I could neither see nor speak; I thought it was my dying hour. From the mouths of Nip and others I learnt all which then occurred, and all that had passed after my supposed loss on the night of the inundation. How my noble conduct (for so they were kind enough to call it, though I only tried to do my duty, and failed) had been made known to the great dogs of Caneville, and how they had sought after me to thank me for it;--how they had offered rewards to those who assisted in my recovery;--how, when it was supposed that I was dead, they took Nip from our modest home, and placed him in this present house, fitted with everything that could make him comfortable for life;--how, when all hope was gone, my unexpected appearance brought a crowd about me, each one anxious to assist me in my distress, though some maliciously said, in order to lay claim to the reward;--and how I was finally brought again to my senses through the care of our clever canine doctors, and the kind nursing of dear old Nip. It was long, however, before I recovered my legs sufficiently to be able to use them without support. My long exposure at sea, the want of food, and the trouble I had gone through, during my involuntary voyage, had all assisted to weaken me. But my anxiety to enjoy the fresh air again, took me out into the streets directly it was thought safe for me to do so, and with a pair of crutches beneath my arms, I managed to creep about. Never shall I forget the first time this pleasure was allowed me. The morning was so fresh and bright; the sun shone so gaily upon the houses; the river, now reduced to its usual size, ran so cheerily along, that I got into my old habit, and began to think they were all talking to me and bidding me welcome after my long illness. Kind words were soon said to me in right earnest, for before I had got half-way down the street, with old Nip just behind me,--his hat still adorned with the band which he had unwillingly put on when he thought me dead and gone, and which he had forgotten to take off again,--the puppies ran from different quarters to look up in my face and say, "How do you do, Job? I hope you are better, Job." Many a polite dog took off his hat to bid me good morrow; and praises more than I deserved, but which I heard with pleasure, came softly to my ear, as I hobbled slowly along. Nip told me afterwards, that there had been another in the crowd who kept a little back, and who, though she said nothing, seemed to be more glad to see me than all the rest. I had not seen her, nor did he mention her name, but that was not necessary. My heart seemed to tell me that it could only have been Fida. [Illustration: A WORTHY SUBJECT] DUTY. The idle life which I was compelled to spend gave me time for reflection, and I believe my mind was more active during the few months my body was on crutches than it had been for years previous. My thoughts received little interruption from Nip, who, after having recounted the events which had taken place during my absence, had little more to say. The kindness of the great city dogs having removed all fear of want, or even the necessity of labour, from our comfortable home, produced at first a pleasing effect upon me; but as my strength returned, and I managed to walk about the room without assistance, a desire for active employment became quite necessary to my happiness. "What have I done, Nip?" I would often say, as I took my usual exercise in our modest parlour; "what have I done, Nip, that I should be clothed, and fed, and housed, without labouring for such advantages, like the rest of dog-kind? These paws, large and strong as they are, were never intended for idleness; this back, broad as it is, was meant for some other purpose than to show off a fine coat; this brain, which can reflect and admire and resolve, had not such capabilities given to it in order that they might be wasted in a life of ease. Work, Nip, work; such work as a dog _can_ do should be sought after and done, for nothing can be more shocking than to see an animal's powers, either of body or mind, wasted away in idleness." Nip replied but little, although he winked his eyes very vigorously. I was used to his manner now, and could understand his meaning without the necessity of words. Both his looks and gestures told me that he thought as I did, and I only waited till I could use my own legs freely, to set about a resolution I had been forming in my mind. It was a happy day when I could again mix in the bustle of the streets, and find my strength once more restored. The first use I made of it was to go to the great house where the chief dogs of Caneville are accustomed to sit during a certain time of the day to judge matters relating to the city. When I arrived, they were almost alone, and I was therefore able to present myself without delay, and explain my business. I began by thanking them for what they had done for me and my old friend Nip, in providing us with a house and with so many comforts. I told them, although the goodness of Nip rendered him worthy of every attention, as he had grown old in a useful and laborious life, I had no such claims. I was still young--my strength had come back to me--I had no right to eat the food of idleness where so many dogs, more deserving than I, were often in want of a bone, but whose modesty prevented them making known their necessities. I would still thankfully enjoy the home, which the kindness of the great animals of Caneville had furnished me, but they must permit me to work for it--they must permit me to do something which might be useful to the city in return, for I should devour the fare provided for me with a great deal more appetite, if I could say to myself when I felt hungry, "Job, brother Job, eat your dinner, for you have _earned_ it." The assembly of dogs heard me with great attention to the end; not a bark interrupted my little speech, not a movement disturbed my attention. I was pleased to see that tails wagged with approbation when I had concluded, and was charmed to hear the chief among them, who was white with age, express himself _delighted_, yes, that was the word, delighted with my spirit. "We are pleased, Job," he said, at the end of his reply, "we are pleased to observe that there are yet _true dogs_ in Caneville; there have been animals calling themselves so, whose character was so base, and whose manner was so cringing, that they have brought disrepute upon the name; and we are sorry to say that in many countries the title of a _dog_ is given to the vilest and most worthless creatures. All the finer qualities of our race have been lost sight of, because a few among us have been mean or wicked; and a whole nation has been pointed at with scorn, because some of its members have acted badly. We are happy, Job, to find in you a 'worthy subject,' and we shall be glad to give you all assistance in choosing an occupation in which you may employ your time, and be of use to your fellow-creatures." I should not have repeated this to you, as it is not, perhaps, necessary for my story, but that I wished to correct an error, which many have made, concerning the character of this very dog. He has been described by several as cold, and proud, and sometimes cruel; and yet to me he was warm, and friendly, and most kind. Do not you think when we hear animals grumbling against their fellows, it would be just as well to think who the grumblers are, before we form our opinions? or, at least, hear the opinions of many before we decide ourselves? I need not tell you all that passed between us, and what was said by this dog and by that, about the choice of my occupation. It was agreed at last that I should be appointed chief of the Caneville police, as the place had become vacant through the death of a fine old mastiff some days previous. I wonder whether he was a relation of my own, for I have already told you my mother belonged to that great family. He had received some severe wounds when trying to capture a fierce beast of the name of Lupo, the terror of the city, and he had died from the effects of them in spite of all the care of the doctors. What made the matter worse, was the fact that Lupo was yet at liberty, and many dogs were afraid to go out at night for fear of meeting with this terrible animal. To tell the truth, I was rather pleased than otherwise that Lupo had still to be taken. It was agreeable to me to think that work, difficult work, was to be done, and that _I_ was called upon to do it. I felt proud at the idea that the animals of the great city of Caneville would look up to me, _to me_, poor Job, as the dog chosen to releive them of their fears, and restore security to their streets. "Job," I cried out to myself, in a firm tone, "Job, here is a chance of being useful to your country; let no danger, no fear, even of death, stop you in the good work. Job, you are called upon to perform a duty, and let nothing, mind _nothing_, turn you from it." After I had become acquainted with all the dogs who were under my command, I spent much time each day in exercising them, and in endeavouring by kind words, and by my own example, to make them attend strictly to their work. I was pleased to observe that I succeeded. Some, who were pointed out to me as difficult to manage, became my most faithful followers, and I had not been two months in my employment before all were so devoted to me, that I believe they would have died to serve me. In all this time, nothing had been heard of the terrible Lupo, and all my inquiries procured no information concerning where he was to be found. I learned that he was not a native of Caneville, although his father once belonged to the city. He was born in a country beyond the great wood, and his mother came from a fierce tribe of wolves, who, although they a little resemble dogs in appearance, and speak a very similar language, are much more ferocious, and seem to look upon the whole canine family as natural enemies. The opinion began to spread in Caneville that Lupo had at length left the city, and the inhabitants, by degrees, recovered their usual quiet; when, suddenly, the alarm spread more widely than before; as, two nights in succession, some rich dogs were robbed and ill-treated, and one of them was lamed by the ferocity of the chief of the terrible band who had attacked them, and whose description convinced me it was Lupo. These accounts caused me much pain, as I had neither been able to prevent the attacks, nor discover the animals who had made them. In my desire to find out and capture the robbers, I could scarcely take food or rest. I managed to sleep a little in the day-time, and at night, dressed in the simplest manner, so as to excite no attention, I wandered quietly from street to street, stopping to listen to the slightest noise, and going in any direction that I heard a murmur. One or two of my dogs generally followed at a distance, ready to assist me if I called for help. It was a fine night. The moon and stars were brilliant in the sky, and made the blue all the deeper from their own bright rays. I had been already two hours crawling through the lower parts of the city, and was mounting the hill which led to a fine building where my steps often carried me--sometimes without my intending it--in order to watch over the safety of those who slept within. It was the house of Fida--that Fida who had been to me so kind, so tender; that Fida, who so patiently softened down my rudeness, and had tried to teach me to know what was good by letting me become her friend. I had nearly reached the top of the hill, and paused an instant to observe the bright light and dark shadows which the house displayed, as the moon fell upon it, or some portion of the building interposed. Profound sleep had fallen upon the city. The river might be seen from the spot where I was standing, running swiftly along; and so deep was the silence that you could even hear the gush of the water as it fretted round some large stones in the centre of the stream. Suddenly there rose into the air from the ground above me, the sharp, clear howl of a female voice, and at the same instant the sound of a rattle broke upon my ear as a signal of alarm. I sprang up the few feet which were between me and the house with the speed of lightning, and turning rapidly the corner of the building, reached the principal entrance. One look told me everything: at an upper window, in a loose dress, was Fida herself, springing the rattle which she held in her paw, with a strength that fear alone could have given her; and below, where I myself stood, were four or five dogs differently engaged, but evidently trying to get into the house. A kick from my right leg sent one of them to the ground, and, with my clenched paw, I struck a blow at the second. Never do I remember feeling such strength within me, such a resolution to attack twenty dogs if it were necessary, although the next minute I might be torn in pieces. I have sometimes asked myself whether the presence of Fida had anything to do with it, or if a sense of duty only inspired me. I have never been able to reply to the question in a satisfactory manner. I only know that the fact was as I say, and that the blow I gave was surprising even to myself; my paw caught the animal precisely under his chin, and sent him flying backwards, with his nose in the air and his hat behind him; and as the moon shone brilliantly upon his upturned face, I recognised the features described to me as those of Lupo. He lay so still upon the ground that I thought he must be killed; so, leaving him for a moment, I pursued some others who were running off in the distance, but did not succeed in catching them. I said a few cheering words to Fida at the window, and returned to the spot of my encounter with Lupo; but instead of that terrible beast, found some of my own followers, the father of Fida, and one or two servants, who had been roused by the tumult, and had come out to learn the cause. Lupo was nowhere to be seen. He had either partly recovered from the blow, and had managed to crawl away, or had been dragged off by some of his troop. Nothing could have been more fortunate to me than this night's adventure. The father of Fida, who had seen the attack from his window, was the head of one of the best families of dogs in Caneville, and being, besides, very rich, he enjoyed great power. He was so pleased with what I had done, that he not only took a great liking to me himself, but he spoke of my conduct in the highest terms to the great assembly. I received public thanks; I was admitted to the honour which I now hold, that of forming one of the second assembly of the city; I was loaded with rich presents, and equally rich praise; and I may also date from that night, the obtaining the richest gift of all, the gift which has made the happiness of my best years; I mean the possession of my wife, the beautiful Fida. [Illustration: A SEVERE BLOW] It is true that I did not procure that felicity at once. There were many difficulties to be got over before the noble spaniel would think of allowing his daughter to become the wife of plain Mr. Job. His son, also, of whom I have spoken previously, could not bear, at first, the idea of his sister not marrying some one as noble as herself, and thought, very naturally, that she was far too good to have her fortunes united with mine. Fida herself, however, was so firm, and yet so tender; so straightforward, and yet so modest, that she finally broke down all opposition. She persuaded her father that no title could be more noble than the one I had acquired, that of "Honest Job;" she won over her brother, by slily asking him, which among his grand companions could have met a whole band of fierce dogs, with Lupo at their head, and, single-pawed, could have conquered them all? By degrees, every objection was cleared away, and Fida became mine. The chief interest of my life terminates here; for although, in my position as head of the police, I had many other adventures, they were too much alike, and of too common an order, to be worth relating. Before I close, however, I must mention a circumstance which occurred shortly after my battle with the robbers, as it is curious in itself, and refers to an animal of whom I have before spoken. I was quietly walking along a bye-street of Caneville, when a miserable, thin, little puppy came behind me, and gently pulled my coat. On turning round to ask him what he wanted, he begged me in the most imploring tone to come and see his father, who was very ill. "And who is your father, little pup?" I inquired. "His name is Lupo," said the thin dog, in a trembling voice. "Lupo!" I cried out in surprise. "But do you not know who I am, and that I am forced to be your father's greatest enemy?" "I know, I know," the pup replied; "but father told me to come and seek _you_, for that you were good, and would not harm him, if you knew he was so miserable." And here the little dog began howling in a way which moved me. "Go on," I said, after a moment; "go on; I will follow you." As the little dog ran before, through some of the low and miserable parts of the city, the idea once came into my head that perhaps this was a scheme of Lupo's to get me into his power. But the puppy's grief had been too real to allow me to believe, young as he was, that he could be acting a part; so with a stout resolution I went forward. We arrived at a low and dirty kennel, where only the greatest misery could bear to live. We passed through a hole, for so it appeared, rather than a doorway, and I found myself in a little room, lit by a break in the wall. On the single poor bed lay a wretched object, gasping for breath, while a ragged pup, somewhat older than my little guide, had buried his face in the clothes at the bottom of the bed. Three other tiny creatures, worn to the bone with poverty and want of food, came crowding round me, in a way that was piteous to behold; and with their looks, not words, for they said nothing, asked me to do something for their miserable parent. I procured from a neighbouring tavern a bason of broth with which I succeeded in reviving the once terrible Lupo; but it was only a flash before life departed for ever. In broken words, he recommended to my care the poor little objects round. Bad as he was, he still had feeling for them, and it was easy to observe that at this sad moment his thoughts were more of _them_ than of himself; for when I promised to protect them, he pressed my paw with his remaining strength to his hot lips, moaned faintly, and expired. [Illustration: CONSOLATION] My tale is over. Would that it had been more entertaining, more instructive. But the incidents of my career have been few, and my path, with the one or two exceptions I have described, has been a smooth one. I have heard it said that no history of a life, however simple, is without its lesson. If it be so, then perhaps some good may be derived from mine. If it teach the way to avoid an error, or correct a fault; if any portion of it win a smile from a sad heart, or awake a train of serious thought in a gay one, my dog's tale will not have been unfolded in vain. THE END. London; Thomas Harrild, Printer, 13, Salisbury Square, Fleet Street. NEW JUVENILE PUBLICATIONS. ROUTLEDGE'S NEW TWO-SHILLING PRESENT OR GIFT-BOOKS, _In Fcap. 8vo, cloth gilt, with Illustrations by GILBERT, WARREN, CORBOULD, &c.; or with gilt edges, price Two Shillings and Sixpence._ LIST OF THE SERIES, VIZ.: 1. TALES FOR MY CHILDREN. GUIZOT. 2. TEN MORAL TALES. GUIZOT. 3. JUVENILE TALES & STORIES. M'INTOSH. 4. CONQUEST & SELF-CONQUEST. 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Illustrated by GODWIN. 2. EDA MORTON AND HER COUSINS. By M. BELL. Illustrated by BIRKET FOSTER. 3. ALLEN'S LIFE OF NELSON. With Steel Portrait. 4. MACFARLANE'S LIFE OF WELLINGTON. Illustrated by JOHN GILBERT. 5. MACFARLANE'S LIFE OF MARLBOROUGH. Illustrated by JOHN GILBERT. 6. OSLER'S LIFE OF LORD EXMOUTH. With Steel Portrait and Maps. 7. GILBERT THE ADVENTURER. By PETER PARLEY. With Engravings. 8. KALOOLAH: OR, AFRICAN ADVENTURES. With Coloured Plates. ROUTLEDGE'S EIGHTEENPENNY JUVENILES. _Square 16mo, cloth gilt. Illustrated by John Gilbert, Absolon, Foster, etc._ 1. Peasant and the Prince, by Harriet Martineau. 2. Crofton Boys, by Harriet Martineau. 3. Feats on the Fiord, by Harriet Martineau. 4. Settlers at Home, by Harriet Martineau. 5. Holiday Ramblers, or the School Vacation, by Elizabeth Grant. 6. Little Drummer, a Tale of the Russian War. 7. Frank, by Maria Edgeworth. 8. Rosamond, by Maria Edgeworth. 9. Harry and Lucy, Little Dog Trusty, The Cherry Orchard, etc. by Maria Edgeworth. 10. A Hero, or Philip's Book, by the author of Olive. LONDON: GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND CO., FARRINGDON STREET. Transcriber's notes: No changes to the original spelling were made. The following duplicated words were corrected. Page 16: who who corrected to who. Page 44: near near corrected to near. 
13803	----	MAKING HIS WAY _or_ Frank Courtney's Struggle Upward By HORATIO ALGER, Jr. Whitman Publishing Co. RACINE, WISCONSIN PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TABLE OF CONTENTS I. Two School Friends II. The Telegram III. Frank's Bereavement IV. Mrs. Manning's Will V. Disinherited VI. An Unsatisfactory Interview VII. A School Friend VIII. A New Plan IX. The New Owner of Ajax X. Mark Yields to Temptation XI. Mark Gets into Trouble XII. Suspended XIII. Mr. Manning's New Plan XIV. Good-bye XV. Erastus Tarbox of Newark XVI. An Unpleasant Discovery XVII. The Way of the World XVIII. Frank Arrives in New York XIX. Frank Seeks Employment in Vain XX. An Adventure in Wall Street XXI. The Capture XXII. The Young Tea Merchant XXIII. Frank Meets Mr. Manning and Mark XXIV. A Discouraging Day XXV. Perplexity XXVI. Frank Hears Something to His Advantage XXVII. An Incident in a Street Car XXVIII. Frank Makes an Evening Call XXIX. Frank Is Offered a Position XXX. Frank as Private Secretary XXXI. A Letter from Mr. Tarbox XXXII. Mr. Percival's Proposal XXXIII. Preparing for a Journey XXXIV. Frank Reaches Jackson XXXV. Dick Hamlin XXXVI. Mr. Fairfield, the Agent XXXVII. Frank Receives a Letter from Mr. Percival XXXVIII. The Agent Is Notified XXXIX. An Important Discovery XL. Jonas Barton XLI. Conclusion MAKING HIS WAY CHAPTER I TWO SCHOOL FRIENDS Two boys were walking in the campus of the Bridgeville Academy. They were apparently of about the same age--somewhere from fifteen to sixteen--but there was a considerable difference in their attire. Herbert Grant was neatly but coarsely dressed, and his shoes were of cowhide, but his face indicated a frank, sincere nature, and was expressive of intelligence. His companion was dressed in a suit of fine cloth, his linen was of the finest, his shoes were calfskin, and he had the indefinable air of a boy who had been reared in luxury. He had not the broad, open face of his friend--for the two boys were close friends--but his features were finely chiseled, indicating a share of pride, and a bold, self-reliant nature. He, too, was an attractive boy, and in spite of his pride possessed a warm, affectionate heart and sterling qualities, likely to endear him to those who could read and understand him. His name was Frank Courtney, and he is the hero of my story. "Have you written your Latin exercises, Frank?" asked Herbert. "Yes; I finished them an hour ago." "I was going to ask you to write them with me. It is pleasanter to study in company." "Provided you have the right sort of company," rejoined Frank. "Am I the right sort of company?" inquired Herbert, with a smile. "You hardly need to ask that, Herbert. Are we not always together? If I did not like your company, I should not seek it so persistently. I don't care to boast, but I have plenty of offers of companionship which I don't care to accept. There is Bob Stickney, for instance, who is always inviting me to his room; but you know what he is--a lazy fellow, who cares more to have a good time than to study. Then there is James Cameron, a conceited, empty-headed fellow, who is very disagreeable to me." "You don't mention your stepbrother, Mark Manning." "For two reasons--he doesn't care for my company, and of all the boys I dislike him the most." "I don't like him myself. But why do you dislike him so much?" "Because he is a sneak--a crafty, deceitful fellow, always scheming for his own interest. He hates me, but he doesn't dare to show it. His father is my mother's husband, but the property is hers, and will be mine. He thinks he may some day be dependent on me, and he conceals his dislike in order to stand the better chance by and by. Heaven grant that it may be long before my dear mother is called away!" "How did she happen to marry again, Frank?" "I can hardly tell. It was a great grief to me. Mr. Manning was a penniless lawyer, who ingratiated himself with my mother, and persecuted her till she consented to marry him. He is very soft-spoken, and very plausible, and he managed to make mother--who has been an invalid for years--think that it would be the best thing for her to delegate her cares to him, and provide me with a second father." Frank did not like his stepfather, he did not trust him. "Your stepbrother, Mark Manning, enjoys the same advantages as yourself, does he not?" inquired Herbert. "Yes." "Then his father's marriage proved a good thing for him." "That is true. When he first came to the house he was poorly dressed, and had evidently been used to living in a poor way. He was at once provided with a complete outfit as good as my own, and from that time as much has been spent on him as on me. Don't think that I am mean enough to grudge him any part of the money expended upon him. If he were like you, I could like him, and enjoy his society; but he is just another as his father." Here Herbert's attention was drawn to a boy who was approaching with a yellow envelope in his hand. "Frank," he said, suddenly, "there's Mark Manning. He looks as if he had something to say to you. He has either a letter or a telegram in his hand." CHAPTER II THE TELEGRAM Frank's heart gave a great bound at the suggestion of a telegram. A telegram could mean but one thing--that his mother had become suddenly worse. He hurried to meet his stepbrother. "Is that a telegram, Mark?" he asked, anxiously. "Yes." "Is it anything about mother? Tell me quick!" "Read it for yourself, Frank." Frank drew the telegram from the envelope, and read it hastily: "My wife is very sick. I wish you and Frank to come home at once." "When does the next train start, Herbert?" asked Frank, pale with apprehension. "In an hour." "I shall go by that train." "I don't think I can get ready so soon," said Mark, deliberately. "Then you can come by yourself," replied Frank, impetuously. "I beg your pardon, Mark," he added. "I cannot expect you to feel as I do. It is not your mother." "It is my stepmother," said Mark. "That is quite different. But I must not linger here. I will go at once to Dr. Brush, and tell him of my summons home. Good-bye, Herbert, till we meet again." "I will go with you to the depot, Frank," said his friend, sympathizingly. "Don't wait for me. Go ahead, and make your preparation for the journey. I will be at your room in a quarter of an hour." "You won't go by the next train, Mark?" said Herbert. "No. I don't care to rush about as Frank is doing." "You would if it were your own mother who was so ill." "I am not sure. It wouldn't do any good, would it?" "You would naturally feel anxious," said Herbert. "Oh, yes, I suppose so!" answered Mark, indifferently. Mark Manning was slender and dark, with a soft voice and rather effeminate ways. He didn't care for the rough sports in which most boys delight; never played baseball or took part in athletic exercises, but liked to walk about, sprucely dressed, and had even been seen on the campus on a Saturday afternoon with his hands incased in kid gloves. For this, however, he was so ridiculed and laughed at that he had to draw them off and replace them in his pocket. As Frank and Herbert walked together to the railway station, the latter said: "It seems to me, Frank, that the telegram should have been sent to you, rather than to Mark Manning. You are the one who is most interested in the contents." "I thought of that, Herbert, but I was too much affected by the contents to speak of it. I am not surprised, however. It is like Mr. Manning. It jarred upon me to have him speak of mother as his wife. She is so, but I never could reconcile myself to the fact." "Do you remember your father--your own father, Frank?" "You need not have said 'your own father.' I don't recognize Mr. Manning as a father, at all. Yes, I remember him. I was eight years old when he died. He was a fine-looking man, always kind--a man to be loved and respected. There was not a particle of similarity between him and Mr. Manning. He was strong and manly." "How did it happen that he died so young?" "He was the victim of a railway accident. He had gone to New York on business, and was expected back on a certain day. The train on which he was a passenger collided with a freight train, and my poor father was among the passengers who were killed. The news was almost too much for my poor mother, although she had not yet become an invalid. It brought on a fit of sickness lasting for three months. She has never been altogether well since." "After all, Frank, the gifts of fortune, or rather Providence, are not so unequally distributed as at first appears. You are rich, but fatherless. I am poor enough but my father and mother are both spared to me." "I would gladly accept poverty if my father could be restored to life, and my mother be spared to me for twenty years to come." "I am sure you would, Frank," said Herbert. "Money is valuable, but there are some things far more so." They had reached the station by this time, and it was nearly the time for the train to start. Frank bought his ticket, and the two friends shook hands and bade each other good-bye. In an hour Frank was walking up the long avenue leading to the front door of the mansion. The door was opened by his stepfather. "How is mother?" asked Frank, anxiously. "I am grieved to say that she is very sick," said Mr. Manning, in a soft voice. "She had a copious hemorrhage this morning, which has weakened her very much." "Is she in danger?" asked Frank, anxiously. "I fear she is," said Mr. Manning. "I suppose I can see her?" "Yes; but it will be better not to make her talk much." "I will be careful, sir." Frank waited no longer, but hurried to his mother's chamber. As he entered, and his glance fell on the bed and its occupant, he was shocked by the pale and ghastly appearance of the mother whom he so dearly loved. The thought came to him at once: "She cannot live." He found it difficult to repress a rising sob, but he did so for his mother's sake. He thought that it might affect her injuriously if he should display emotion. His mother smiled faintly as he approached the bed. "Mother," said Frank, kneeling by the bedside, "are you very weak?" "Yes, Frank," she answered, almost in a whisper. "I think I am going to leave you." "Oh, don't say that, mother!" burst forth in anguish from Frank's lips. "Try to live for my sake." "I should like to live, my dear boy," whispered his mother; "but if it is God's will that I should die, I must be reconciled. I leave you in his care." Here Mr. Manning entered the room. "You will be kind to my boy?" said the dying mother. "Can you doubt it, my dear?" replied her husband, in the soft tones Frank so much disliked. "I will care for him as if he were my own." "Thank you. Then I shall die easy." "Don't speak any more, mother. It will tire you, and perhaps bring on another hemorrhage." "Frank is right, my dear. You had better not exert yourself any more at present." "Didn't Mark come with you?" asked Mr. Manning of Frank. "No, sir." "I am surprised that he should not have done so. I sent for him as well as you." "I believe he is coming by the next train," said Frank, indifferently. "He thought he could not get ready in time for my train." "He should not have left you to come at such a time." "I didn't wish him to inconvenience himself, Mr. Manning. If it had been his mother, it would have been different." Mr. Manning did not reply. He understood very well that there was no love lost between Mark and his stepson. CHAPTER III FRANK'S BEREAVEMENT Early in the evening Mark made his appearance. Supper had been over for an hour, and everything was cold. In a house where there is sickness, the regular course of things is necessarily interrupted, and, because he could not have his wants attended to immediately, Mark saw fit to grumble and scold the servants. He was not a favorite with them, and they did not choose to be bullied. Deborah, who had been in the house for ten years, and so assumed the independence of an old servant, sharply reprimanded the spoiled boy. "You ought to be ashamed, Mr. Mark," she said, "of making such a fuss when my poor mistress lies upstairs at the point of death." "Do you know who you are talking to?" demanded Mark, imperiously, for he could, when speaking with those whom he regarded as inferiors, exchange his soft tones for a voice of authority. "I ought to know by this time," answered Deborah, contemptuously. "There is no other in the house like you, I am glad to say." "You are very impertinent. You forget that you are nothing but a servant." "A servant has the right to be decently treated, Mr. Mark." "If you don't look out," said Mark, in a blustering tone, "I will report you to my father, and have you kicked out of the house." Deborah was naturally incensed at this rude speech, but she was spared the trouble of replying. Frank entered the room at this moment in time to hear Mark's last speech. "What is this about being kicked out of the house?" he asked, looking from Mark to Deborah, in a tone of unconscious authority, which displeased his stepbrother. "That is my business," replied Mark, shortly. "Mr. Mark has threatened to have me kicked out of the house because he has to wait for his supper," said Deborah. "It wasn't for that. It was because you were impertinent. All the same, I think it is shameful that I can't get anything to eat." "I regret, Mark," said Frank, with cool sarcasm, "that you should be inconvenienced about your meals. Perhaps you will excuse it, as my poor mother is so sick that she requires extra attention from the servants. Deborah, if possible, don't let Mark wait much longer. It seems to be very important that he should have his supper." "He shall have it," assured Deborah, rather enjoying the way in which Mark was put down; "that is, if he don't get me kicked out of the house." "You had better not make any such threats in the future, Mark," said Frank, significantly. "Who's to hinder?" blustered Mark. "I am," answered Frank, pointedly. "You are nothing but a boy like me," retorted Mark. "My mother is mistress here, and I represent her." "Things may change soon," muttered Mark; but Frank had left the room and did not hear him. Mark did not trouble himself even to inquire for his stepmother, but went out to the stable and lounged about until bedtime. He seemed very much bored, and so expressed himself. Frank wished to sit up all night with his mother, but, as she had a professional nurse, it was thought best that he should obtain his regular rest, the nurse promising to call the family if any change should be apparent in her patient's condition. About half-past four in the morning there was a summons. "Mrs. Manning is worse," said the nurse. "I don't think she can last long." One last glance of love--though she could no longer speak--assured Frank that she knew him and loved him to the last. The memory of that look often came back to him in the years that followed, and he would not have parted with it for anything that earth could give. Just as the clock struck five, his mother breathed her last. The boy gazed upon the inanimate form, but he was dazed, and could not realize that his mother had left him, never to return. "She is gone," said Mr. Manning, softly. "Dead!" ejaculated Frank. "Yes, her sufferings are over. Let us hope she is better off. My boy, I think you had better return to your bed. You can do nothing for your mother now." "I would rather stay here," said Frank, sadly. "I can at least look at her, and soon I shall lose even that comfort." The thought was too much for the poor boy, and he burst into tears. "Do as you please, Frank," assented Mr. Manning. "I feel for you, and I share in your grief. I will go and tell Mark of our sad loss." He made his way to Mark's chamber and entered. He touched Mark, who was in a doze, and he started up. "What's the matter?" he asked, crossly. "Your poor mother is dead, Mark." "Well, there was no need to wake me for that," said the boy, irritably. "I can't help it, can I?" "I think, my son, you might speak with more feeling. Death is a solemn thing." "There's nobody here but me," said Mark, sneering. "I don't catch your meaning," said his father, showing some annoyance, for it is not pleasant to be seen through. "Why should you care so much?" continued Mark. "I suppose you will be well provided for. Do you know how she has left the property? How much of it goes to Frank?" "I can't say," said Mr. Manning. "I never asked my wife." "Do you mean to say, father, that you don't know how the property is left?" asked Mark, with a sharp glance at his father. "I may have my conjectures," said Mr. Manning, softly. "I don't think my dear wife would leave me without some evidences of her affection. Probably the bulk of the estate goes to your brother, and something to me. Doubtless we shall continue to live here, as I shall naturally be your brother's guardian." "Don't call him my brother," said Mark. "Why not? True, he is only your stepbrother; but you have lived under the same roof, and been to school together, and this ought to strengthen the tie between you." "I don't like Frank," said Mark. "He puts on altogether too many airs." "I had not observed that," said his father. "Well, I have. Only this evening he saw fit to speak impudently to me." "Indeed! I am really amazed to hear it," said Mr. Manning, softly. "Oh, he thinks he is the master of the house, or will be," said Mark, "and he presumes on that." "He is unwise," said Mr. Manning. "Even if the whole property descends to him, which I can hardly believe possible, I, as his guardian, will have the right to control him." "I hope you'll do it, father. At any rate, don't let him boss over me, for I won't stand it." "I don't think he will boss over you," answered his father, in a slow, measured voice, betraying, however, neither anger nor excitement. "Of course, I should not permit that." Mark regarded his father fixedly. "I guess the old man knows what's in the will," he said to himself. "He knows how to feather his own nest. I hope he's feathered mine, too." Mr. Manning passed from his son's chamber and went softly upstairs, looking thoughtful. Anyone who could read the impassive face would have read trouble in store for Frank. CHAPTER IV MRS. MANNING'S WILL During the preparations for the funeral Frank was left pretty much to himself. Mr. Manning's manner was so soft, and to him had been so deferential, that he did not understand the man. It didn't occur to him that it was assumed for a purpose. That manner was not yet laid aside. His stepfather offered to comfort him, but Frank listened in silence. Nothing that Mr. Manning could say had the power to lighten his load of grief. So far as words could console him, the sympathy of Deborah and the coachman, both old servants, whom his mother trusted, had more effect, for he knew that it was sincere, and that they were really attached to his mother. Of Mr. Manning he felt a profound distrust, which no words of his could remove. Meanwhile, Mr. Manning was looking from an upper window down the fine avenue, and his eye ranged from left to right over the ample estate with a glance of self-complacent triumph. "All mine at last!" he said to himself, exultingly. "What I have been working for has come to pass. Three years ago I was well-nigh penniless, and now I am a rich man. I shall leave Mark the master of a great fortune. I have played my cards well. No one will suspect anything wrong. My wife and I have lived in harmony. There will be little wonder that she has left all to me. There would be, perhaps, but for the manner in which I have taken care he shall be mentioned in the will--I mean, of course, in the will I have made for her." He paused, and, touching a spring in the wall, a small door flew open, revealing a shallow recess. In this recess was a folded paper, tied with a red ribbon. Mr. Manning opened it, and his eyes glanced rapidly down the page. "This is the true will," he said to himself. "I wish I could summon courage to burn it. It would be best out of the way. That, if found out, would make me amenable to the law, and I must run no risk. In this secret recess it will never be found. I will replace it, and the document which I have had prepared will take its place, and no one will be the wiser." On the day after the funeral, the family solicitor and a few intimate friends, who had been invited by Mr. Manning, assembled in the drawing room of the mansion to hear the will read. Mr. Manning himself notified Frank of the gathering and its object. He found our hero lying on the bed in his chamber, sad and depressed. "I don't like to intrude upon your grief, my dear boy," said his stepfather, softly, "but it is necessary. The last will of your dear mother and my beloved wife is about to be read, and your presence is necessary." "Couldn't it be put off?" asked Frank, sadly. "It seems too soon to think of such things." "Pardon me, my dear Frank, but it is quite needful that there should be an immediate knowledge of the contents of the will, in order that the right person may look after the business interests of the estate. I assure you that it is the invariable custom to read the will immediately after the funeral." "If that is the custom, and it is necessary, I have nothing to say. When is the will to be read?" "At three o'clock, and it is now two." "Very well, sir; I will come down in time." "Of course there can't be much doubt as to the contents of the will," pursued Mr. Manning. "You are doubtless the heir, and as you are a minor, I am probably your guardian. Should such be the case, I hope that the relations between us may be altogether friendly." "I hope so," said Frank, gravely. At three o'clock the members of the family, with a few outside friends, gathered in the drawing room. The family solicitor, Mr, Ferret, held in his hand what purported to be the last will of Mrs. Manning. The widowed husband had directed the lawyer to the bureau of the deceased lady as likely to contain her will. It was found without trouble in the topmost drawer. Deborah and the coachman had speculated as to whether they would be invited to attend at the reading of the will. Their doubts were set at rest by an invitation from Mr. Manning himself. "You were so long in the service of my dear wife," he said, "that it is fitting that you be present at the reading of her will, in which it is quite probable that you may be personally interested." "He is uncommonly polite, I am sure," thought Deborah, disposed for the moment to think more favorably of the man whom she had never been able to like. "My friends," said the lawyer, after a preliminary cough, "you are assembled to listen to the will of Mrs. Manning, just deceased. The document which I hold in my hand I believe to be such an instrument. I will now open if for the first time." He untied the ribbon, and began reading the will. It commenced with the usual formula, and proceeded to a few bequests of trifling amount. Deborah and Richard Green were each left two hundred dollars, "as a slight acknowledgment of their faithful service." One or two friends of the family were remembered, but to an inconsiderable extent. Then came the important clause: "All the rest and residue of the property of which I may die possessed I leave to my beloved husband, James Manning, whose devoted affection has made happy the last years of my life. Having implicit confidence in his good judgment and kindness of heart, I request him to make proper provision for my dear son Frank, whose happiness I earnestly desire. I hope that he will consent to be guided by the wisdom and experience of his stepfather, who, I am sure, will study his interests and counsel him wisely. In my sorrow at parting with my dear son, it is an unspeakable comfort to me to feel that he will have such a guardian and protector." Frank listened with amazement, which was shared by all present. Practically, he was disinherited, and left wholly dependent upon his stepfather. CHAPTER V DISINHERITED The contents of the will created general astonishment. There was not one in the room who didn't know the devotion of Mrs. Manning to her son Frank, yet, while speaking of him affectionately, she had treated him, as they considered, most cruelly. Why should she have left such a dangerous power in her husband's hands? And how was Mr. Manning affected? He summoned to his face an expression of bewilderment and surprise, and, feeling that all eyes were fixed upon, him, he turned toward the lawyer. "Mr. Ferret," he said, "I need hardly say that this will surprises me very much, as I see that it does the friends who are present. Are you sure that there is no codicil?" "I have been unable to discover any, Mr. Manning," said the lawyer, gravely, as he scanned the face of the widower keenly. Mr. Manning applied his handkerchief to his eyes, and seemed overcome by emotion. "I knew my dear wife's confidence in me," he said, in a tremulous voice, "but I was not prepared for such a striking manifestation of it." "Nor I," said Mr. Ferret, dryly. "Knowing her strong attachment to Frank," paused Mr. Manning, "I feel the full extent and significance of that confidence when she leaves him so unreservedly to my care and guidance. I hope that I may be found worthy of the trust." "I hope so, sir," said Mr. Ferret, who, sharp lawyer as he was, doubted whether all was right, and was willing that Mr. Manning should be made aware of his feeling. "It is certainly a remarkable proviso, considering the affection which your wife entertained for her son." "Precisely, Mr. Ferret. It shows how much confidence the dear departed felt in me." "So far as I can see, the boy is left wholly dependent upon you." "He shall not regret it!" said Mr. Manning, fervently. "I consecrate my life to this sacred trust." "You acquiesce in the arrangement, then, Mr. Manning?" "I cannot do otherwise, can I?" "There is nothing to prevent your settling the property, or any part of it, on the natural heir, Mr. Manning. You must pardon me for saying that it would have been wiser had your wife so stipulated by will." "I cannot consent to reverse, or in any way annul, the last wishes of my dear wife," said Mr. Manning, hastily. "It was her arrangement solely, and I hold it sacred. She has put upon me a serious responsibility, from which I shrink, indeed, but which I cannot decline. I will do all in my power to carry out the wishes of my late wife." Mr. Ferret shrugged his shoulders. "I am not surprised at your decision, sir," he said, coldly. "Few men would resist the temptation. My duty is discharged with the reading of the will, and I will bid you good-afternoon!" Mr. Manning was a crafty man. He knew that the strange will would be discussed, and he thought it best that the discussion should come at once, that it might be the sooner finished. Deborah, faithful old servant, was in a blaze of indignation. She went up quickly to Frank, and said: "It's a shame, Mr. Frank, so it is!" "If my mother made that will, it is all right," said Frank, gravely. "But she didn't, Mr. Frank! I know she would never do such a thing. She loved you as the apple of her eye, and she would not cheat you out of your rightful inheritance." "No more she would, Mr. Frank," said the coachman, chiming in. "I don't know what to think," said Frank. "It has surprised me very much." "Surprised you!" exclaimed Deborah. "You may well say that. You might have knocked me down with a feather when I heard the property left away from you. Depend upon it, that man knows all about it." "You mean Mr. Manning?" "To be sure I mean him! Oh, he's managed artfully! I say that for him. He's got it all into his own hands, and you haven't a cent." "If it was my mother's will I wouldn't complain of that, Deborah. It was hers to do with as she liked, and I know, at any rate, that she loved me." "There's one thing surprises me," said Richard Green. "If so be as the will isn't genuine, how does it happen that you and I come in for a legacy, Deborah?" "It's meant for a blind," answered Deborah. "Oh, he's the artfulest man!" "You may be right, Deborah. I must say the will sounded all right." "Maybe it was copied from the mistress' will." This conversation took place in one corner of the room. It ceased as Mr. Ferret advanced toward the disinherited boy. "Frank," said he, in a tone of sympathy, "I am very sorry for the provisions of the will." "So am I, sir," answered our hero. "It isn't pleasant to be dependent on Mr. Manning." "Particularly when the whole estate should be yours." "I wouldn't have minded if half had been left to him, provided I had been left independent of him." "I appreciate your feelings, Frank. I knew your father, and I am proud to say that he was my friend. I knew your mother well, and I esteemed her highly. I hope you will let me regard myself as your friend also." "Thank you, Mr. Ferret!" said Frank. "I am likely to need a friend. I shall remember your kind proposal. I want to ask you one question." "Ask, and I shall answer." "Did my mother consult with you about making this will?" "No, Frank." "Did she ever say anything that would lead you to think she would leave the property as it is left in this will?" "Not a word." "Was there another will?" "Yes. I wrote her will at her direction more than a year ago. This will is dated only three months since, and, of course, takes precedence of it, even if the other is in existence." "Can you tell me what were the provisions of the other will?" "A legacy of ten thousand dollars was left to Mr. Manning, and the rest of the estate to you, except the small legacies, which were all larger than in the will I have read. For instance, Deborah and Richard Green were each put down for five hundred dollars." "So they suffer as well as I?" "Yes." "Have you any idea, Mr. Ferret, of the value of the estate which falls into Mr. Manning's hands?" "I have some idea, because I have talked with your mother on the subject. This estate is worth fifty thousand dollars at least, and there are fully fifty thousand dollars in money and bonds. The legacies do not altogether exceed one thousand dollars, and therefore it may be said that your stepfather has fallen heir to one hundred thousand dollars." "I suppose there is nothing I can do, Mr. Ferret?" "Not unless you can show that this will which I have read is not a genuine document. That would be difficult." "Did you notice my mother's signature?" "Yes. I am not an expert, but I cannot detect any difference greater than maybe existed between two signatures of the same person." "Then I suppose there is nothing to be done at present. I expect to have a hard time with Mr. Manning, Mr. Ferret." "How has he treated you in the past, Frank?" asked the lawyer. "I have had nothing to complain of; but then he was not master of the estate. Now it is difficult, and I think his treatment of me will be different." "You may be right. You remember what I said, Frank?" "That I should regard you as a friend? I won't forget it, Mr. Ferret." One by one the company left the house, and Frank was alone. Left alone and unsustained by sympathy, he felt more bitterly than before the totally unexpected change in his circumstances. Up to the last hour he had regarded himself as the heir of the estate. Now he was only a dependent of a man whom he heartily disliked. Could it be that this misfortune had come to him through the agency of his mother? "I will not believe it!" he exclaimed, energetically. CHAPTER VI AN UNSATISFACTORY INTERVIEW Frank came to a decision the next morning. A long deferred interview with his stepfather was necessary. Having made up his mind, he entered the room in which his stepfather sat. His air was manly and his bearing that of a boy who respects himself, but there was none of the swagger which some boys think it necessary to exhibit when they wish to assert their rights. Mr. Manning, in a flowered dressing gown, sat at a table, with a sheet of paper before him and a lead pencil in his hand. Short as had been the interval since his accession to the property, he was figuring up the probable income he would derive from the estate. He looked up as Frank entered the room, and surveyed him with cold and sarcastic eyes. His soft tones were dropped. "Mr. Manning," said Frank, "I wish to talk to you." "You may, of course," his stepfather replied mildly. "It is about the will," Frank advised him. "So you would complain of your poor mother, would you?" said his stepfather, in a tone of virtuous indignation. "I cannot believe that my mother made that will." Mr. Manning colored. He scented danger. Should Frank drop such hints elsewhere, he might make trouble, and lead to a legal investigation, which Mr. Manning had every reason to dread. "This is very foolish," he said, more mildly. "No doubt you are disappointed, but probably your mother has provided wisely. You will want for nothing, and you will be prepared for the responsibilities of manhood under my auspices." Mr. Manning's face assumed a look of self-complacence as he uttered these last words. "I have no blame to cast upon my dear mother," said Frank. "If she made that will, she acted under a great mistake." "What mistake, sir?" "She failed to understand you." "Do you mean to imply that I shall be false to my trust?" "Not at present, sir. I don't wish to judge of you too hastily." As the boy turned to go, he said. "I have nothing further to say, sir." "But I have," said Mr. Manning. "Very well, sir." "I demand that you treat my son Mark with suitable respect, and forbear to infringe upon his rights." Frank looked up, and answered, with spirit: "I shall treat Mark as well as he treats me, sir. Is that satisfactory?" "I apprehend," said Mr. Manning, "that you may make some mistakes upon that point." "I will try not to do so, sir." Frank left the room, and this time was not called back. His stepfather looked after him, but his face expressed neither friendliness nor satisfaction. "That boy requires taming," he said to himself. "He is going to make trouble. I must consider what I will do with him." As Mr. Manning reviewed Frank's words, there was one thing which especially disturbed him--the doubt expressed by his stepson as to his mother's having actually made the will. He saw that it would not do for him to go too far in his persecution of Frank as it might drive the latter to consult a lawyer in regard to the validity of the will by which he had been disinherited. Frank rather gloomily made his way to the stable. As he reached it, Richard Green came out. "I'm sorry for you, Mr. Frank. But your mother was a saint. She was too good to suspect the badness of others, Mr. Frank. She thought old Manning was really all that he pretended to be, and that he would be as kind to you as she was herself. When she was alive, he was always as soft as--as silk." "His manner has changed now," said Frank, gravely. "Excuse me, Richard, for finding fault with you, but don't call him old Manning." "Why not, Mr. Frank?" "I have no liking for Mr. Manning--in fact, I dislike him--but he was the husband of my mother, and I prefer to speak of him respectfully." "I dare say you are right, Mr. Frank, but, all the same, he don't deserve it. Is Mr. Mark to ride Ajax then?" "If he asks for it, you are to saddle Ajax for him. I don't want you to get into any trouble with Mr. Manning on my account." "I don't care for that, Mr. Frank. I can get another place, and I don't much care to serve Mr. Manning." "I would rather you would stay, if you can, Richard. I don't want to see a new face in the stable." "I don't think he means to keep me long, Mr. Frank. Deborah and I will have to go, I expect, and he'll get some servants of his own here." "Has he hinted anything of this, Richard?" asked Frank, quickly. "No; but he will soon, you may depend on it. I won't lose sight of you, though. I've known you since you were four years old, and I won't desert you, if I can do any good--nor Deborah, either." "I have two friends, then, at any rate," said Frank to himself. "That is something." CHAPTER VII A SCHOOL FRIEND Early Monday morning it had been the custom for Frank and Mark to take the train for Bridgeville, to enter upon a new week at the academy. Frank felt that it would be better for him to go back without any further vacation, as occupation would serve to keep him from brooding over his loss. "Are you ready, Mark?" he asked, as he rose from the breakfast table. "Ready for what?" "To go back to school, of course." "I am not going back this morning," answered Mark. "Why not?" asked Frank, in some surprise. "I am going to stay at home to help father," said Mark, with a glance at Mr. Manning. "If I can be of any service to you, sir, I will stay, too," said Frank, politely. "Thank you, but Mark will do all I require," replied his stepfather. "Very well, sir." Frank appeared at the academy with a grave face and subdued manner, suggestive of the great loss he had sustained. From his schoolfellows, with whom he was a favorite, he received many words of sympathy--from none more earnest or sincere than from Herbert Grant. "I know how you feel, Frank," he said, pressing the hand of his friend. "If I could comfort you I would, but I don't know how to do it." "I find comfort in your sympathy," said Frank. "I look upon you as my warmest friend here." "I am glad of that, Frank." To Herbert alone Frank spoke of his mother and her devoted affection; but even to him he did not like to mention the will and his disinheritance. He did not so much lament the loss of the property as that he had lost it by the direction of his mother, or, rather, because it would generally be supposed so. For himself, he doubted the genuineness of the will, but he felt that it was useless to speak of it, as he was unprepared with any proofs. So it happened that when, on Wednesday afternoon Mark Manning made his appearance, Frank's change of position, as respected the property, was neither known nor suspected by his schoolfellows. It was soon known, however, and of course, through Mark. The boys immediately noticed a change in Mark. He assumed an air of consequence, and actually strutted across the campus. Instead of being polite and attentive to Frank, he passed him with a careless nod, such as a superior might bestow on an inferior. "What has come over Mark?" asked Herbert of Frank, as the two were walking together from recitation. "How do you mean?" "He holds his head higher than he used to do. He looks as if he had been elected to some important office." "You will soon learn, Herbert," said Frank. "Make a pretext to join him, and let the news come from him." Herbert looked puzzled. "Do you wish me to do this?" he asked. "Yes, I have a reason for it." "Very well. I am always ready to oblige you, Frank, but I hope Mark won't think I have suddenly formed a liking for his society." "If he does, you can soon undeceive him." "That is true." Herbert left the side of his friend, and sauntered toward Mark. As Herbert was known as Frank's especial friend, Mark was at first surprised, but quickly decided that his improved position had been communicated by Frank, and that Herbert was influenced by it. That is to say, he judged Herbert to be as mean and mercenary as himself. Herbert's position was too humble to entitle him to much notice from Mark, but the latter was pleased with the prospect of detaching from Frank his favorite friend. "You came back rather late, Mark," said Herbert. "Yes," answered Mark, with an air of importance. "I remained at home a short time, to help my father in his accounts. You know the property is large, and there is a good deal to do." "I should think that was Frank's place, to help about the accounts." "Why?" "The property is his, of course!" "Did he tell you that?" asked Mark, sharply. "He has not said a word about the property." "No, I suppose not," said Mark, with a sneering laugh. "Has anything happened? Didn't his mother leave as much as was expected?" went on Herbert, quite in the dark. "Yes, she left a large estate, but she didn't leave it to him." "To whom, then?" "To my father!" replied Mark, with conscious pride. "Frank has nothing. He is entirely dependent upon father." "Did his mother leave him nothing, then?" asked Herbert, in pained surprise. "Nothing at all," assured Mark, complacently. "That is very strange and unjust." "I don't look upon it in that light," said Mark, nettled. "My father knows what is best for him. He will provide for him just as his mother did before." "But when Frank is of age, doesn't he come into possession of the estate then?" "No, of course not. Didn't I tell you it belongs to father? Frank is a poor boy--as poor as you," said Mark, in a tone of evident satisfaction. "Or you," added Herbert, pointedly. "You are mistaken," said Mark, quickly. "I am father's heir." "Suppose your father dies--how will the property go?" "I suppose something will be left to Frank, unless my father leaves me the property, with directions to provide for him." "Would you think that right and just?" demanded Herbert, indignantly. "Of course I would. My stepmother knew what she was about when she made her will. I see you are surprised. You won't be quite to thick with Frank, now, I expect." "Why shouldn't I be?" "Because he is just as poor as you are. He never can help you." "Mark Manning, I believe you are about the meanest boy I ever encountered, and you judge me by yourself!" "Do you mean to insult me? Mind what you say!" blustered Mark, unpleasantly surprised at this outburst from a boy whom he expected would now transfer his allegiance from Frank to himself. "I mean that you and your father have robbed Frank of his inheritance, and glory in it, and you think that I am mean enough to desert him because he is no longer rich. It makes no difference to me whether he is rich or poor. I think I like him all the better because he has been so badly treated. As for you, I despise you, and shall continue to, even if you get the whole of Frank's money." "You forget that you are talking to a gentleman, you low-born mechanic!" said Mark, angrily. "You a gentleman!" replied Herbert, contemptuously. "Then I never want to be one!" He walked away, leaving Mark very much incensed. "He is a fool!" muttered Mark. "When I am a rich man, he may repent having insulted me." Herbert went back to Frank. "Did he tell you?" asked Frank, quietly. "Yes; and he actually appeared to think I would be ready to desert you because you were poor, and follow him about." "I am not afraid of that, Herbert." "I don't think Mark will have that idea any more. I gave him a piece of my mind, and left him very angry. But what does it all mean, Frank?" "I know no more than you do, Herbert. I cannot understand it." "What could have induced your mother to make such a will?" "I cannot believe my poor mother ever made such a will; but, if she did, I am very sure that she was over-persuaded by my stepfather, who is one of the most plausible of men." "What shall you do about it?" "What can I do? I am only a boy. I have no proof, you know." "How are you likely to be treated?" "I have had a little foretaste of that." "It looks very bad for you, Frank," admitted Herbert, in a tone of sympathy. "I don't so much care for the loss of the property, Herbert," said Frank, "but I am afraid I shall have sorts of annoyances to endure from Mark and his father. But I won't anticipate trouble. I will do my duty, and trust that things will turn out better than I fear." The next afternoon a letter was placed in Frank's hands. It was in a brown envelope, and directed in a cramped and evidently unpracticed hand, with which Frank was not familiar. On opening it, a glance at the signature showed that it was from Richard Green, the coachman. It commenced: "Dear Mr. Frank: This comes hoping you are well. I have no good news to tell. Mr. Manning has sold your horse, Ajax, and he is to be taken away to-night. I thought you ought to know it, and that is why I take my pen in hand to write." There was more, but this is all that was important. Frank's face flushed with anger. He immediately went in search of Mark, who, he felt assured, knew of the sale. It may be said here that Ajax was one of Frank's dearest trophies, a gift from his mother. CHAPTER VIII A NEW PLAN Mark was in his room, where Frank found him trying on a new necktie. Though decidedly plain, Mark fancied himself very good-looking, and spent no little time on personal adornment. In particular, he had a weakness for new neckties, in which he indulged himself freely. When the boys came to the academy, the principal proposed that they should room together; but both objected, and Mark had a room to himself--no one caring to room with him. "Take a seat, Frank," said Mark, condescendingly. "Is there anything I can do for you?" "Yes," answered Frank. "I hear your father has sold Ajax, or is intending to do so. Will you tell me if it is true?" "I believe it is," answered Mark, indifferently. "And what right has he to sell my horse?" demanded Frank, indignantly. "You'd better ask him," said Mark, with provoking coolness. "It is an outrage," said Frank, indignantly. "As to that," said his stepbrother, "you can't expect father to be at the expense of feeding your horse." "With my money?" "The money is legally his," replied Mark. "Do you know to whom your father has sold Ajax?" "To Col. Vincent, I believe." "I am glad, at any rate, that he will have a good master." Frank felt that there would be no advantage in prolonging the interview, or carrying on further a war of words. He sought out his friend Herbert, and communicated to him this last infraction of his rights. "It is too bad, Frank!" said his sympathizing friend. "Yes, it is," said Frank, gravely; "but I fear it is only the beginning of annoyances. I don't believe I can ever live in any place with Mr. Manning or Mark." "Will it be necessary?" "I suppose so. I have no money, as you know. All has gone to him. Herbert, I tell you frankly, I envy you and your position." "Though my father is a poor man?" "Yes; for, at any rate, you have a peaceful home, and a father and mother who love you. I have a stepfather, who will do all he can to make me miserable." "Would you be willing to work for your own support, Frank?" "Yes; far rather than remain a dependent on Mr. Manning." "Suppose you should run away," suggested Herbert. Frank shook his head. "I wouldn't do that except in case of extreme necessity. I know that if my mother knows what goes on here, it would grieve her for me to take such a step." "Suppose your stepfather should consent to your leaving home?" "Then I would do so gladly. I am willing to work and I think I could make a living in some way." "Why not ask him?" Frank's face brightened. "Thank you for the hint, Herbert," he said. "I will think of it, and I may act upon it." Frank was naturally self-reliant and energetic. He was not disposed to shrink from the duties of life, but was ready to go forth to meet them. The idea which Herbert had suggested commended itself to him the more he thought of it. In spite, therefore, of the news which he had received about Ajax, he resumed his cheerfulness, considerably to the surprise of Mark, whose natural suspicion led him to conjecture that Frank had some plan in view to circumvent his father. "If he has, he'd better give it up," reflected Mark. "The old man's as sly as a fox. A raw boy like Frank can't get the better of him." At the close of the week, both the boys went home. They were on board the same train and the same car, but did not sit together. When they reached the house, Mr. Manning was not at home. Frank went out to the stable at once to see Richard Green, the coachman. He found him, indeed, but he also found another man, a stranger, who appeared to be employed in the stable. "Who is this, Richard?" asked Frank. "My successor," answered the coachman. "Are you going to leave?" asked Frank, hastily. "Come out with me, Mr. Frank, and I will tell you," said Richard. "I've had notice to leave," he said, "and so has Deborah. It came last evening. Mr. Manning got a letter from Bridgeville--I know that, because I brought it home from the post office--which appeared to make him angry. He called Deborah and me and told us that he should not need our services any longer." "Did he give you any reason?" "Yes; he said that he could have our places filled for a good deal less money, and he had no doubt we could do as well elsewhere." "He has filled your place pretty soon." "Yes. This man came this morning. I think Mr. Manning had sent for him already. I told you the other day we should soon be discharged." "I know it; but I can tell you what has hastened it." "What, then?" "Mark wrote his father that I had learned about the sale of Ajax, and that the information came from you or Deborah." "I think it likely, Mr. Frank, for the old gentleman seemed mighty cool. I hope you won't take it too much to heart that Ajax is sold." "I am not sure but I am glad of it," said Frank. The coachman looked at him in surprise. "I thought you would be very angry," he said. "So I was at first, but he has been sold to a man who will treat him well, and I shall be glad to think of that when I'm away from home." "You don't mean to run away, Mr. Frank?" "No; but I mean to get my stepfather's permission to go, if I can." "Where do you mean to go, Mr. Frank?" "Somewhere where I can earn my living, without depending upon anybody. You know very well, Richard, how miserable I should be to stay here in dependence upon Mr. Manning." "But to think that you, to whom the property rightfully belongs, should go away and work for a living, while that man and his boy occupy your place. I can't bear to think of it." "I have done a good deal of thinking within a few days, and I don't shrink from the prospect. I think I should rather enjoy being actively employed." "But you were to go to college, Mr. Frank." "I know it, Richard, but I am not sure whether it would be for the best. My tastes are for an active business life, and I don't care for a profession." "Do you think your stepfather will give you a start?" "In the way of money?" "Yes." "I don't know. If he won't, I have still fifty dollars in the savings bank, which I have saved from my pocket money. I will take that." "Mr. Frank, will you promise not to be offended at what I'm going to say?" "I don't think you would say anything that ought to offend me, Richard." "Then I want you to take the money that comes to me by the will--Mr. Manning is to pay it to me on Monday. I don't need it, and you may." Frank shook his head. "You are very kind, Richard, but I will get along with fifty dollars, unless Mr. Manning supplies me with more. If I really need money at any time, I will think of your offer." "That's something, at any rate," said Richard. partly reconciled. "You won't forget it now, Mr. Frank?" "No, Richard, I promise you." Frank left the stable and went thoughtfully into the house. CHAPTER IX THE NEW OWNER OF AJAX Frank and Mark took supper alone, Mr. Manning having left word that he would not return till later in the evening. After supper, Frank decided to go over to call upon Col. Vincent, the new owner of Ajax. His estate was distant about three-quarters of a mile from the Cedars. As Frank started, Mark inquired: "Where are you going, Frank?" "To see Ajax," answered our hero. "Do you mean to make any fuss about him? I wouldn't advise you to." "Thank you for your advice." "I wonder what he is going to do?" thought Mark. "Of course he can't do anything now." He did not venture to propose to accompany Frank, knowing that his company would not be acceptable. "Is Col. Vincent at home?" asked Frank, at the door of a handsome house. "Yes, Mr. Courtney," replied the colored servant, pleasantly, for Frank was a favorite among all classes in the neighborhood. "Come right in, sir. De colonel am smoking a cigar on de back piazza." Frank followed the servant through the hall which intersected the house, and stepped out on the back piazza. A stout, elderly gentleman was taking his ease in a large rustic rocking chair. "Good-evening, Col. Vincent," our hero said. "Good-evening, Frank, my boy," said the colonel, heartily. "Glad to see you. Haven't you gone back to school?" "Yes, sir; but I came home to spend Sunday. It doesn't seem much like home now," he added, as his lip quivered. "You have suffered a great loss, my dear boy," said the colonel, feelingly. "The greatest, sir. My mother was all I had." "I suppose Mr. Manning will keep up the establishment?" "I suppose so, sir; but it is no longer home to me." "Don't take it too hard, Frank. I was sorry about the will." "So was I, sir; because it makes me dependent on a man whom I dislike." "Don't be too prejudiced, Frank. I never took any fancy to your stepfather myself; but then we don't need to like everybody we associate with." "I hear you have bought my horse, Col. Vincent," said Frank, desiring to change the subject. "Was Ajax your horse?" "Yes. It was given to me as a birthday present by my mother." "I had some such idea, and expressly asked Mr. Manning whether the horse was not yours." "What did he answer?" "That it was only nominally yours, and that he thought it best to sell it, as both you and Mark were absent at school, and had no time to use it." "I am not surprised at anything Mr. Manning may say," said Frank. "It's too bad! I'll tell you what I will do, Frank. I haven't paid for the horse yet. I will return it to Mr. Manning, and tell him that I bought it under a misapprehension of the ownership. I don't think he will make any fuss." "I would rather have you keep it, sir." "You would!" exclaimed the colonel, in surprise. "Yes, sir. If you should return Ajax, Mr. Manning would sell him to some one else, and you, I know, will treat him well." "But you will lose the use of him. No, you won't, though. Come over to my stable when you like, and, if he is not in use, you can take him out." "Thank you, sir! You are very kind. While I am in the neighborhood, I won't forget your kind offer. But I mean to go away." "You mean to go away! Where?" "Out into the world. Anywhere, where I can find work and make a living." "But surely this is not necessary. Your stepfather will provide for you without your working." "I have no reason to doubt it, Col. Vincent; but I shall be happier in the world outside." "Of course you will let Mr. Manning know of your intention to leave home?" "I shall ask his permission to go at the end of my school term. That comes in a couple of weeks." "Where will you go?" "A cousin of my father is at Newark, New Jersey. I think I shall go to him first, and ask his advice about getting a place either there or in New York." "You will need some money to start with. Do you think Mr. Manning will give you any?" "I don't know, sir! That won't prevent my going. I have fifty dollars in a savings bank, saved up from my allowance, and that will be all I shall need." "If you have any difficulty on that score, Frank, remember that I was your father's friend, and mean to be yours. Apply to me at any time when you are in a strait." "I will, sir, and thank you heartily." "That was a strange will, Frank. I don't want to put any ideas into your head to disturb you, but had your mother ever led you to suspect that she intended to leave you dependent on your stepfather?" "Never, sir!" "Don't you think she would have done so, had she had such a plan in view?" "I do," said Frank, quickly. The colonel's eye met his, and each knew what the other suspected. "There is nothing for me to do at present, sir," said Frank. "If Mr. Manning does not interfere with my plans, I shall not trouble him." "I will hint as much when I see him. It may clear the way for you." "I wish you would, sir." "Come and see me again, Frank," said the colonel, as Frank rose to go. "I certainly will, sir." "Your father's son will always be welcome at my house. When did you say your school term closes?" "In a fortnight." "I will see your stepfather within a few days. By the way, Frank, wouldn't you like a gallop on Ajax to-night?" "Yes, sir; I should enjoy it." "Come out to the stable with me, then." Ajax whinnied with delight when he saw his old, or rather his young master, and evinced satisfaction when Frank stroked him caressingly. "Sam," said Col. Vincent, "Frank is to ride Ajax whenever he pleases. Saddle him for his use whenever he asks you." "That I will, sir" answered Sam. "Often and often I've seen Mr. Frank on his back. Doesn't he ride well, though?" "Don't flatter me, Sam," said Frank, laughing. Five minutes later he was on the back of his favorite horse, galloping down the road. "I hope I shall meet Mark," thought Frank. "I would like to give him a sensation." Considering the manner in which Mark had treated his stepbrother, Frank may be excused for the wish to puzzle him a little. Finding himself lonely, Mark decided to take a walk not long after Frank's departure. He was sauntering along the road, when he heard the sound of hoofs, and, to his surprise, saw his stepbrother on the back of Ajax. His first thought was that Frank had gone to Col. Vincent's stable and brought away Ajax without permission, in defiance of Mr. Manning's will. He resolved to take him to task for it immediately. Frank purposely slackened the speed of his horse in order to give Mark the chance he sought. "Why are you riding Ajax?" asked Mark. "It is a pleasant evening," answered Frank, "and I thought I should enjoy it." "Where did you get him?" "From Col. Vincent's stable, where he never ought to have been carried," answered Frank, with spirit. "You seem to think you can do anything you like, Frank Courtney," said Mark, provoked, deciding that his suspicions were well founded. "Is there any particular reason why I should not ride Ajax?" demanded Frank. "You have made yourself liable to arrest for horse stealing," said Mark. "It would serve you right if Col. Vincent should have you arrested and tried." "I don't think he will gratify your kind wishes, Mark." "Just wait and see what my father has to say to you." "I have only done what I had a perfect right to do; but I can't stop to dispute with you. I must finish my ride. Hey, Ajax!" As he spoke the horse dashed into a gallop, and Mark was left looking after him in a disturbed frame of mind. "I'll tell my father as soon as he gets home," he decided; and he kept his word. In consequence, Frank, by that time returned, was summoned into Mr. Manning's presence. "What is this I hear?" he began. "Did you ride Ajax this evening?" "Yes, sir." "Where did you find him?" "In Col. Vincent's stable." "This is a high-handed proceeding, Frank Courtney. Have you any excuse to offer?" "None is needed sir. Col. Vincent has given me permission to ride him whenever I please." "It appears to me, Mark," said Mr. Manning, sharply, "that you have made a fool of yourself." "How should I know?" replied Mark, mortified by the collapse of his sensation. "Frank didn't tell me he had leave to use the horse." And he left the room, looking foolish. CHAPTER X MARK YIELDS TO TEMPTATION There are some boys, as well as men, who cannot stand prosperity. It appeared that Mark Manning was one of these. While his stepmother was living and his father's prospects--and consequently his own--were uncertain, he had been circumspect in his behavior and indulged in nothing that could be considered seriously wrong. When his father came into possession of a large fortune, and his pocket money was doubled, Mark began to throw off some of the restraint which, from motives of prudence, he had put upon himself. About the middle of the week, as Frank was taking a walk after school hours, he was considerably surprised to see Mark come out of a well-known liquor saloon frequented by men and boys of intemperate habits. The students of Bridgeville Academy were strictly forbidden this or any other saloon, and I am sure that my boy readers will agree with mo that this rule was a very proper one. Mark Manning appeared to have been drinking. His face was flushed, and his breath, if one came near enough to him, was redolent of the fumes of alcohol. With him was James Carson, one of the poorest scholars and most unprincipled boys in the academy. It was rather surprising that he had managed for so long to retain his position in the institution, but he was crafty and took good care not to be caught. To go back a little, it was chiefly owing to James Carson's influence that Mark had entered the saloon. When he learned that Mark's worldly prospects had improved, and that he had a large supply of pocket money, he determined to cultivate his acquaintance--though privately he thought Mark a disagreeable boy--with the intention of obtaining for himself a portion of Mark's surplus means. At the first of the term he had made similar advances to Frank, but they were coldly received, so much so that he did not think it worth while to persevere in courting our hero's intimacy. He succeeded better with Mark, his crafty nature teaching him how to approach him. "Mark," he said, with a great show of cordiality, "I am delighted to hear of your good fortune. I always liked you, and I think you deserve to be rich." "Thank you!" said Mark, much gratified, for he liked flattery. "I am sure I am very much obliged to you." "Oh, not at all! I only say what I think. Shall I tell you why I am particularly glad?" "Yes, if you like," returned Mark, in some curiosity. "Because I like you better than that young muff, your stepbrother. I hope you won't be offended at my plain speaking," he added, artfully. "Certainly not!" said Mark. "I suppose," said James, "you will see a little life now that you are your own master and have plenty of money." "I don't know exactly what you mean, James. There isn't much life to be seen in Bridgeville." "That is true; but still there is some. Suppose now"--by this time they were in front of the saloon, which, besides a bar, contained a billiard and pool table--"suppose now we go in and have a game of billiards." "It's against the rules, isn't it?" asked Mark. "What do you care for the rules?" said James, contemptuously. "If the old man hears of it, we shall get into hot water." By the "old man" Mark meant the Rev. Dr. Brush, the venerable and respected principal of the Bridgeville Academy, but such boys as he have very little respect for the constituted authorities. "Why need he know it? We will slip in when no one is looking. Did you ever play a game of billiards?" "I never played over half a dozen games in my life." "Yon ought to know how to play. It is a splendid game. Come in." Mark did not make very strong opposition, and the two boys, first looking cautiously in different directions, entered the saloon. Toward the entrance was a bar, and in the roar of the saloon were two tables. "Won't you have a drink, Mark?" asked James. Mark hesitated. "Oh, come now, it won't hurt. Two glasses of whisky, John." "All right, Mr. Carson," said the barkeeper, to whom James was well known. James tossed off his glass with the air of an old drinker, but Mark drank his more slowly. "There, I know you feel better, Mark." "Now, John, give me the balls. We'll play a game of billiards." "All right, sir." "I'll discount you, Mark," said James, "to give you a fair chance. It is about the same thing as giving you half the game. Or, if you like, I will give you seventeen points to start with, and then you will only have seventeen to make, while I am making thirty-four." "I like that best." "Now shall we play for the drinks?" "We have just had a drink?" "We'll have another." "Won't that be too much? I don't want to get drunk." "Two drinks won't do you any harm. Very well. Now let us string for the lead." There is no need of describing the game in detail. Mark was only a novice, while James could really make three or four points to his one. He restrained himself, however, so that he only beat Mark by two points. "You did splendidly, Mark," he said. "Considering how little you have played, you did remarkably well. Why, you made a run of three." "Yes, I did pretty well," said Mark, flattered by his companion's praises. "I had hard work to beat you, I can tell you that. As it was, you came within two points of beating. Don't you like the game?" "Very much." "I thought you would. Shall we have another game?" "I don't mind," answered Mark. He knew that he ought to be in his room writing a composition to be delivered the next day, but such obligations sat easily upon Mark, and he did not hesitate long. That time James allowed him to score sixteen, so that Mark was only beaten by one point. "You see, you are improving," said James. "I played a better game that time than before, and still you came within one of beating me." "I think I shall become a good player in time," said Mark, complacently. "Yes, and in a very short time. Now," said James, "I have a proposal to make to you." "What is it?" "We'll bet twenty-five cents on the next game, to give a little interest to it." Mark had no special scruples against betting, which is only one form of gambling, but he decidedly objected to losing money, so he answered, cautiously: "I don't know about that. You beat me both of the other games." "That's true; but you play better now than you did at first." "That may be so." "What are twenty-five cents, anyway? I expect to lose it, but it will increase the interest of the game." So Mark was persuaded, and the game was played. James Carson managed to let Mark beat him by five shots, and the latter was correspondingly elated. "You beat me after all," said James, pretending to be much disappointed, "and by five points. I'll tell you what I'll do--I'll give you the same odds, and bet a dollar on the game. I suppose it's foolish, but I'll risk it!" "Done!" said Mark, eagerly. His cupidity was excited, and he felt sure of winning the dollar, as he had the twenty-five cents. But James had no idea of playing off now, and he played a better game, as he was well able to do. The result was that Mark was beaten by three points. He looked quite crestfallen. "I had better shows than you," said James. "I couldn't do it once in five times. Will you play again?" Mark agreed to it with some hesitation, and he was again beaten. "You had luck against you. Another day you will succeed better. Have you played enough?" "Yes," answered Mark, annoyed. He had four games to pay for and two dollars in bets, and it made rather an expensive afternoon. "Have another drink? I'll treat," said James, who could afford to be liberal. Mark accepted, and then, flushed and excited, he left the saloon, just as Frank came up, as described in the first part of the chapter. On the whole, he was sorry to meet his stepbrother just at this time. Frank stopped, and his attention was drawn to Mark's flushed face. CHAPTER XI MARK GETS INTO TROUBLE Mark nodded slightly and was about to pass without a word, when Frank said, quietly: "I am sorry to see you coming out of such a place, Mark." "What is it to you, anyway?" returned Mark, rudely. "Not much, perhaps," replied Frank, calmly, "but I don't like to see my acquaintances coming out of a liquor saloon." "It won't hurt you," said Mark, irritably. "No, it won't hurt me, but if tho principal should hear of it, it would not be pleasant for you. You know students are strictly forbidden to enter any saloon?" "I suppose you mean to tell on me," said Mark, hastily, and not altogether without uneasiness. "You are mistaken. I am not a talebearer." "Then there is no need to say any more about it. Come along, James!" Frank's interference was well meant, but, as we shall see, it did harm rather than good. As Mark left the saloon, he had half decided not to enter it again. He was three dollars out of pocket, and this did not suit him at all. In fact, Mark was rather a mean boy, and it was with considerable reluctance that he had handed over to his companion the two dollars with which to pay for the games. Moreover, he was mortified at losing the two games of billiards, when so great odds had been given him. James Carson was no scholar, but he was sharp enough to perceive the state of Mark's feelings, and he also saw how he was affected by Frank's remonstrance. He decided to take advantage of this, and strengthen his hold on Mark. "Well, Mark," he said, "I suppose you'll give up playing billiards now." "Why should I?" "Because your stepbrother doesn't approve of it. You won't dare to go into the saloon after he has forbidden you," he continued, with a sneer. "What do you mean, James? Do you suppose I care that"--snapping his fingers--"for what Frank says, or even thinks, either?" "I didn't know but you might stand in fear of him." "Do you mean to insult me?" demanded Mark, hotly. "Insult you! My dear friend, what can you be thinking of? Why, I like you ten times as much as that muff, Frank Courtney." "Then what did you mean by what you said?" asked Mark, more calmly. "I will tell you. I got an idea, from what Frank said once, that he was in charge of you--well, not exactly that, but he looked after you." This was a wicked falsehood, as Frank had never intimated any such thing. In fact, he had generally kept quite aloof from James. Mark, however, fell into the trail, and never thought of doubting what his companion said. "If Frank said that, I've a great mind to whip him," said Mark, angrily. "Oh, I wouldn't notice him, if I were you!" said James. "For my part, I didn't believe what he said. I felt sure that a fine, spirited boy like you wouldn't submit to his dictation." "I should say not--the impudent follow!" "When he spoke to you just now," continued James, "one would really have thought he was your uncle, or guardian, and that you were a little boy." "I'll show him what I think of him and his advice. I hadn't thought of going to the saloon to-morrow, but now I will." "Bravo! I like your spirit!" said James, admiringly. "It is just the way to treat him. Shall I come round with you about the same hour as to-day?" "Yes, I wish you would." When the two boys parted company, James Carson smiled to himself. "What a fool Mark is!" he thought. "He thinks he is his own master, but I am going to twist him round my little finger. He's a sweet youth, but he's got money, and I mean to have some of it. Why, he tells me his father allows him eight dollars a week for spending money. If I manage well, I can get more than half away from his in bets." The next day James called for Mark, as agreed upon, and again the two boys went to the billiard saloon. The performance of the day before was repeated. James Carson, while flattering Mark's poor play, managed to beat in every game but one on which money was staked, and came out the richer by a dollar and a half. "I am very unlucky," grumbled Mark, in a tone of dissatisfaction. "So you were, Mark," admitted his sympathizing friend. "You made some capital shots, though, and if I hadn't been so lucky, you would have come out the victor in every game." "But I didn't." "No, you didn't; but you can't have such beastly luck all the time." "I guess I'd better give up billiards. In two days I have spent five dollars. It doesn't pay." "No doubt Frank will be gratified when he hears that you have given up playing. He will think it is because you are afraid of him." James had touched the right chord, and poor Mark was once more in his toils. "It's lucky for me that Frank spoke to him," thought James. "It makes it much easier for me to manage him." One thing, however, James had not taken into account. There were others besides Frank who were liable to interfere with his management, and who had the authority to make their interference effectual. On the day succeeding, as James and Mark were in the campus, Herbert Grant approached them. Now Herbert was the janitor of the academy. He also was employed by the principal to summon students who had incurred censure to his study, where they received a suitable reprimand. It was not a pleasant duty, but some one must do it, and Herbert always discharged it in a gentlemanly manner, which could not, or ought not, to offend the schoolfellows who were unlucky enough to receive a summons. "Boys," said he, "I am sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant news, but Dr. Brush would like to see you in his study." "Both of us?" asked James. "Yes." "Are there any others summoned?" "No." Mark and his companion looked at each other with perturbed glances. No one cared to visit the principal on such an errand. Corporal punishment was never resorted to in the Bridgeville Academy, but the doctor's dignified rebuke was dreaded more than blows would have been from some men. "What do you think it is, James?" asked Mark, uneasily. "I think it's the saloon," answered James, in a low voice. "But how could he have found it out? No one saw us go in or come out." The billiard saloon was at some distance from the academy building, and for that reason the two boys had felt more secure in visiting it. "I'll tell you how it came out," said James, suddenly. "How?" asked Mark. "You remember Frank saw us coming out day before yesterday." "He said he wouldn't tell." It was not very difficult for Mark to believe anything against Frank, and he instantly adopted his companion's idea. "The mean sneak!" he said. "I'll come up with him! I'll tell my father not to give him any money for the next month. I'll---I'll get him to apprentice Frank to a shoemaker! Perhaps then he won't put on so many airs." "Good for you! I admire your pluck!" said James, slapping Mark on the back. "You are true grit, you are! Just teach the fellow a lesson." "See if I don't!" Mark nodded his head resolutely, and went into the presence of Dr. Brush, thirsting for vengeance against his stepbrother, who, he felt persuaded, had informed against him. If Frank had known his suspicions he would have been very much surprised. As it happened, however, he did not even know that his stepbrother had been summoned to the doctor's study. Had he met Herbert, the later would have told him; but after receiving his list, it so chanced that he and his friend did not meet. The fact was that a young man employed as tutor in mathematics in the academy, while taking an afternoon walk, had seen Mark and James Carson leaving the liquor saloon, and, as in duty bound, had reported the same to the principal. Mr. Triangle, however, had not been observed by either of the two boys, and therefore they were led off on a false scent. "What do you think the old man will say?" asked Mark, uneasily, as they ascended the stairs to the principal's study. "He'll give us a raking down, I suppose," said James. "He will come down heavy on us." "I wish I were out of it." "Oh, it's not worth minding! We haven't committed murder, have we? What's the harm in a game of billiards?" "Not much, perhaps; but the drinking and betting are certainly objectionable." The boys knocked at the door, and the full, deep voice of Dr. Brush was heard to say: "Come in!" CHAPTER XII SUSPENDED Dr. Brush was seated at a table covered with papers, in a large armchair. He was an elderly man of dignified presence, not a petty tyrant such as is sometimes found in a similar position, but a man who commanded respect, without an effort. Mark Manning and James Carson entered his presence a little nervously. "Young gentlemen," said the doctor, gravely, "I am informed that you have violated one of the rules of the academy by frequenting a billiard saloon where liquor is sold." "Who told you, sir?" asked Mark. "That is not to the purpose," said the principal, gravely. "But I should like to know who informed on me," persisted Mark. "Whoever did so acted as your true friend, Manning; but there is no occasion for you to know who it was. Is it true?" Mark would have been glad to deny the charge, and would not have felt any scruples about doing so, if it would have done any good. But it was clear, even to him, that he would not be believed, and that denial would only make his position worse. So he made a virtue of necessity, and answered: "I have been in once or twice, sir." "Exactly how many times have you been to the saloon?" "Three times." "What did you do there?' "We played billiards." "Did you order anything at the bar?" "Yes, sir," said Mark, reluctantly. "Carson, you accompanied Manning, did you not?" said Dr. Brush, turning to Mark's companion. "Yes, sir." "And I suppose you also played billiards and drank?" "Well, yes, sir, I believe I did." "You were aware, were you not, that it was against the regulations of the school?" "I suppose it must have slipped my mind," answered James, trying to look as innocent as possible. Dr. Brush frowned, for he saw clearly that this was but a subterfuge. "If this were true," he continued, "it would be no excuse. As students, it is your duty to make yourselves acquainted with the rules that govern the institution. In point of fact, I cannot believe that either of you is ignorant of the rule forbidding students to frequent places where liquor is sold. It is hardly necessary for me to defend the propriety of this rule. Intemperance is a fruitful source of vice and crime, and I cannot allow the youth under by charge to form habits of indulgence which may blast all their prospects, and lead to the most ruinous consequences." "We didn't drink much," said Mark. "I shall not inquire how much you drank. In drinking a single glass, you violated the rule of the school, and I cannot pass over it." "What is he going to do with us, I wonder?" thought Mark. He was not required to wonder long. "As this is your first offense, so far as I know," proceeded the principal, "I will not be severe. You are both suspended from the institution for the remainder of the term, and are required to leave Bridgeville by the early train to-morrow morning for your respective homes. I shall write to your parents, explaining the cause of your suspension." But a week remained of the term, and the punishment was mild, but both boys were mortified and left the study crestfallen. Mark was the first to recover his spirits. "It is not so bad, James," he said. "To-morrow will be Saturday, and I should go home, anyway. I don't mind staying at home next week." "What will your father say?" "Oh, I'll make it all right with him! I don't mind much what he says. I guess he got into scrapes himself when he was a boy." "My father isn't so easily managed. Just as likely as not, he'll cut off my allowance for a month; and that'll be no joke!" "My father won't do that," said Mark. "If he did, I would raise a fuss." "Would that do any good?" "I'll bet it would!" Frank, who was quite ignorant of Mark's trouble, was surprised when the latter approached him a little later with a frown and said, harshly: "You won't make anything by what you have done, Frank Courtney!" "Will you be kind enough to tell me what I have done?" asked Frank, calmly. "You've been to Dr. Brush and told him about our playing billiards." "You are entirely mistaken, Mark. I did not suppose he knew." "It must have been you. He told us some one had informed him, and you were the only one who knew. It's a mean trick, isn't it, Carson?" "Awfully mean!" "I have already told you that the information did not come from me. It may be the best thing for you that it has been found out, for it was doing you no good to frequent such places." "I don't want to hear any of your preaching, Frank Courtney. I guess I can manage my own affairs without any advice from you." "I don't care to intrude any advice," said Frank. "I have not much reason to feel interested in you." "You'd better look out how you treat me, though," said Mark, insolently. "I know very well you dislike me, but it won't be safe for you to show it while you are a dependent on my father." "I don't propose to be a dependent on him long," said Frank, quietly. "The truth of it is, you and your father are dependent upon property which of right belongs to me. The time may come when I shall be able to show this." "What does he mean?" thought Mark, uneasily. "Will he contest the will?" It was perhaps an evidence of Mark's shrewdness that he had some doubts about the validity of the will under which his father inherited. CHAPTER XIII MR. MANNING'S NEW PLAN Mark so represented his school difficulty to his father that he incurred but slight censure. Indeed, Mr. Manning was so absorbed in plans for getting the greatest enjoyment out of the estate of which he had obtained possession by doubtful means that he didn't care to be disturbed about such a trifle as his son's suspension. He felt more disposed to blame Frank, whom Mark charged with betraying him. "What does Frank say about it?" asked Mr. Manning. "Of course he denies it," said Mark, "but it can't be any one else." "He is acting very unwisely," said Mr. Manning, compressing his thin lips. "So I told him, but he said he didn't mean to be a dependent on you long." "How is he going to avoid it?' "I don't know." "I have had some intimation from Col. Vincent, who appears to be in his confidence. He wants to leave us." "To go away?" "Yes." "But you won't let him?" "I have been thinking about that, Mark, and I may give my permission. The fact is, he stands in the way of some plans I have formed. I am thinking of traveling." "Not without me?" said Mark, hastily. "No; you shall go with me, but I don't care to take Frank." "You might leave him at school." "I might, but how do I know that he might not hatch some mischief while we are gone?" "He might make some fuss about the property," suggested Mark. "Has he hinted anything of that kind to you?" asked his father, quickly. "Yes. Only yesterday he said that the property belonged by right to him." Mr. Manning looked thoughtful, and watched Mark narrowly to see if from his manner he could divine the boy's intentions. Later that same evening, Mark having retired early in consequence of a headache, Frank found himself alone with his stepfather, and took advantage of the opportunity to speak of the plan he had formed. "Mr. Manning," he said, "if you are at leisure, I should like to speak with you a few minutes." "Proceed," said his stepfather, waving his hand. "But a week remains of the school term. Did you propose that I should return there at the end of the vacation?" "Humph! I had not thought much on the subject." "It has all along been intended that I should go to college when prepared, but I don't think I care much about it." "In that case," said his stepfather, with alacrity, "you would only be throwing away time and money by going." He was quite ready to agree to Frank's surrender of the college plan for two reasons. A college course would be expensive. Again, should he turn his attention to the law, he might hereafter give him trouble about the estate. "I don't think I should throw away my time, for, if I went to college, I should go there to work faithfully; but I have a fancy for a more stirring life." "It might be a good plan for you to learn a trade," said Mr. Manning, reflectively. "Learn a trade!" exclaimed Frank, in surprise. "Yes; it would always enable you to earn a living." "Do you intend Mark to learn a trade?" asked Frank, quickly. "No; his case is very different from yours." "Why it is different?" "It is not necessary for me to explain," answered his stepfather, stiffly. "If there were any need of it, Mr. Manning, I would not object to learn a trade," said Frank. "I have no false pride on the subject. But my tastes are more for mercantile business." "I may be able to find you a place somewhere. I have a friend in the dry-goods business, who would receive you at my recommendation." "Thank you!" said Frank, hastily. "But if you will allow me, I would prefer to look around for myself." "What is it you want, then?" "Your permission to go out into the world, and try to make a living." "And if you don't," said Mr. Manning, "I suppose you expect me to defray your expenses?" "If I did have such an expectation, I think I should be justified, in view of the large property which my mother left," said Frank, pointedly. "She left it to me," said his stepfather. "So it appears, at any rate. But I shall not call upon you to pay my board. Give me your permission to go where I please, with a small sum of money to start me, and I shall be satisfied." "And what will the world say? That I, your stepfather, to whom you have a right to look for maintenance, had driven you out to earn your living! It would be unjust, of course, but the world is ever unjust." And Mr. Manning assumed a look of wronged innocence, which would have imposed on anyone who knew him but slightly. "I shall defend you from any such charge," said Frank. "I shall say that you were only yielding to my request." "I will think of it, my dear boy," said Mr. Manning, graciously. "I already feel inclined to grant it, because it is your request. I shall be sorry to be separated from you; but I am willing to sacrifice my own feelings, if it will give you pleasure." This did not impose upon Frank, who had a correct idea of the degree of fondness which Mr. Manning had for his society, but he was too well satisfied with the prospect of obtaining the permission he desired to imply any doubts. "Again," continued his stepfather, "whatever you may say to the contrary, I know that the world will censure me; but I shall have the approval of my own conscience, and with that I can defy the world." Mr. Manning certainly did look like a righteous man when he said this, and he beamed upon his stepson with a glance that was actually affectionate. "Go back to school," ho said, "and when you return I shall be able to give you a definite answer." Indeed, nothing could have suited Mr. Manning's plans better. He would get rid of the care and nearly the whole expense of his obnoxious stepson, while with his son Mark he would be spending the revenues of the estate which belonged to Frank. During the coming week he arranged his plans for a prolonged absence from the Cedars. He wrote to New York to engage passage on a steamer bound for Liverpool, and quietly waited for the end of Frank's school term to release him from a care which had grown burdensome. Frank returned to the Bridgeville Academy without Mark. As may be supported, however, he did not feel the loss of his society. He at once communicated to his chosen friend, Herbert Grant, his probable departure from school. "I am sorry to hear it, Frank," said Herbert, soberly. "Do you think you are acting wisely?" "I am not acting as I would have done had my mother lived," answered Frank; "but you must remember that my position in life has very much changed. I am a poor boy." "Hardly that, when there is so much property in the family." "I know Mr. Manning too well to believe that I shall derive much benefit from it. No, Herbert, I have my own living to make, and I want to make it in my own way." "It is a sad change for you, Frank." "No, I can't say that. I don't know how it is, Herbert, but I am rather glad to have all this thrown upon me. I enjoy feeling that I have got to work." "I have a chance of enjoying the same feelings," said Herbert, with a smile. "I wish we could start together, Herbert. Couldn't you go with me?" Herbert shook his head. "Father has a plan for me," he said. "I am to learn his trade, and shall commence next week. I don't particularly like it, but it is well to have a trade to fall back upon." "Mr. Manning wanted me to learn a trade." "There is no occasion for your doing so." "I don't know about that. If I had a particular fancy for any, I wouldn't mind choosing it, but I am better suited for something else." "What is your plan? What will you do first?" "My father has a cousin in the city of Newark, New Jersey, only a few miles from New York. Four years ago, he and his family made us a visit, and he was urgent then that we should return the visit. I will, first of all, go to him, and ask his advice. He is a business man, and he may be able to put me in the way of obtaining a position." "I think you will succeed, Frank, but it will be harder than you think for. You don't know what poverty is yet. I have never known anything else." "If I do succeed, Herbert, I may be able to find something for you." "I wish you might," Herbert replied; but he was not as sanguine as Frank. He understood, better than his friend, that for a boy to set out alone into the great world to earn a living is a serious undertaking. CHAPTER XIV GOOD-BYE Frank had fixed upon the Tuesday morning succeeding the close of the academic term for his departure from home. Monday was devoted to a few necessary preparations and a few calls on old friends, among them Col. Vincent, the owner of Ajax. "My dear Frank," said the colonel, kindly, "I feel a strong interest in your welfare, more especially because of the wrong which I do not scruple to say has been done you. What does Mr. Manning say to your plan?" "He makes no objection," said Frank. "Suppose he had done so?" "I would not have run away. He is my stepfather and guardian, and I would have endured staying at home as well as I could." "There you are right, Frank. Though I have a poor opinion of Mr. Manning, he is not likely to treat you in a manner to justify your going away without his permission. From what I have heard within the last week, I suspect that he feels relieved to have you go." "What have you heard, sir?" "That Mr. Manning will shortly sail for Europe, taking Mark with him." Frank was surprised, having no suspicion of this. "Now are you not sorry that you have decided to go out into the world to earn a living when you might have seen something of the Old World?" "Mr. Manning would never have taken me along," answered Frank, quietly, "nor should I have enjoyed traveling with him and Mark." "Of the two, who would interfere the more with your enjoyment?" "Mark." "Then you prefer the father to the son?" said the colonel. "The father has much more agreeable manners. I don't think Mark could be agreeable if he tried." Col. Vincent smiled. "Perhaps you are right, Frank," he said. "Now, as your father's old friend, I shall exact a promise from you." "What is it, sir?" "You are going out into the world to earn your own living. Boys of your age are apt to think it an easy thing. I have seen more of life, and I am sure you will find it more difficult than you suppose. You may find yourself in difficulty, possibly in want. In that case, promise to let me know, and I will come to your assistance." "I will, sir," answered Frank. The time came for Frank to say good-bye to Mr. Manning and Mark, and the house which had been his home from infancy. His stepfather handed him a small pocketbook. "Frank," he said, "in this pocketbook you will find twenty-five dollars. It is not much, but--" "I am satisfied, sir," said Frank. "It won't be long before I am earning something." "I hope your anticipations may be realized, but it is possible that you may require help." "I think not, sir." "I will authorize my banker to pay you the same sum--twenty-five dollars--every three months. Of course, it is not enough to support you; but, as you say it is your intention to procure a place--" "Yes, sir." "It will probably be enough to make up any deficiency that may exist in your income. I am aware that you do not regard me as--as I would like to have you; but I am resigned to be misunderstood, and I merely call your attention to the fact that I have given you my free permission to carry out your own plans and have given you more assistance than you asked for." "That's true, sir." "Should anyone in your hearing condemn me for what I have done, I depend upon your defending me." "I will state the facts, sir. I will take the entire responsibility for anything that may result from the step I have taken." Mr. Manning looked well pleased. Things were taking the course he desired, and for the paltry sum of one hundred dollars a year, he was getting rid of an obnoxious stepson, while appearing to confer a favor upon him. "Perhaps you are right, Frank," said his stepfather, disguising the satisfaction he felt. "If, however, you should find that you have made a mistake, you will do me the justice to remember that I gave you your choice." Knowing, as he did, that the offer was not genuine, Frank remained silent. He could not make up his mind to express gratitude, and therefore said nothing. Here the carriage drove up to the door to convey Frank to the railway station. Mindful of appearance, Mr. Manning accompanied him to the cars, and in presence of several neighbors bade him an effusively affectionate farewell. So Frank was fairly started on his campaign. CHAPTER XV ERASTUS TARBOX, OF NEWARK Erastus Tarbox kept a dry-goods store in the city of Newark, New Jersey. He was well to do, not so much because of his enterprise and skill as a merchant as because of his extreme poverty. Some people called it parsimony. He only employed two clerks to assist him in his store, and they, as well as the boy who carried out parcels and ran the errands, were paid scarcely more than two-thirds the rates paid in neighboring stores. Mr. Tarbox prided himself upon his relationship to the Courtneys. They were rich, and riches, in his eyes were a great merit. He often sighed to think that there was no chance for him to benefit by a share of the large property owned by his cousins. Without hope of personal advantage, however, he had always been obsequious to them, and often took occasion to mention them, by way of enhancing his own social credit somewhat. Mr. Tarbox had heard of Mrs. Courtney's death, but had not heard the particulars of the will. He took it for granted that Frank was sole heir, and it did cross his mind more than once how very agreeable it would be if he could be selected as guardian of the rich young heir. Of course, he knew that there was no probability of it, since the stepfather would undoubtedly be appointed to that position. Mr. Tarbox had just sold a calico dress pattern to a poor woman, when his attention was drawn to the entrance of Frank Courtney, who entered his store, valise in hand. Mr. Tarbox was rather short-sighted, and did not immediately recognize the son of his rich cousin. "What can I do for you, young man?" he asked, in his business tone. "This is Mr. Tarbox, I believe?" said Frank, who did not know his relatives very well. "Yes, that is my name." "I am Frank Courtney." "Bless my soul!" ejaculated Mr. Tarbox, surprised and delighted. "When did you arrive in Newark?" "I have only just arrived." "I do hope you are going to make us a visit," said Mr. Tarbox, cordially. "Thank you!" answered Frank, cheered by this warm reception. "If you are sure it won't inconvenience you." "Inconvenience me! We shall be delighted to have you with us." "You must come up and see Mrs. Tarbox. She will be delighted to see you." Mr. Tarbox lived over his store. There was a door from the street adjoining the shop front. Mr. Tarbox opened it with a pass-key, and conducted Frank upstairs, ushering him into a gloomy parlor, with stiff, straightbacked chairs, ranged at regular intervals along the sides of the room, and a marble-topped center table, with two or three books lying upon it. There was a framed engraving, representing Washington crossing the Delaware, over the mantel, and two plaster figures and similar ornaments on the mantelpiece. The whole aspect of the room chilled Frank. "Wait here, and I will call my wife," said Mr. Tarbox. Frank sat down on a hard sofa and awaited the entrance of Mrs. Tarbox. She came in, a tall, thin woman, about as handsome for a woman as her husband was for a man. Indeed, they were very well matched. She was quite as mean as he, and between them they managed to make annually a sensible addition to their world possessions. Mr. Tarbox privately hinted his hopes respecting Frank to his wife, and she instantly agreed that it would be a most eligible arrangement. "We must make him contented, my dear," said her husband. "Give him the best bedroom, and I think it might be well to have something a little extra for supper." "I did intend to put on the rest of that cold mutton," said Mrs. Tarbox, doubtfully. "It won't do, Martha. There is only a little of it, you know, and the boy has been traveling, and, of course, is hungry. What do you say, now, to some nice beefsteak?" "Beefsteak is high now," said Mrs. Tarbox. "Still, if we buy round steak--that is cheaper than sirloin or tenderloin." "And quite as good," said her economical partner. "We can tell Frank, however, that no sirloin was to be had so late in the day at the markets." Mrs. Tarbox nodded her head, approving the suggestion. This little matter being adjusted, the husband and wife entered the parlor where our hero was waiting patiently. "This is our young cousin, Martha," said Mr. Tarbox, smiling pleasantly. "Welcome to Newark," said Mrs. Tarbox, extending her hand. "And how did you leave your stepfather?" "He is well," said Prank, coolly. The two exchanged glances. It was clear that Frank did not like his stepfather, and this was satisfactory to them. There was the more chance of his leaving him and boarding with them. "The children will be so glad to see you," said Mr. Tarbox; "won't they, Martha?" "Delighted!" assured the lady. "Pliny must be about your age. How old are you, by the way?" "Sixteen." "Just Pliny's age. Do you remember him?" Frank remembered a tall, thin stripling who had accompanied his parents to the Cedars, and who appeared to have an inexhaustible appetite. "Yes, I remember him. Does he go to school?" "No; Pliny is in a store," answered Mr. Tarbox. "Your store?" "Oh, no! I thought it would be better for him to enter the employ of a stranger. He is in a bookstore." There was one great advantage in Pliny's entering the employ of a stranger. He was paid four dollars a week, whereas Mr. Tarbox paid his boy but two. Here, then, was a clear gain of two dollars a week. "But you must be tired," said Mrs. Tarbox. "You will see the children at supper. Martha, I think Frank would like to go to his room." The best bedroom was over the parlor. It was rather more cheerful, because lighter. "Here," said Mr. Tarbox, "you must make yourself at home. Martha, isn't one of the drawers in that bureau empty? I thought so. Take your clothes out of the valise and put them away. Now, is there anything you would like?" "Only a little water to wash in," said Frank. "You are both very kind." "We hope to make you comfortable. You are our relative, you know." The water was brought up by Mrs. Tarbox herself, and Frank was left alone, on the whole well pleased with his reception. CHAPTER XVI AN UNPLEASANT DISCOVERY It never occurred to Frank that his cordial reception was wholly due to his supposed wealth. Had he known the Tarbox family better, he would have had no uncertainty on this point. As it was, the discovery was soon made. "All my olive branches are for you, my dear young cousin," said Mr. Tarbox, waving his hand. "A peaceful, happy family. Children, this is our esteemed relative, Frank Courtney. You remember visiting his delightful home, the Cedars." "Yes, pa," said Julia. Pliny said nothing, but stared at Frank, inwardly considering whether it would be possible to borrow some money of him. "I am glad to meet you all. I hope we shall become better acquainted," said Frank politely. "No doubt you will," said Mr. Tarbox. "They are rather bashful, but they long to know you." "How are you?" said Pliny, in a sudden burst of sociability. "Pretty well, thank you!" answered Frank, finding it rather difficult to preserve his gravity. "I am in a store," said Pliny. "In your father's store?" "No. He wouldn't pay me as much as I get where I am." Mr. Tarbox looked embarrassed. "A smaller boy answered my purpose," he said, in an explanatory manner. "Pliny is suited for higher duties. But our supper is ready. It is frugal compared with yours at the Cedars, my dear Frank, but you are heartily welcome to it." "It looks very nice, Mr. Tarbox," said our hero, "and I have not been accustomed to luxurious living." This answer pleased Mr. and Mrs. Tarbox. Even if Frank should become a boarder on liberal terms, they didn't wish to spend too much on their table. "We couldn't get sirloin steak," said Mr. Tarbox; "but I hope you will find this good." "No doubt I shall," said Frank, politely. "Won't you have another piece of steak?" asked Mrs. Tarbox. Frank saw that there was but a small piece left, and, though his appetite was not wholly satisfied, he answered: "No, thank you." "I will!" said Pliny, quickly. Mrs. Tarbox frowned at her son, but did not venture to refuse in the presence of her guest. She cut off a small portion of the steak, and, with a severe look, put it on the extended plate of Pliny. "You've got a good appetite, Pliny," said Julia. "So would you have, if you had to work like me!" grumbled Pliny. After the steak came an apple pie, which was cut into seven pieces. Mrs. Tarbox managed to make Frank's piece a little larger than the rest. Her husband observed it with approval. He was very desirous that Frank should be satisfied with his fare. When Pliny rose from the table, saying that he must be getting back to the store, Frank rose also. "I will go with you," he said, "if you have no objection. I would like to take a walk." "Come along," said Pliny. "I should like to have company." "You will be a great deal of company for Pliny," observed Mr. Tarbox, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "Just of an age and of congenial tastes." Frank hardly expected to find Pliny very congenial, but he wished to obtain some information, which he thought the latter could give him, and he also wanted to see something of Newark. "I say, your name is Frank, isn't it?" commenced Pliny: "Yes." "The old man's awful glad to see you." "I am glad of it. He has received me very kindly." "Got up an extra supper for you. We don't often get steak for supper." This was rather an embarrassing revelation, and surprised Frank somewhat. The supper had not seemed to him at all extra. It would do, but was far from luxurious. "I hope you'll stay with us a good while," continued Pliny. "Thank you." "You see we shall live better while you are with us, and the rest of us will be gainers." "I don't want to put your father to any unusual expense." "Oh, he can afford it! But he's stingy, father is. He doesn't spend any more than he can help." "It is best to be economical, I suppose." "When you don't carry it too far. I say, Frank," continued Pliny, lowering his voice, "you can't lend me five dollars, can you?" Frank regarded Pliny with astonishment. The proposal was very abrupt, especially when the shortness of their acquaintance was considered. "Are you particularly in need of money?" asked Frank. "Well, you see," said Pliny, "I want it for a particular purpose." "Why not ask your father for it?" "Oh, he'd never let me have it!" Now, in Frank's present circumstances, five dollars represented a good deal of money. He was the more impressed with the necessity of economy since he had found out how small were the wages paid in stores to boys of his age. He did not feel at all inclined to grant Pliny's request, especially as he had a strong suspicion that it would be a long time before the sum would be returned. "Why do you apply to me, Pliny?" he asked, seriously. "Didn't your mother die and leave you a big property? Father says you must be worth more than a hundred thousand dollars." "Your father probably has not heard of the will," said Frank, quietly. "What was there in the will?" asked Pliny. "The whole property was left to Mr. Manning." "Who is he?" "My stepfather." "And nothing to you?" "Nothing to me." "But he's got to take care of you, hasn't he?" "It was expected, but I am going to earn my own living, if I can." Pliny stopped short in blank amazement and whistled. "Then you haven't got a lot of money?" "No." "Won't your stepfather give you a part of the property?" "I haven't asked him, but I don't think he will." "And why did you come to Newark?" "I thought your father might give me some help about getting a place." "If this isn't the richest joke!" said Pliny, laughing uproariously. "Where is the joke? I don't see it," returned Frank, inclined to be angry. "The way you have taken in the old man. He thinks you are rich, and has treated you accordingly--got up an extra supper and all that. Oh, it's too good!" "I certainly didn't intend to take him in, as you call it," said Frank. "The sooner you tell him the better." "I'll tell him," said Pliny. "I shall enjoy seeing how provoked he'll be." "I think I will leave you," said Frank, shortly. "I will take a walk by myself. "Well, don't lose your way. Oh, I wish the store was shut! I want to tell the old man." And Pliny laughed again, while our hero walked off in disgust. CHAPTER XVII THE WAY OF THE WORLD Frank felt like an impostor when he discovered that his cordial reception was wholly owing to the belief that he was his mother's heir. The situation was unpleasant, and he was impatient to have Mr. Tarbox undeceived. He was sure that Pliny would lose no time in revealing his true position, and decided not to return to the house of Mr. Tarbox till nine o'clock, when the story would have been told. He wandered about aimlessly till he heard the city clocks strike nine, and then rang the bell at his relation's house. The family, with the exception of the two younger children, were assembled in the common sitting room. As Frank entered, instead of the cordial welcome he had previously received, he noticed a look of coldness and constraint on the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Tarbox, while Pliny looked as if some stupendous joke was being perpetrated. "Good-evening!" said Frank, politely. "I have been taking a walk." "My son Pliny tells me," said Mr. Tarbox, "that you have not inherited your mother's property." Frank bowed. "And that it has gone to your stepfather." "It seems so." "I am amazed." "So was I, sir." "Your mother has practically disinherited you?" "It was not my mother, sir," said Frank, hastily. "I can't explain it, but I'm sure she would not will away everything from me." "Do you suspect your stepfather of anything irregular?" asked Mr. Tarbox, briskly. "I would rather not answer your question, sir. I don't care to make any charges which I cannot prove." "And so Mr. Manning has sent you out into the world to earn your own living, has he?" "No, sir. He has consented that I may do so. It was my own plan." Much as Frank was prejudiced against his stepfather, his natural sense of justice would not allow him to accuse him unjustly. "Did he suggest that you should come to me?" asked Mr. Tarbox, in a tone which Frank did not like. "No, sir." "So that was your idea, too," continued Mr. Tarbox, with a palpable sneer. "Yes, sir," answered Frank. "You are not a very near relative, but the nearest I know of, and I supposed you would be willing to give me some advice about the best means of earning my living. I remembered," he could not help adding, "that my mother received you all as guests for a considerable time, and I thought I might take the liberty." "Oh, certainly!" returned Mr. Tarbox, rather abashed. "I am, of course, ready to give you advice, and my first advice is to seek a lawyer and let him institute a suit against your stepfather, on speculation. That is, he gets nothing if he fails, but obtains a commission if he succeeds. I could myself recommend a reliable man." "Thank you, sir; but I have no present thought of contesting the will." "I think you make a mistake. Do I understand that you expect to earn your own living?" "I shall try to do so." "You will find it very difficult. You may expect me to take you into my own store, but there is no vacancy, and--" Frank hastily assured Mr. Tarbox that he had no such expectations. He had no wish to deprive the errand boy of the two dollars a week, which he probably richly earned. "Situations in Newark are not easily obtained," proceeded Mr. Tarbox. "I am willing that you should stay with us a day or two, but I don't think you will find it worth your while to stay here." Mr. Tarbox feared that his young relative might expect to find a home free of charge in his house, and such an arrangement did not suit his economical ideas. There was no profit in it, but, on the contrary, a positive loss. Frank read clearly the thoughts of his host, with the help of what Pliny had told him, and, expressing his thanks very briefly, announced his intention to go to New York the next morning. "It may be the best thing you can do!" said Mr. Tarbox, relieved. "New York opens a much wider field to a boy of enterprise than Newark, and probably you will pick up something to do." "It won't be my fault, if I don't," said Frank. "You have my best wishes," said Mr. Tarbox. "The demands of my family forbid me offering you any pecuniary assistance, but--" "I don't stand in need of it, sir. I have money enough to keep me till I get started in something." "Really, I am very glad to hear it!" And there is no doubt that Mr. Tarbox was sincere. "I wonder how much money he has got?" thought Pliny. "Perhaps he'd lend me two dollars. I'll ask him, if I have a chance." Pliny proposed to borrow, not because he needed the money, but because he liked to levy contributions upon any available party, with a very faint idea of repaying the same. The money would go to swell his deposit at the savings bank. It was very commendable, of course, to save his money, but not at the expense of others, as Pliny too frequently did. "I have moved you out of the spare room," said Mrs. Tarbox, when our hero asked permission to retire, "and put you in the same room with Pliny. I suppose you won't mind?" "Just as you please, Mrs. Tarbox," said Frank, though he would have preferred to have passed the night alone. "Could you make it convenient to lend me two dollars?" asked Pliny, as they went up to bed together. "Not just now," answered Frank. "When I get something to do I shall not need to be so careful of my money." "One dollar would answer," persisted Pliny. Without a word, Frank drew a dollar bill from his pocketbook and handed it to Pliny. "Now," he thought, "I shall not feel under any obligations to the family." "You're a good fellow, even if you are poor," said Pliny, in high good humor. Frank was tired, and it was not long before all his anxieties for future were lost sight of in a sound and refreshing slumber. CHAPTER XVIII FRANK ARRIVES IN NEW YORK The breakfast the next morning was very meager. It was no longer an object to gratify Frank's palate, now that he turned out to be a poor relation, and the family returned to their usual plain diet. "So you are resolved to go to New York this morning," said Mr. Tarbox. "Of course it would gratify us to have you remain longer, but I appreciate your anxiety to go to work." Frank was by no means deceived by this statement. He knew very well that Mr. Tarbox would be relieved by his departure, but of this knowledge he made no sign. He merely said that he thought it best to go. He took leave of his hosts, and, purchasing a ticket at the railway station, found himself within an hour in New York. He had been there before, but it was not for a long time, and he had but a vague general idea of the city. Frank made inquiries of a kindly man who owned a clean little store on one of the streets. The latter knew of places where Frank could board and lodge for five dollars a week or about that and directed Frank to them. They were all near University Place. He found the place without difficulty. A slipshod servant answered the bell. "Have you got any small rooms?" asked Frank. "Yes," answered the girl. "Missus is out, but I'll show you a hall bedroom, if you like." "I should like to see it." Frank followed the girl upstairs. He was not favorably impressed by the appearance of the interior. He did not so much mind its being shabby, but he was repelled by the evident lack of neatness. The girl threw open the door of a small hall bedroom at the head of the stairs, but it looked so comfortless that he felt sure he should not like it. He thought it best, however, to inquire the price. "Five dollars a week with board," answered the girl. "I don't think it will suit me," said our hero. "There's a larger room for seven dollars," said the servant. "No. I think I will look elsewhere." The next house was not much better, but the third was much neater and more attractive, and Frank agreed to take a room at five dollars per week. It was a small hall bedroom, but it looked clean, and the lady who showed him about the house was very neat in her dress. "When will you come?" asked the lady. "Now," replied Frank, promptly. "Would you mind paying the first week in advance?" "Not at all. Here is the money." And Frank drew a five-dollar bill from his portemonnaie. "Thank you!" said the boarding-house keeper. "I have lost so much by boarders going away owing me money that I am obliged to ask gentlemen to pay in advance till I am well acquainted with them." "That is quite right," said Frank. "What is your dinner hour?" "Six o'clock. We have lunch at half-past twelve for the ladies, but if any gentleman happens to be at home at that time, he can go in." Frank looked at his watch. It was only eleven o'clock and as so much of the day remained, he decided, as soon as he had unpacked his valise, to go downtown and look for a place without delay. "I shall not be here at lunch to-day," he said. "You may expect me at dinner." There was a small bureau in the room--a piece of furniture not often found in hall bedrooms. Frank deposited the contents of the valise in the bureau drawers, and then went downstairs and out into the street. CHAPTER XIX FRANK SEEKS EMPLOYMENT IN VAIN It was a bright, pleasant day, and Broadway looked very lively. In spite of his being alone in a strange city, with uncertain prospects, Frank felt in good spirits. Boys of his age usually like excitement and bustle, and Frank was quick to notice the shifting scenes of the great panorama. "Here are thousands of people," he reflected, "all of whom make a living in some way. I don't see why I can't succeed as well as they." Some of the objects he saw amused him. In front of him walked an elderly man with a large placard strapped to his back, on which was the advertisement of a "Great Clothing Emporium." "I don't think I should fancy that kind of employment," thought our hero. As he was looking in at a shop window, a boy about his own age hailed him. "I say, Johnny, what's the price of turnips?" "Do you want to buy any?" asked Frank quietly. "Well, I might. Have you got any with you?" "I am sorry I can't supply you," said Frank, coolly. "Up our way we keep our cattle on turnips." "You ain't so green, after all," said the boy, laughing good-naturedly. "Thank you for the compliment!" "I suppose I look countrylike," thought Frank, "but it won't last long. I shall get used to city ways." Close by he saw in a window the sign: "CASH BOY WANTED." Frank as not altogether certain about the duties of cash boys nor their rate of compensation, but he made up his mind not to lose sight of any chances, and accordingly stepped into the store. It proved to be a large dry-goods store. Near the entrance he met a tall man, with black whiskers. "Do you want any cash boys?" inquired Frank. "Are you inquiring for yourself?" "Yes, sir." "You are too large. Besides, you would not be satisfied with the wages?" "How much do you pay, sir?" "Two dollars a week." "No; I don't think I should like to work for that," said Frank. "Are those cash boys?" he asked, pointing out some boys of apparently ten to twelve years, old, who were flitting about from desk to counter. "Yes." "I see they are much younger than I. Excuse the trouble I have given you!" "None whatever," said the man, politely. Frank left the store, and continued his walk down Broadway. He began to feel a little serious. It was evident that the boys did not receive as large compensation for their services as he had supposed. The problem promised to be a perplexing one, but Frank was by no means discouraged. In fact, if he had been, he would hardly have deserved to be the hero of my story. Though Clinton Place is not very far uptown, it is a considerable walk from this point to the Astor House. There was so much to see, however, that Frank did not become tired, nor was he sensible of the distance. He walked a little beyond the Astor House, and, crossing Broadway, turned down Fulton Street. On the left side of the street his attention was drawn to a restaurant, and he was led by the prompting of appetite to enter. The prices he found to be reasonable, and the tables were already pretty well filled with clerks and business men, who were partaking of their midday lunch. Frank found that a plate of meat, with potato and a small supply of bread and butter, could be obtained for fifteen cents. He afterward found restaurants where the same could be gotten for ten cents, but generally there was a deficiency in quality or quantity, and there was less neatness in serving the articles. Seated at the same table with Frank were two young men, neither probably much over twenty. One appeared to be filling a regular clerkship. "What are you doing now, Jack?" he asked of the other. "I am in the tea business." "How is that?" "You know the Great Pekin Tea Company, of course?" "Yes." "Well, until I can get a place, I am selling for them." "How do you make out?" "I can't tell you, for I have only just commenced," said his friend. "How do they pay--salary or commission?" "They are to pay me a commission--twenty per cent on what I sell." "That is a good commission." "Yes; it is good enough, if I can make a fair amount of sales. There is a good deal of uncertainty about it of course. I would much rather have a place like yours." Frank listened with interest. He wondered whether the Great Pekin Tea Company would employ him. If so, he would have a field for his energy, and every inducement to work hard, since his pay would depend on the amount of his sales. Besides, as an agent, he would occupy a comparatively independent position, and Frank was ambitious enough to enjoy this. CHAPTER XX AN ADVENTURE IN WALL STREET When the two men at his table left the restaurant, Frank followed them. At the door the two parted, the clerk going toward Broadway, while the agent walked in the direction of Nassau Street. "I beg your pardon," said Frank, overtaking him; "but may I ask you a question?" "Half a dozen, if you like," said the other, good-naturedly. "I overheard what you said about the Great Pekin Tea Company. Do you think I could get a chance to sell for them?" "Oh, yes; there'll be no trouble about that!" "I am looking for something to do," continued Frank, "and I think I should like to try that." "You'll find it uphill work," said the agent; "hard work and poor pay. I shall leave it as soon as I can get a regular position. Can't you get a place?" "Perhaps I can. I haven't tried very hard yet," answered Frank; "but I find boys are paid so little that I can't make enough to live on. If I were a man it would be different." "I don't believe you can make more than a boy's wages at selling tea," said Frank's new acquaintance, "but you might try it." "Would you mind giving me a note to the company?" asked Frank. "I will write a line on one of my business cards," said the agent. "That will be all you will need." He drew out a card and wrote a line commending Frank to the attention of the company. Frank thanked him, and sought the direction given. Entering a large shop, not far from the Astor House, he looked about his inquiringly. Around him were chests of tea, inscribed with Chinese characters. A portly man addressed him. "Well, my boy, what can I do for you?" he asked. "Mr. Mason, one of your agents, has given me this card," said Frank. "He thinks you might be willing to employ me." "We are ready to employ any competent person," said the gentleman; "but you seem very young." "I am sixteen, sir." "That is young. Have you had any experience as an agent?" "No, sir?" The man questioned him further and finally accepted him. Frank was told that it would be well to take samples of different kinds of teas with their respective prices attached, and seek orders for them at private houses and groceries, noting down in a little book orders obtained. Small quantities he could himself deliver, and large quantities, should he be fortunate enough to obtain any, could be sent out from the store by their general delivery. "What commission am I to get, sir?" inquired Frank. "Twenty per cent on parcels sold to private houses and ten per cent when you sell to retail dealers. To the first you can charge a full price, but it is necessary to sell at lower rates to dealers." "I understand, sir," said Frank. "When do you want to begin?" "To-morrow morning, sir. Where do you advise me to go?" "New York has been pretty well canvassed, except perhaps the upper part, Harlem. It might be well to make a start in Brooklyn." "Very well, sir. I will call to-morrow and get samples." As Frank left the store, he reflected, with satisfaction: "I have only been a few hours in New York, and I have gotten employment already." This reflection raised his spirits, and disposed him to regard the future with a degree of confidence. He resolved to spend the rest of the afternoon in walking about in the lower part of the city, and acquiring a little familiarity with the streets, as this was a kind of knowledge he was likely to need. He strolled down Broadway, admiring the massive and stately structures that lined the streets on either side. Very soon he came to Trinity Church, and, standing in front it, looked down Wall Street. He had heard so much of this street that he felt inclined to turn from Broadway and walk down its entire length. As he sauntered along a man whom he met scrutinized him sharply, as if considering some plan. Apparently making up his mind, he stepped up to Frank, and, touching him on the shoulder, said: "Boy, would you like a job?" Now Frank, though he had engaged to work for the Great Pekin Tea Company was ready to accept any other proposal, and answered promptly: "Yes, sir." "That is right," said the man. "It is a mere trifle, but I am willing to pay you a dollar." "What is it, sir?" "Do you see that window?" He pointed to a basement window, in which were exposed rolls of gold, currency and greenbacks of different denominations, and English sovereigns and French gold coins. "I want you to do me a little errand in there," he said. Frank was rather surprised that the man did not do his own errand, when the broker's office was so near, but he had no objection to earning a dollar and signified his willingness. "What I want you to do," said his new acquaintance, "is to sell some government bonds for me." "Very well, sir." The man produced a large yellow envelope, already open. "In this envelope," he said, "are two five-twenty governments for a hundred dollars each. Take them in and sell them, and bring the proceeds to me." "All right, sir." Frank took the envelope, and entered the office of Jones & Robinson, that being the style of the firm. He advanced to the counter, and singling out a clerk, said: "I want to sell these bonds." The clerk took them and drew them out of the envelope. Then he figured a little on a slip of paper, and said: "They are worth two hundred and twenty-five dollars and twenty-five cents." "All right, sir." "Will you take a check or currency?" Frank hesitated. "Perhaps I'd better ask the man I am getting them for." "Very well. You can bring them here to-morrow." "Oh, I will let you know in a minute! The man is just outside." This answer immediately excited suspicion. Frank was too little versed in business ways to understand how singular it was for his principal not to transact his own business under the circumstances, but the brokers were necessarily keen, shrewd men. "Wait a minute," said the clerk; "I will speak to Mr. Jones." Mr. Jones came forward and addressed Frank. "Are you acquainted with the man who gave you these bonds to sell?" he asked. "No, sir. I met him in the street." "Did he offer you any pay for selling them?" "Yes, sir. He is going to give me a dollar." "Will you go out and ask him to come in here a moment?" Frank obeyed. When his employer saw him coming, he asked, eagerly: "Have you got the money?" "No," answered Frank. "They asked me if I wanted a check or currency." "Either currency or gold," answered the man, hastily. "Go back at once, and don't keep me waiting." "They want to see you, sir." "What for?" inquired the man, looking disturbed. "I don't know." "There is no need of my going in," said the man, angrily. "I paid you to sell the bonds. Now go back." "He won't come," reported Frank. "He says I can attend to the business. He will take either gold or currency." "No doubt," said Mr. Jones, significantly. "Thomas, go out with this boy, and tell the man that employed him that we do not purchase bonds unless we have a reasonable assurance that they belong to the person offering them. We will take the liberty of retaining them, giving him a receipt for them, and if we are satisfied, he can have his money to-morrow." Robinson, who had been examining some newspaper slips, here came forward, and said: "That is unnecessary. I find that these bonds are among those stolen from the house of Henry Percival, Madison Avenue, a week since. We must manage to delay the man while we notify the police." Frank was very much surprised to learn that he was acting as agent for a bond robber, and was fearful that he might himself be regarded with suspicion; but he need not have troubled himself on this score. Wall Street men are good judges of human nature, and it was at once concluded in the office that Frank was the dupe of a designing knave. A boy was dispatched to the nearest police office, and Frank was directed to tell his principal that he would not long be delayed. Naturally, however, the man outside had become suspicious. "I can't wait," he said. "Meet me on the steps of the Astor House at five o'clock with the money. I am obliged to hurry away now to a business appointment." Frank could think of no other pretext for delaying him, and was forced to see him hurry away. He hastened back to the office and gave the alarm. "He has taken fright," said Robinson. "I fear we have lost him. Where did he go?" Frank, however, was too ignorant of city streets to give any accurate information. The consequence was that when the policeman appeared on the scene, there was no occasion for his services. "At any rate," said the broker, "we have secured a little of the plunder. What is your name and address my boy? We may wish to communicate with you." Frank gave his name, and added the directions of his boarding house. "Shall I meet the man at the Astor House?" he inquired, as he was leaving the office. "To be sure!" said Mr. Jones. "I came near forgetting that. Officer, will you be on hand at the time?" "Better employ a detective, sir, as my uniform would keep the thief at a distance. I don't think he'll appear, at any rate." "I do," said the broker. "He won't give up the money while he thinks there is a chance of securing it." CHAPTER XXI THE CAPTURE At the hour named, Frank repaired to the Astor House, and took a position on the steps. He looked about him for his street acquaintance, but could see no one who bore any resemblance to him. Finally, a man dressed in a gray suit with a pair of green glasses, walked carelessly up to our hero and said, in a low voice: "Have you got the money?" Frank looked at him in surprise. This man had thick, black whiskers, while the man who had employed him had none at all, so far as he could remember. Besides, the green glasses altered him considerably. To make sure that he was not deceived he inquired: "What money?" "You know very well," said the man, impatiently. "You are the boy whom I employed to sell some bonds this morning." "You don't look like the same man," said Frank. "Because of my glasses. I have to wear them at times on account of the weakness of my eyes." While he was speaking, a quiet-looking man approached and listened to the conversation. "Then," said Frank, "you can tell me how many bonds you handed me." "They were two five-twenty government bonds of a hundred dollars each." "Correct, sir." "Then hand me the money and be quick about it, for I have no time to waste! You shall have the dollar I promised you." But here the quiet-looking man took a part in the conversation. Passing his arm through that of the man with the green glasses, he said: "I will trouble you to come with me." "How dare you touch me? Do you mean to insult me?" demanded the other, struggling with captor. "I will make all clear in due time. You must come with me and explain how you came in possession of the bonds you gave this boy." "They were put in my hands by an acquaintance. If there is anything wrong, I am not to blame." "In that case no harm will come to you; but now you must come along." After his experience, Frank walked to his boarding place. He was quite ready for six o'clock. When he entered the dining room, his hostess introduced him to all. A young man sat next to him and entered into conversation. "What do you do, Mr. Courtney?" "I have taken an agency to sell tea for the Great Pekin Tea Company. I am to begin to-morrow." "I am afraid you won't like it. A friend of mine tried it once and came near starving." This was not encouraging, but Frank was not going to despair before he had fairly begun his work. "I find that boys receive such small wages," Frank continued, "that I preferred to try an agency." "Quite true," said Mr. Preston, condescendingly. "When I started I was paid a paltry sum; now I am not paid what I am worth. Still, twenty-five dollars a week is fair." "Quite fair," responded Frank, who could not, of course, know that Mr. Preston did not receive one-half of this sum, though he chose to give that impression. After dinner, Preston was obliged to go back to the store where he was employed. By invitation, Frank walked with him. Turning into Sixth Avenue they passed a saloon. "Won't you have something to drink, Courtney?" said Preston. "No, thank you, I never drink," answered Frank. "It will brace you up, and make you feel jolly. Better come in!" "I don't need bracing up," answered Frank, quietly. "Well, perhaps you are right," said Mr. Peter Preston. "I don't indulge very often, but sometimes I feel like it." Some boys might have yielded to the temptation, but Frank had determined that he would abstain from liquor, and kept his resolution. A boy who comes to the city is exposed at every step to this peril, and needs a firm will to withstand it. It is the fruitful source of crime and misery, and does more to fill our prisons than any other cause. "This is my store," said Preston, as he pointed to a modest-looking shop on the west side of the avenue. "I wish I could keep you company longer, but business before pleasure, you know." Before returning to his boarding house, Frank sat down for a short time in Washington Park, and reviewed his plans and prospects. He could not tell how he would succeed in his tea agency; but if that failed, he was resolved to try something else. He didn't feel homesick, for since his mother's death he had no longer any home ties. Young as he was, he felt that one part of his life was at an end, and that a new life and a new career were before him. CHAPTER XXII THE YOUNG TEA MERCHANT The next morning, at breakfast, one of the gentlemen, who had been running his eyes over the morning paper, said, suddenly: "Ah! I see they have caught one of the gang who robbed the house of Mr. Percival, on Madison Avenue, a week ago." "Read the paragraph, Mr. Smith," said one of the boarders. Mr. Smith read as follows: "About noon yesterday a boy entered the banking house of Jones & Robinson, in Wall Street, and offered for sale two one-hundred-dollar government bonds. On inquiry, he said that the bonds belonged to a man in the street, whom he had never before met, and who had offered him a dollar to sell them. This naturally excited suspicion, and a policeman was sent for. Before he could arrive the man had hastily departed, requesting the boy to meet him at a specified hour in front of the Astor House and hand him the money. He came to the rendezvous, but in disguise, and, while talking to the boy, was arrested. It is understood that he has agreed to turn State's evidence, and probably the entire sum stolen, amounting to several thousand dollars, will be recovered." Frank listened to this paragraph with interest. He was glad that his name was not mentioned in the account, as he didn't care for such publicity. He ventured to ask a question. "Is Mr. Percival a rich man?" he asked. "Very rich," answered Mr. Smith. "He is not now in the city, but is expected home from Europe in three or four weeks. His house was left in charge of an old servant--a coachman--and his wife; but the burglars proved too much for them." "I am glad they are caught," said Mrs. Fletcher. "It makes my blood run cold to think of having the houses entered at night by burglars." "Preston," said Mr. Smith, jokingly, "I hope you have your bonds locked securely up." "I don't believe the sharpest burglar can find them," said Preston. "I only wish I could get hold of them myself." "The boy who helped to capture the burglar ought to be well rewarded," said one of the boarders. "Don't you wish it had been you, Courtney?" said Mr. Preston. "It was," answered Frank, quietly. There was a great sensation upon this announcement. All eyes were turned upon our hero--most, it must be admitted, with an expression of incredulity. "Come, now, you are joking!" said Preston. "You don't really mean it?" "I do mean it," assured Frank. "Tell us all about it," said Mrs. Fletcher, who had her share of curiosity. "I didn't suppose we had such a hero in our house." "It didn't require much heroism," said Frank, smiling. "Tell us all about it, at any rate." Frank told the story as simply as he could, much to the satisfaction of the company. "You'll come in for a handsome reward, when Mr. Percival gets home," suggested Mr. Smith. "I don't expect anything," said Frank. "I shall be satisfied if I get the dollar which was promised me. I haven't received that yet." "I wish I were in your shoes--that's all I've got to say," said Preston, nodding vigorously. "Will you sell out for five dollars?" "Cash down?" asked Frank, smiling. "Well, I'll give you my note at thirty days," said the Sixth Avenue salesman, who seldom kept five dollars in advance of his liabilities. "I won't sell what I haven't got," said Frank. "Probably I shall hear nothing from Mr. Percival." After breakfast Frank went downtown and sought the store of the Great Pekin Company. After half an hour's delay--for there were others in advance of him--he was fitted out with samples and started for Brooklyn. It was his first visit to that city, but he had received some directions which made his expedition less embarrassing. At the ferry he took a Flatbush Avenue car, and rode up Fulton Street, and past the City Hall, up Fulton Avenue, for nearly a mile. Here were interesting streets, lined with comfortable houses--for Frank had made up his mind first to try private houses. He had with him a few pound parcels of tea, which he thought he could perhaps succeed in disposing of at such places. He selected a house at random, and rang the bell. A servant answered the ring. Frank felt rather embarrassed, but there was no time to hesitate. "I have some samples of tea with me," he began, "of excellent quality and at reasonable prices." "It's no use," said the girl, abruptly. "We never buy of peddlers," and she closed the door in his face. "Not a very good beginning," thought Frank, rather mortified. "So I am a peddler," he said to himself, and he called to mind the agents and peddlers who in past years had called at the Cedars. With some compunction, he remembered that he had regarded them with some contempt as traveling nuisances. Now he had entered the ranks of this despised class, and he began to see that they might be perfectly respectable, and were estimable persons, animated by a praiseworthy desire to make an honest living. Thus thinking, he called at another door. It was opened, not by a servant, but by an elderly maiden lady, who had rather a weakness for bargains. "I've got some nice tea," said Frank, "which I should like to sell you. It is put up by the Great Pekin Company." "Are you sure it's nice?" asked the elderly lady. "We've been getting ours at the grocery store on the avenue, and the last wasn't very good." "You'd better try a pound of ours," said Frank. "I don't know but I will," said the lady. "How much do you charge?" "I have some at fifty cents, some at sixty and some at seventy." "I guess I'll take the sixty." Frank had a pound parcel ready, which he delivered to her, and received his money. "Seems to me you are pretty young for a peddler," said the lady, regarding Frank with curiosity. "Yes, ma'am." "How old be you?" "Sixteen." "Been long in the business?" "No, ma'am; I've only just commenced." "You don't say so! Do you make much money at it?" "I haven't made much yet. I should be glad to supply you with some more tea when this is gone." "Well, you can call if you are round this way. If I like it, I will try you again." Frank's spirits rose. His profits on the pound of tea were twelve cents. This was not much, certainly, but it was a beginning. At the next three houses he sold nothing, being rather rudely rebuffed at one. At the fourth house, the servant called her mistress, a kind, motherly-looking woman, who seemed to regard Frank with more interest than his merchandise. "I hope you are succeeding well," she said, kindly. "This is my first day," said Frank, "and I have made one sale." "I have a son who is an agent like you, but he didn't begin so young. He is now traveling in the West." "What is he selling?" asked Frank, with interest. "Dry goods. He travels for a wholesale house in New York." "I suppose he is a young man." "Yes; he is twenty-five, but he began at nineteen in a small way. He sometimes got quite discouraged at first. That is why I feel interested in any who are passing through the same experience." These pleasant words cheered Frank. Only at the nearest house he had been called a tramp, but here he found that he was regarded with consideration. "It is rather uphill work," said Frank. "And you seem very young." "I am sixteen." "Are you entirely dependent on what you earn?" asked the lady, sympathizingly. "Not entirely," answered the young merchant, "but I hope to make a living in this or some other way. Can I sell you any?" he asked, hopefully. "I believe we have some on hand. Still tea will always keep, and I would like to help you along." The kind-hearted lady took three pounds--two at sixty cents and one at seventy. This gave Frank a profit thirty-eight cents and put him in good spirits. He worked his way back to the avenue on the other side of the street, and coming to a grocery store, entered. It occurred to him that he would try to sell some at wholesale. Frank was so young that the dealer did not suppose him to be an agent, and asked what he would like to buy. "I came to sell, not to buy," said Frank. "What are you dealing in?" asked the grocer. "I have several samples of tea," said our hero. "If you will give me an order, I will have it sent to you to-morrow." The grocer found, upon examination, that his stock was getting low, and gave Frank an order, but he was obliged to sell below the regular price, and only cleared three cents a pound. Still, on a sale of twenty-five pounds, this gave him seventy-five cents, which was very encouraging. Adding up his profits, thus far, Frank found that his commission amounted to a dollar and a quarter, which exceeded his anticipations. He continued his calls, but sold only one pound besides, at fifty cents, netting him ten cents more. CHAPTER XXIII FRANK MEETS MR. MANNING AND MARK The next morning Frank resumed his tea agency. As on the day previous, he went to Brooklyn; but, though I should be glad to say that he was more successful than on the first day, truth compels me to state that the day was a comparative failure. It might be that he was unfortunate in the persons whom he visited, but at all events, at the close of his labors he found that his commissions amounted to less than fifty cents. He contented himself, therefore, with a ten-cent lunch, and crossed Fulton Ferry between three and four o'clock. "This will never do," thought Frank, seriously. "I shall have to be economical to make my earnings cover my incidental expenses, while my board and lodging must be defrayed out of the money I have with me." Frank was disappointed. It is easy to think of earning one's living, but not quite so easy to accomplish it. A boy, besides being ignorant of the world, is inexperienced, and so disqualified for many avenues of employment which are open to men. It is generally foolish for a boy to leave a good home and start out for himself, unless the chances are unusually favorable for him. If he does it, however, he should not allow himself to be easily discouraged. If Frank had given up the business in which he was engaged simply because he had met with one unsuccessful day, I should not have been willing to make him the hero of my story. "This will never do," thought Frank. "I must make a greater effort to-morrow." The next day his commission amounted to a dollar, and the fourth day to a dollar and twelve cents. "You are doing well," said his employer. "You are doing better than the majority of our agents." In one way this compliment was satisfactory. In another way it was not encouraging, for it limited his prospects. Frank began to think that he would never be able to make his entire expenses as a tea agent. I don't propose to speak in detail of Frank's daily experiences, but only to make mention of any incidents that play an important part in his history. He was returning from Jersey City on the tenth day of his agency, when in the gentleman's cabin he saw, directly opposite, two persons whom he had reason to remember. They were Mark Manning and his father. Little reason as he had to like either, they reminded him of home, and he felt pleased to meet them. He instantly crossed the cabin, and offered his hand to his stepfather, who had not yet seen him. "When did you arrive, Mr. Manning?" he asked. "Why, it is Frank!" exclaimed Mr. Manning, with an appearance of cordiality. "Mark, do you see Frank?" "Yes, I see him," replied Mark, coldly. "Haven't you anything to say to him?" asked his father, who was much more of a gentleman than his son. "How are you?" said Mark, indifferently. "Thank you for your kind inquiry," said Frank, more amused than vexed, for he cared very little for his stepbrother's friendship. "I am in very good health." "And how are you getting along?" asked his stepfather, with an appearance of interest. "Are you in any business?" "Yes," answered Frank. "What are you doing?' asked Mark, inspired a little by curiosity. "I am agent for a wholesale tea house in New York," Frank answered, briefly. "You don't say so!" exclaimed Mark, rather impressed. "What is the name of the firm?" "The Great Pekin Tea Company." "Does it pay well?" asked his stepbrother. "I have met with very fair success," replied Frank. "I congratulate you, Frank," said Mr. Manning. "Your energy and enterprise are creditable--extremely creditable. I always predicted that you would succeed--didn't I, Mark?' "I don't remember hearing you say so," said Mark. Mr. Manning shrugged his shoulders. "Nevertheless," he said, "I have often made the remark." "Where do you live?" asked Mark. "I board in Clinton Place." "A very respectable street," said Mr. Manning. Frank now thought it was his turn to become questioner. "How long do you remain in the city, Mr. Manning?" he asked. "Not long--only a day or two," said his stepfather. "We sail for Europe on Saturday," interposed Mark, "on the Cunard steamer." "Indeed! I wish you a pleasant voyage." "I am sorry you won't go with us, Frank," said his stepfather, cautiously. "You remember I gave you the chance to do so, and you desired to devote yourself immediately to business." "Yes, sir. I would rather remain in New York." "It might possibly be arranged now, if you desire to go," said Mr. Manning, hesitatingly. "No, thank you, sir." "Well, perhaps you are right," said his stepfather, considerably relieved. "What parts of Europe do you expect to visit?" asked Frank. "We shall visit England, France, the Rhine, Switzerland, and perhaps Italy." "I hope you will enjoy it." "Thank you; I think we shall." Frank checked a sigh. It was certainly tantalizing. If he could travel with congenial friends, he felt that he would very much enjoy such a trip; but with Mark in the party there would be little pleasure for him. "We are staying at the St. Nicholas Hotel," said Mr. Manning. "I would invite you to come and dine with us, but I have an engagement first, and don't know when we shall dine." "Thank you, all the same," said Frank. They had reached the New York side, and were walking toward Broadway. It was necessary for Frank to go to the tea store, and he took leave of his stepfather and Mark, again wishing them a pleasant voyage. "I hate that boy!" said Mark, as they walked away. "You should not indulge in any such disagreeable feelings, Mark," said his father. "Don't you hate him?" "Certainly not." "One would think by your soft manner that you loved him," said Mark, who was not noted for the respect with which he treated his father. "Really, Mark, I am shocked by your strange words." "What made you invite him to go to Europe with us?" "I knew he would not go." "He might have accepted, and then we should have been in a pretty pickle." "Mark," said his father, rather irritated, "will you be kind enough to leave me to manage my own affairs? I believe I have succeeded pretty well so far." "Yes, you have," Mark admitted. "All the same, we'd better keep clear of Frank till we get safely off on the steamer." CHAPTER XXIV A DISCOURAGING DAY The next day was indeed a trying one and one of many experiences for Frank. The first lady did not buy any tea, to be sure, but seemed sorry that she was already supplied, and questioned Frank as to what success he was meeting with. When twelve o'clock came, Frank had not sold a single pound. Even if he earned nothing however, he had an appetite and must buy lunch. He entered a small oyster saloon, and went up to the proprietor. "Can I sell you some tea?" he asked. "No, I guess not. I get my tea in Harlem." "Take a couple of pounds," said Frank, "and I will take part of the pay in lunch." "That is business," said the other. "Let me look at your tea." Frank showed him his samples. "Who employs you?' "The Great Pekin Tea Company." "They have a good name. Yes, I will try a couple of pounds at fifty cents." This, of course, came to a dollar, and Frank's profit on the sale amounted to twenty cents. This was precisely the cost of the lunch which he ordered, so that he felt well satisfied with the arrangement. He left the saloon in better spirits, and resumed his travels from house to house. I am sorry to say, however, that though he certainly exerted himself to the utmost in the interests of the Great Pekin Tea Company and his own, he did not sell another pound of tea that day. About three o'clock he got on board a Third Avenue horse car, bound downtown and sat quietly down in a corner. "Harlem doesn't seem to be a very promising field for an agent," he said to himself. "Perhaps it isn't fair to judge it by the first day. Still, I don't think I shall have courage to come here to-morrow. I would rather go to Jersey City or Brooklyn." Frank got off the cars at the Bible House and walked to his boarding house, where a disagreeable surprise was in store for him. The night brought perplexity to Frank, but not discouragement. He was naturally hopeful, and, in a large city like New York, he felt that there are always chances of obtaining employment, provided he could maintain his position, as he would have been able to do if he had not lost the thirty-five dollars which his fellow boarder had stolen. Now, however, circumstances were materially changed. One thing was tolerably clear to Frank, and this was, that he must give up his agency. He had tried it, and been unsuccessful. That is, he had failed to earn money enough to support himself, and this was necessary. As to what he should take up next, Frank was quite in the dark. As a boy in a counting room he would be paid not more than four dollars a week, if he could gain such a situation, which was by no means certain. The more he thought about the matter the more perplexed he felt, and it was in an uncomfortable frame of mind that he came down to breakfast the next morning. CHAPTER XXV PERPLEXITY He went out as usual after breakfast, and then walked leisurely downtown. He proposed to go to the shop of the Great Pekin Tea Company and resign his agency. He was on the watch during his walk for any opportunities to repair his unlucky loss: At one place he saw a notice: "BOY WANTED." Though he felt sure the compensation would not be sufficient to allow of his accepting it, he thought it would do no harm to make inquiry, and accordingly entered. It was an extensive retail store, where a large number of clerks were employed. "Is a boy wanted here?" asked Frank of the nearest salesman. "Yes. You may inquire at the desk." He pointed to a desk some distance back, and Frank went up to it. "You advertise for a boy," he said to a tall, stout man, who chanced to be the proprietor. "Is the place filled." "No," was the answer; "but I don't think it would suit you." "Do you think I would not be competent, sir?" "No, that is not the difficulty. It would not be worth your acceptance." "May I inquire what are the duties, sir?" "We want a boy to open the door to customers, and this would not be worth your accepting." "No, sir. Thank you for explaining it to me." The gentleman was favorably impressed by Frank's polite and gentlemanly manners. "I wish I had a place for you," he said. "Have you ever had any experience in our line of business?" "No, sir; I have very little experience of any kind. I have acted for a short time as agent for a tea company." "You may leave your name if you like, and I will communicate with you if I have a vacancy which you can fill." Frank thanked the polite proprietor and walked out of the store. Though this is a story written for boys, it may be read by some business men, who will allow me to suggest that a refusal kindly and considerately expressed loses half its bitterness, and often inspires hope, instead of discouragement. Frank proceeded to the office of the tea company and formally resigned his agency. He was told that he could resume it whenever he pleased. Leaving the store, he walked down Broadway in the direction of Wall Street. He passed an elderly man, with stooping shoulders and a gait which showed that he was accustomed to live in the country. He was looking about him in rather an undecided way. His glance happened to rest on Frank, and, after a little hesitation, he addressed him. "Boy," he said, "do you live around here?" "I live in the city; sir." "Then I guess you can tell me what I want to know." "I will if I can, sir," said Frank, politely. "Whereabouts is Wall Street?" "Close by, sir. I am going that way, and will be happy to show you." Frank had no idea his compliance with the stranger's request was likely to have an important effect up his fortunes. CHAPTER XXVI FRANK HEARS SOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE "My name," said the stranger, "is Peters--Jonathan Peters, of Craneville, Onondaga County. I am a farmer, and don't know much about New York. I've got a few hundred dollars that I want to put into government bonds." "All right," said Frank, "there won't be any difficulty about it." "I've heerd there are a good many swindlers in New York," continued Mr. Peters. "The squire--Squire Jackson, of our village--perhaps you may have heard of him?" "I don't think I have, Mr. Peters." "Well, the squire told me I'd better take good keer of my money, as there were plenty of rascals here who would try to cheat me out of it." "That is true, Mr. Peters. Only yesterday I was robbed of thirty-five dollars by a man who boarded in the same house." "You don't say so?" "He opened my trunk and took out my pocketbook while I was absent on business." "I wouldn't dare to live in York!" said the farmer, whose apprehensions were increased by Frank's story. By this time they had reached the office of Jones & Robinson, with whom, it will be remembered, Frank had once before had dealings. "If you will come in here, Mr. Peters," said our hero, "you will be sure of honorable treatment. I will introduce you if you like." "I should be obleeged if you would," said the farmer. "Out in Craneville I am to home, but I ain't used to York business men, and don't know how to talk to them." It pleased Frank to find that, in spite of his inexperience, he was able to be of service to one more unaccustomed than himself to city scenes and city ways. He walked up to the counter, followed by the farmer, and said: "This gentleman wishes to buy some government bonds. I told him that he could transact his business here." "Thank you! Mr. Benton, you may attend to this gentleman." Frank was about to leave the office, when Mr. Robinson called him back. "You have been in the office before, have you not?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "Are you not the boy who assisted in the capture of the man who robbed Mr. Henry Percival, of Madison Avenue?" "Yes, sir." "I thought so. I have been trying to find you for the last week." Naturally Frank looked surprised. "Mr. Henry Percival was at that time in Europe," said Mr. Robinson. "On his return, a week since, he called on us, and expressed a desire to have you call upon him. We had mislaid or lost your address, and were unable to give him the information he desired." Frank's heart beat high with hope as the broker spoke. "Perhaps," he thought, "Mr. Percival may offer me a situation of some kind, and I certainly am greatly in need of one." "Did Mr. Percival recover all his bonds?" he asked. "Nearly all," answered Mr. Robinson. "He considered himself exceedingly fortunate, and he certainly was so." "Do you know how much he was robbed of?" asked Frank. "Rather over five thousand dollars. Of this sum all has been recovered except three bonds of a hundred dollars each. Mr. Percival is a rich man, and he won't miss that small amount." "I wish I were rich enough not to miss three hundred dollars," thought our hero. "If I had my rights, I could say the same." Just now, in his extremity, Frank thought regretfully of the fortune he had lost. Had he been so situated as to be earning enough to defray all his expenses, he would scarcely have given a thought of it. "You had better go up to see Mr. Percival this evening," said the banker, "if you have no other engagement." "Even if I had an engagement, I would put it off," said Frank. "Will you give me Mr. Percival's number?" "No. 265," said Mr. Robinson. Frank noted it down and left the office. By this time Mr. Peters had completed his business, and was ready to go out, also. "I'm much obliged to you," he said to Frank. "I was afraid I'd get into a place where they'd cheat me. I guess Mr. Jones and Robinson are pretty good folks." "I think you can depend upon them," said Frank. "If ever you come to Craneville, I should like to have you stay a few days with me on my farm," said Mr. Peters, hospitably. "We are plain folks, but will treat you about right." "Thank you, Mr. Peters. If I ever come to Craneville, I shall certainly call upon you." Frank had something to look forward to in his approaching interview with Mr. Percival. He had been able to do this gentleman a service, and it was not unlikely that the capitalist would wish to make him some acknowledgment. Frank did not exaggerate his own merits in the matter. He felt that it was largely owing to a lucky chance that he had been the means of capturing the bond robber. However, it is to precisely such lucky chances that men are often indebted for the advancement of their fortunes. While he was in a state of suspense, and uncertain what Mr. Percival might be disposed to do for him, he decided not to exert himself to obtain any employment. If he should be disappointed in his hopes, it would be time enough to look about him the following day. What should he do in the meantime? He determined to treat himself to an excursion. From the end of the Battery he had often looked across to Staten Island, lying six miles away, and thought it would prove a pleasant excursion. Now, having plenty of time on his hands, he decided to go on board one of the boats that start hourly from the piers adjoining the Battery. The expense was but trifling and, low as Frank's purse was, he ventured to spend the amount for pleasure. He felt that he needed a little recreation after the weeks of patient labor he had spent in the service of the Great Pekin Tea Company. CHAPTER XXVII AN INCIDENT IN A STREET CAR When Frank returned to the city, he walked slowly up through the Battery to the foot of Broadway. He passed the famous house, No. 1, which, a hundred years ago, was successively the headquarters of Washington and the British generals, who occupied New York with their forces, and soon reached the Astor House, then the most notable structure in the lower part of the city. With his small means, Frank felt that it was extravagant to ride uptown, when he might have walked, but he felt some confidence in the success of his visit to Mr. Percival, and entered a Fourth Avenue horse car. It so chanced that he seated himself beside a pleasant-looking young married lady, who had with her a young boy about seven years old. Soon after the car started the conductor came around to collect the fares. Frank paid his, and the conductor held out his hand to the lady. She put her hand into her pocket to draw out her purse, but her countenance changed as her hand failed to find it. Probably no situation is more trying than to discover that you have lost or mislaid your purse, when you have an urgent use for it. The lady was evidently in that predicament. Once more she searched for her purse, but her search was unavailing. "I am afraid I have lost my purse," she said, apologetically, to the conductor. This official was an ill-mannered person, and answered, rudely: "In that case, ma'am, you will have to get off." "I will give you my card," said the lady, "and will send double the fare to the office." "That won't do," said the man, rudely. "I am responsible for your fare, if you stay on the car, and I can't afford to lose the money." "You shall not lose it, sir; but I cannot walk home." "I think you will have to, madam." Here Frank interposed. He had been trained to be polite and considerate to ladies, and he could not endure to see a lady treated with rudeness. "Take the lady's fare out of this," he said. "And the boy's, too?" "Of course." The lady smiled gratefully. "I accept your kindness, my young friend," she said. "You have saved me much annoyance." "I am very glad to have had the opportunity," said Frank, politely. "Of course, I shall insist upon reimbursing you. Will you oblige me with your address, that I may send you the amount when I return home?" A boy of less tact than Frank would have expostulated against repayment, but he knew that this would only embarrass the lady, and that he had no right, being a stranger, to force such a favor upon her. He answered, therefore: "Certainly, I will do so, but it will be perfectly convenient for me to call upon you." "If it will give you no trouble, I shall be glad to have you call any evening. I live at No. ---- Madison Avenue." Now it was Frank's turn to be surprised. The number mentioned by the lady was that of the house in which Mr. Henry Percival lived. "I thought Mr. Percival lived at that number?" said Frank. "So he does. He is my father. Do you know him?" "No; but I was about to call on him. This morning Mr. Robinson, a broker in Wall Street, told me that he wished to see me." "You are not the boy who caused the capture of the bondholder?" asked the lady, quickly. "Yes, I am the boy, but I am afraid I had less to do with it than has been represented." "What is your name?" "Frank Courtney." "My father is very desirous of meeting you, and thanking you for what you have done. Why have you not called before?" "I did not know till to-day that your father had returned. Besides, I did not like to go without an invitation." "I will invite you," said the lady, with a pleasant smile, "and I, as well as my father, will be glad to see you. And now let me introduce you to my little son. Freddie, would you like to see the boy that caught the robber?" "Yes, mamma." "Here he is. His name is Frank." The little boy immediately began to ask questions of Frank, and by the time they reached the Cooper Institute Frank and he were well acquainted. "Don't get out, Frank," said Freddie. "I am going home, Freddie." "You must come and see me soon," said the little boy. "Now you have three invitations," said the lady. "I will accept them all," said Frank. And, with a bow, he left the car. CHAPTER XXVIII FRANK MAKES AN EVENING CALL After supper Frank walked slowly up to Mr. Percival's residence. Now that he knew two members of the family, he looked forward with pleasure to the call he was about to make. His prospects seemed much brighter than when he woke up in the morning. On reaching the house of Mr. Percival, he saw at a glance that it was the residence of a wealthy man, and the hall, into which he was first admitted, was luxurious in its appearance. But Frank had been brought up to the enjoyment of wealth, and he felt more at home here than in the rather shabby boarding house in Clinton Place. A colored servant opened the door. "Is Mr. Percival at home?" he asked. "Yas, sah." "I should like to see him." "What name, sah?" "Frank Courtney." "Step in, sah, and I will 'form Mr. Percival," said the colored servant, in a consequential tone that amused Frank. Frank stepped into the hall, but he was not left long without attention. Little Freddie ran downstairs, eagerly calling out: "Did you come to see me, Frank?" "Yes," answered Frank, smiling; "but I came to see your grandfather, too." "Come, and I will show you where he is," said the little boy, taking Frank's hand. The two went up the staircase and into a handsomely furnished room, made attractive by pictures and books. In a large armchair sat a pleasant-looking elderly man, of about sixty. "Grandpa," said the little boy, "this is Frank. He wants to see you." Mr. Percival smiled. "I am glad to see you, Frank," he said. "It seems, my boy, that you are already acquainted with my daughter and grandson." "Yes, sir. I was fortunate enough to meet them to-day." "You relieved my daughter from some embarrassment." "I am glad to have had the opportunity, sir." Frank's manner was easy and self-possessed, and it was evident that Mr. Percival was favorably impressed by him. "Take a seat," he said, "while I ask you a few questions." Frank bowed and obeyed. "Let me sit in your lap, Frank," said Freddie. Our hero took the little boy in his lap. With Freddie, it was certainly a case of friendship at first sight. "Won't he trouble you?" asked his grandfather. "No, sir. I like young children." Mr. Percival now proceeded to interrogate Frank. "Your name is Frank Courtney. Have you been long in the city?" "No, sir; only a few weeks." "What led you to come here?" "I wished to earn my living." "What that necessary? You do not look like a poor boy." "I was brought up to consider myself rich," said Frank. "Indeed! Did you lose your property?" "Perhaps I had better tell you how it happened, sir." "If you don't object, I should be glad to hear." Frank gave a brief statement of his position, and the circumstances that led him to leave his home and go out into the world. Mr. Percival listened thoughtfully. "It is a singular story," he said, after a pause. "Your stepfather's in Europe, then?" "Yes, sir; at least he sailed for Europe." "Have you heard from him?" "No, sir." "Do you expect to hear?" "I think not." "He can't feel much interest in you." "I don't think he does," answered Frank. "Still, I can't say that he has treated me unkindly." "Do you suspect that your stepfather has wronged you in the matter of the property?" "I would rather not answer that question, sir. I might wrong Mr. Manning, and I have no proof to offer." "I understand you, and I applaud your discretion. It does you credit. Some time or other the mystery may be cleared up, and the wrong, if there is one, may be righted. I can't understand, however, how this Mr. Manning should be willing to leave you dependent upon your own exertions with such a scanty provision as twenty-five dollars a quarter." "I didn't ask for any more; and, besides, Mr. Manning offered to take me to Europe with his son Mark." "Do you think that he was sincere in the offer?" "I don't think he expected me to accept it, and I am sure that it would have been very disagreeable to Mark to have me in the party." "Have you any objections to telling me how you have succeeded in your efforts to make a living?" asked the old gentleman, with a keen but kindly glance. "I have been disappointed, sir," was the candid reply. "I am not surprised to hear it. A boy brought up as you have been cannot rough it like a farmer's son or a street boy." "I think I could, sir; but I should not like to." "Precisely. Now, I am not sure that you acted wisely in undertaking a task so difficult, since it was not necessary, and your stepfather could hardly have refused to support you at home. However, as you have taken the decisive step, we must consider what is best to do under the circumstances. What work have you been doing?" "I have been selling tea for the Great Pekin Tea Company." "How have you succeeded?" "I have not been able to pay expenses," Frank admitted. "How have you made up the difference?" "I brought about fifty dollars with me from home." "Is it all used up?" "I had thirty-five dollars left, sir, but a day or two since one of my fellow boarders opened my trunk and borrowed it without leave." "Of course you won't recover it?" "I don't think there is much chance of it, sir." "Then probably your money is nearly exhausted?" Frank did not like to admit his poverty, but owned up that he had less than two dollars. "And yet you paid the car fares of this little boy and his mother?" "I hope, sir, I would not refuse to assist a lady when in trouble." Mr. Percival nodded two or three times, smiling as he did so. He was becoming more and more favorably impressed without young hero. "Do you mean to continue this tea agency?" he asked. "No, sir; I have already notified my employers that I do not care to continue it." "Have you anything else in view?" Frank felt that now was the time to speak. "I came here this evening," he said, "intending to ask you if you knew of any situation I could fill, or could recommend me to employment of any kind by which I might make a living." "I must consider that. Have you thought of any particular employment which you would like?" "No, sir; I cannot afford to be particular. I will do anything that is honest, and at all suitable for me." "What would you consider unsuitable?" "I should not wish to black boots, for instance, sir. It is honest work, but I ought to be suited to something better." "Of course; What education have you had? Good, I suppose?" "I am nearly ready for college." "Then you are already fairly well educated. I will put you to a test. Sit up to the table, and take paper and pen. I will dictate to you a paragraph from the evening paper, which I should like to have you write down." Frank obeyed, though, in doing so, he was obliged to set Freddie down, rather to the little fellow's dissatisfaction. Mr. Percival selected a short letter, written by some public man, which chanced to have found a place in the evening journal. Frank wrote rapidly, and when his copy was finished submitted it to Mr. Percival. The old gentleman took it, and, running his eye over it, noticed that it was plainly written, correctly spelled and properly punctuated. This discovery evidently gave him satisfaction. "Very creditably written," he said. "I have known boys nearly ready for college who could not copy such a letter without blundering. I am glad that your English education has not been neglected while you have been studying the classics." Frank was gratified by Mr. Percival's commendation, though he could not see in what manner his education was likely to bring him employment. It was desirable, however, to produce a favorable impression on Mr. Percival, and he could not help hoping something would result to his advantage. At this moment Freddie's mother entered the room, and greeted Frank with a cordial smile. "Freddie," she said, "it is time for you to go to bed." "I don't want to leave Frank," said Freddie. "Frank will come and see you again." "Will you, Frank?" Frank made the promise, and Mrs. Gordon--for that was her name--left the room, promising to return before Frank went away. He was now left alone with the old gentleman. CHAPTER XXIX FRANK IS OFFERED A POSITION Mr. Percival engaged Frank in conversation on general topics while Mrs. Gordon was out of the room. His young visitor had been an extensive reader, and displayed a good deal of general information. Moreover, he expressed himself intelligently and modestly, and deepened the favorable impression which he had already succeeded in making. I should like to call the attention of my young readers to the fact that Frank was now reaping the advantage of the time he had devoted to study and the cultivation of his mind. A boy who starts in life with a fair education always stands a better chance than one who is poorly provided in that respect. It is true that many of our prominent public men have started with a very scanty supply of book-learning, but in most cases it has only transferred the labor of study to their maturer years. President Andrew Johnson did not learn to read and write until after he had attained his majority, but he made up his early deficiencies later. Abraham Lincoln, when nearly thirty, devoted his leisure hours to mastering the problems in Euclid, and thus trained and strengthened his mental faculties so that he was enabled to grapple with the difficult problems of statesmanship in after years. Henry Wilson commenced attending an academy after he had reached the age of twenty-one. The fact is, no boy or man can be too well equipped for his life-work. I hope my boy readers will not skip the paragraphs above, for they can learn from them a useful lesson. When Mrs. Gordon returned, she placed in Frank's hands a small sum of money, saying: "Allow me to repay my debt, with many thanks." "You are quite welcome," answered our hero. He had too much tact to refuse the money, but quietly put it into his pocket. "Helen," said Mr. Percival, "I would like a word with you. We will leave our young friend here alone for five minutes." "Certainly, father." The two went into an adjoining room, and Mr. Percival commenced by asking: "How do you like this boy, Helen?" "Very much. He seems to have been brought up as a gentleman." "He has. Till a short time since he supposed himself the heir to a fortune." "Indeed!" said Mrs. Gordon, with curiosity. Briefly, Mr. Percival rehearsed the story which Frank had told him. "What a shame!" exclaimed Mrs. Gordon, indignantly. "His stepfather ought to be punished:" "That may come in time. Wickedness does not always prosper. But as regards our young friend, I have a plan in view." "What is it, father?" "I find he has an excellent education, having been nearly ready for college when the crisis in his fortunes came. I have been thinking whether we could not find a place for him in this house. My eyes, you know, are so weak that they are often strained by attention to my correspondence and reading. I have an idea of engaging Frank Courtney as a sort of private secretary, upon whom I can at any time call. Of course, he would have his home in the house." "There will be no difficulty about that. Our family is small, and we have plenty of vacant rooms. But, father, will he be qualified to undertake the duties you have designed for him? He is very young." "That is true, my dear; but he is remarkably well educated. I have tested his capacity by dictating a letter for him to copy." "Did he do the work satisfactorily?" asked Mrs. Gordon. "Without a single mistake." "Then, father, I would not hesitate to engage him. Freddie likes him, and will be delighted to have him in the house." "Another idea, Helen. It is time Freddie began to study. Suppose we make him Freddie's private tutor--say for an hour daily?" "That is really an excellent idea, father," said Mrs. Gordon, in a tone of satisfaction. "It will please and benefit Freddie, and be a relief to me. Do you think Frank will have patience enough?" "I watched him with the little fellow, and I could see that he liked children. I am sure he will succeed in this as well as in the duties which he will undertake for me." "I suppose he will have no objection to the plan?" "I think he will accept gladly. He has had a hard struggle thus far in maintaining himself, and I can relieve him from all anxiety on that score. I am indebted to him for helping me to recover my bonds, and this will be an excuse for offering him a larger salary than the services of so young a secretary could be expected to command." "Very well, father. Your plan pleases me very much, and I shall be glad to have Frank commence to-morrow, if he chooses. Now let us return to the library." While father and daughter were absent Frank had taken from the table a volume of "Macaulay's History," and had become interested in it. He laid it down upon their return. Mr. Percival resumed his easy-chair, and said, with a smile. "My daughter and I have been consulting about you." Frank bowed, and his hopes rose. "I suppose you are open to an offer of employment?" "I am not only open to it, Mr. Percival, but I shall be grateful for it." He could not help wondering what sort of employment Mr. Percival was about to offer him. He concluded that it might be a place in some business house. "The fact is," said the old gentleman, "I have a great mind to offer you the situation of my private secretary." Frank was astonished. This was something he had not thought of. "Do you think I am qualified to fill such a position, Mr. Percival?" he asked, hesitatingly. "The duties would not be difficult," returned the old gentleman. "Though not in active business, the care of my property, and looking after my scattered investments, involves me in considerable correspondence. My eyes are not as strong as they once were, and I find them at times taxed by letter-writing, not to mention reading. You can relieve me very materially." "I shall be very glad to do so, sir. The duties will be very agreeable to me." "But that is not all. My daughter proposes to employ you as private tutor for Freddie." Frank smiled. "I think my scholarship will be sufficient for that," he said. Frank was to receive $50 a month and board. This was wonderful news to him. Mr. Percival with great forethought paid him a month's salary in advance. Frank went home happy. CHAPTER XXX FRANK AS PRIVATE SECRETARY The next day Frank transferred his residence to Madison Avenue. He was assigned to a pleasant room, decidedly superior, it need hardly be said, to his room at Clinton Place. It seemed agreeable to him once more to enjoy the comforts of a liberal home. Frank had had some doubts as to how he would satisfy Mr. Percival in his capacity of private secretary. He was determined to do his best, but thought it possible that the old gentleman might require more than he could do well. He looked forward, therefore, with some apprehension to his first morning's work. Mr. Percival, though not engaged in active business, was a wealthy man, and his capital was invested in a great variety of enterprises. Naturally, therefore, he received a large number of business letters, which required to be answered. The first day he dictated several replies, which Frank put upon paper. He wished, however, to put Frank's ability to a severe test. "Here are two letters," he said, "which you may answer. I have noted on each instructions which you will follow. The wording of the letters I leave to you." "I will try to satisfy you sir," said Frank. Our hero was a good writer for his age. Moreover, he had been well trained at school and did not shrink from the task assigned him. He read carefully the instruction of his employer, and composed the letters in strict accordance with them. Mr. Percival awaited with some interest the result of his experiment. If Frank proved competent to the task assigned him, his own daily labor would be considerably abridged. "Here are the letters, sir," said our hero, passing the drafts to Mr. Percival. The old gentleman examined them carefully. As he did so, his face expressed his satisfaction. "Upon my word, Frank," he said, familiarly, "you have done your work exceedingly well. They are brief, concise and yet comprehensive. I feared that you would use too many words." "I am glad you are pleased, sir. Dr. Brush trained us to write letters, and he cut down our essays when they were too diffuse." "Then I feel indebted to Dr. Brush for providing me with so competent a young secretary. You will be able to assist me even more than I anticipated. I shall, of course, read over your letters before they are sent, to make sure that you have fully comprehended and carried out my instructions, but I don't expect they will need much correction." Frank was much gratified by these words. This was the only point on which he had felt at all doubtful as to his ability to please his employer. Sometimes, when his eyes pained him more than usual, Mr. Percival also employed him to read to him from the daily papers, or from some book in which he was interested, but this did not occur regularly. Every day, however, Frank was occupied with Freddie. The little boy knew his alphabet, but nothing more, so that his young teacher had to begin with him at the beginning of the primer. He succeeded in interesting his little pupil, and did not protract his term of study so as to weary him. Finding that the little fellow was fond of hearing stories, he read to him every day a story or two from Hans Christian Andersen, or from a collection of German fairy stories, and sometimes went out to walk with him. Freddie was delighted with his teacher, and freely expressed his approval to his mother and grandfather. "Really, Frank," said Mrs. Gordon, "I shall begin to be jealous of your hold upon Freddie. I am not sure but he likes your company better than mine." "I don't think Freddie will prefer anyone to his mother," said Frank; "but I am glad he likes to be with me." "You have certainly proved very successful as a private tutor, Frank," said Mrs. Gordon, "and my father tells me you succeeded equally well as a secretary." "It is partly because you both treat me so indulgently," answered Frank, gracefully. This answer pleased Mr. Percival and Mrs. Gordon, who more than ever congratulated themselves upon the lucky chance that had thrown Frank in their way. Assuredly he made himself very useful in the small household, contributing to the comfort and pleasure of Freddie, his mother and grandfather in nearly equal measure. While Frank's monthly salary was of great value and importance to him, it was nothing to Mr. Percival in comparison with the pleasure and relief afforded by his presence in the house. It must not be supposed, however, that Frank's time was wholly occupied by the duties of his two positions. Usually he had several hours daily at his disposal, and these he was allowed to spend as he pleased. Part of this he occupied in visiting different localities of the city and points of interest in the neighborhood, and part in reading and study. Mr. Percival had a large and well-selected library, which, to a boy of Frank's studious tastes, was a great attraction. He entered upon a course of solid reading, embracing some of the standard histories, and devoted some hours every week to keeping up his acquaintance with the Greek and Latin authors which he had read at school. In this way his time was well and usefully employed, and the weeks slipped by till almost before he was aware six months had passed. One afternoon Frank walked down Broadway enjoying the bright sunshine. Just in front of the St. Nicholas Hotel he heard his name called and looking up he recognized with some surprise, Pliny Tarbox, his cousin from Newark. Pliny asked many questions as to what Frank was doing and how much money he was making. Frank told him of his good fortune in obtaining the position he held with Mr. Percival and the two parted--Frank the much happier of the two. Pliny urgently invited Frank to visit them but Frank would rather remain in New York. "I hope I shall never think so much of money as Pliny and his father," thought Frank. "Money is a good thing to have but there are some things that are better." CHAPTER XXXI A LETTER FROM MR. TARBOX Frank did not speak to Mr. Percival's family of his meeting with Pliny. It was not pleasant to him to think that he was valued only for his good fortune. He had seen but little of the Tarbox family, but he understood very well what their professions of friendship amounted to, and that they were not to be relied upon in an emergency. He was not much surprised on Monday afternoon to receive the following letter from Erastus Tarbox: "My Dear Young Cousin:--We have been wondering what has become of you, and Mrs. T. and myself have often wished to invite you to pass a Sabbath at our humble home. Not knowing your address, I could not write to you, or I should have done so. You can imagine, therefore, the pleasure we felt when Pliny told us that he had met you, and gave us tidings of your remarkable success, which I am sure does you great credit. "He tells me that you fill a very responsible position, and receive a very liberal salary. I could wish that Pliny might be equally fortunate, and shall esteem it a great favor if you will mention him to your respected employer, and recommend him for any lucrative position which he may bestow upon him. Pliny is a very capable boy, and has been carefully trained to habits of frugality and industry. "Can you not soon come out and pass a Sabbath with us? The esteem which we have for your late lamented mother alone would secure you a cordial welcome, not to speak of the friendship for yourself. Pliny often says that you seem to him like a brother, and he would truly enjoy your companionship. "Your sincere friend and cousin, Erastus Tarbox." The time was when Frank would have put confidence in the friendly expressions used by Mr. Tarbox, but his eyes had been opened, and he understood that if misfortune should come to him, it would not do to lean upon his cousins at Newark. Frank wrote a civil reply to Mr. Tarbox, thanking him for his invitation, but saying that at present it would not be convenient for him to accept it. He added that should an opportunity offer he would be glad to assist Pliny to a better position than he now held. In spite of his wish to be cordial, his letter was felt by the Tarbox family to be cold, and they regretted that they had not treated him better during his brief visit to them. But then how could they suppose he would be so successful? If the time should ever come when he recovered his property, they would be prepared to make a determined effort to convince him that they had always been his affectionate friends. About this time Frank received another letter, which afforded him greater satisfaction than the one from Newark. This letter was from Col. Vincent, who, it will be remembered, had purchased Ajax when Mr. Manning persisted in selling him. It was as follows: "My Dear Frank: I learned incidentally from one of our townsmen, who recently met you in New York, that you have been very successful in obtaining employment, and that of an honorable and responsible character. It relieved my mind, for, knowing how hard it is for a boy to make his own way in a large city, I feared that you might be suffering privation, or living poorly. I hope, however, you would in that case have applied to me for such help as your father's old friend would have been glad to offer. "Your stepfather has not been heard from directly. I learn, however, from some friends who have met him abroad that he is having trouble with Mark, who is proving difficult to manage, and has contracted a dangerous taste for gaming. Mr. Manning was obliged to leave Baden-Baden on account of this unfortunate tendency, and is even thinking of returning to the Cedars, where his son will be removed from temptation. To this, however, Mark will be likely to make strenuous opposition. He will find it dull to settle down here after having tasted the gayety of Europe." Here followed a little local gossip, which the writer thought might prove interesting to Frank, and the letter concluded with a cordial invitation to our hero to spend a Sunday with him, or a longer time, if he could be spared from his duties. Frank was disposed to accept the invitation, but his acceptance was postponed by an unusual service which he was called upon to render to Mr. Percival. Of this the reader will hear everything in the next chapter. CHAPTER XXXII MR. PERCIVAL'S PROPOSAL One morning, after writing several letters for his employer, the young secretary asked Mr. Percival if he had any further commands. The old gentleman answered thoughtfully: "I have been thinking of asking you to do me an unusual service." "I shall be very glad to serve you in any way, Mr. Percival," said Frank, promptly. "I have no doubt of it," said the old gentleman, kindly. "I have observed your willingness to undertake any duty, and, still more, your disposition to perform it thoroughly. In this particular case, however, I have been considering whether a boy of your age would be competent to do what I desire." Frank was not self-distrustful, neither was he over-confident. He was naturally energetic and ambitious to distinguish himself, and not afraid to undertake any difficult task. "Will you try me, Mr. Percival?" he said. "I will do my best to succeed." "I am quite inclined to try you, Frank," said Mr. Percival; "the more so because I know of no one else in whom I could confide. But I must give you an idea of what I have in view. It would require you to make a journey." Frank listened to this gladly. To a boy of his age, who had seen but little of the world, a journey offered attractions. "I should like to travel," he said. "I have no doubt about that," said Mr. Percival, smiling. "At your age I am sure I should have been equally willing to see something of the world, though traveling involved at that time far more hardships than at present. Now, however, I like best to stay by the fireside, and should dread very much a journey to Minnesota." "To Minnesota!" exclaimed Frank, with sparkling eyes. He had not thought of a journey so extended. "Yes; it would be necessary for you to go out to Minnesota. Ordinarily, a man can best look after his own affairs; but in the present instance, I suspect that you could do better than myself. I don't mean this as a compliment, but a boy like you would not be suspected, and so could discover more than I, from whom facts would be studiously concealed. But, of course, you don't understand my meaning. I will explain, and then you can comprehend me." Frank was all attention. "You must know that I own a good deal of property in a certain township in Southern Minnesota. When a young man, I bought three hundred and twenty acres of land in the township of Jackson, obtaining it at a slight advance on government rates. "Some improvements had been made, and I was induced to visit the place. I found but three families in residence, but I saw also that the place had large natural advantages, water-power, etc., and presented an unusually favorable site for a village. I had considerable means, and started the village by erecting a dozen houses, a store, a sawmill, gristmill, and so on. "This formed a nucleus, and soon quite a village sprang up. The sawmill and gristmill proved profitable, all my houses were tenanted, and I erected more, securing also additional land. In course of time I was induced to sell some of my houses, but I still own two stores, a dozen houses, the saw and gristmills, besides two outlying farms. "Living so far away, I could not attend personally to the business connected with my investment, and was compelled to appoint an agent. Up to four years since, I was fortunate enough to possess the services of a capable and trustworthy man, named Sampson. He died after a few weeks' illness, and I was compelled to look out for a successor. "Now, I had a distant cousin, who had never succeeded very well in life, and was at that time seeking for employment of some kind. He heard of the vacancy, and importuned me to appoint him as my agent in Jackson. I had no reason to doubt his honesty, though his repeated failures might well have led me to suspect his capacity. I was weak enough, as I now consider it, to yield to his importunities and give him the post he sought. "The result was that during the first year of his incumbency the amount turned over to me was only three-fourths as much as in the last year of his predecessor. The second year there was a further falling off. The same happened the third year, until at the present time my rents amount to less than half what they were in Mr. Sampson's time. "Of course, my suspicions that my cousin was at least inefficient were aroused long since. I have repeatedly asked an explanation of the diminished revenues, and plenty of excuses have been made, but they do not seem to me satisfactory. "Moreover, I have heard a rumor that Mr. Fairfield is intemperate in his habits, and I have considerable reason to believe that the story is correct. I have made up my mind that something must be done. A regard for my own interests requires that if my agent is unfaithful he should be displaced, and I wish to find out from some reliable source the true state of the case. "Now I will tell you what I have in view. I propose to send you out to Jackson to investigate and report to me your impressions of the manner in which Mr. Fairfield discharges his duties, and whether you think a change should be made in the agency." Frank listened to Mr. Percival with a flushed face and a feeling of gratification and pride that he should be thought of in connection with a responsible duty. "I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Percival," he said, "for thinking of me in such a connection. You may feel that I am presumptuous for thinking I have any chance of successfully accomplishing what you desire, but if you are willing to trust me, I am willing to undertake it, and by following your instructions closely, and doing my best, I think I can succeed." "I am willing to trust you, Frank," said Mr. Percival. "You are a boy, to be sure, but you have unusually good judgment, and I know you will be faithful to my interests. I understand, then, that you are willing to go out as my accredited representative?" "Yes, sir. When do you want me to start?" said Frank, promptly. "As soon as you can get ready." "I will start to-morrow, if you desire it, sir." "Let it be to-morrow, then. We will now discuss some of the details connected with the mission." CHAPTER XXXIII PREPARING FOR A JOURNEY After receiving certain instructions from Mr. Percival in regard to the manner of carrying on his inquiries, Frank said: "There is one thing I have thought of, Mr. Percival, that may interfere with my success." "What is it, Frank? I shall be glad to receive any suggestion from you." "I have been thinking, sir, that it may excite surprise that I should come to Jackson, and remain there without any apparent motive. Perhaps Mr. Fairfield might suspect that I came from you." "I hardly think so, Frank. He would not suppose that I would select so young a messenger. Still, it will be well to think of some pretext for your stay. Can you help me?" "I have been thinking, sir, that I might fit myself out as an agent, or peddler, or something of the kind. It would not only give me an excuse for my journey, but enable me to call from house to house and pick up information about Mr. Fairfield." "A capital idea, Frank. I see that you are better fitted for the task than I supposed. I give you authority to fit yourself out in any way you choose. I shall have to leave a great deal to your own judgment." "Then, sir, I think I might lay in a stock of stationery, pens and articles of that nature. Probably this is so common that I would be thought to be nothing more than I seemed." "That strikes me rather favorably, Frank." "I could fit myself out in the city, and take the articles along with me in an extra valise or carpetbag." "Let me suggest an amendment to your plan," said Mr. Percival. "Wait till you get to Chicago, and lay in your stock there. The advantage of that arrangement will be that you will be saved the care of your merchandise up to that point, and, as you may be asked where you obtained your stock, it will create less surprise if you mention Chicago than New York. It would be considered hardly worth while for a New York boy to go so far on such a business--" This seemed to Frank an excellent suggestion and he instantly adopted it. The next day Frank started on his long journey. He carried with him a supply of money provided by Mr. Percival, and he was authorized to draw for more if he should require it. He divided this money into two portions, keeping a small sum in his pocketbook, but the greater part of it in an inside vest pocket, where it would not be likely to be looked for by pickpockets. This arrangement was suggested by Mr. Percival. "I once experienced," he said, "the disadvantage of carrying all my money in one pocket. I was in a Southern city, or, rather, on my way to it, when an adroit pickpocket on the car relieved me of my wallet containing all my available funds. I did not find out my loss till I had arrived at the hotel and registered my name. You can imagine my embarrassment. It was my first visit to that particular city, and I had no acquaintances there, so far as I was aware. Had I mentioned my position to the landlord, he might very probably have taken me for an adventurer, traveling on false pretenses." "What did you do, sir?" asked Frank, interested. "I took a walk about the city, my thoughts occupied in devising a way out of my trouble. To my great relief, I had the good fortune, during the walk, to meet a New York acquaintance, who knew very well my financial standing. I told him of my difficulty, and he immediately introduced me at a bank, where I raised money on a New York draft. I resolved, however, at that time, never again to carry all my money in one pocketbook, as boats and railroad trains on the long routes are generally infested by pickpockets and sharpers." Frank at once set about preparing for his journey. He bought a ready-made suit of blue cloth, not unlike that worn by the district telegraph boys of to-day, which he judged would look more suitable than his ordinary attire for the character he was about to assume of a traveling peddler. He bought a through ticket to the railroad point nearest Jackson, and then, bidding good-bye to Mr. Percival and his family, started on his trip. Little Freddie made strenuous opposition to parting with his favorite, but Frank promised to bring him home a present, and this diverted the little fellow's thoughts. CHAPTER XXXIV FRANK REACHES JACKSON It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Frank Courtney left the cars and set foot on the platform before the station at Prescott, five miles distant from the town of Jackson, in Southern Minnesota. He looked about him, but could see no village. Prescott was a stopping place for the cars, but there was no settlement of any account there, as he afterward found. He had supposed he would find a stage in waiting to convey him to Jackson, but it was clear that the business was not large enough to warrant such a conveyance. Looking about him, Frank saw a farm wagon, the driver of which had evidently come to receive some freight which had come by rail. Approaching the driver, who seemed to be--though roughly dressed--an intelligent man, Frank inquired: "How far is Jackson from here, sir?" "Five miles," was the answer. "Is there any stage running there from this depot?" "Oh, no! If there were, it wouldn't average two passengers a day." "Then I suppose I must walk," said Frank, looking rather doubtfully at the two heavy valises which constituted his baggage. "Then you are going to Jackson?" "Yes, sir." "I come from Jackson myself, and in fifteen minutes shall start on my way back. You may ride and welcome." "Thank you, sir!" said our hero, quite relieved. "I hope you will allow me to pay you as much as I should have to pay in a stage." "No, no, my lad," said the farmer, heartily. "The horse can draw you as well as not, and I shall be glad to have your company." "Thank you, sir!" "Just climb up here, then. I'll take your baggage and put it on the wagon behind." When the farmer had loaded up, he started up the team. Then, finding himself at leisure, he proceeded to satisfy his curiosity by cross-examining his young passenger. "Do you come from the East?" he asked. "I am last from Chicago," answered Frank, cautiously. "I suppose you've got some friend in Jackson?" ventured the farmer, interrogatively. Frank smiled. "You are the only man living in Jackson that I ever met," he said. "Indeed!" said the driver, puzzled. "Are you calculating to make a long stay in our village?" he asked again, after a minute's pause. "That depends on business," answered the young traveler. "Are you in business?" "I have a stock of stationery which I shall offer for sale in Jackson," answered Frank. "I am afraid you'll find it rather a poor market. If that's all you have to depend upon, I am afraid you'll get discouraged." "I am also agent for an illustrated book," said Frank. "I may be able to dispose of a few." "Perhaps so," answered the farmer, dubiously. "But our people haven't much money to spend on articles of luxury, and books are a luxury with us." "I always heard that Jackson was a flourishing place," said Frank, who felt that now was his time to obtain a little information. "It ought to be," said the farmer; "but there's one thing prevents." "What is that?" "A good deal of our village is owned by a New York man, to whom we have to pay rent. He has a rascally agent--a Mr. Fairfield--who grinds us down by his exactions, and does what he can to keep, us in debt." "Has he always been agent?" "No. Before he came there was an excellent man--a Mr. Sampson--who treated us fairly, contented himself with exacting rents which we could pay, and if a man were unlucky, would wait a reasonable time for him to pay. Then we got along comfortably. But he died, and this man was sent out in his place. Then commenced a new state of things. He immediately raised the rents; demanded that they should be paid on the day they were due, and made himself harsh and tyrannical." "Do you think the man who employs him knows how he is conducting his agency?" Frank inquired. "No; there is no one to tell him. I suppose Mr. Fairfield tells him a smooth story, and he believes it. I am afraid we can hope for no relief." "What would he say," thought Frank, "if he knew I were a messenger from Mr. Percival?" "What sort of a man is this Mr. Fairfield in private life?" he asked. "He drinks like a fish," was the unexpected reply. "Frequently he appears on the street under the influence of liquor. He spends a good deal of money, lives in a large house, and his wife dresses expensively. He must get a much larger salary than Mr. Sampson did, or he could not spend money as he does." Though Frank had not much worldly experience, he could not help coming to the conclusion that Mr. Fairfield was acting dishonestly. He put together the two circumstances that this new agent had increased the rents, and yet that he had returned to Mr. Percival only about half as much as his predecessor had done. Clearly, he must retain in his own hands much more than he had a right to do. "I shall have to report unfavorably on this man," he thought. One point must be considered--where he was to find a boarding place on his arrival in Jackson. "Is there a hotel in Jackson?" he asked. "There is a tavern, but it's a low place," answered the farmer. "A good deal of liquor is sold there, and Mr. Fairfield, our agent, is one of the most constant patrons of the bar." "I don't think I should like to stop there," said Frank. "Isn't there any private family where I can get board for a week or two?" "If you don't object to plain fare," said the farmer, "I might agree to board you myself." This was precisely what Frank wanted, and he replied that nothing would suit him better. "We live humbly," continued Mr. Hamlin--for this, Frank learned, was his driver's name--"but we will try to make you comfortable." "I feel sure of that, sir, and I am much obliged to you for receiving me." "As to terms, you can pay whatever you can afford. My wife and children will be glad to see you. It's pretty quiet out here, and it breaks the monotony to meet any person from the East." "How long have you lived in Jackson, Mr. Hamlin?" "About eight years. I was not brought up as a farmer, but became one from necessity. I was a bookkeeper in Chicago for a good many years, until I found the confinement and close work were injuring my health. Then I came here and set up as a farmer. I got along pretty well, at first; at any rate, I made a living for my family; but when Mr. Fairfield became agent, he raised my rent, and, in other ways, made it hard for me. Now I have a hard struggle." "I thought you were not always a farmer," said Frank. "What made you think so?" "You don't talk like a farmer. You have the appearance of a man who has lived in cities." "Seems to me you are a close observer, for a boy of your years," said Mr. Hamlin, shrewdly. Frank smiled. "I should be glad if your compliment were deserved," he answered. "It's a pity you were not agent, instead of Mr. Fairfield," suggested Frank, pointedly. "I wish I were," answered Hamlin. "I believe I should make a good one, though I might not turn over as much money to my employer. I should, first of all, lower the rents and make it as easy for the tenants as I could in justice to my New York principal." "Do you know how much Mr. Fairfield receives--how large a salary, I mean?" "I know what Mr. Sampson got--twelve hundred dollars a year; but Mr. Fairfield lives at the rate of more than twice that sum, if I can judge from appearances." "I suppose you would be contented with the salary which Mr. Sampson received?" "Contented! I should feel like a rich man. It would not interfere with my carrying on my farm, and I should be able to make something from that. Why, it is as much as I received as a bookkeeper, and here the expenses of living are small, compared with what they were in Chicago. I could save money and educate my children, as I cannot do now. I have a boy who wants a classical education, but of course there are no schools here which can afford it, and I am too poor to send him away from home. I suppose I shall have to bring him up as a farmer, though it is a great pity, for he is not fitted for it." Mr. Hamlin sighed, but Frank felt in unusually good spirits. He saw his way clear already, not only to recommend Mr. Fairfield's displacement, but to urge Mr. Hamlin's appointment in his stead; that is, if his favorable impressions were confirmed on further acquaintance. "It seems to me," said the driver, changing the subject, "you might find something better to do than to peddle stationery." "I don't mean to follow the business long," answered Frank. "It can't pay much." "I am not wholly dependent upon it," said our hero. "There is one advantage about it. It enables me to travel about and pay my expenses, and you know traveling is agreeable to a boy of my age." "That is true. Well, your expenses won't amount to much while you are in Jackson. I shall only charge you just enough to cover expenses--say three dollars a week." Frank was about to insist on paying a larger sum, but it occurred to him that he must keep up appearances, and he therefore only thanked his kind acquaintance. By this time they had entered the village of Jackson. "There's Mr. Fairfield now!" said Mr. Hamlin, suddenly, pointing with his whip to a rather tall, stout man, with a red nose and inflamed countenance, who was walking unsteadily along the sidewalk. Frank carefully scrutinized the agent, and mentally decided that such a man was unfit for the responsible position he held. CHAPTER XXXV DICK HAMLIN Mr. Hamlin stopped his horse a quarter of a mile from the village in front of a plain farmhouse. An intelligent-looking boy, of perhaps fifteen, coarsely but neatly dressed, approached and greeted his father, not without a glance of surprise and curiosity at Frank. "You may unharness the horses, Dick," said Mr. Hamlin. "When you come back, I will introduce you to a boy friend who will stay with us a while." Dick obeyed, and Frank followed his host into the house. Here he was introduced to Mrs. Hamlin, a motherly-looking woman, and Annie and Grace, younger sisters of Dick. "I am glad to see you," said Mrs. Hamlin, to our hero, after a brief explanation from her husband. "We will try to make you comfortable." "Thank you!" said Frank. "I am sure I shall feel at home." The house was better furnished than might have been anticipated. When Mr. Hamlin left Chicago, he had some money saved up, and he furnished his house in a comfortable manner. It was not, however, the furniture that attracted Frank's attention so much as the books, papers and pictures that gave the rooms a homelike appearance. "I shall be much better off here than I would have been at the tavern," he thought. "This seems like home." "I see," said Mr. Hamlin, "that you are surprised to see so many books and pictures. I admit that my house does not look like the house of a poor man, who has to struggle for the mere necessaries of life. But books and periodicals we have always classed among the necessities, and I am sure we would all rather limit ourselves to dry bread for two out of the three meals than to give up this food for the mind." "I think you are a very sensible man, Mr. Hamlin," said Frank. "I couldn't get along without something to read." "Not in this out-of-the-way place, at any rate," said Mr. Hamlin. "Nothing can be more dismal than the homes of some of my neighbors, who spend as much, or more, than I do every year. Yet, they consider me extravagant because I buy books and subscribe for periodicals." By this time, Dick came in from the barn. "Dick," said his father, "this is Frank Courtney, who comes from Chicago on a business errand. He is a traveling merchant--" "In other words, a peddler," said Frank, with a smile, "ready to give the good people in Jackson a chance to buy stationery at reasonable prices." "He will board with us while he is canvassing the neighborhood, and I expect you and he will become great friends." "I think we shall," said Frank. Dick was a little shy, but a few minutes set him quite at ease with his new acquaintance. After supper, Frank said: "Dick, if you are at leisure, I wish you would take a walk about the village with me. I want to see how it looks." "All right," said Dick. When the two left the house, the country boy began to ask questions. "How do you like your business?" he asked. "Not very well," answered Frank. "I do not think I shall stay in it very long." "Do you sell enough to make your expenses?" asked Dick. "No; but I am not wholly dependent on my sales. I have a little income--a hundred dollars a year--paid me by my stepfather." "I wish I had as much. It seems a good deal to me." "It doesn't go very far. What are you intending to be, Dick?" "I suppose I shall have to be a farmer, though I don't like it." "What would you like to be?" "I should like to get an education," said Dick, his eyes lighting up. "I should like to study Latin and Greek, and go to college. Then I could be a teacher or a lawyer. But there is no chance of that," he added, his voice falling. "Don't be too sure of that, Dick," said Frank Frank, hopefully. "Something may turn up in your favor." "Nothing ever does turn up in Jackson," said the boy, in a tone of discouragement. "Father is a poor man, and has hard work to get along. He can give me no help." "Isn't the farm productive?" "There is no trouble about that, but he has to pay too high a rent. It's all the fault of Fairfield." "The agent?" "Yes." "Your father was telling me about him. Now, if your father were in his place, I suppose he could give you the advantages you wish." "Oh, yes! There would be no trouble then. I am sure he would make a better and more popular agent than Mr. Fairfield; but there is no use thinking about that." "I expected myself to go to college," said Frank. "In fact, I have studied Latin and Greek, and in less than a year I could be ready to enter." "Why don't you?" asked Dick. "You forget that I am a poor peddler." "Then how were you able to get so good an education?" asked Dick, in surprise. "Because I was once better off than I am now. The fact is, Dick," he added, "I have seen better days. But when I was reduced to poverty, I gave up hopes of college education and became what I am." "Wasn't it hard?" "Not so much as you might suppose. My home was not happy. I have a stepfather and stepbrother, neither of whom I like. In fact, there is no love lost between us. I was not obliged to leave home, but under the circumstances I preferred to." "Where are your stepfather and your stepbrother now?" "They are traveling in Europe." "While you are working hard for a living! That does not seem to be just." "We must make the best of circumstances, Dick. Whose is that large house on the left?" "That belongs to Mr. Fairfield. "He seems to live nicely." "Yes, he has improved and enlarged the house a good deal since he moved into it--at Mrs. Percival's expense, I suppose." "He seems to have pretty much his own way here," said Frank. "Yes. Mr. Percival never comes to Jackson, and I suppose he believes all that the agent tells him." "He may get found out some time." "I wish he might. It would be a great blessing to Jackson if he were removed and a good man were put in his place." "That may happen some day." "Not very likely, I am afraid." At this moment Mr. Fairfield himself came out of his front gate. "Hello, Hamlin!" he said, roughly, to Dick. "Is your father at home?" "Yes, sir." "I have something to say to him. I think I will call round." "You will find him at home, sir." "Dick," said Frank, when the agent had passed on, "do you mind going back? What you tell me makes me rather curious about Mr. Fairfield. At your house I may get a chance to see something of him." "Let us go back, then," said Dick; "but I don't think, Frank, that you will care much about keeping up the acquaintance." "Perhaps not; but I shall gratify my curiosity." The two boys turned and followed the agent closely. They reached the house about five minutes after Mr. Fairfield. CHAPTER XXXVI MR. FAIRFIELD, THE AGENT The two boys found Mr. Fairfield already seated in the most comfortable chair in the sitting room. He looked inquiringly at Frank when he entered with Dick. "Who is that boy, Hamlin?" inquired the agent. "Nephew of yours?" "No, sir. It is a young man who has come to Jackson on business." "What kind of business?' "I sell stationery," Frank answered for himself. "Oh, a peddler!" said the agent, contemptuously. "Many of our most successful men began in that way," said Mr. Hamlin, fearing lest Frank's feelings might be hurt. "I never encourage peddlers myself," said Mr. Fairfield, pompously. "Then I suppose it will be of no use for me to call at your door," said Frank, who, in place of being mortified, was amused by the agent's arrogance. "I should say not, unless your back is proof against a broomstick," answered Fairfield, coarsely. "I tell my servant to treat all who call in that way." "I won't put her to the trouble of using it," said Frank, disgusted at the man's ill manners. "That's where you are wise--yes, wise and prudent--young man." "And now, Hamlin," said the agent, "I may as well come to business." "To business!" repeated the farmer, rather surprised, for there was no rent due for a month. "Yes, to business," said Fairfield. "I came to give you notice that after the next payment I shall feel obliged to raise your rent." "Raise my rent!" exclaimed the farmer, in genuine dismay. "I am already paying a considerably higher rent than I paid to your predecessor." "Can't help it. Old Sampson was a slow-going old fogy. He didn't do his duty by his employer. When I came in, I turned over a new leaf." "I certainly got along better in his time." "No doubt. He was a great deal too easy with you. Didn't do his duty, sir. Wasn't sharp enough. That's all." "You certainly cannot be in earnest in raising my rent, Mr. Fairfield," said the farmer, uneasily. "I certainly am." "I can't live at all if you increase my rent, which is already larger than I can afford to pay, Mr. Fairfield." "Then I must find a tenant who can and will," said the agent, emphatically. "I am sure Mr. Percival can't understand the true state of the case, or the circumstances of his tenants. Will you give me his address, and I will take the liberty of writing to him and respectfully remonstrate against any increase?" Mr. Fairfield looked uneasy. This appeal would not at all suit him. Yet how could he object without leading to the suspicion that he was acting in this matter wholly on his own responsibility, and not by the express orders of his principal? How could he refuse to furnish Mr. Percival's address? A middle course occurred to him. "You may write your appeal, if you like, Hamlin," he said, "and hand it to me. I will forward it; though I don't believe it will do any good. The fact is that Mr. Percival has made up his mind to have more income from his property in Jackson." CHAPTER XXXVII FRANK RECEIVES A LETTER FROM MR. PERCIVAL While Frank was waiting for an answer to a letter to Mr. Percival he devoted part of his time to the business which was supposed to be his only reason for remaining in Jackson. I am bound to say that as regards this business his trip might be pronounced a failure. There was little ready money in Jackson. Many of the people were tenants of Mr. Percival, and found it difficult to pay the excessive rents demanded by his agent. Of course, they had no money to spare for extras. Even if they had been better off, there was little demand for stationery in the village. The people were chiefly farmers, and did not indulge in much correspondence. When Frank returned to his boarding place on the afternoon of the first day, Mr. Hamlin asked him, not without solicitude, with what luck he had met. "I have sold twenty-five cents' worth of note paper," answered Frank, with a smile. Mr. Hamlin looked troubled. "How many places did you call at?" he inquired. "About a dozen." "I am afraid you will get discouraged." "If you don't do better, you won't begin to pay expenses." "That is true." "But perhaps you may do better to-morrow." "I hope so." "I wish you could find something in Jackson that would induce you to remain here permanently, and make your home with us. I would charge you only the bare cost of board." "Thank you very much, Mr. Hamlin. I should enjoy being with you, but I don't believe I shall find any opening here. Besides, I like a more stirring life." "No doubt--no doubt! Boys like a lively place. Well, I am glad you feel independent of your business." "For a little time. I am afraid it wouldn't do for me to earn so little for any length of time." Frank enjoyed the society of Dick Hamlin. Together they went fishing and hunting, and a mutual liking sprang up between them. "I wish you were going to stay longer, Frank," said Dick. "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone." "We may meet again under different circumstances," said Frank. "While I am here, we will enjoy ourselves as well as we can." So the days passed, and at length a letter came from Mr. Percival. I append the most important passages: "Your report is clear, and I have perfect confidence in your statement. Mr. Fairfield has abused my confidence and oppressed my tenants, and I shall dismiss him. I am glad you have found in Jackson a man who is capable of succeeding him. Solely upon your recommendation, I shall appoint Mr. Hamlin my resident agent and representative for the term of six months. Should he acquit himself to my satisfaction, he will be continued in the position. I am prepared to offer him one hundred dollars a month, if that will content him. "Upon receipt of this letter, and the accompanying legal authority, you may call upon Mr. Fairfield and require him to transfer his office, and the papers and accounts connected with it, to Mr. Hamlin. I inclose a check for three hundred dollars, payable to your order, which you may make payable to him, in lieu of three months' notice, provided he immediately surrenders his office. Should he not, I shall dismiss him summarily, and proceed against him for the moneys he has misappropriated to his own use, and you may so inform him." With this letter was a letter to Mr. Fairfield, of the same purport, and a paper appointing Mr. Hamlin agent. When this letter was received, Frank was overjoyed, knowing how much pleasure he was about to give his new friends. With this appointment and salary, Mr. Hamlin would consider himself a rich man, and Dick's hope for a liberal education might be realized. The letter came just before supper, and, at the close of the evening meal, Frank determined to inform his friends of their good fortune. "Mr. Hamlin," said he, "I have some good news for you." "Indeed!" said the farmer, surprised. "Your rent will not be increased." "But how do you know this! Has Mr. Fairfield told you so?" "No," answered Frank. "I have a question to ask. Would you be willing to take Mr. Fairfield's place at a hundred dollars a month?" "Willing? I should be delighted to do so. But why do you say this?" "Because," answered Frank, quietly, "I am authorized to offer it to you at that salary." The whole family looked at Frank in bewildered surprise. It occurred to them that he might have become crazy. "You!" exclaimed the farmer. "What can you have to do with the agency?" Frank explained to a very happy family group and then he and Mr. Hamlin set out for the house of the agent. CHAPTER XXXVIII THE AGENT IS NOTIFIED It was still early in the evening when Frank and Mr. Hamlin reached the house of the agent. Had they come five minutes later, they would have found him absent. Usually, soon after supper, he made his way to the tavern, where he spent his time and money in a very unprofitable way. The agent was surprised when his two visitors made their appearance. "What brings you here, Hamlin?" he asked, with scant ceremony. "I come on a little matter of business," answered Mr. Hamlin, gravely. Mr. Fairfield concluded that the farmer had come to make an appeal to have his rent continued at the old rates, and answered, impatiently: "I don't think it will be of much use. My mind is made up. Have you come on business, also?" he asked, turning to Frank, with a sneer. "Yes, sir," answered our hero, quietly. "That will be of no use, either," said the agent. "I am not in want of stationery, and, if I were, I should not buy of a peddler." "I have not come here to sell stationery, Mr. Fairfield," said Frank. "Then, may I take the liberty of asking what is your business here?" "I come on the same business as Mr. Hamlin," answered Frank, who preferred that his companion should introduce the subject. "Look here, I have no time for trifling," said Mr. Fairfield, angrily. "I am going out and can only spare you five minutes." "Mr. Fairfield, I would advise you not to go out till you have heard what I have to say," said the farmer in a meaning tone. "I certainly shall. You can call some other time." "Another time will not do." "Look here, sir! Do you know to whom you are talking? How dare you use such a tone to Mr. Percival's representative?" "I suppose you don't always expect to be Mr. Percival's representative?" "I suppose I shall die sometime, if that's what you mean; but I am not dead yet, as you will find. To pay you for your impertinence, I shall increase your rent more than I intended. I'll drive you out of town--that's what I'll do." This was accompanied by an angry stamp of the foot, which, however, did not frighten Mr. Hamlin much. "I shall not pay a dollar more rent, nor shall I leave the farm I occupy," returned Mr. Hamlin, whose patience was exhausted by the rough insolence of the man before him. "So you defy me, do you?" demanded Fairfield, furiously. "I shall resist your injustice, sir, or rather I would do so if you were able to carry out your threat. Luckily you have not the power." "Have not the power? You will see if I have not the power!" roared the angry agent. "I give you notice that at the end of the quarter you must go, at any rate. After your insolence, I won't let you stay on any terms. I wouldn't let you stay if you would pay double the rent. Do you hear me, Hamlin?" "Yes, I hear you." Mr. Fairfield looked at the farmer in surprise. The latter seemed perfectly calm and undisturbed by his threat, though it was of the most serious nature. He had expected to see him humbled, and to hear him entreat a reversal of the sentence; but his tenant was thoroughly self-possessed, and appeared to care nothing for the agent's threats. "You need not expect that I will change my mind," he added. "Out of Jackson you must go. I know there is no other farm which you can hire, and while I am Mr. Percival's agent, you need expect no favors from me." "I don't expect any while you are Mr. Percival's agent," said Mr. Hamlin. There was something in the farmer's tone that arrested the agent's attention and excited his curiosity, though it did not awaken his alarm, and he could not help saying: "Then what do you expect? Do you think I am going to die?" "I don't expect that you will die or resign, Mr. Fairfield. You may be removed." "Have you been writing to Mr. Percival?" exclaimed Fairfield, in mingled anger and apprehension. "No, sir; I have not communicated with him in any way. You would not give me his address." "Of course I would not," said the agent, feeling relieved. "It would be mere impertinence for you to write to him." "Fortunately there is no immediate occasion for me to do so, as he has sent a representative here to investigate your official conduct." "A representative!" exclaimed Fairfield, now thoroughly startled. "Where is he? I have not seen him." "He is present," said Mr. Hamlin, indicating Frank. The agent broke into a scornful laugh. "You? Why, you are a peddler!" "Only in appearance, Mr. Fairfield. I assumed that business in order not to attract attention or excite suspicion. I am really Mr. Percival's private secretary, as I can prove to your satisfaction." "Is this true?" he asked, in a changed voice. "Yes, sir; quite true." "Have you written to Mr. Percival?" "Yes, sir; and this afternoon I received a letter from him." "What did he write?" asked Fairfield, in a husky voice; for he was convinced now that Frank spoke the truth. "He removes you, inclosing a check of three hundred dollars in place of notice, and appoints Mr. Hamlin in your place." "Will you read this letter, sir?" It was enough. Fairfield knew that his management would not stand investigation, and he yielded with a bad grace. Mr. Hamlin, the next day, to the great joy of the villagers, made known his appointment. Fairfield left town and drifted to California, where he became an adventurer, living in a miserable and precarious manner. Mr. Hamlin moved into his fine house, and Dick was sent to a school to prepare for college. The next day Frank started on his return to New York. CHAPTER XXXIX AN IMPORTANT DISCOVERY On his return to New York, Frank had no reason to be dissatisfied with his reception. From Mr. Percival to Freddie, all the family seemed delighted to see him. "You mustn't go away again, Frank," said little Freddie. "I wanted to see you ever so much." "And I wanted to see you, Freddie," said our hero, his heart warming to the little boy. "You won't go away again, will you, Frank?" "Not if I can help it, Freddie." "We are all glad to see you back Frank," said his employer. "But you have justified my opinion of you by your success. Some of my friends ridiculed me for sending a boy on such an important mission, but I don't believe any of them would have succeeded any better than you, if as well." "I am glad you are satisfied with me, sir," said Frank, very much gratified by the commendation of his employer. "I feel that you have done a great service, and indeed I don't know whom I could have sent in your place. However, I am glad to see you back again. I have missed you about my letters, and have postponed answering some till my young secretary returned." Frank resumed his regular employment, and three months passed without anything that needs to be recorded. At the end of that time, Frank received an important letter from Col. Vincent, which gave him much food for thought. The letter was as follows: "Dear Frank: For some time past I have been intending to write to you, but I have delayed for no good reason. Now, however, I am led to write by a surprising discovery which has just been made in your old home, which may be of material importance to you. "When your stepfather went away, he requested me to have an eye to the estate, and order whatever I might think necessary to be done. I am not, as you know, a very cordial friend of Mr. Manning's, but I have always regarded the property as of right belonging to you--that is, since your mother's death--and so accepted the commission. "A few days since I went over the house and found that it was quite dirty. Where the dirt could come from in an unoccupied house I can't tell, but, at all events, I felt justified in engaging a woman to clean the paint, so, if any of you should return unexpectedly, you would find the house fit to receive you. This was a very simple matter, you will think, and scarcely needs mentioning. But, my dear Frank, events of importance often hinge on trifles, and so it has proved in the present instance. "On the evening of the second day I received a call from Mrs. Noonan, whom I had employed to scrub the house. She had in her hand a folded paper, which she gave to me. "'Here is something I found, sir, while I was scrubbing,' she said. "I opened it indifferently, but conceive of my amazement when I found it to be your mother's will, properly signed, sealed and witnessed. "Of course it was not the will which Mr. Manning presented for probate. This will gave Mr. Manning ten thousand dollars, and the residue of the property to you, except a small amount bestowed upon Richard Green, the coachman, and Deborah--sums larger, by the way, than those mentioned in the will which was read after your mother's death." There was more to Colonel Vincent's letter. Frank showed it to Mr. Percival, and readily obtained permission to take a few days vacation. "I hope you will get back the estate, Frank," said Mr. Percival, "though I don't know what I shall do without my secretary." "That need not separate us, Mr. Percival," said our hero. "I have no home but this." CHAPTER XL JONAS BARTON Frank started for his old home on Saturday afternoon. He would arrive in time for supper, at the house of his father's friend. The train was well filled, and he was obliged to share his seat with a shabbily dressed young man with whom, a single glance showed him, he was not likely to sympathize. The shabby suit did not repel him at all--he was too sensible for that; but there was a furtive look in the man's face, which seemed to indicate that he was not frank and straightforward, but had something to conceal. Half the journey passed without a word between the two. Then his companion, glancing at Frank, opened a conversation by remarking that it was a fine day. "Very," answered Frank, laconically. "A pleasant day to travel." "Yes." "Do you go far?" Frank mentioned his destination. His companion seemed to have his interest awakened. "Do you know a Mr. Manning, living in your town?" he asked. "He is my stepfather," said Frank. "Then you are Frank Courtney?" said his new acquaintance, quickly. "I am." "Pardon me, but I think your mother died recently?" "Yes." "And the property was left chiefly to Mr. Manning?" "Yes." "Of course, you were surprised, and probably very disappointed?" "Excuse me," said Frank, coldly; "but I am not in the habit of discussing my affairs with strangers." "Quite right, but I think you will find it for your interest to discuss them with me. Not in a public car, of course; but I have something of importance to communicate. Where can I have a private interview with you?" It at once occurred to Frank that there was an opportunity, perhaps, to solve the mystery concerning the will. This man might know nothing about it; but, on the other hand, he might know everything. It would be foolish to repulse him. "If you have anything important to tell me, I shall be glad to hear it," he said. "I am going to the house of my friend, Col. Vincent, to pass a few days. Do you know where he lives?" "Yes, I know." "If you will call this evening, after supper, I shall be glad to see you." "I will do so. I will be there at eight o'clock, sharp." On arriving at his destination, Frank found the colonel's carriage waiting for him at the station. Col. Vincent was inside. "Welcome, Frank!" he said, grasping heartily the hand of our young hero. "I am delighted to see you. You are looking well, and, bless me, how you have grown!" "Thank you, Col. Vincent. Do you expect me to return the compliment?" "About having grown? No, Frank, I hope not. I am six feet one, and don't care to grow any taller. Well, what do you think of the news?" "I have some for you, colonel;" and Frank mentioned what his new acquaintance had told him. "The missing link!" exclaimed the colonel, excited. "Do you know what I think?" "What?" "That this man either forged the will which gives the property to your stepfather, or is cognizant of it!" "I thought of that." "I shall be impatient to see him." At eight o'clock the man called and gave his name as Jonas Barton. Whether it was the right name might be a question; but this did not matter. "I understand," said Col. Vincent, "that you have some information to give us." "I have; and that of a very important nature." "Is it of a nature to restore to my young friend here his property now in the possession of Mr. Manning?" "If it were," said Jonas Barton with a cunning glance of his left eye "how much would it be worth?" "I supposed it was for sale," said the colonel, quietly. "What is your own idea?" "I will take two thousand dollars." "Suppose we say one thousand?" "It is not enough." "Were you aware that the genuine will had been found?" asked the colonel, quietly. Jonas Barton started. "I thought Mr. Manning destroyed it," he said, hastily. "No; he concealed it." "Is this true?" "Yes. You see that a part of your information has been forestalled." "He was a fool, then, and still more a fool to refuse my last demand for money. I accept your offer of a thousand dollars, and will tell all." "Go on." "I wrote the will which Mr. Manning presented for probate. It was copied in part from the genuine will." "Good! And you betray him because he will not pay what you consider the service worth?" "Yes, sir." Jonas Barton here gave a full account of Mr. Manning, whom he had formerly known in New York, seeking him out and proposing to him a job for which he was willing to pay five hundred dollars. Barton was not scrupulous, and readily agreed to do the work. He was skillful with the pen, and did his work so well that all were deceived. "You will be willing to swear to this in court?" "Yes, sir, if you will guarantee the sum you proposed." "I will. I shall wish you to find a boarding place in the village, and remain here for the present, so as to be ready when needed. I will be responsible for your board." As Jonas Barton was leaving the house, one of the servants came in with important news, in which Frank was strongly interested. CHAPTER XLI CONCLUSION The news was that Mr. Manning and Mark had just arrived at the Cedars. They had come by the last evening train. Why they had come back so unexpectedly no one knew, but the servant had heard that Mark was in poor health. This was true. Mark, in Europe, had proved uncontrollable. He had given way to his natural love of drink, had kept late hours, and had seriously injured his constitution. In consequence of these excesses, he had contracted a fever, which alarmed him father and induced him to take the first steamer home. "We won't call upon your stepfather this evening, Frank," said Col. Vincent; "but early Monday morning we will bring matters to a crisis." Mr. Manning did not hear of Frank's presence in the village. He was fatigued with his rapid travel and kept at home. Besides, Mark was prostrated by his journey and didn't wish to be left alone. It was, therefore, a surprise to Mr. Manning when on Monday morning, Col. Vincent was ushered into his presence, accompanied by Frank. "Really, colonel," he said, recovering his composure, "you are very kind to call so soon. I hope you are well, Frank? Are you staying with the colonel? You must come back to your old home." "Thank you, Mr. Manning, but I am living in New York. I am only passing a day or two with the colonel." "It is very friendly in you to call, Col. Vincent." "Mr. Manning," said Col. Vincent, gravely, "I am not willing to receive undeserved credit. Let me say, therefore, that this is a business, not a friendly, call." "Indeed," said Manning, uneasily. "The business is connected with my young friend Frank." "I am ready to listen," said Mr. Manning. "If Frank wants a larger allowance, I am ready to give it." "I venture to say for him that he will not be satisfied with that. Let me come to the point at once, Mr. Manning. Mrs. Manning's will has been found." Mr. Manning started perceptibly, and his glance involuntarily wandered to that part of the wall behind which the will was discovered, for they were sitting in the very apartment where Mrs. Noonan had stumbled upon it. "What do you mean, sir?" "A will has been found, leaving the bulk of the property to Frank." "Indeed! I am surprised. Is it a later will than the one which bequeathed the estate to me?" asked Mr. Manning, pointedly. "It is Mrs. Manning's latest genuine will," said Col. Vincent, emphatically. Mr. Manning started to his feet. He could not help understanding the colonel's meaning. It would have been idle to pretend it. "What do you mean, Col. Vincent?" he asked, in a tone which he tried to make one of dignified resentment. "I mean that Mrs. Manning made but one will, and that this bequeaths the property to Frank." "How, then, do you account for the later will which was admitted to probate?" "In this way. It was not what it purported to be." Mr. Manning's sallow face flushed. "What do you mean to insinuate?" he asked. "That the last will was forged!" said Col. Vincent, bluntly. "This is a very serious charge," said Mr. Manning, unable to repress his agitation. "You must allow me to say that I shall pay no attention to it. When you furnish proof of what you assert, it will be time enough to meet it. And now, gentlemen, if you have nothing further to say, I will bid you good-morning." "I think you will find it best not to be in a hurry, Mr. Manning," said Col. Vincent. "The charge must be met here and now. I charge you with instigating and being cognizant of the fraud that has been perpetrated!" "On what grounds, sir? Do you know I can sue you for libel?" "You are welcome to do so, Mr. Manning. I have a witness who will clear me." "Who is he?" "Jonas Barton!" If a bombshell had exploded in the room, Mr. Manning could not have looked paler or more thoroughly dismayed. Yet he tried to keep up a little longer. "I don't know any man of that name," he answered, faintly. "Your looks show that you do. I may as well tell you, Mr. Manning, that resistance is useless. We can overwhelm you with proof if we take the matter before the courts. But we do not care to do so. We have something to propose." "What is it?" said Mr. Manning, faintly. "The genuine will must be substituted for the fraudulent one. By it you will receive ten thousand dollars, and Frank will consent that you shall receive it. He will not ask you to account for the sums you have wrongfully spent during the last year, and will promise not to prosecute you, provided you leave this neighborhood and never return to it, or in any way interfere with him. To insure this, we shall have Jonas Barton's written confession, attested before a justice of the peace, ready for use, if needful. Do you accept?" "I must," said Mr. Manning, despondently. "But I shall be a poor man." "No man who has health and the use of his facilities is poor with ten thousand dollars," answered the colonel. "Mark alone will spend more than the interest of this sum." "Then you must prevent him. He will be better off if he has to earn his living, as Frank has done for the last year." In less than a week the transfer was made, and Frank recovered his patrimony. Mr. Manning and Mark went to Chicago, and perhaps further West; but nothing has been heard from them for years. Frank didn't return to the Cedars. The place was let until he should wish to return to it. By the advice of Col. Vincent, he resumed his preparation for college, and, graduating in due time, commenced the study of law. Though rich enough to do without a profession, he felt that he should not be content to lead an aimless life. He obtained for his school friend, Herbert Grant, the post of private secretary to Mr. Percival, and Herbert became nearly as great a favorite as himself. Through Mr. Percival's kindness, Herbert was enabled, while still living at his house and attending to his duties as secretary, to enter Columbia College, and complete his course there, graduating with honor. Herbert selected the medical profession, and, when he has completed his studies, will go abroad for a year with Frank, at the latter's expense, and, returning, open an office in New York. While he is waiting for the patients and Frank for clients, the two will live together, and their common expenses will be defrayed by Frank. "If I didn't like you so well, Frank," said Herbert, "I would not accept this great favor at your hands--" "But since we are dear friends," interrupts Frank, with a smile. "I know that you enjoy giving even more than I do the receiving." "Enough, Herbert. We understand each other. I have no brother, Herbert, and if I had, I could not care more for him than I do for you. Without you, I should feel alone in the world." Frank does not regret the year in which he was thrown upon his own resources. It gave him strength and self-reliance; and however long he may live, he will not cease to remember with pleasure the year in which he was "Making His Way." THE END 
54961	----	[Illustration: cover art] HOW A FARTHING MADE A FORTUNE [Illustration: "DICK HAD TO BE BUSY." _p_. 55.] HOW A FARTHING MADE A FORTUNE OR "HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY." BY MRS. C. E. BOWEN _Authoress of "Jack the Conqueror," "How Paul's Penny became a Pound," "How Peter's Pound became a Penny," "The Brook's Story," etc., etc._ _THIRD EDITION._ LONDON S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO. 9 PATERNOSTER ROW. Hazell, Watson, and Viney, Ltd. Printers, London and Aylesbury. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. DICK AND THE APPLES CHAPTER II. DICK'S MISTAKE CHAPTER III. A NEW HOME CHAPTER IV. LIFE AT DENHAM COURT CHAPTER V. THE VISITOR AT THE LODGE CHAPTER VI. SIR JOHN'S PROPOSAL CHAPTER VII. RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL Illustrations "DICK HAD TO BE BUSY." _p_. 55 "I WANT TO SPEAK A WORD TO YOU, MY MAN." "THERE, MY LAD, HOLD IT FIRMLY; THE HORSE IS QUIET ENOUGH." SUSAN AND DICK IN THE RAILWAY-CARRIAGE. THE MEETING OF MR WALTERS AND DICK. "HE RAISED HIS LANTERN AND LOOKED BEHIND A TIER OF SHELVES." HOW A FARTHING MADE A FORTUNE; OR, "HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY." CHAPTER I. DICK AND THE APPLES. FEW children, if any, who read this tale will probably be able to form any idea of such a wretched home as that in which lived little Dick Nason, the ragman's son. There are houses and rooms in some of the back streets in London where men, women, and children herd almost like wild beasts--haunts of iniquity and misery, and where the name of God is never heard except in the utterance of terrible oaths or execrations. Such was Roan's Court, a place which gave the police continual trouble, and many a hard blow in the execution of their duty. The houses were let out in rooms, of which the upper ones were the most healthy, as possessing a little more light and air than the others; but the cellar floors were almost destitute of both these common luxuries of life, being sunk considerably below the level of the court, and the windows, consisting of four small panes of glass, begrimed with dirt, or if broken, as was generally the case, stuffed up with dirty rags or paper. It was in one of these cellar rooms that Dick Nason had been born, and in which he lived till he was twelve years old. _How_ he had lived, _how_ he had been fed, and _how_ clothed, it would be difficult to imagine. His mother had been a tidy sort of woman in her younger days, gaining her living as a servant in the family of a small tradesman. But she married a man who was not of sober habits, and who in consequence lost all steady employment, and sank lower and lower till he was reduced to the position of a ragman, going about to collect clothes, bones, rabbit-skins, and such odds and ends as he could scrape together from the servants. The trade was not an unlucrative one on the whole, but Nason spent so much in drink, and his wife having fallen into the same bad habit, kept so little of what she could contrive to get from her husband for household purposes, that they seldom sat down to a regular meal, but scrambled on in a wretched way, becoming every year more degraded and more confirmed in their habits of intemperance. Such was the home in which little Dick was reared. Fortunately he was the only child. His father took little notice of him. His mother was not without affection for him, but it was constantly deadened by the almost stupefied state in which she lived. The child seldom knew real hunger, for there was generally something to be found in the three-cornered cupboard to which he had free access, nor did he often get the hard words and blows that are so apt to fall to the lot of the unfortunate children of drinking parents. Neither Nason nor his wife were ranked amongst the more brawling and disorderly inhabitants of Roan's Court; though drink stupefied and rendered them helpless and good-for-nothing often for days together, especially after Nason had had a good haul into his big clothes-bag, and had turned its contents into money. But as for the dirt, untidiness, and general discomfort of their abode, they might have won the prize in this respect had one been offered for the most wretched room. Dick was a queer little figure to look at, though he had the brightest face possible. He used to be clothed entirely out of his father's rag-bag. Nason had three of these bags, which hung up on three nails in their cellar room. One was blue, made of strong material, for the reception of old garments; the second, of stout canvas, was for rabbit-skins; and the third for bones. Out of the blue bag used to come forth jackets, which were by no means worn out, as well as jackets well patched and darned. The latter always fell to Dick's share, as the better ones were more valuable to turn into cash. As to the fit, that was considered to be utterly unimportant. If only they were large enough for Dick to squeeze into them, or small enough for him to be able to walk about in them, that was deemed sufficient; so the little fellow would at one time be seen to be almost bursting through his things from their tightness, and at another he looked like a walking clothes-peg with his garments hanging loosely upon him. But it was all the same to Dick, whether they were tight or loose, and his bright eyes and curly head were what people looked at most after all. Dick's life for the first few years was a very free and easy one. He made dirt pies beautifully as soon as he was able to walk, being instructed in that art by some children a little older than himself who lived next door. Then came the ball-playing age--for even the poorest youngsters contrive to get balls somehow or other--and Dick had his to roll about long before he knew how to play with it. A little later on his amusement was to stroll about the streets, peep in at the shop windows, look longingly at the tempting piles of oranges and lollipops on the stalls at the corner of the street, and occasionally, but very rarely, produce a halfpenny from his pocket with which to purchase a scrap of the said lollipops, or one of the smallest and most sour of the oranges. But the greatest delight of Dick's life was to go to Covent Garden Market to look at the flowers, his love for which seemed born with him in a remarkable degree. He was in a perfect ecstasy of delight the first time he went there in company with some other children, who like himself had nothing to do but to stroll about the streets. What they looked at with indifference, Dick gazed upon with rapture, and from that day he constantly found his way to the same spot, which was at no great distance from Roan's Court. He was there so often that his appearance became familiar to the stall-holders, and they sometimes employed him in running errands or doing little jobs for them, rewarding him with an apple or orange, or, if it were towards the evening, perhaps a bunch of flowers that had begun to fade. Nothing ever pleased him so much as to have them to take home; and then he tenderly put them in a cracked mug on the window seat, where he could see them as soon as he awoke in the morning. In after years he used to say that his first idea of God was taken from those flowers; that their beauty carried off his mind in wonder as to the greatness of the Power that made them. The strange contrast between them in all their loveliness and the dingy dirty room he lived in, had doubtless much to do with the effect they produced on his mind. Dick knew little about religion. Once or twice he had peeped into a church when service was going on, but had not cared to stay long; not at all understanding what he heard, and feeling rather alarmed at the man in the black gown whom he saw sitting near the door to keep order. But though Dick was a stranger to both church and Sunday-school, an instructor was raised up for him in a quarter no one would have expected. Not far from Covent Garden, in a single room, lived an old man named John Walters, who had a small pension from a gentleman whose servant he had once been, and who increased his means by doing a variety of jobs about the market, where he was quite an institution. This old man loved his God and loved his Bible. He lived quite alone. His wife had been dead some years, and the only child he ever had, a boy, died of measles when he was about twelve years of age. Perhaps it was the remembrance of this boy made him notice little Dick as he lingered day after day about the market; but he might never have spoken to him had it not been for an incident which we will relate. One day as a woman from the country was beginning to put up her fruit and vegetables, she tripped and upset her basket of apples, which rolled away in every direction. Dick was standing near and helped to pick them up. The woman was anxious to collect them all, for they were a valuable sort of apple which sold for a good price for dessert, and every one was precious. Several rolled away to a distance and lodged under a heap of empty hampers. Dick ran amongst the hampers and picked them up; as he did so he slipped three of them into the capacious pockets of the very loose clothes he had on, which had lately been produced from the blue bag and would have fitted a boy nearly twice his size. There was an Eye above that saw him commit this theft, that Almighty Eye which never sleeps; but there was also a human one upon the little boy at the moment, and it was that of old John Walters. He was standing very near, but was concealed by some tall shrubs. He saw Dick turn round to look if any one could see him before he put the apples in his pocket, and this made him watch what he was about; and he also saw him go up to the woman with several apples in his hands, which he gave her. She warmly thanked him, and returned him one as a present for the trouble he had taken. It was getting late in the afternoon, and Walters was soon going home. He felt unhappy about Dick, who reminded him of his own boy. He thought he looked like a neglected lad who had no one to teach him how wrong it is to steal. He did not like to bring him into disgrace and trouble in the market by accusing him of taking the apples, neither did he feel it would be right in him to see a child steal and take no notice. "For," thought he, "if he goes on from one thing to another he may come to be a housebreaker in course of time; but if stopped now, a boy with such a face as that may become an honest, good man." Then after a few minutes' thought he said to himself, "'Tis one of Christ's little ones, and so for the Master's sake I'll have a try at him." Meanwhile Dick was devouring the apple the woman had given him, with the not unpleasant recollection that the pleasure to his palate would be repeated three times over, since he had three more in his pocket. I am afraid the said pleasure was in no way diminished by the consciousness that they were stolen. I do not mean to say that he was a thief habitually, for he was not. Some boys make thieving a trade and exult in it. Dick had sometimes purloined what was not his own, in the same manner that he had done the apples. He did not look out for opportunities, but if one such as this came in his way he did not try to resist the temptation. He was rather startled when he felt some one lay a hand firmly on his shoulder. It was the hand of John Walters, who said to him-- "I want to speak a word to you, my man. Come home with me and I'll give you a cup of tea. I'm going to have mine directly." Dick looked up into his face. It was a very kindly one, though rough and furrowed with years; He did not feel afraid of it; so he went off with Walters, for the cup of tea sounded tempting. It was not often such a chance fell in his way. He walked by the old man's side and answered all his questions as to his name, and where he lived, and what his father did, etc., and by the time Walters knew all about him, they had arrived at the room which he rented in a small back street of some people who kept a little shop. It was but a humble abode, but it seemed a palace to Dick compared with his own. In the first place, it was quite clean, for the woman of whom Walters rented it was careful to keep it well swept, and he himself did all the tidying and dusting part. Then the furniture was better than what Dick was accustomed to see in any of the rooms in Roan's Court. There was a little round table in the middle of the room, and another at the side with two or three large books on it. [Illustration: "I WANT TO SPEAK A WORD TO YOU, MY MAN."] And there was a cupboard in one corner and a narrow bedstead in another, and over the bedstead was laid a large tiger-skin which Walters' master had given him many years before, and which served as an ornament by day and a warm covering for cold nights. Also there was a shelf over the side table with a few books on it. Walters was a good scholar, and had always been fond of reading, but of late years he had cared for few books except his Bible and Prayer-book, which gave evidence of being often used. Walters told Dick to sit down, and he gave him a book with some pictures of animals in it to look at whilst he made tea; but the boy could not help watching Walters and his doings, which had greater attractions than his book, on the whole. First he put a match to the fire, which was laid ready for lighting. Then he went out with his kettle and fetched some water. Next he unlocked the cupboard, and brought out a tea-pot and two blue and white cups and saucers, and a half-loaf of bread and some butter. He set them on the table very tidily, and then going out again, he went into the little shop on the other side of the passage and bought two or three slices of bacon of his landlady, who sold provisions. These he fried in a little pan that was hung up by the fireside, and when the water was poured into the tea-pot, and the frizzling, delicious-smelling bacon was lifted off the fire and put on a dish on the table, Dick's mouth watered so that he could scarcely wait to be told to begin and eat. "Now then, Dick, come along," said Walters, and Dick needed no second bidding. He pulled his chair in an instant close to the table, and taking his seat, looked ready for action. But old Walters had something else to do before he would begin. He told Dick he was going to say grace, and bade him stand, which he did, and looked rather wonderingly at the old man as he took his little black cap off his head, and raising his hands, asked God to bless the food His goodness had given them. The boy had never seen this done before, and it puzzled him; but the next moment he forgot all about it in the pleasure of satisfying his hunger with the bacon and bread, of which Walters cut him a large slice. His kind-hearted host ate very little himself; but he enjoyed watching Dick's satisfaction, and perhaps wished he had not to do so disagreeable a thing as to tell his young guest that he had seen him stealing. When tea was over, the methodical old gentleman washed up the cups and saucers and plates, and put everything away in the cupboard. Then he said-- "Now, Dick, I have something to say to you--something you won't like half as much as eating the bacon. You have some apples in your pockets, which you stole from the woman when she dropped them and they rolled under the hamper. Dick, it is a very shocking thing to be a thief, and yet you _are_ one!" Poor Dick's blue eyes grew enormous, and his cheeks became scarlet. He knew too well that when thieves were detected their fate was to be carried off to prison. He began to suspect he had been entrapped, and that Walters was a policeman in disguise; yet it seemed strange if he were going to be punished that he should begin by giving him such a good tea. He had no time to collect his ideas, for Walters was waiting for him to speak; he could only fly to the resource of trying to help himself by telling a falsehood, so he said that the woman had given them to him. "No, Dick, that is untrue; she gave you one only, which you ate." More and more alarmed at finding how thoroughly acquainted Walters was with the late transaction, Dick began to cry and begged him to let him off. The kind-hearted old man drew the boy to his side, and told him he was not going to punish him or tell anybody about his theft; and when his tears were completely dried, he said-- "But there is One who does know it, my boy, and who will one day punish you for stealing and telling stories if you go on thus, and if you do not feel sorry for this and other naughty deeds you have done." And then he talked of things very new to little Dick. He spoke of sin and of hell, and of Jesus Christ, and of repentance and heaven, in such simple words as came naturally to the old man, who was simple as a child himself, and yet was wiser and more learned in these precious truths than many a great scholar. He talked till the blue eyes brimmed over with tears again, but this time not with terror lest he was going to be sent to prison, but with sorrow for having done so wrongly. For Dick had a very tender heart, and one that was quite ready to receive all that was said to him. He brought the three apples out of his pockets and asked Walters to take them away from him. "But they are not mine; I can't take them," he said. "Then I will throw them away," said Dick. "That will not be right," said Walters, "for they are not yours to throw away; they are the woman's." Dick looked bewildered; he did not know what to do with them. "I think you ought to give them back to their owner," said Walters. "I know her, and she is very kind and will forgive you directly, I am sure. If you are really sorry, you will be glad to take them back to her. Suppose you leave them here till to-morrow, and then come, and I will go with you to her stall." Dick promised, and then old Walters kneeled down with the little boy by his side, and he prayed-- "O dear Lord, forgive this young child for what he has done wrong, and help him not to steal and tell stories any more, for Thy dear Son Jesus Christ's sake. Amen." Then Dick ran home, thinking all the way of what Walters had been talking about. The next morning when he woke he saw his little mug of flowers standing on the window-sill, and the old thought came into his mind about God making such beautiful things, and he felt very sorry that he had offended God the day before, and ventured to say a little prayer to Him himself, the very first that had passed his lips-- "O God, who made the flowers, please make me a good boy. I don't mean to steal apples any more, or tell stories." A little later on, Dick learnt to ask for God's _help_ to keep him from stealing and lying and doing wrong things. And old Walters had his prayer that morning about Dick-- "O God, I am old and not able to do much for Thee, but help me to teach the little boy Thy ways. Amen." He was very glad when Dick came running in, for he was half afraid he might shirk the business of taking the apples back to the woman. It showed that he was really sorry, and willing to punish himself by doing a disagreeable thing; for it was of course very disagreeable to go and own that he had stolen the apples. Let all children who read this little tale remember, that when we do any wrong thing, it is right that we should suffer for it. It is not enough merely to tell God we are sorry and to ask His forgiveness; we must prove to God and to ourselves that we really _are_ grieved for our sin by humbling ourselves to ask pardon of those to whom we have done wrong, and by trying to repair the wrong. If we shrink from this when it is in our power to do it, we may be pretty sure that our penitence is not of the kind to lead us to hope that our fault will be forgiven by God; and if He does not forgive our fault, then it will rise up before us in that day when all, both small and great, must appear before the judgment-seat of God. The woman, Mrs. Needham by name, was greatly surprised when Walters came to her stall as she was laying it out, and told her that Dick wished to return her three apples he had been tempted to put into his pockets the day before. Poor Dick scarcely said a word himself, he felt so frightened lest Mrs. Needham should be very angry; but she only spoke kindly to him, and said she hoped he would never do such a thing again. Indeed, she was just going to give him back one of the apples; but Walters was wiser, and shook his head at her and led Dick away. He knew it would be bad for the boy to be rewarded for taking back the stolen fruit. That afternoon when Mrs. Needham and Walters happened to be together for a few minutes, she talked to him about Dick, and he told her how he had tried to show the boy the sin of stealing. "After all, though," said the soft-hearted woman, who was more kind than wise, "it was no such great thing he did. An apple or two he just slipped into his pocket when he had the chance, that was all." But Walters turned to her, and laying his hand on her arm, said almost solemnly-- "And what turned Adam and Eve out of Paradise and brought sin upon millions and millions of us, Mrs. Needham? Why, the taking of an apple, and '_that was all!_'" "Well, Walters, you've your own way of talking about these things, and you understand them better than I do, because you're so Bible-read." Mrs. Needham was prevented saying more, because a customer just then came up to purchase some of the very apples in question. CHAPTER II. DICK'S MISTAKE. FROM that day Dick had a friend in old Walters--a very humble one, but of priceless worth to the neglected child. He encouraged him to come often to his room to see him, and finding he could not read, he commenced to try to teach him. He bought a spelling-book, and began what was in truth a most difficult and arduous task to one of his age. But Dick was quick, and Walters persevering, and in course of time the letters were mastered, and then came words of one syllable. After that progress was rapid. A copy-book next appeared on the scene, and the constant inky state of Dick's fingers bore grimy testimony to the industry of both master and pupil. It was a proud day for them both when the boy could write his name quite legibly and neatly in the little Prayer-book which Walters had promised should be his whenever he could do so. But it was not only the art of reading and writing that Dick was acquiring from his newly-found friend. Lessons of far higher value were being constantly given to him by Walters, whose heart was full of love for his Saviour, and who longed to bring this little lamb into His fold, and secure him against all the temptations that, with such parents and in such a neighbourhood as Roan's Court, he would be subjected to as he grew older. Fortunately for Dick, his father's and mother's carelessness about him turned to good account by enabling him to be a great deal with Walters. On Sundays he went often with him to church, instead of as formerly playing all day in the court or back streets with other idle, uncared-for children. This was a real pleasure to him, for the music possessed as great a fascination for him as flowers. For some time things went on thus. Dick was getting older and taller, and Walters thought it was time for him to have some regular employment. He was so interested in the lad that he took a walk to Roan's Court one day to speak to his parents about him; but it was unfortunately an evening when they were neither of them quite in a state to be talked to on the subject. He left them in disgust, and with feelings of deep pity for their child. He did not know how to help him, for he lived his own lonely life, knowing scarcely any one; certainly no one who could be of use to Dick. He consulted his landlady, but she could give no advice, and only remarked that "boys were troublesome creatures, and of no use whilst young." The poor woman had two of her own, for whom she had difficulty in providing, so she spoke feelingly. But though Walters was unable to serve the lad in this respect, he had been unconsciously paving the way for a bright future for him by teaching him honesty and the fear of God. One morning as Dick was going down the Strand with another boy, they stopped to look in at a shop window just as a gentleman drew up his horse at the door, and looked round for some one to come and hold it whilst he entered the shop. Dick ran forward and offered himself. The gentleman gave one look at his pleasant face and put the bridle into his hand, saying, "There, my lad, hold it firmly; the horse is quiet enough." He was some time in the shop, which was a bookseller's, and he was looking over books. Once or twice he came to the door to see that all was right with his horse, and finding that Dick was holding him carefully, he gave him a nod and returned into the shop. Dick thought his face was a very kind one. When he had finished his business and came out to remount his horse, he put his hand into his pocket and took out some coppers wrapped in paper, and giving them to Dick, said-- "There, my lad, take these. I don't know how many pence you will find inside the paper, but the more there are the better for you." He was just going to ride off, when the shopman came to the door and asked him some question, to which he replied in a loud voice-- "Let them be sent to No.-- Grosvenor Square." Dick eagerly opened the paper; there were four pennies inside--and he stared with amazement, there was also a small, very bright yellow coin! He had only once or twice seen a sovereign in his life, and never had had one in his hand. His companion, a boy named Larkins who lived near Roan's Court, uttered an exclamation. "Why, Dick, he's given you a bit of yellow money; you lucky fellow!" Dick gave quite a shout of joy. [Illustration: "THERE, MY LAD, HOLD IT FIRMLY; THE HORSE IS QUIET ENOUGH."] He felt almost giddy, and as if a large fortune had fallen into his hands. "I tell you what, Dick," said Larkins, who secretly hoped he might come in for a share of the money, "don't you be looking at it like that here in the street, or people will think you've no business with it. Yellow money doesn't often come to the like of us; and, I say, don't you go telling your father or mother of your luck, or they'll take it from you and go and spend it in drink." Dick did not reply; he was wrapping up the coppers and the yellow bit as carefully in the paper as when they were given him, and he put the little parcel in his jacket pocket. "I say, Dick," continued Larkins, "what are you going to do with it? How shall you spend it? Won't you go and have a good feed at the cook-shop to begin with?" Dick heard, and a savoury thought about hot meat and potatoes crossed his mind; but he put it away again, for more important ideas were floating there. His countenance was grave and thoughtful. "I don't think," said he, "that the gentleman _meant_ to give me yellow money. He said there were pence inside the paper. I'm quite sure he did not know there was any gold there." "Why, then, all the better for you that he made a mistake," said Larkins. "What a lucky thing that he did not look to see what there was inside the paper before he gave it you!" Time was, before he knew old Walters, that Dick would have thought so too, but now he could not feel any pleasure in taking possession of what it was not intended he should have. "I should like to give it back to the gentleman," he said. "It would be like stealing, I think, if I kept it." "Well, you _would_ be a silly chap to do that," exclaimed Larkins--"but one good thing is, you can't give it back; you don't know where he lives." "Yes, I think I do," said Dick. "He said that something was to be sent to No.-- Grosvenor Square; so he lives there, I daresay, and I can find him, perhaps." Larkins' indignation was very great at his stupid folly, as he called it. His visions of being treated to a hot dinner at the cook-shop were melting away. Then he tried ridicule: called him "A young saint," "Pious Dick," "Parson Dick," "Preaching Dick," but all to no purpose. At length Dick escaped from his teasing by taking the turning which led to Walters' lodging, whose advice he wished to ask. He was out. Then he went and looked for him in the market, but he was not to be found. "I know he would tell me I ought to try and find the gentleman," he said to himself, "so I'll go at once." He knew his way about London pretty well, though it was not often he had been to the West End, and he had to ask his road once or twice before he could find Grosvenor Square. When he got there it was some time before he could discover the number he wanted, and when he did at last pause before No.--, he felt quite frightened at seeing what a grand house it was. The doors looked so tall, and the knockers so high up, it was impossible to reach them. Then he remembered it would not be right for a poor boy to go to the front door, so he turned and went to the area gate and looked down the flight of steps that led to the kitchen. It took a great deal of courage to descend them and knock at the door below--more than he could all at once summon to his aid--and he stood irresolute, with the handle of the gate in his hand. He went down at length and knocked timidly at the kitchen door. No one came, so after some time he knocked again and louder. It was opened by a girl, who asked him what he wanted. "Please, I want to see the gentleman who said he lived here," said Dick. The girl stared, and made him repeat his words. This time he spoke rather plainer, and said he wanted to see a gentleman who had given him some money an hour or two ago, in the Strand, for holding his horse. A servant in livery crossed the passage at this moment, and heard what he said. He came to the door and exclaimed harshly-- "And so, because he gave you some money, you have come here hoping to get more, you young vagabond. That's always the way with you beggars." "I'm not come to beg," replied Dick, indignantly. "I'm come to give the gentleman money, not to ask him for it." "Did the gentleman bid you come?" asked the man. "No," said Dick. "Did any one send you?" "No," was again the reply. "And yet you say you've come to give the gentleman money, and not to beg," said the servant. "Now, youngster, take my advice--get off from here as fast as you can go, for it strikes me you are lurking about for no good. There's a bobby not far off who will come if I call him." He shut the door in Dick's face, and the servant girl went back into the kitchen, and amused her companions by telling them that a boy had just come under the pretence of wanting to give some money to the master. "That's just what those young rascals do," remarked the cook. "They are taught by the thieves who employ them to go to gentlemen's houses with some pretence that shall get them admitted inside--and then, whilst waiting, they take notice of doors and windows and bolts and keys, and go and tell their masters, who know how to set to work at night with their instruments when they come to break in. I daresay that that boy has been taking stock of the lower part of the house, for now I think of it, I saw a boy some time ago standing on the top of the area steps and looking down at the door and windows. This lad is the same, no doubt. He'll be as likely as not to come to-night with a practised house-breaker or two and try to get in." "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Susan, the before-named girl, who slept in a room on the area floor with another kitchen domestic. "Dear me, cook! do you really think so? I'm sure I shan't dare to go to bed to-night." "Take the poker to bed with you, and never fear," said the cook. "I should take a real pleasure in bringing it down on the back of a man if he had got in. I wish I'd the chance." "Then do please, cook, change rooms with me to-night," exclaimed poor Susan, who was pale with fright, and too inexperienced in the study of human character to know that bragging was not courage. "I'm sure I should only scream if they came. I'm not brave like you." But cook shirked exchanging rooms, saying the reason was that she could not sleep comfortably in any bed but her own, or else she'd do it with the greatest of pleasure. While this conversation was going on in the kitchen, the innocent subject of it had ascended the steps, and was walking away from the house, when he heard the clatter of horse's hoofs behind him, and, looking round, he saw the very gentleman he was in search of coming through the square at a rapid pace. Dick recognised him in a moment, and was rejoiced to see him stop in front of No.--. He jumped off his horse, and, as he was about to enter the house, he caught sight of Dick, who was bowing and trying to attract his attention. "Ah, my little man," he said; "why, are not you the same small chap that held my horse in the Strand this morning?" "Yes, sir; and, please, I have come to tell you that you gave me yellow money by mistake amongst the pence--a whole sovereign! So I have brought it for you." And he took the little packet out of his pocket and held it to him. "What do you mean, my boy?" said Sir John Tralaway, for such was the name of the gentleman. "There surely was no gold amongst the coppers I gave you?" and he undid the paper. A smile passed over his lips as he examined the contents. Then he looked attentively at Dick. "And so," said he, "you have brought the money back to me because you thought I had given you more than I intended. How did you find out where I lived?" "I heard you tell the shopman to send some things to No.-- Grosvenor Square," said Dick, "and so I thought I had better come here." "You are an honest, good boy," said Sir John; "and though you have made a mistake, and taken a bright new farthing fresh from the Mint for a sovereign, yet it is all the same thing in the sight of God, and in my eyes too, as if it had been indeed a piece of gold. Did you ever see a sovereign?" he asked. "Never but once or twice," replied Dick, "and they looked exactly like that;" and he pointed to the bright yellow farthing in Sir John's fingers. "Your mistake is a very natural one, my boy. Eyes more accustomed than yours to look at gold might easily have been deceived. Now come in with me and tell me all about yourself, and where you learned to be so honest." Sir John took him into a little room by the side of the hall door, and asked him many questions. He was a man of well-known benevolence, who was ever doing some deed of public or private charity. The circumstance of Dick bringing him what he supposed to be a sovereign given by mistake touched him greatly. He listened with interest to what he told him about Walters, who was evidently a character rarely to be met with in his class of life, and told Dick to ask him to call and see him the next day at a given hour. When he dismissed him, he gave him half-a-crown, and said he should not lose sight of him. Dick did not quite understand what he meant by that, but was sure it was something kind, and he ran off, one of the happiest little boys in all London. He had so much to tell Walters, he scarcely knew where to begin. The old man was indeed pleased to hear that Dick's principles had stood fire under a strong temptation, and he hoped he might find a friend in Sir John at the very time he most needed one. The next morning, Walters gave an extra brushing to his coat, an extra polish to his boots, and an extra smoothing to his Sunday hat before setting forth to Grosvenor Square. He seldom now went near the mansions of the rich, though in former days his duties had lain amongst them almost entirely. Sir John received him with great kindness, nay, even with respect, for what Dick had said had filled him with admiration for him. Walters told him about Dick's miserable home, and of the sad example set him by his parents and the other inmates of Roan's Court. He mentioned his is love for flowers, which had first made him hover so constantly about Covent Garden Market, and so had brought him under his notice. "Then it is to you," said Sir John, "that this little fellow is indebted for the high principle which brought him here yesterday with the supposed sovereign?" "It's little I have been able to do for him," replied the old man, "but God has blessed that little, and He has given the child a tender, teachable mind, and a grateful, loving heart. But I wish he could be taken out of that wicked Roan's Court, where they are a drunken, dishonest lot, and his parents are as good as no parents to him." "He _shall_ be taken away, my good man," replied Sir John. "I will think the matter over, and see you again. I suppose his parents will not object to any plan for the boy's good?" "Not they, Sir John. They never look after him; they leave him to play about and shift for himself. I believe they would be glad enough to have him taken off their hands." "Do you think he would like to be brought up as a gardener?" asked Sir John. "As he is so fond of flowers, I should think his tastes would lie that way." "It would be just what would suit him," said Walters. "The lad is wild after flowers. The first thing he did yesterday after you gave him half a-crown, was to go and spend a shilling of it in buying a rose-tree in a pot for my window. The little chap wanted to give me something, so he bought what he cared most about himself." "Well, Walters, you have been a true friend to this boy, and God will bless you for it; he shall be my care now, and I will try and follow up the good work you have begun. I have a plan in my head which, if it can be carried out, will, I think, be all you could wish for your little friend. Will you come here again next Monday and bring Dick with you? and by that time I hope I shall have arranged matters." Sir John was as good as his word. When Walters and Dick went to Grosvenor Square at the time appointed, he asked the boy whether he would like to live in the country, and learn gardening and the management of flowers. Dick's face was worth looking at, so full was it of intense happiness at the idea. There was no occasion for him to express his assent in words. "I have a very clever head gardener at my country house," said Sir John; "and I have written to him about you. I shall board you in his house; and if you continue to be a good boy, and try to please him by your attention and industry, I am sure you will be very happy with him and his wife; and in the gardens you will find yourself in the midst of abundance of your friends the flowers." Sir John then gave Walters money with which to buy Dick two suits of clothes and such other things as he would require, and asked him to settle the matter with his parents. The London season being nearly over, the family were going out of town in a fortnight, and Dick was to go down to Denham Court, Sir John's country place, with some of the servants, a short time before the rest of the party. It was not in Dick's power to say much by way of thanks; his heart was too full. But Walters, who was scarcely less pleased, spoke for him. When they had left the house and were walking down the Square, Walters said-- "Dick, you are proving the truth of those words in your copy-book which you wrote yesterday, that 'Honesty is the best policy.'" CHAPTER III. A NEW HOME. WE have now to request our readers to follow Dick to a very different scene to that of Roan's Court. His parents were glad he had found such grand friends, and were quite willing to part with him. They were not improving in their habits, but rather the reverse. Walters did as Sir John had requested, and bought the boy suitable clothes and other necessaries for his new position in life. He looked so different when dressed in a cloth suit, with a white collar and black necktie, that he could scarcely be recognised for the same boy who had worn the old garments out of the blue clothes bag. The children in Roan's Court gathered round him when he first appeared in his new attire on the day he was to leave altogether, and stared at their old playmate with astonishment. A few of the elder ones, amongst whom was Larkins (who had never got over the hot dinner disappointment), derided him, called after him "Gentleman Dick," and other nicknames. He was not sorry when he was fairly out of hearing, and on his way to Walters, who had promised to go with him to Grosvenor Square, and say good-bye there. An omnibus was standing at the door when they arrived, which was to take the servants to the station. It was being loaded under the eye of a manservant. When he saw Walters and Dick, he directed them to go down into the kitchen, where all was bustle and confusion from the hurry of departure. Amongst the servants going away was Susan, who had been so terrified lest Dick should prove an accomplice of burglars. She looked at him with very complacent feelings now, for Sir John had told the story of the bright farthing, and explained that he had spoken truth when he said he wanted to give the gentleman some money and not to beg of him. With his usual kind thoughtfulness, the baronet had been anxious that the servants should feel an interest in their young fellow-traveller, who would naturally be strange and shy amongst them all. At length all was ready, and Dick was told to take his place in the omnibus with the others. He was very sorry to say farewell to his dear old friend, who, in his turn, felt as if his home would be lonely without the bright, merry face he was so accustomed to see popping in constantly. "God bless you, my lad," he said. "Never forget your prayers. Remember, those are my parting words to you." Then came the rumbling of the omnibus, and the arrival at the station; and after that the puffing of the steam-engine, and for the first time Dick saw houses and churches rushing away from them, as it seemed to him. Soon, great, busy London was left behind, and houses and churches only came at intervals, but green fields and trees took their place, and they were in the country, which was far more beautiful than Dick's wildest dreams had ever pictured it. He was quite surprised that all the servants talked away to each other, and scarcely ever turned their heads to look out of the window. Susan was the only one who seemed to understand his admiration. She was very kind, and gave him her place in the corner that he might see better; and she pointed out things to him, and told him the names of the places they passed through, for she had been so often backwards and forwards that the road was quite familiar to her and her fellow-servants. Towards evening they arrived at a station, where they stopped. Here an open carriage was waiting, large enough to hold them all, and the luggage followed in a cart. Dick had a delightful place on the box between the driver and the footman, from which he could see the hedges and trees, etc., to perfection as they drove rapidly past them. After a drive of about a mile, they came in sight of a large mansion standing on a rising ground in the midst of beautiful gardens, which glowed with flowers of every colour. The carriage stopped at a lodge, and now Dick was told he was to get down, as here he was to live with the gardener and his wife. A pleasant, motherly-looking woman appeared at the door, who was addressed as Mrs Naylor. She gave the servants a kindly greeting, and as the carriage drove on, took hold of Dick's hand, and said she was sure he must be tired and hungry, and had better have some tea directly. She took him into a nice pleasant kitchen, where a table was spread with a substantial tea. Her little lads came running in to look at the new boy, and to do justice to the viands. They were followed by Mr Naylor, the gardener--a tall, fine-looking man, with a rather grave face. [Illustration: SUSAN AND DICK IN THE RAILWAY-CARRIAGE.] He spoke kindly to Dick, and said he had heard all about him from Sir John, and he hoped he would be a good boy, and then he should be glad to have him to lodge in his house. Dick thought he had never been so hungry or tasted such good food. After tea, Mrs Naylor showed him a room in which he was to sleep. It was very small, little more than a large closet, but there was in it everything he could want, and it had a window looking into a garden full of flowers. He was so thoroughly tired with his journey and with the day's excitement, that Mrs Naylor proposed he should go to bed, and he was thankful to do so. Probably no little boy in England slept a sounder sleep or had a happier heart than our young hero that night. CHAPTER IV. LIFE AT DENHAM COURT. IT will be easier for the reader to imagine than for me to describe the delight of a young London boy, removed from such a home as that of Dick's in Roan's Court, to this in which he awoke the morning after his arrival. Mrs Naylor was disposed to be pleased with her young charge. Her husband at first thought him too young and ignorant to have been worth transplanting from London to Denham Court. It was "one of Sir John's whims," he said to his wife. However, the liberal board that they were to receive for him was not to be despised, and being so young was a fault which he would gradually grow out of. Then as for his ignorance, he soon found it was not so great as he supposed. Thanks to Walters, he could read and write very fairly; and what astonished Naylor greatly, was finding he knew the names of almost all the flowers in the gardens, and of some in the greenhouses. He had supposed he would not know a bit of groundsel from a fern, he said. But the mystery was explained when he found that he had been so constantly in Covent Garden Market, where he had contrived to learn the different names of shrubs and flowers as few other boys would have done. There were a good many men employed about the grounds, and several boys, who came from the village every morning and returned home to their meals and to sleep at night. Dick was looked at with curiosity at first, because Sir John had sent him down from London and was boarding him at his head gardener's. It was all very new and strange to him, and he could not help feeling rather lonely at times. Sir John and his family were gone to the sea for a little while, and were not expected till the shooting season began. Dick rather longed to see Sir John's kind face again, and he felt so grateful to him for his kindness that he thought he never could do enough to show his gratitude. The work that was given him in the gardens was easy enough. Clearing the gravel walks of weeds, carrying in vegetables and fruit to the house, or sometimes--and this he liked best--helping one of the under gardeners to pot geraniums or other plants. One of his greatest treats was to be allowed to go through the hothouses and greenhouses with Mr Naylor, who began to grow fond of the intelligent lad, and to think that after all Sir John knew what he was about when he sent him down to learn gardening. "He's an uncommon little chap," he said to his wife one day--"nothing seems to escape his observation; and if I tell him the name of a plant or flower he remembers it. Most boys would forget it as soon as told. Such a memory as he's got will do him good service some day." "He's a nice, good little fellow," remarked Mrs Naylor, "and so obliging. He's always ready to run errands for me of an evening, or to play with the little boys. I thought I shouldn't like having him when Sir John first wrote about his coming, but I declare I'd sooner have him here than not. And as for Ned and Tommy, they follow him like their shadow whenever he's in the house." Ned and Tommy were Mrs Naylor's own two children. They were merry little fellows, several years younger than Dick. To them he was a great acquisition. When the day's work was over, they were sure to be watching for him at the lodge gate, to claim his services in mending their paper kites, and to help to fly them when mended, as well as many other similar offices, such as good-natured older boys can execute for little ones. No wonder that Mrs Naylor's motherly feelings made her think she would sooner have Dick as an inmate than not. When the days were beginning to shorten, and the first delicate tinge of autumn brown was stealing gently over the green foliage, it was announced that Sir John and the family were coming home. They had been detained at the sea longer than was at first intended, owing to the illness of one of the young ladies. But now the day was fixed, and preparations were being made for them both within and without the house. Even Dick had to be busy. Not a weed must be seen on the walks, not a dead leaf on the geranium beds. Pot plants were to be placed in rows on either side of the broad terrace in front of the house, and others had to be carried into the drawing-room to fill the jardinière and baskets. Also the conservatory adjoining the morning-room was to be adorned with choice flowers from the greenhouses. Dick carried and fetched, carried and fetched, till his arms ached; but they might almost have dropped off before he would have given in, so pleased was he to have such a chance for seeing the tasteful and artistic way in which Mr Naylor arranged the different plants according to their colouring. When all was complete, Mr Naylor stepped to a little distance to see that the effect was quite to his mind, and he caught sight of Dick standing in such enrapt admiration that he fixed his gaze on him for a moment rather than on the flowers. "Well, Dick," said he, "what do you think of it?" "Oh, sir, it is beautiful! I could look at it for ever." "The boy is born to be a gardener," said Mr Naylor to himself. "He ought to begin and learn Latin. I shall tell Sir John so." All honour was due to worthy, honest-hearted Mr Naylor, that not a shade of jealousy crossed his mind about Dick, although he hoped to bring up his two boys to his own profession. Full of taste and intelligence himself, he quickly saw that the boy was naturally gifted with these qualities in no common degree, and felt they ought to be thoroughly cultivated. The next day the family arrived. Dick was standing at the lodge, well pleased to be allowed to throw open the gates for the carriage to enter, and to receive a smile and nod from Sir John as he sat inside it with his wife and daughters. The report that Mr Naylor was able to give of his charge was very satisfactory to the benevolent baronet, and he quite agreed with him that it would be well to let the boy have some education. There was an excellent village school in Denham, and a superior schoolmaster. So it was arranged for Dick to attend school every morning, and be in the garden in the afternoon. The schoolmaster also agreed to teach him Latin three evenings in the week. "Sir John never does things by halves," remarked Mrs Naylor to her husband. "He'll be the making of that boy, you'll see." "He'll help him to be the making of himself," replied Naylor. "Dick is a boy, if I mistake not, who will make good use of whatever advantages are held out to him." Time went on. Dick learnt quickly, and pleased his master. He was a favourite with most people from his good humour and readiness to oblige. Sir John took great interest in his improvement; and his wife and daughter often stopped and spoke to the boy who had come to Denham Court under such peculiar circumstances. But go where we will, happen to us what will in this world, trouble of some sort is sure to crop up, and Dick was not without his, even in his happy life at Denham Court. It seems strange that he could have an enemy, but so it was. There was a boy named George Bentham, who was employed in the gardens, and who from the first had looked upon the London lad with jealousy and dislike. He saw that he was a favourite with Sir John and with Mr Naylor, and being of a mean and selfish disposition, he took an aversion to him for this reason. To use his own expression, he liked to _spite_ him. That is to say, he never lost an occasion of saying or doing anything that he thought would be disagreeable to him; and it is wonderful how much petty tyranny may be exercised by one boy over another when opportunities are sought. For instance, he would sometimes hide his garden tools to cause him to waste time in searching for them, and so bring on him Mr Naylor's displeasure. One day in autumn, when Dick had been industriously sweeping up the fallen leaves in one of the walks, and had gone to fetch a wheelbarrow to carry them away, he found that some one had, during his short absence, scattered the heaps which he had so carefully piled up at regular distances, so that his work had almost all to be done over again. He had been told to finish it by eleven o'clock, at which hour Lady Tralaway generally came to walk there, as being a sunny, sheltered spot. He did his very best to try and set it all right in time, but the leaves at the end of the walk were in a sadly untidy state when her ladyship appeared with one of her daughters. She remarked on the unswept state of the path, and asked Dick to have it cleared earlier another day; and she repeated her request to Mr Naylor a little later, when she met him in the greenhouse. This caused Mr Naylor to reprove Dick for idleness, and he seemed inclined to think that what he said about the leaves having been scattered was all an excuse, especially as Dick could not say who had done it, though in his secret heart he felt quite sure he knew. Another ill-natured trick that was played on Dick by an unseen, though to him not an unknown hand, was when he one day left his slate for a few minutes on a seat just inside the lodge gate, on which was a difficult sum over which he had spent a long time the evening before, and had at last mastered, though with great difficulty. He had just started to go to school, slate and books in hand, when he remembered he had forgotten one of them, and ran back into the lodge to fetch it. He could not immediately find it, though he was not away from his slate for more than five or six minutes, and it stood precisely where he had left it when he returned. He snatched it up and ran off, but it was not till he had got near the school-house that he discovered the lower figures of the sum were all rubbed out carefully as with a sponge. He was sorely distressed, but could only tell the master of what had happened, and begged to be allowed to do it over again that evening. The master, accustomed to boys often making excuses at the expense of truth, reproved him for leaving his slate so carelessly about, and said he could not understand who would care to take the trouble to do such a thing as efface the figures just to get him into a scrape. Dick saw he was not believed, and it distressed him a good deal. Yet he could not tell his suspicions about George, for he had no proof that he had done it. He only knew that about that time he generally passed through the gate on his way back from breakfast, and he also knew that he would be quite ready to do him such a bit of mischief as this. Old Walters did not forget his little friend, nor did Dick lose his warm, affectionate love for him. They exchanged letters from time to time, and the correspondence was very useful in keeping up in Dick's mind the remembrance of all Walters had taught him. Sir John kindly sent for the old man when he was in town to give a favourable report of the boy, and tell him that Mr Naylor was well satisfied with him, and believed he would one day make a first-rate gardener, for that his good taste was something quite unusual, and his general intelligence of no ordinary stamp. "I should like him to be a great gardener some day," said Walters; "and still more, I should like him to be a good man, with the fear of God ever before him." "I trust he will be both, my friend," said Sir John. "How are his parents going on?" "Worse than ever," said Walters. "The mother is in such a wretched state of health from drinking that she is not likely to be long alive, and the father is seldom sober. I went lately to tell them I had heard from their boy, but they seemed very indifferent to what he was doing, and scarcely asked any questions about him. They will probably soon both be in the Union." "Then it is clear it is no use bringing up their son to London to see them," said Sir John, "as I would have done had they been respectable. He is better to be quite separated from them under the circumstances." "Far better, Sir John. Roan's Court is no place for him now. The sooner he forgets the very existence of what goes on there the better. I should like to see my lad again some day, please God, but it's not likely, for I'm getting nigh to seventy, and though I'm hale and hearty as ever now, yet at my age I mustn't expect many more years. God bless you, Sir John, for being such a friend to him; he's got strangely about my heart, and I shall pray for him whilst I live." CHAPTER V. THE VISITOR AT THE LODGE. THAT spring, like other springs, passed away. The London season was longer than usual, for Parliament had weighty and important matters to discuss, and families longing to be in the country were obliged to remain in hot, dusty London till August. Amongst the number of these was that of Sir John Tralaway, who was an active member of the House of Commons. But at length the House broke up, and without loss of time the great world fled from the heated atmosphere to go and enjoy either the mountain breezes of Switzerland or the refreshing shades of English country houses. Sir John's domestics went off as usual a day or two before the rest of the family, to make all ready for their arrival. No one was better pleased than Dick that the season was over. He liked to see the ladies walking or riding about the grounds, and to have their kind smile and almost daily greeting. Also he loved to have the encouraging word which was sure to be given by Sir John when he had questioned Naylor and the schoolmaster about him, and heard a good report. On the day when the servants were to arrive, Mrs Naylor told Dick that she had a friend coming to visit them, and she should be glad if he would give up his room for the time. She proposed making him up a bed in her boys' room, at which arrangement the two youngsters expressed their warm approbation, for Dick was as great a favourite with them as ever. When evening came he took care to be in the way to open the gate, and so be the first to give a welcome. The carriage came and turned in, but instead of driving on, it stopped at the lodge. The door behind was opened, and the footman assisted out an old gentleman, who wore a great-coat, notwithstanding its being a warm evening, and a well-brushed beaver hat. Mrs Naylor hastened out to receive him, but before she could speak Dick had flown into Walters' arms. It had been kind Sir John's contrivance to give him a surprise. He had asked the Naylors to receive him as their guest, and when he found their willingness to do so, he proposed to him to go down into the country with his servants, and spend several weeks under the same roof as Dick. [Illustration: THE MEETING OF MR WALTERS AND DICK.] He knew the pleasure it would give to both to be together again. He had desired that Dick should not be told who was Mrs Naylor's expected guest. Dick was more altered than Walters. He had grown taller and stouter, and his cheeks were rounder and more rosy than they had been when he lived in Roan's Court. "Now come in, Mr Walters," said Mrs Naylor, when the first surprise and greeting was over. "Come in, we'll do our best to make you comfortable, and I'm sure I hope you'll spend a pleasant time here. It shan't be our fault if you don't. As for Dick, I expect he won't sleep a wink to-night for joy." It was a pleasant reception, and when the old man went to bed in Dick's little chamber, he kneeled and thanked God for this new and unexpected mercy that had been vouchsafed him. As for Dick, far from fulfilling Mrs Naylor's prognostication that he would not sleep a wink, he was in so profound a slumber, at the hour when the other two lads awoke in the morning, that they had a delightful excuse for jumping on his bed and playing off a variety of tricks in order, as they said, to "arouse him thoroughly." Very pleased and proud was Dick to take his old friend over the gardens and numerous glass-houses, containing such fruits and flowers as he had never seen even in former days, when he had visited with his master at gentlemen's houses. Dick had an entire holiday given him the day after Walters' arrival, both from school and from gardening, and Mr Naylor told him to take his friend where he liked. Such a permission made him feel of almost as much importance as if he were master of the estate himself. He found it difficult to limit his own pace to that of Walters', so eager was he to go from one place to another, always assuring him the next thing he had to show was far better than any he had yet seen. Walters' admiration quite satisfied him, for it was unbounded. CHAPTER VI. SIR JOHN'S PROPOSAL. A MONTH passed, and still old Walters was a visitor at the lodge. Still he might be seen sitting on fine days under a wide-spreading oak-tree in the park, sometimes leaning forward with his chin resting on his stick, at others reading his large Bible as it lay upon his knees. Not unfrequently Sir John might be observed sitting by his side, for he delighted in his remarks, so full of simple piety and humility, and consequently of instruction to himself. The high-born baronet was not above being edified by the conversation of the aged pilgrim, whose mind seemed ripening fast for the world which could not be far distant from him. But Walters began to speak in earnest of returning to London. His feelings were sensitive and delicate, and though urged to remain longer, he would not take advantage of the kindness that proposed it. He said he had been permitted to spend a month of happiness amidst God's beautiful country works with his dear boy Dick, but now the time was come for him to return to his room and his old ways in London. "And perhaps you feel more at home there than in any other place," said Sir John one morning, when he had been talking to him on his favourite bench under the oak-tree. "You have lived there so many years that this country life may seem irksome to you after the long habit of the other." "Nay," replied he, "London will seem very lonely after such a month as I have spent here in my boy's company, with everybody showing me such kindness. And I shall miss the trees and the flowers, and the songs of the birds. No, Sir John, I could find it in my heart to wish I could end my days in the country, but God has willed it otherwise, and given me a home I do not deserve, although it is amongst the crowd and bustle and noise. Besides, why did I say I should be lonely? Shall I not have _Him_"--and he uncovered his head, as was his wont, at the great name--"who died for me, and loves me, and will never leave me nor forsake me?" Sir John was silent for a few moments; then he spoke to him on a subject he had been turning over in his mind for some days. "You are right, my worthy friend," he said; "no place can be lonely to you, and God will assuredly watch over you to the end. But suppose He were to point out that His way of doing so, as far as this world is concerned, would be to give you a home in the country, where you would be cared for in health and in sickness, and where the remainder of your years would pass in quietness and repose, would you not be willing to follow His leading?" "Assuredly, assuredly," replied Walters, not in the least seeing the drift of his remark. "But as such has not been His will, I thank Him gratefully for my little room in town." "Now listen to me, my friend," said the baronet. "It seems to me that just as it was put into my heart to take Dick from the scenes of sin and temptation he was exposed to in Roan's Court, so now it is given me to have the privilege of making your last years far more comfortable than they would be in your lodging in town. The proposal I wish to make to you is this: I have a cottage in the village which I have given for her life to an attached faithful old servant, who lives there with her niece. It is larger than she requires, and she says she could quite well spare the little parlour and the bedroom over it, and that she would be very glad to have you as a lodger, and she and her niece would do their best to make you comfortable. I will take all the arrangements for you on myself, so you will only have to return to London to pack up your things and bid your present landlady good-bye, and then come back again to your new country home, where you may see Dick every day." Walters was silent. He could not speak. He took in all Sir John's plan for him, and the lonely old man's heart leaped at the thought of living near the child of his love. At length he rose, and with a voice quivering with emotion, said-- "I thank you, I do indeed thank you, Sir John. It seems too much, too much happiness for such an one as I am. But my whole life has been filled with mercies, and this may be going to be the crowning one. May I think over it? I am too old to be able all at once to decide. When I have been alone awhile I can better answer you." "Take as long as you like to think it over," replied Sir John--"there is no hurry whatever." Then kindly shaking hands with him, he went away, for he saw that Walters was a good deal overcome. Yet he knew that though he left him, he would not be alone, but that he would seek the counsel and direction of Him whom he had for so long made his dearest Friend. CHAPTER VII. RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL. WALTERS soon made up his mind, and with much thankfulness accepted Sir John's offer of a home in Denham. That gentleman took him to see the cottage in which he proposed he should occupy two rooms, and introduced him to good Mrs Benson, who, with her niece, promised to do all they could for his comfort. He could only exclaim every now and then, "Too good, too good for me! Who would have thought of such a home as this coming to me in my old age?" He went back to London, packed up his few goods and chattels, and bid good-bye to his friends in Covent Garden. He was well known there, and all were sorry to part with him, but glad to hear of his good fortune. His landlady regretted losing her quiet lodger, whose regular payments and steady habits she knew how to value. It was with quite a heavy heart she saw him into the cab that was to take him to the station. She did the last good office she could for him by putting into his hand a paper parcel containing some sandwiches, that he might not be hungry on the journey. Dick's delight when he found his dear old friend was going to move to Denham may be easily imagined. He only regretted that he had to go back to London at all. Mrs Benson was quite ready for him when he arrived one evening in the middle of October. Dick went to meet him at the station in the conveyance sent by Sir John to take him to the cottage, and was glad to be the one to lead him into the comfortable little sitting-room, where a bright fire was burning and tea laid out on the round table. Mrs Benson followed, looking and saying kind things, and her niece bustled about to make the tea and toast the bread. It rather distressed him to be waited on thus; he had always been accustomed to do these things for himself; but he comforted his mind by saying that they must not think he should give them such trouble in future. In a very short time he was quite settled, and seeing that he would really prefer it, Mrs Benson allowed him to wait a good deal on himself, and to do in every respect as he had been accustomed. The neighbours soon learned to like the gentle, kind old man who was ever ready to perform any little service for them in his power, such as going on an errand, sitting with a sick child, or reading to an invalid of riper years. George Bentham's character did not improve as he got older. He was so unsatisfactory in many ways that Mr Naylor would have dismissed him altogether, had it not been for Sir John's kind desire to keep him on, for he knew the wages he gave were higher than he would obtain elsewhere. Neither he nor Naylor were aware of the dislike he had from the first taken to Dick, who never named the annoyances he had to bear from him to any one except Walters. "I have never done anything to him," he said one day; "yet he is always trying to spite me in every way he can. I really will begin and give it him back again. I know twenty ways in which I can do him a bad turn." "Stop, stop, my boy," said Walters, "I don't like to hear you speak so. That would be spite for spite. The dear Master did not act so when they tried all they could to vex Him. Yet _He_ never did wrong in any way. You, on the contrary, are constantly standing in need of forgiveness from God. So you must learn to forgive even as you would be forgiven." "I will try," said Dick, feeling rather ashamed of his speech. "Do, my lad; but you won't be able to do it in your own strength, for it goes contrary to human nature. You must pray--nothing like prayer--and so you will find. And then, Dick, there's another thing to remember. Look here"--and Walters turned over the leaves of the Bible that was never far from his hand--"see this verse which the Master spoke for the good of boys as much as for older people, 'Do _good_ to them that hate you.' You see you must not be content with only forgiving." "But what can I do for George?" asked Dick. "I never go near him if I can help--there isn't any good I can do him in any way." "Yes, lad, you can say a prayer for him now and then; and if ever you see he needs a bit of help at any time, be you the one to offer it, and you'll get a blessing, take my word for it." They were sitting by the fireside in Walters' little parlour. Dick had been to take his Latin lesson. As Mrs Benson's cottage lay on his way home, he had turned in to see Walters. He was about to bid good-bye to him after these last words, but the old man stopped him and said-- "Wait a bit, and I'll tell you something that will show you how bad a thing is spite or revenge. Maybe it will prevent you ever feeling the desire to vex a person back because they vex you. It's a sad story, but you shall hear it, though the very telling of it gives me a pain all these long years after. "When I was a young man I was very fond of horses, and liked to be about them. My father wanted me to become a schoolmaster in a village, because I'd had a better education than most boys of my sort; but nothing would serve me but to go about the stables. So my father spoke to our squire about it, and he said I should go under his coachman, and so I did; and I got to understand horses, and could ride and drive them--according to my own thinking--as well as the coachman himself, when suddenly my master died and the establishment was all broken up. I returned home to wait till I could find another situation. Just at this time a young man about my own age, named James Bennett, came home out of place likewise. He had been, like myself, in a gentleman's stables, and had only left his place because the family had gone abroad. He and I had lived near each other as boys, and had had many a game together, but we had not met for three or four years, as he had been away in quite another part of England. We used to see one another pretty often, as we had neither of us much to do then but to idle about. "It so happened that just at this time a Mr Anderson, living about two miles off, wanted a groom quite unexpectedly, and a friend of mine called and advised me to lose no time in applying for the situation, as a new servant must be had instantly. James Bennett happened to be in our cottage when I was told this, but he left it almost instantly. I lost no time, but went upstairs and put on my best clothes; and then I set out, to walk to Newton Hall, where Mr Anderson lived. I was anxious for the place, for I knew it was a good one; and as it had only become vacant a few hours, I felt I had a real good chance of getting it. When I arrived there I was shown in to Mr Anderson, who said I was a likely enough fellow, but that he had just seen another young man whom he had promised to take if his character satisfied him. 'You know him probably,' he said, 'for he comes from your village; his name is James Bennett.' "I started with surprise and indignation. In an instant I saw just how it was. James had heard what my friend had said about Mr Anderson's situation being vacant, and advising me to lose no time in applying. He had quietly sneaked of and got before me; for, as I afterwards found, he had had a lift in a gig, whilst I walked all the way, so he had considerably the start of me. "I left the house full of angry feelings, and despising James from the bottom of my heart for his meanness; and I took care to tell him so. He could not defend himself, though he tried to make out it was all fair play, and a case of first go, first served. "He got the place and went to it directly, on good wages. I, on the other hand, could not hear of one anywhere. I used to see James ride by, exercising his new master's horse, and my thoughts were very bitter. "Mr Anderson had a daughter who was very delicate, and was ordered horse exercise. Her father had bought her a beautiful creature which had Arab blood in its veins--that means that it was high bred and full of spirit. Now Miss Anderson had not yet been allowed to mount him because he had such a bad trick of shying when he came to any water. There was a certain pool which lay by the roadside between our village and Mr Anderson's house, which he would never pass without a great fuss. The former groom and Mr Anderson had tried in vain to cure him of the trick. James said he thought he should be able to do it, and he was proud to try. "So he took him in hand. Every day he practised the animal. He tamed him at last so that he scarcely moved an ear when he saw the pond. I heard that after one day's more practice he meant to pronounce him quite cured. Now all this time I was feeling angry, and longing to spite him for the trick he had played me. I grudged him the fame of having cured the horse of shying, for I knew I could have done it as well, and I was always thinking about the way he had stolen the place from me. "Well, Dick, Satan saw now that was a fine time for him, and he made the most of it. He put into my heart to do a mean trick by which I thought to pay James back something of what I owed him. "I bought some crackers and put them in my pocket, and I walked to the place where the pond lay, a little before the time when I knew James would come with the horse. My idea was to conceal myself behind the thick hedge, and pull a cracker just at the moment the horse was passing the pond. I thought so to startle him that it would make him worse than ever about shying in future, and then all James's trouble would be thrown away, and he would not have the credit of curing him of the bad habit. "I crept behind the hedge and was completely hidden. After a time I heard horse's hoofs, and saw James come up. He walked by the pond, slowly at first, then he went quicker, and next he trotted. The pretty creature was quite quiet. Then he went to a little distance, and put him into a canter. Now was my time; I pulled my cracker just as he got to the pond. The horse sprang up into the air, bolted forward, and the next instant was running away fast and fleet as the very wind. I heard the hoofs going at a mad pace, and I knew his rider had lost all control over him. Not for one moment had I intended to drive the horse wild like that. The most I had thought of was to cause him to prance and kick, and begin his old trick of not passing the pond. I felt no anxiety lest any real harm would come of it. I knew James was a good rider, and supposed he would give the horse his head for awhile and then pull him in. So I walked home, thinking I had paid Master James off in some degree at all events. "We were just finishing dinner when a neighbour looked in, and asked if we had heard what had happened. He said that James Bennett had been riding Mr Anderson's horse, and that it had run away with him and thrown him violently against a milestone; that he was taken up quite senseless, and it was feared there was concussion of the brain! He had been carried to a farmhouse close by, which there was little chance of his leaving alive. It was dreadful hearing for me. I felt as if I should have committed murder, if he died! Not that I had wished really to harm him bodily in any way. I could comfort myself a little with that thought, but I had intended to do him a mischief of another kind; and now the ugliness of the sin of revenge rose up before me in its true colours, and I hated myself. "I kept my own secret. I argued that it could make matters neither better nor worse to tell what had made the horse run off. But I was very wretched. I walked to the farm towards evening to inquire after him. They said he was still insensible, and the doctor could give little hope. His parents were there, and Mr Anderson drove up as I was going away, having brought a second doctor with him. It was a comfort to know that he would be well cared for. The next day he had come to himself when I went to inquire, but there was no more hope than before. He lay in a very precarious state for a week, and then there was a change for the better. A few days more and the doctor said he would live, but that it would be many months probably before he would be well enough to go into service again. Mr Anderson was very kind, and promised to continue his wages to enable him to live at home till he was quite well. But he could not keep his place open for him, so he offered it to me. "I positively declined to accept it, much to Mr Anderson's surprise. I felt that I could not endure to reap any benefit from my wrong-doing. My conscience had been tormenting me ever since the accident, and I made up my mind that I would never take a situation as groom again, for the very sight of a horse made me uncomfortable. In a short time, thanks to my late mistress's recommendation, I obtained a place as personal servant to a gentleman who was going on the Continent for a couple of years. Now it seems natural that new countries and new ways should put what had just passed out of my head; but they didn't, though I certainly did enjoy travelling about very much. We went to France and Germany, stopping for a time at all the principal cities, and then we went to Italy and spent some time in Rome. But notwithstanding the novelty of all around me I was not altogether happy. I believe I was beginning to feel what a sinful heart I had then, and I often longed to open my mind to some one, but there was nobody I knew to whom I liked to speak. However, God had His own designs for me, as you will hear. "My master visited Venice on our return home, and from there he took an excursion through some mountains called 'The Dolomites.' One day, as we were crossing a narrow plank thrown across a steep gorge, my foot slipped and I fell down a very considerable distance on to a hard rock, and it is wonderful that I was not killed on the spot. I was taken up senseless by some peasants who were fortunately near, and carried into a hut, where my master joined me, and he and they did all in their power to restore consciousness. I recovered my senses after awhile, but I had to lie in that hut for upwards of ten days, and during that time I looked back on my past life and saw how sinful I had been, and I trembled when I thought how death and I had been face to face when I fell into the gorge. My revengeful conduct towards James Bennett stared me in the face in such black colours as it had never done before. 'What would have become of me had I been killed?' was my constant thought. "When I returned to England I went to live with a clergyman, who was a good and holy man, to whom, after awhile, I ventured to open my mind. He taught me what my Saviour had done for me by His death, and how I might look for pardon through His merits, and grace and help for the future. I have told you all this, Dick, that you may beware of ever wishing to give what is called 'tit for tat.' Now go home, and whenever you say your prayers ask God to keep you from all malice and bitterness." This advice of Walters came at a very opportune time, for not long after Dick had occasion to bring it to mind. It was George Bentham's duty to shut up the greenhouse windows at a certain hour in the afternoon, and Mr Naylor was extremely particular on this point. He had neglected it once or twice, and had been severely reprimanded but when a third time Mr Naylor found the windows open late, he took the duty away from him entirely, and gave it to Dick in his presence, remarking that he felt sure he might trust him. George said nothing at the time, but his jealousy increased. He went away revolving in his mind how he could lower Dick in Mr Naylor's opinion, and a way soon suggested itself. Dick was surprised one evening after he had carefully closed the windows in the afternoon at the proper time, by Mr Naylor reproving him sharply when he came in to tea for having left one of them open. "Indeed, sir, I shut them all," said Dick. "You mean you _meant_ to do so, but were careless and forgot the end one," said Mr Naylor. "Now don't get into the way of making excuses; better own your fault at once, and say you will be more careful in future; then I shall have hope that it will not happen again." Dick said no more. He was puzzled, for he felt almost sure he _had_ shut that end window. Yet how could it have got open again? No one ever went near the greenhouses in the afternoon after they were shut. He always turned the key on the outside when he went out, though he left it in the door by order, because Mr Naylor went his rounds towards evening, and then took the keys home with him. At length he was obliged to come to the conclusion that he must have overlooked that window without being aware of it. About a week afterwards a frost set in, and though it was sunny and fine for some hours, the air grew cold directly the sun began to decline, and Dick received orders to close the windows earlier than customary, and he did so. The head gardener went the rounds as usual that afternoon before going home to tea. The cold was severe, and his vigilance for his plants was consequently greater than ever. As he came to the door of the greenhouse he thought he heard a slight noise within, and looked carefully about on opening the door, but could see nothing to have caused it, so thought it must have been fancy. When he examined the windows he found one of them wide open. "Again!" he said to himself. "So that boy is as bad as the other, and must be trusted no more." He shut it, and a second time fancied he heard a noise, and listened, but all was still. When he went home he spoke more angrily to Dick than he had ever done before, and desired him not to enter the greenhouses again, since he found he could not be trusted. "Had I not gone in there," he said, "and seen that the window was left wide open, some of the choicest of the plants must have been frostbitten." "But indeed, indeed, I shut them every one, sir," exclaimed Dick. "Some one must have gone in after me, and opened that window. Oh! it was too bad; it must have been done from spite." "I can scarcely believe that," said the gardener. "Excuses of that sort won't help you." "It is not an excuse, sir. _Do_ believe me, for indeed I shut all the windows carefully." "Maybe the lad is right," said Mrs Naylor, who was fond of Dick, and had always found him truthful. "Perhaps some one has a grudge against him, and took that way of doing him a mischief." "Have you any reason to suppose you have an enemy?" inquired Mr Naylor. "Yes, I have, sir," replied Dick. "Who is it?" Dick did not reply; he was not sure whether he ought to name him. But Johnnie Naylor, who with his brother was present, exclaimed-- "George Bentham is his enemy, I think, for he said the other day he hated Dick, because he was put over him about the windows just because he was a favourite." A new idea appeared to strike Mr Naylor. He seemed in deep thought for a moment. He was thinking of the noise he fancied he had heard. Then taking down a lantern and lighting the lamp within, he strode off without a word, and took his way to the greenhouse. Unlocking the door, he entered, and closed it after him. Again there was a slight noise. This time he was sure that something alive was there besides himself, and he began to search. [Illustration: "HE RAISED HIS LANTERN AND LOOKED BEHIND A TIER OF SHELVES."] The house was a good-sized one, and he examined every corner, but in vain. Then he raised his lantern and looked behind a tier of shelves which stood out a little way from the wall. A dark figure was there crouching down. It was George Bentham, who, with a face white as ashes, came forth at Mr Naylor's command. "What are you doing here, sir?" he asked, in a voice of thunder. "I got locked in, sir." "And what brought you here at all?" The ready lie that he would fain have had rise to his lips, failed him from actual terror, and he was silent. "I will tell you why you are here," said the gardener. "You came to open that window in order to get an innocent companion into trouble, and to have it supposed that he was careless and had neglected his duty, and it is the second time you have done the base deed. You are a coward of the worst kind, and you shall come with me instantly to Sir John himself, and hear his opinion of your conduct." Then George found his voice, and implored Mr Naylor to punish him in any way rather than take him before Sir John, but in vain. He marched him off without another word, and made him walk before him to the house, where he requested to see the baronet. Very shocked and indignant was Sir John at what he heard about the wretched boy before him, who did not attempt to deny that he had hoped to bring Dick into disgrace, and so had slipped into the greenhouse to open the window, but had not time to escape before Mr Naylor came and locked him in. He had no way of getting out without breaking the windows, owing to their peculiar method of opening. He acknowledged that Dick had never done him any harm, and could only say in reply to the questions put to him, that "he had never liked him." Sir John dismissed him from his service on the spot, and told him his opinion of his conduct in terms which remained in his memory for many a day. Dick was very glad when Mr Naylor told him the mystery about the open window had been cleared up; but to his credit be it spoken, he was really grieved to hear that George was to work no more in the gardens. He longed to plead for him, but knew it would be useless, as Sir John and Mr Naylor were so seriously displeased. But when a little time had passed by, and George was still without regular employment, hanging about the village, often reminded by jeers and taunts of his mean conduct, Dick felt more and more sorry for him, and at length he ventured to ask Mr Naylor if he would say a good word for him to Sir John. "And so _you_ want him to be taken on again, do you?" was the reply. "That's queer, now." But queer as he thought it, Naylor could appreciate Dick's forgiving spirit, and admired it sufficiently to induce him to ask Sir John if the boy might have another trial, and he obtained his consent. He took care to tell George who it was had pleaded for his return. The boy had avoided Dick since his disgrace, but this generous conduct quite overcame him. Though foreign to his own nature to act thus, he was touched and grateful, and actually thanked Dick, and told him he was sorry he had behaved so shabbily to him. From that day the two lads were good friends. George never again annoyed Dick. We must pass over the next few years of Dick's history more rapidly. He did not disappoint the expectations of those who had done so much for him. He improved rapidly, and developed so strong a taste for landscape gardening that Sir John and Mr Naylor advised him to lay himself out chiefly for that branch of the profession, and every aid was given him to do so. Sir John thought that his steady character, united to considerable natural talent, well deserved encouragement. The result was, that when he grew to manhood he introduced him to the notice of several families of distinction, and he soon began to get a name and to acquire a considerable income. Walters lived to see him married and prosperous, and ever true to the principles he had instilled into him as a child. At a good old age dear old John Walters passed away to his rest. His death was calm and happy as his life had been. His remains lie in the little churchyard at Denham, a plain white stone marking the spot. Many still remember and speak of him with affection. Amongst the number is Sir John, now himself grown old. Sometimes he has been heard to exclaim, as he pauses an instant before the grave-- "Let my last end be like his!" CATALOGUE OF NEW AND POPULAR WORKS PUBLISHED BY S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO. NEW BOOKS. 5s. The Grand Chaco: A Boy's Adventures in an Unknown Land By G. 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15389	----	TRUE RICHES; OR, WEALTH WITHOUT WINGS. BY T.S. ARTHUR. BOSTON: L.P. CROWN & CO., 61 CORNHILL. 1852. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by J.W. BRADLEY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON AND CO. PHILADELPHIA. INTRODUCTION. The original title chosen for this book was "Riches without Wings;" but the author becoming aware, before giving it a permanent form, that a volume bearing a similar title had appeared some years ago, of which a new edition was about to be issued, thought it best to substitute therefor, "True Riches; or, Wealth without Wings," which, in fact, expresses more accurately the character and scope of his story. The lessons herein taught are such as cannot be learned too early, nor dwelt on too long or too often, by those who are engaged in the active and all-absorbing duties of life. In the struggle for natural riches--the wealth that meets the eye and charms the imagination--how many forget that _true_ riches can _only_ be laid up in the heart; and that, without these true riches, which have no wings, gold, the god of this world, cannot bestow a single blessing! To give this truth a varied charm for young and old, the author has made of it a new presentation, and, in so doing, sought to invest it with all the winning attractions in his power to bestow. To parents who regard the best interests of their children, and to young men and women just stepping upon the world's broad stage of action, we offer our book, in the confident belief that it contains vital principles, which, if laid up in the mind, will, like good seed in good ground, produce an after-harvest, in the garnering of which there will be great joy. TRUE RICHES. CHAPTER I. "A fair day's business. A _very_ fair day's business," said Leonard Jasper, as he closed a small account-book, over which he had been poring, pencil in hand, for some ten minutes. The tone in which he spoke expressed more than ordinary gratification. "To what do the sales amount?" asked a young man, clerk to the dealer, approaching his principal as he spoke. "To just two hundred dollars, Edward. It's the best day we've had for a month." "The best, in more than one sense," remarked the young man, with a meaning expression. "You're right there, too," said Jasper, with animation, rubbing his hands together as he spoke, in the manner of one who is particularly well pleased with himself. "I made two or three trades that told largely on the sunny side of profit and loss account." "True enough. Though I've been afraid, ever since you sold that piece of velvet to Harland's wife, that you cut rather deeper than was prudent." "Not a bit of it--not a bit of it! Had I asked her three dollars a yard, she would have wanted it for two. So I said six, to begin with, expecting to fall extensively; and, to put a good face on the matter, told her that it cost within a fraction of what I asked to make the importation--remarking, at the same time, that the goods were too rich in quality to bear a profit, and were only kept as a matter of accommodation to certain customers." "And she bought at five?" "Yes; thinking she had obtained the velvet at seventy-five cents a yard less than its cost. Generous customer, truly!" "While you, in reality, made two dollars and a half on every yard she bought." "Precisely that sum." "She had six yards." "Yes; out of which we made a clear profit of fifteen dollars. That will do, I'm thinking. Operations like this count up fast." "Very fast. But, Mr. Jasper"-- "But what, Edward?" "Is it altogether prudent to multiply operations of this character? Won't it make for you a bad reputation, and thus diminish, instead of increasing, your custom?" "I fear nothing of the kind. One-half the people are not satisfied unless you cheat them. I've handled the yardstick, off and on, for the last fifteen or twenty years, and I think my observation during that time is worth something. It tells me this--that a bold face, a smooth tongue, and an easy conscience are worth more in our business than any other qualities. With these you may do as you list. They tell far better than all the 'one-price' and fair-dealing professions, in which people have little faith. In fact, the mass will overreach if they can, and therefore regard these 'honest' assumptions with suspicion." The young man, Edward Claire, did not make a reply for nearly a minute. Something in the words of Mr. Jasper had fixed his thought, and left him, for a brief space of time, absorbed in his own reflections. Lifting, at length, his eyes, which had been resting on the floor, he said-- "Our profit on to-day's sales must reach very nearly fifty dollars." "Just that sum, if I have made a right estimate," replied Jasper; "and that is what I call a fair day's business." While he was yet speaking, a lad entered the store, and laid upon the counter a small sealed package, bearing the superscription, "Leonard Jasper, Esq." The merchant cut the red tape with which it was tied, broke the seal, and opening the package, took therefrom several papers, over which he ran his eyes hurriedly; his clerk, as he did so, turning away. "What's this?" muttered Jasper to himself, not at first clearly comprehending the nature of the business to which the communication related. "Executor! To what? Oh! ah! Estate of Ruben Elder. Humph! What possessed him to trouble me with this business? I've no time to play executor to an estate, the whole proceeds of which would hardly fill my trousers' pocket. He was a thriftless fellow at best, and never could more than keep his head out of water. His debts will swallow up every thing, of course, saving my commissions, which I would gladly throw in to be rid of this business." With this, Jasper tossed the papers into his desk, and, taking up his hat, said to his clerk--"You may shut the store, Edward. Before you leave, see that every thing is made safe." The merchant than retired, and wended his way homeward. Edward Claire seemed in no hurry to follow this example. His first act was to close the window-shutters and door--turning the key in the latter, and remaining inside. Entirely alone, and hidden from observation, the young man seated himself, and let his thoughts, which seemed to be active on some subject, take their own way. He was soon entirely absorbed. Whatever were his thoughts, one thing would have been apparent to an observer--they did not run in a quiet stream. Something disturbed their current, for his brow was knit, his compressed lips had a disturbed motion, and his hands moved about at times uneasily. At length he arose, not hurriedly, but with a deliberate motion, threw his arms behind him, and, bending forward, with his eyes cast down, paced the length of the store two or three times, backward and forward, slowly. "Fifty dollars profit in one day," he at length said, half audibly. "That will do, certainly. I'd be contented with a tenth part of the sum. He's bound to get rich; that's plain. Fifty dollars in a single day! Leonard Jasper, you're a shrewd one. I shall have to lay aside some of my old-fashioned squeamishness, and take a few lessons from so accomplished a teacher. But, he's a downright cheat!" Some better thought had swept suddenly, in a gleam of light, across the young man's mind, showing him the true nature of the principles from which the merchant acted, and, for the moment, causing his whole nature to revolt against them. But the light faded slowly; a state of darkness and confusion followed, and then the old current of thought moved on as before. Slowly, and now with an attitude of deeper abstraction, moved the young man backward and forward the entire length of the room, of which he was the sole occupant. He _felt_ that he was alone, that no human eye could note a single movement. Of the all-seeing Eye he thought not--his spirit's evil counsellors, drawn intimately nigh to him through inclinations to evil, kept that consciousness from his mind. At length Claire turned to the desk upon which were the account-books that had been used during the day, and commenced turning the leaves of one of them in a way that showed only a half-formed purpose. There was an impulse to something in his mind; an impulse not yet expressed in any form of thought, though in the progress toward something definite. "Fifty dollars a day!" he murmurs. Ah, that shows the direction of his mind. He is still struggling in temptation, and with all his inherited cupidities bearing him downward. Suddenly he starts, turns his head, and listens eagerly, and with a strange agitation. Some one had tried the door. For a few moments he stood in an attitude of the most profound attention. But the trial was not repeated. How audibly, to his own ears, throbbed his heart! How oppressed was his bosom! How, in a current of fire, rushed the blood to his over-excited brain! The hand upon the door was but an ordinary occurrence. It might now be only a customer, who, seeing a light within, hoped to supply some neglected want, or a friend passing by, who wished for a few words of pleasant gossip. At any other time Claire would have stepped quickly and with undisturbed expectation to receive the applicant for admission. But guilty thoughts awakened their nervous attendants, suspicion and fear, and these had sounded an instant alarm. Still, very still, sat Edward Claire, even to the occasional suppression of his breathing, which, to him, seemed strangely loud. Several minutes elapsed, and then the young man commenced silently to remove the various account-books to their nightly safe deposite in the fire-proof. The cash-box, over the contents of which he lingered, counting note by note and coin by coin, several times repeated, next took its place with the books. The heavy iron door swung to, the key traversed noiselessly the delicate and complicated wards, was removed and deposited in a place of safety; and, yet unrecovered from his mood of abstraction, the clerk left the store, and took his way homeward. From that hour Edward Claire was to be the subject of a fierce temptation. He had admitted an evil suggestion, and had warmed it in the earth of his mind, even to germination. Already a delicate root had penetrated the soil, and was extracting food therefrom. Oh! why did he not instantly pluck it out, when the hand of an infant would have sufficed in strength for the task? Why did he let it remain, shielding it from the cold winds of rational truth and the hot sun of good affections, until it could live, sustained by its own organs of appropriation and nutrition? Why did he let it remain until its lusty growth gave sad promise of an evil tree, in which birds of night find shelter and build nests for their young? Let us introduce another scene and another personage, who will claim, to some extent, the reader's attention. There were two small but neatly, though plainly, furnished rooms, in the second story of a house located in a retired street. In one of these rooms tea was prepared, and near the tea-table sat a young woman, with a sleeping babe nestled to-her bosom. She was fair-faced and sunny-haired; and in her blue eyes lay, in calm beauty, sweet tokens of a pure and loving heart. How tenderly she looked down, now and then, upon the slumbering cherub whose winning ways and murmurs of affection had blessed her through the day! Happy young wife! these are thy halcyon days. Care has not thrown upon thee a single shadow from his gloomy wing, and hope pictures the smiling future with a sky of sunny brightness. "How long he stays away!" had just passed her lips, when the sound of well-known footsteps was heard in the passage below. A brief time, and then the room-door opened, and Edward Claire came in. What a depth of tenderness was in his voice as he bent his lips to those of his young wife, murmuring-- "My Edith!" and then touching, with a gentler pressure, the white forehead of his sleeping babe. "You were late this evening, dear," said Edith, looking into the face of her husband, whose eyes drooped under her earnest gaze. "Yes," he replied, with a slight evasion in his tone and manner; "we have been busier than usual to-day." As he spoke the young wife arose, and taking her slumbering child into the adjoining chamber, laid it gently in its crib. Then returning, she made the tea--the kettle stood boiling by the grate--and in a little while they sat down to their evening meal. Edith soon observed that her husband was more thoughtful and less talkative than usual. She asked, however, no direct question touching this change; but regarded what he did say with closer attention, hoping to draw a correct inference, without seeming to notice his altered mood. "Mr. Jasper's business is increasing?" she said, somewhat interrogatively, while they still sat at the table, an expression of her husband's leading to this remark. "Yes, increasing very rapidly," replied Claire, with animation. "The fact is, he is going to get rich. Do you know that his profit on to-day's sales amounted to fifty dollars?" "So much?" said Edith, yet in a tone that showed no surprise or particular interest in the matter. "Fifty dollars a day," resumed Claire, "counting three hundred week-days in the year, gives the handsome sum of fifteen thousand dollars in the year. I'd be satisfied with as much in five years." There was more feeling in the tone of his voice than he had meant to betray. His young wife lifted her eyes to his face, and looked at him with a wonder she could not conceal. "Contentment, dear," said she, in a gentle, subdued, yet tender voice, "is great gain. We have enough, and more than enough, to make us happy. Natural riches have no power to fill the heart's most yearning affections; and how often do they take to themselves wings and fly away." "Enough, dear!" replied Edward Claire, smiling. "O no, not enough, by any means. Five hundred dollars a year is but a meagre sum. What does it procure for us? Only these two rooms and the commonest necessaries of life. We cannot even afford the constant service of a domestic." "Why, Edward! what has come over you? Have I complained?" "No, dear, no. But think you I have no ambition to see my wife take a higher place than this?" "Ambition! Do not again use that word," said Edith, very earnestly. "What has love to do with ambition? What have we to do with the world and its higher places? Will a more elegant home secure for us a purer joy than we have known and still know in this our Eden? Oh, my husband! do not let such thoughts come into your mind. Let us be content with what God in his wisdom provides, assured that it is best for us. In envying the good of another, we destroy our own good. There is a higher wealth than gold, Edward; and it supplies higher wants. There are riches without wings; they lie scattered about our feet; we may fill our coffers, if we will. Treasures of good affections and true thoughts are worth more than all earthly riches, and will bear us far more safely and happily through the world; such treasures are given to all who will receive them, and given in lavish abundance. Let us secure of this wealth, Edward, a liberal share." "Mere treasures of the mind, Edith, do not sustain natural life, do not supply natural demands. They build no houses; they provide not for increasing wants. We cannot always remain in the ideal world; the sober realities of life will drag us down." The simple-hearted, true-minded young wife was not understood by her husband. She felt this, and felt it oppressively. "Have we not enough, Edward, to meet every real want?" she urged. "Do we desire better food or better clothing? Would our bodies be more comfortable because our carpets were of richer material, and our rooms filled with costlier furniture? O no! If not contented with such things as Providence gives us to-day, we shall not find contentment in what he gives us to-morrow; for the same dissatisfied heart will beat in our bosoms. Let Mr. Jasper get rich, if he can; we will not envy his possessions." "I do not envy him, Edith," replied Claire. "But I cannot feel satisfied with the small salary he pays me. My services are, I know, of greater value than he estimates them, and I feel that I am dealt by unjustly." Edith made no answer. The subject was repugnant to her feelings, and she did not wish to prolong it. Claire already regretted its introduction. So there was silence for nearly a minute. When the conversation flowed on again, it embraced a different theme, but had in it no warmth of feeling. Not since they had joined hands at the altar, nearly two years before, had they passed so embarrassed and really unhappy an evening as this. A tempting spirit had found its way into their Paradise, burning with a fierce desire to mar its beauty. CHAPTER II. "Oh, what a dream I have had!" exclaimed Mrs. Claire, starting suddenly from sleep, just as the light began to come in dimly through the windows on the next morning; and, as she spoke, she caught hold of her husband, and clung to him, frightened and trembling. "Oh, such a dream!" she added, as her mind grew clearer, and she felt better assured of the reality that existed. "I thought, love, that we were sitting in our room, as we sit every evening--baby asleep, I sewing, and you, as usual, reading aloud. How happy we were! happier, it seemed, than we had ever been before. A sudden loud knock startled us both. Then two men entered, one of whom drew a paper from his pocket, declaring, as he did so, that you were arrested at the instance of Mr. Jasper, who accused you with having robbed him of a large amount of money." "Why, Edith!" ejaculated Edward Claire, in a voice of painful surprise. He, too, had been dreaming, and in his dream he had done what his heart prompted him to do on the previous evening--to act unfaithfully toward his employer. "Oh, it was dreadful! dreadful!" continued Edith. "Rudely they seized and bore you away. Then came the trial. Oh, I see it all as plainly as if it had been real. You, my good, true, noble-hearted husband, who had never wronged another, even in thought--you were accused of robbery in the presence of hundreds, and positive witnesses were brought forward to prove the terrible charge. All they alleged was believed by those who heard. The judges pronounced you guilty, and then sentenced you to a gloomy prison. They were bearing you off, when, in my agony, I awoke. It was terrible, terrible! yet, thank God! only a dream, a fearful dream!" Claire drew his arms around his young wife, and clasped her with a straining embrace to his bosom. He made no answer for some time. The relation of a dream so singular, under the circumstances, had startled him, and he almost feared to trust his voice in response. At length, with a deeply-drawn, sighing breath, nature's spontaneous struggle for relief, he said-- "Yes, dear, that was a fearful dream. The thought of it makes me shudder. But, after all, it was only a dream; the whispering of a malignant spirit in your ear. Happily, his power to harm extends no further. The fancy may be possessed in sleep, but the reason lies inactive, and the hands remain idle. No guilt can stain the spirit. The night passes, and we go abroad in the morning as pure as when we laid our heads wearily to rest." "And more," added Edith, her mind fast recovering itself; "with a clearer perception of what is true and good. The soul's disturbed balance finds its equilibrium. It is not the body alone that is refreshed and strengthened. The spirit, plied with temptation after temptation through the day, and almost ready to yield when the night cometh, finds rest also, and time to recover its strength. In the morning it goes forth again, stronger for its season of repose. How often, as the day dawned, have I lifted my heart and thanked God for sleep!" Thus prompted, an emotion of thankfulness arose in the breast of Claire, but the utterance was kept back from the lips. He had a secret, a painful and revolting secret, in his heart, and he feared lest something should betray its existence to his wife. What would he not have given at the moment to have blotted out for ever the memory of thoughts too earnestly cherished on the evening before, when he was alone with the tempter? There was a shadow on the heart of Edith Claire. The unusual mood of her husband on the previous evening, and the dream which had haunted her through the night, left impressions that could not be shaken off. She had an instinct of danger--danger lurking in the path of one in whom her very life was bound up. When Edward was about leaving her to go forth for the day, she lingered by his side and clung to him, as if she could not let him pass from the safe shelter of home. "Ah! if I could always be with you!" said Edith--"if we could ever move on, hand in hand and side by side, how full to running over would be my cup of happiness!" "Are we not ever side by side, dear?" replied Claire, tenderly. "You are present to my thought all the day." "And you to mine. O yes! yes! We _are_ moving side by side; our mutual thought gives presence. Yet it was the bodily presence I desired. But that cannot be." "Good-bye, love! Good-bye, sweet one!" said Claire, kissing his wife, and gently pressing his lips upon those of the babe she held in her arms. He then passed forth, and took his way to the store of Leonard Jasper, in whose service he had been for two years, or since the date of his marriage. A scene transpired a few days previous to this, which we will briefly describe. Three persons were alone in a chamber, the furniture of which, though neither elegant nor costly, evinced taste and refinement. Lying upon a bed was a man, evidently near the time of his departure from earth. By his side, and bending over him, was a woman almost as pale as himself. A little girl, not above five years of age, sat on the foot of the bed, with her eyes fixed on the countenance of her father, for such was the relation borne to her by the sick man. A lovely creature she was--beautiful even beyond the common beauty of childhood. For a time a solemn stillness reigned through the chamber. A few low-spoken words had passed between the parents of the child, and then, for a brief period, all was deep, oppressive silence. This was interrupted, at length, by the mother's unrestrained sobs, as she laid her face upon the bosom of her husband, so soon to be taken from her, and wept aloud. No word of remonstrance or comfort came from the sick man's lips. He only drew his arm about the weeper's neck, and held her closer to his heart. The troubled waters soon ran clear: there was calmness in their depths. "It is but for a little while, Fanny," said he, in a feeble yet steady voice; "only for a little while." "I know; I feel that here," was replied, as a thin, white hand was laid against the speaker's bosom. "And I could patiently await my time, but"---- Her eyes glanced yearningly toward the child, who sat gazing upon her parents, with an instinct of approaching evil at her heart. Too well did the dying man comprehend the meaning of this glance. "God will take care of her. He will raise her up friends," said he quickly; yet, even as he spoke, his heart failed him. "All that is left to us is our trust in Him," murmured the wife and mother. Her voice, though so low as to be almost a whisper, was firm. She realized, as she spoke, how much of bitterness was in the parting hours of the dying one, and she felt that duty required her to sustain him, so far as she had the strength to do so. And so she nerved her woman's heart, almost breaking as it was, to bear and hide her own sorrows, while she strove to comfort and strengthen the failing spirit of her husband. "God is good," said she, after a brief silence, during which she was striving for the mastery over her weakness. As she spoke, she leaned over the sick man, and looked at him lovingly, and with the smile of an angel on her countenance. "Yes, God is good, Fanny. Have we not proved this, again and again?" was returned, a feeble light coming into the speaker's pale face. "A thousand times, dear! a thousand times!" said the wife, earnestly. "He is infinite in his goodness, and we are his children." "Yes, his children," was the whispered response. And over and over again he repeated the words, "His children;" his voice falling lower and lower each time, until at length his eyes closed, and his in-going thought found no longer an utterance. Twilight had come. The deepening shadows were fast obscuring all objects in the sick-chamber, where silence reigned, profound almost as death. "He sleeps," whispered the wife, as she softly raised herself from her reclining position on the bed. "And dear Fanny sleeps also," was added, as her eyes rested upon the unconscious form of her child. Two hours later, and the last record was made in Ruben Elder's Book of Life. For half an hour before the closing scene, his mind was clear, and he then spoke calmly of what he had done for those who were to remain behind. "To Leonard Jasper, my old friend," said he to his wife, "I have left the management of my affairs. He will see that every thing is done for the best. There is not much property, yet enough to insure a small income; and, when you follow me to the better land, sufficient for the support and education of our child." Peacefully, after this, he sank away, and, like a weary child falling into slumber, slept that sleep from which the awakening is in another world. How Leonard Jasper received the announcement of his executorship has been seen. The dying man had referred to him as an old friend; but, as the reader has already concluded, there was little room in his sordid heart for so pure a sentiment as that of friendship. He, however, lost no time in ascertaining the amount of property left by Elder, which consisted of two small houses in the city, and a barren tract of about sixty acres of land, somewhere in Pennsylvania, which had been taken for a debt of five hundred dollars. In view of his death, Elder had wound up his business some months before, paid off what he owed, and collected in nearly all outstanding accounts; so that little work remained for his executor, except to dispose of the unprofitable tract of land and invest the proceeds. On the day following the opening of our story, Jasper, who still felt annoyed at the prospect of more trouble than profit in the matter of his executorship, made a formal call upon the widow of his old friend. The servant, to whom he gave his name, stated that Mrs. Elder was so ill as not to be able to leave her room. "I will call again, then, in a few days," said he. "Be sure you give her my name correctly. Mr. Jasper--Leonard Jasper." The face of the servant wore a troubled aspect. "She is very sick, sir," said she, in a worried, hesitating manner. "Won't you take a seat, for a moment, until I go up and tell her that you are here? Maybe she would like to see you. I think I heard her mention your name a little while ago." Jasper sat down, and the domestic left the room. She was gone but a short time, when she returned and said that Mrs. Elder wished to see him. Jasper arose and followed her up-stairs. There were some strange misgivings in his heart--some vague, troubled anticipations, that oppressed his feelings. But he had little time for thought ere he was ushered into the chamber of his friend's widow. A single glance sufficed to tell him the whole sad truth of the case. There was no room for mistake. The bright, glazed eyes, the rigid, colourless lips, the ashen countenance, all testified that the hour of her departure drew nigh. How strong, we had almost said, how beautiful, was the contrasted form and features of her lovely child, whose face, so full of life and rosy health, pressed the same pillow that supported her weary head. Feebly the dying woman extended her hand, as Mr. Jasper came in, saying, as she did so-- "I am glad you have come; I was about sending for you." A slight tremor of the lips accompanied her words, and it was plain that the presence of Jasper, whose relation to her and her child she understood, caused a wave of emotion to sweep over her heart. "I am sorry, Mrs. Elder, to find you so very ill," said Jasper, with as much of sympathy in his voice as he could command. "Has your physician been here to-day?" "It is past that, sir--past that," was replied. "There is no further any hope for me in the physician's art." A sob choked all further utterance. How oppressed was the cold-hearted, selfish man of the world! His thoughts were all clouded, and his lips for a time sealed. As the dying woman said, so he felt that it was. The time of her departure had come. An instinct of self-protection--protection for his feelings--caused him, after a few moments, to say, and he turned partly from the bed as he spoke-- "Some of your friends should be with you, madam, at this time. Let me go for them. Have you a sister or near relative in the city?" The words and movement of Mr. Jasper restored at once the conscious self-possession of the dying mother, and she raised herself partly up with a quick motion, and a gleam of light in her countenance. "Oh, sir," she said eagerly, "do not go yet. I have no sister, no near relative; none but you to whom I can speak my last words and give my last injunction. You were my husband's friend while he lived, and to you has he committed the care of his widow and orphan. I am called, alas, too soon! to follow him; and now, in the sight of God, and in the presence of his spirit--for I feel that he is near us now--I commit to you the care of this dear child. Oh, sir! be to her as a father. Love her tenderly, and care for her as if she were your own. Her heart is rich with affection, and upon you will its treasures be poured out. Take her! take her as your own! Here I give to you, in this the solemn hour of my departure, that which to me is above all price." And as she said this, with a suddenly renewed strength, she lifted the child, and, ere Jasper could check the movement, placed her in his arms. Then, with one long, eager, clinging kiss pressed upon the lips of that child, she sank backward on the bed; and life, which had flashed up brightly for a moment, went out in this world for ever. CHAPTER III. Leonard Jasper would have been less than human had he borne such an assault upon his feelings without emotion; less than human had his heart instantly and spontaneously rejected the dying mother's wildly eloquent appeal. He was bewildered, startled, even deeply moved. The moment he could, with propriety and a decent regard for appearances, get away from the house where he had witnessed so painful a scene, he returned to his place of business in a sobered, thoughtful state of mind. He had not anticipated so direct a guardianship of Ruben Elder's child as it was evident would now devolve upon him, in consequence of the mother's death. Here was to be trouble for him--this was his feeling so soon as there was a little time for reaction--and trouble without profit. He would have to take upon himself the direct charge of the little girl, and duly provide for her maintenance and education. "If there is property enough for this, well and good," he muttered to himself; he had not yet become acquainted with the real state of affairs. "If not," he added, firmly, "the loss will be hers; that is all. I shall have sufficient trouble and annoyance, without being put to expense." For some time after his return to his store, Jasper refrained from entering upon any business. During at least fifteen or twenty minutes, he sat at his desk, completely absorbed in thought. At length he called to Edward Claire, his principal clerk, and said that he wished to speak a few words with him. The young man came back from the counter to where he was sitting, wondering what had produced the very apparent change in his employer's state of mind. "Edward," said Mr. Jasper, in a low, serious voice, "there is a little matter that I must get you to attend to for me. It is not very pleasant, it is true; though nothing more than people are required to do every day. You remember Mr. Elder, Ruben Elder, who formerly kept store in Second street?" "Very well." "He died last week." "I noticed his death in the papers." "He has appointed me his executor." "Ah?" "Yes; and I wish to my heart he had appointed somebody else. I've too much business of my own to attend to." "Of course," said Claire, "you will receive your regular commissions for attending to the settlement of his estate." "Poor picking there," replied Jasper, shrugging his shoulders. "I'd very cheerfully give up the profit to be rid of the trouble. But that doesn't signify now. Elder has left his affairs in my hands, and I must give them at least some attention. I'm not coming to the point, however. A little while ago I witnessed the most painful scene that ever fell under my eyes." "Ah!" "Yes, truly. Ugh! It makes the chills creep over me as I think of it. Last evening I received regular notification of my appointment as executor to Elder's estate, and to-day thought it only right to call upon the widow, and see if any present service were needed by the family. Such a scene as I encountered! Mrs. Elder was just at the point of death, and expired a few moments after my entrance. Besides a single domestic and a child, I was the only witness of her last extremity." "Shocking!" "You may well say shocking, Edward, unprepared as I was for such an occurrence. My nerves are quivering yet." "Then the widow is dead also?" "Yes; both have gone to their long home." "How many children are left?" "Only one--a little girl, not, I should think, above four years of age." "Some near relative will, I presume, take charge of her." "In dying, the mother declared that she had no friend to whom she could leave the child. On me, therefore, devolves the care of seeing to its maintenance." "No friend. Poor child! and of so tender an age!" "She is young, certainly, to be left alone in the world." Jasper uttered these words, but felt nothing of the sad meaning they involved. "What disposition will you make of her?" asked Claire. "I've had no time to think of that yet. Other matters are first to be regarded. So let me come to the point. Mrs. Elder is dead; and, as far as I could see, there is no living soul, beyond a frightened servant, to do any thing. Whether she will have the presence of mind to call in the neighbours, is more than I can say. I left in the bewilderment of the moment; and now remember me that something is to be done for the dead. Will you go to the house, and see what is needed? In the next block is an undertaker; you had better call, on your way, and ask him to go with you. All arrangements necessary for the funeral can be left in his hands. Just take this whole matter off of me, Edward, and I will be greatly obliged to you. I have a good many things on my mind, that must receive close attention." The young man offered no objection, although the service was far from being agreeable. On his return, after the absence of an hour, Jasper had, of course, many inquiries to make. Claire appeared serious. The fact was, he had seen enough to touch his feelings deeply. The grief of the orphaned child, as he was a witness thereto, had brought tears upon his cheeks, in spite of every manly effort to restrain them. Her extreme beauty struck him at the first glance, even obscured as it was under a vail of sorrow and weeping. "There were several persons in, you say?" remarked Jasper, after Claire had related a number of particulars. "Yes, three or four." "Ladies, of course?" "Yes." "Did any of them propose to take the child home with them?" "Not directly. One woman asked me a number of questions about the little girl." "Of what nature?" "As to whether there were any relatives or particular friends who would take charge of her?" "And you told her there were none?" "Yes; none of whom I had any knowledge." "Well? What had she to say to that?" "She wanted to know if there would be any thing for the child's support. I said that there would, in all probability." "Well?" "Then she gave me to understand, that if no one took the child, she might be induced to board her for a while, until other arrangements were made." "Did you give her to understand that this was practicable?" "No, sir." "Why not? She will have to be boarded, you know." "I neither liked the woman's face, manner, nor appearance." "Why not?" "Oh, she was a vulgar, coarse, hard-looking creature to my eyes." "Kind hearts often lie concealed under unpromising externals." "True; but they lie not concealed under that exterior, be well assured, Mr. Jasper. No, no. The child who has met with so sad a loss as that of a mother, needs the tenderest guardianship. At best, the case is hard enough." Jasper did not respond to this humane sentiment, for there was no pity in him. The waves of feeling, stirred so suddenly a few hours before, had all subsided, and the surface of his heart bore no ripple of emotion. He thought not of the child as an object claiming his regard, but as a trouble and a hinderance thrown in his way, to be disposed of as summarily as possible. "I'm obliged to you, Edward, for the trouble you have taken in my stead," he remarked, after a slight pause. "To-morrow, I may wish you to call there again. Of course, the neighbours will give needful attention until the funeral takes place. By that time, perhaps, the child will have made a friend of some one of them, and secure, through this means, a home for the present. It is, for us, a troublesome business at best, though it will soon be over." A person coming in at the moment, Claire left his employer to attend at the counter. The new customer, it was quickly perceived by the clerk, was one who might readily be deceived into buying the articles for which she inquired, at a rate far in advance of their real value; and he felt instantly tempted to ask her a very high price. Readily, for it was but acting from habit, did he yield to this temptation. His success was equal to his wishes. The woman, altogether unsuspicious of the cheat practised upon her, paid for her purchases the sum of ten dollars above their true value. She lingered a short time after settling her bill, and made some observation upon a current topic of the day. One or two casually-uttered sentiments did not fall like refreshing dew upon the feelings of Claire, but rather stung him like words of sharp rebuke, and made him half regret the wrong he had done to her. He felt relieved when she retired. It so happened that, while this customer was in, Jasper left the store. Soon after, a clerk went to dinner. Only a lad remained with Claire, and he was sent up-stairs to arrange some goods. The hour of temptation had again come, and the young man's mind was overshadowed by the powers of darkness. "Ten dollars clear gain on that transaction," said he to himself, as he drew open the money-drawer in which he had deposited the cash paid to him by his late customer. For some time his thoughts were busy, while his fingers toyed with the gold and bills in the drawer. Two five-dollar pieces were included in the payment just received. "Jasper, surely, ought to be satisfied with one of these." Thus he began to argue with himself. "I drove the bargain; am I not entitled to a fair proportion of the profit? It strikes me so. What wrong will it be to him? Wrong? Humph! Wrong? The wrong has been done already; but it falls not on his head. "If I am to do this kind of work for him,"--the feelings of Claire now commenced running in a more disturbed channel; there were deep contractions on his forehead, and his lips were shut firmly,--"this kind of work, I must have a share of the benefit. If I am to sell my soul, Leonard Jasper shall not have the whole price." Deliberately, as he spoke this within himself, did Claire take from the drawer a five-dollar gold piece, and thrust it into his pocket. "Mine, not his," were the words with which he approved the act. At the same instant Jasper entered. The young man's heart gave a sudden bound, and there was guilt in his face, but Jasper did not read its true expression. "Well, Edward," said he, cheerfully, "what luck did you have with the old lady? Did she make a pretty fair bill?" "So-so," returned Claire, with affected indifference; "about thirty dollars." "Ah! so much?" "Yes; and, what is better, I made her pay pretty strong. She was from the country." "That'll do." And Jasper rubbed his hands together energetically. "How much over and above a fair percentage did you get?" "About five dollars." "Good, again! You're a trump, Edward." If Edward Claire was relieved to find that no suspicion had been awakened in the thoughts of Jasper, he did not feel very strongly flattered by his approving words. The truth was, at the very moment he was relating what he had done, there came into his mind, with a most startling distinctness, the dream of his wife, and the painful feelings it had occasioned. "What folly! What madness! Whither am I going?" These were his thoughts now, born of a quick revulsion of feeling. "It is your dinner-time, Edward. Get back as soon as possible. I want to be home a little earlier than usual to-day." Thus spoke Mr. Jasper; and the young man, taking up his hat, left the store. He had never felt so strangely in his life. The first step in crime had been taken; he had fairly entered the downward road to ruin. Where was it all to end? Placing his fingers, almost without thought, in his pocket, they came in contact with the gold-piece obtained by a double crime--the robbery both of a customer and his employer. Quickly, as if he had touched a living coal, was the hand of Claire withdrawn, while a low chill crept along his nerves. It required some resolution for the young man to meet his pure-hearted, clear-minded wife, whose quick intuitions of good or evil in others he had over and over again been led to remark. Once, as he moved along, he thrust his hand into his pocket, with the suddenly-formed purpose of casting the piece of money from him, and thus cancelling his guilt. But, ere the act was accomplished, he remembered that in this there would be no restoration, and so refrained. Edward Claire felt, while in the presence of his young wife, that she often looked into his face with more than usual earnestness. This not only embarrassed but slightly fretted him, and led him to speak once in a way that brought tears to her eyes. Not a minute longer than necessary did Claire remain at home. The fact that his employer had desired him to return to the store as quickly as possible, was an all-sufficient reason for his unusual hurry to get away. The moment the door closed upon him, his wife burst into tears. On her bosom lay a most oppressive weight, and in her mind was a vague, troubled sense of approaching evil. She felt that there was danger in the path of her husband; but of its nature she could divine little or nothing. All day her dream had haunted her; and now it reproduced itself in her imagination with painful distinctness. Vainly she strove to drive it from her thoughts; it would not be gone. Slowly the hours wore on for her, until the deepening twilight brought the period when her husband was to return again. To this return her mind looked forward with an anxiety that could not be repressed. The dreaded meeting with his wife over, Claire thought with less repugnance of what he had done, and was rather inclined to justify than condemn himself. "It's the way of the world," so he argued; "and unless I do as the world does, I must remain where I am--at the bottom of the ladder. But why should I stay below, while all around me are struggling upward? As for what preachers and moralists call strictly fair dealing, it may be all well enough in theory, pleasant to talk about, and all that; but it won't do in practice, as the world now is. Where each is grasping all that he can lay his hands on, fair or foul, one must scramble with the rest, or get nothing. That is so plain that none can deny the proposition. So, Edward Claire, if you wish to rise above your present poor condition, if you wish to get rich, like your enterprising neighbours, you must do as they do. If I go in for a lamb, I might as well take a sheep: the morality of the thing is the same. If I take a large slice off of a customer, why shall not a portion of that slice be mine; ay, the whole of it, if I choose to make the appropriation? All Jasper can fairly ask, is a reasonable profit: if I, by my address, get more than this, surely I may keep a part thereof. Who shall say nay?" Justifying himself by these and similar false reasonings, the young man thrust aside the better suggestions, from which he was at first inclined to retrace the false step he had taken; and wilfully shutting his eyes, resolved to go forward in his evil and dangerous course. During the afternoon of that day a larger number of customers than usual were in, and Claire was very busily occupied. He made three or four large sales, and was successful in getting several dollars in excess of fair profit from one not very well skilled in prices. In making an entry of this particular transaction in the memorandum sales-book, the figures recorded were three dollars less than the actual amount received. So, on this, the first day of the young man's lapse from honesty, he had appropriated the sum of eight dollars--nearly equal to his entire week's salary! For such a recent traveller in this downward road, how rapid had already become his steps! Evening found him again alone, musing and debating with himself, ere locking up the store and returning home. The excitement of business being over, his thoughts flowed in a calmer current; and the stillness of the deserted room gave to his feelings a hue of sobriety. He was not altogether satisfied with himself. How could he be? No man ever was satisfied with himself, when seclusion and silence found him after his first departure from the right way. Ah, how little is there in worldly possessions, be it large or small, to compensate for a troubled, self-accusing spirit! how little to throw in the balance against the heavy weight of conscious villany! How tenderly, how truly, how devotedly had Edward Claire loved the young wife of his bosom, since the hour the pulses of their spirits first beat in joyful unity! How eager had he ever been to turn his face homeward when the shadows of evening began to fall! But now he lingered--lingered, though all the business of the day was over. The thought of his wife created no quick impulse to be away. He felt more like shunning her presence. He even for a time indulged a motion of anger toward her for what he mentally termed her morbid sensitiveness in regard to others' right--her dreamy ideal of human perfection. "We are in the world, and we must do as it does. We must take it as it is, not as it should be." So he mused with himself, in a self-approving argument. Yet he could not banish the accusing spirit; he could not silence the inward voice of warning. Once there came a strong revulsion. Good impulses seemed about to gain the mastery. In this state of mind, he took from his pocket his ill-gotten gains, and threw them into the money-box, which had already been placed in the fire-closet. "What good will that do?" said he to himself, as the wave of better feelings began to subside. "All the sales-entries have been made, and the cash balanced; Jasper made the balance himself. So the cash will only show an excess to be accounted for; and from this may come suspicion. It is always more hazardous to go backward than forward--(false reasoner!)--to retrace our steps than to press boldly onward. No, no. This will not mend the matter." And Claire replaced the money in his pocket. In a little while afterward, he left the store, and took his way homeward. CHAPTER IV. As on the previous evening, Mrs. Claire was alone for some time later than usual, but now with an anxious, almost fearful looking for her husband's return. Suddenly she had taken the alarm. A deep, brooding shadow was on her heart, though she could not see the bird of night from whose wings it had fallen. Frequently, during the afternoon, tears had wet her cheek; and when an old friend of her mother's, who lived in the country, and who had come to the city in order to make a few purchases, called to see her, it was with difficulty she could hide her disturbed feelings from observation. The absent one came in at last, and with so much of the old, frank, loving spirit in his voice and manner, that the troubled heart of Mrs. Claire beat with freer pulsations. And yet something about her husband appeared strange. There was a marked difference between his state of mind now, and on the evening before. Even at dinner-time he was silent and abstracted. In fact, Edward Claire was, for the first time, acting a part toward his wife; and, as in all such cases, there was sufficient over-action to betray the artifice, or, at least, to awaken a doubt. Still, Edith was greatly relieved by the change, and she chided herself for having permitted doubt and vague questionings to find a harbour in her thoughts. During tea-time, Claire chatted freely, as was his custom; but he grew serious as they sat together, after the table was cleared away, and Edith had taken her sewing. Then, for the first time, he thought out of himself sufficiently to remember his visit to the house of death in the morning, and he said-- "I witnessed something this morning, dear, that has made me feel sad ever since." "What was that, Edward?" inquired the wife, looking instantly into his face, with a strongly manifested interest. "I don't think you knew Mr. Elder or his family--Ruben Elder?" "I have heard the name, nothing more." "Mr. Elder died last week." "Ah! What family did he leave?" "A wife and one child." Mrs. Claire sighed. "Did he leave them comfortably off in the world?" she asked, after a brief silence. "I don't know; but I'm afraid, he's not left much, if any thing. Mr. Jasper has been appointed the executor." "Mr. Jasper!" "Yes. This morning he called to see Mrs. Elder, and found her in a very low state. In fact, she died while he was there." "Edward! Died?" "Yes, died; and her only child, a sweet little girl, not five years old, is now a friendless orphan." "How very sad!" "Sad enough, Edith, sad enough. Mr. Jasper, who has no taste for scenes of distress, wished me to look after the funeral arrangements; so I went to the house, and attended to matters as well as I could. Ah me! It has cast a gloom over my feelings that I find it hard to cast off." "Did you see the child?" inquired Mrs. Claire, the mother's impulse giving direction to her thoughts. "Yes; and a lovely child it is. Poor thing!" "There are near relatives, I presume?" "None; at least, so Jasper says." "What is to become of the child?" "Dear above knows! As for her legal guardian, she has nothing to hope from his humanity. She will naturally find a home somewhere--a home procured for money. But her future comfort and well-being will depend more on a series of happy accidents than on the good-will of the hard-hearted man to whose tender mercies the dying parents have committed her." "Not happy accidents, Edward," said Mrs. Claire, with a tender smile; "say, wise providences. There is no such thing as chance." "As you will, dear," returned the husband, with a slight change in his tone. "I would not call that providence wise by which Leonard Jasper became the guardian of a friendless child." "This is because you cannot see the end from the beginning, Edward. The Lord's providence does not regard merely the external comfort and well-being of his creatures; it looks far beyond this, and regards their internal interests. It permits evil and suffering to-day, but only that good, a higher than earthly good, may come on the morrow. It was no blind chance, believe me, my husband, that led to the appointment of Mr. Jasper as the guardian of this poor child. Eternal purposes are involved therein, as surely as God is infinitely wise and good. Good to one, perhaps to many, will grow out of what now seems a deeply to be regretted circumstance." "You're a happy reasoner, Edith. I wish I could believe in so consoling a philosophy." "Edward!" There was a change in Mrs. Claire's voice, and a look blending surprise with a gentle rebuke in her countenance. "Edward, how can you speak so? Is not mine the plain Christian doctrine? Is it not to be found everywhere in the Bible?" "Doubtless, Edith; but I'm not one of the pious kind, you know." Claire forced a smile to his face, but his wife looked serious, and remarked-- "I don't like to hear you talk so, Edward. There is in it, to me, something profane. Ah, my dear husband, in this simple yet all-embracing doctrine of providence lies the whole secret of human happiness. If our Creator be infinite, wise, and good, he will seek the well-being of his creatures, even though they turn from him to do violence to his laws; and, in his infinite love and wisdom, will so order and arrange events as to make every thing conspire to the end in view. Both bodily and mental suffering are often permitted to take place, as the only agencies by which to counteract hereditary evils that would otherwise destroy the soul." "Ah, Edie! Edie!" said Claire, interrupting his wife, in a fond, playful tone, "you are a wise preacher, and as good as you are wise. I only wish that I could see and feel as you do; no doubt it would be better for me in the end. But such a wish is vain." "Oh, say not so, dear husband!" exclaimed Edith, with unexpected earnestness; "say not so! It hurts me almost like words of personal unkindness." "But how can I be as good as you are? It isn't in me." "I am not good, Edward. There is none good but God," answered the wife solemnly. "Oh yes, yes! You are an angel!" returned Claire, with a sudden emotion that he could not control. "And I--and I--" He checked himself, turned his face partly away to conceal its expression, sat motionless for a moment, and then burying his face on the bosom of his wife, sobbed for the space of nearly a minute, overcome by a passion that he in vain struggled to master. Never had Edith seen her husband so moved. No wonder that she was startled, even frightened. "Oh, Edward, dear Edward! what ails you?" were her eager, agitated words, so soon as she could speak. "What has happened? Oh, tell me, my husband, my dear husband!" But Claire answered not, though he was gaining some control over his feelings. "Oh, Edward! won't you speak to me? Won't you tell me all your troubles, all your heart? Am I not your wife, and do I not love you with a love no words can express? Am I not your best and closest friend? Would I not even lay down my life for your good? Dear Edward, what has caused this great emotion?" Thus urged, thus pleaded the tearful Edith. But there was no reply, though the strong tremor which had thrilled through the frame of Claire had subsided. He was still bowed forward, with his face hid on her bosom, while her arm was drawn lovingly around him. So they remained for a time longer. At length, the young man lifted himself up, and fixed his eyes upon her. His countenance was pale and sad, and bore traces of intense suffering. "My husband! my dear husband!" murmured Edith. "My wife! my good angel!" was the low, thrilling response; and Claire pressed his lips almost reverently upon the brow of his wife. "I have had a fearful dream, Edith!" said he; "a very fearful dream. Thank God, I am awake now." "A dream, Edward?" returned his wife, not fully comprehending him. "Yes, love, a dream; yet far too real. Surely, I dreamed, or was under some dire enchantment. But the spell is gone--gone, I trust, for ever." "What spell, love? Oh, speak to me a plainer language!" "I think, Edith," said the young man, after remaining thoughtfully silent for some time, "that I will try and get another place. I don't believe it is good for me to live with Leonard Jasper. Gold is the god he worships; and I find myself daily tempted to bend my knee in the same idolatry." "Edward!" A shadow had fallen on the face of Edith. "You look troubled at my words, Edith," resumed the young man; "yet what I say is true, too true. I wish it were not so. Ah! this passage through the world, hard and toilsome as it is, has many, many dangers." "If we put our trust in God, we need have no fear," said Edith, in a gentle yet earnest and penetrating voice, laying her hand lovingly on the hot forehead of her husband, and gazing into his eyes. "Nothing without can harm us. Our worst enemies are within." "Within?" "Yes, love; within our bosoms. Into our distrusts and unsatisfied desires they enter, and tempt us to evil." "True, true," said Claire, in an abstracted manner, and as if speaking to himself. "What more do we want to make us happy?" asked Edith, comprehending still more clearly her husband's state of mind. Claire sighed deeply, but made no answer. "More money could not do it," she added. "Money would procure us many comforts that we do not now possess," said the young man. "I doubt this, Edward. It might give more of the elegancies of life; but, as I have often said, these do not always produce corresponding pleasure. If they come, without too ardent seeking, in the good pleasure of Providence, as the reward of useful and honest labour, then they may increase the delights of life; but never otherwise. If the heart is set on them, their acquirement will surely end in disappointment. Possession will create satiety; and the mind too quickly turns from the good it has toiled for in hope so long, to fret itself because there is an imagined higher good beyond. Believe me, Edward, if we are not satisfied with what God gives us as the reward of useful toil to-day, we will not be satisfied with what he gives to-morrow." "Perhaps you are right, Edith; I believe you are. My mind has a glimpse of the truth, but to fully realize it is hard. Ah, I wish that I possessed more of your trusting spirit!" "We are both cared for, Edward, by the same infinite love--cared for, whether we doubt and fear, or trust confidingly." "It must be so. I see it now, I feel it now--see it and feel it in the light of your clearer intuitions. Ah, how different from this pure faith is the faith of the world! Men worship gold as their god; they trust only in riches." "And their god is ever mocking them. To-day he smiles upon his votary, and to-morrow hides his face in darkness. To-day he gives full coffers, that are empty to-morrow. But the true riches offered so freely to all by the living God are blessed both in the getting and in the keeping. These never produce satiety, never take to themselves wings. Good affections and true thoughts continually nourish and re-create the mind. They are the soul's wealth, the perennial fountains of all true enjoyment. With these, and sufficient for the body's health and comfort, all may be happy: without them, the riches of the world have no power to satisfy." A pause ensued, during which the minds of both wandered back a little. "If you feel," said Edith, recalling the words of her husband, "that there is danger in remaining where you are"-- "That was hastily spoken," Edward Claire interrupted his wife, "and in a moment of weakness. I must resist the evil that assaults me. I must strive with and overcome the tempter. I must think less of this world and its riches; and in my thoughts place a higher value upon the riches without wings of which you have spoken to me so often." "Can you remain where you are, and be out of danger?" asked Edith. "There is danger everywhere." "Ay; but in some positions more imminent danger. Is it well to court temptation?" "Perhaps not. But I cannot afford to give up my place with Jasper." "Yet, while remaining, you will be strongly tempted." "Jasper is dishonest at heart. He is ever trying to overreach in dealing, and expects every one in his employment to be as keen as himself." "Oh, Edward, do not remain with him a day longer! There is death to the spirit in the very atmosphere around such a man. You cannot serve such a master, and be true to yourself and to God. It is impossible." "I believe you are right in that, Edith; I know you are right," said the young man, with a strong emphasis on the last sentence. "But what am I to do? Five hundred dollars a year is little enough for our wants; I have, as you know, been dissatisfied with that. I can hardly get as much in another situation. I know of but one opening, and that is with Melleville." "Go back to him, Edward," said his wife. "And get but four hundred a year? It is all he can pay." "If but three hundred, it were a situation far to be preferred to the one you now hold." "A hundred dollars a year, Edith, taken from our present income, would deprive us of many comforts." "Think of how much we would gain in true inward enjoyment, Edward, by such a change. Have you grown happier since you entered the store of Mr. Jasper?" The young man shook his head sadly, and murmured, "Alas! no." "Can anything compensate for the anguish of mind we have both suffered in the last few hours, Edward?" There was a quick flushing of the face, as Edith said this. "Both suffered!" exclaimed Edward, with a look of surprise. "Ay, both, love. Can the heart of my husband feel a jar of discord, and mine not thrill painfully? Can he be in temptation, without an overshadowing of my spirit? Can he be in darkness, and I at the same time in light? No, no; that were impossible. You have been in great peril; I knew that some evil threatened you, even before you confessed it with your lips. Oh, Edward, we have both tasted, in the last few hours, a bitterer cup than has yet been placed to our lips. May we not be called upon to drink it to the very dregs!" "Amen!" fell solemnly from the lips of Edward Claire, as a cold shudder crept along his nerves. If there had been any wavering in his mind before, there was none now. He resolved to make restitution in the morning, and, as soon as opportunity offered, to leave a place where he was so strongly tempted to step aside from the path of integrity. The virtue of his wife had saved him. CHAPTER V. "Edward," said Mr. Jasper, on the next morning, soon after he came to the store, "Was any time fixed for the funeral yesterday?" "I believe not." "That was an oversight. It might as well take place to-day as to-morrow, or a week hence, if there are no intimate friends or relatives to be thought of or consulted. I wish you would take the forenoon to see about this troublesome matter. The undertaker will, of course, do every thing according to your directions. Let there be as little expense as possible." While they were yet speaking, the undertaker came in to make inquiry as to the funeral arrangements to be observed. "Is the coffin ready?" asked Jasper, in a cold, business manner. "It is," was the reply. "What of the ground? Did you see to her husband's funeral?" "Yes. I have attended to all these matters. Nothing remains but to fix the time, and notify the clergyman." "Were you at the house this morning?" asked Jasper. "I was." "Who did you find there?" "One or two of the neighbours were in." "No near relatives of the deceased?" "Not to my knowledge." "Was any thing said about the time for burying Mrs. Elder?" "No. That matter, I suppose, will rest with you." "In that case, I see no reason for delay," said Jasper. "What end is served?" "The sooner it is over the better." "So I think. Suppose we say this afternoon?" "Very well. The time might be fixed at five. The graveyard is not very distant. How many carriages shall I order?" "Not many. Two, I should think, would be enough," replied Jasper. "There will not be much left, I presume; therefore, the lighter the funeral expenses the better. By the way, did you see the child, when you were there this morning?" "No, sir." "Some neighbour has, in all probability, taken it." "Very likely. It is a beautiful child." "Yes--rather pretty," was Jasper's cold response. "So young to be left alone in the world. Ah, me! But these things will happen. So, you decide to have the funeral at five this afternoon?" "Yes; unless something that we do not now know of, interferes to prevent. The quicker a matter like this is over the better." "True. Very well." "You will see to every thing?" "Certainly; that is my business. Will you be at the house this afternoon?" "At the time of the funeral?" "Yes." "I think not. I can't do any good." "No,--only for the looks of the thing." The undertaker was already beginning to feel the heartless indifference of Jasper, and his last remark was half in irony, half in smothered contempt. "Looks! Oh! I never do any thing for looks. If I can be of any service, I will be there--but, if not, not. I'm a right up-and-down, straight-forward man of the world, you see." The undertaker bowed, saying that all should be as he wished. "You can step around there, after a while, Edward," said Jasper, as soon as the undertaker had retired. "When you go, I wish you would ascertain, particularly, what has been done with the child. If a neighbour has taken her home, make inquiry as to whether she will be retained in the family; or, better still, adopted. You can hint, in a casual way, you know, that her parents have left property, which may, some time or other, be valuable. This may be a temptation, and turn the scale in favour of adoption; which may save me a world of trouble and responsibility." "There is some property left?" remarked Claire. "A small house or two, and a bit of worthless land in the mountains. All, no doubt, mortgaged within a trifle of their value. Still, it's property you know; and the word 'property' has a very attractive sound in some people's ears." A strong feeling of disgust toward Jasper swelled in the young man's heart, but he guarded against its expression in look or words. A customer entering at the moment, Claire left his principal and moved down behind the counter. He was not very agreeably affected, as the lady approached him, to see in her the person from whom he had taken ten dollars on the previous day, in excess of a reasonable profit. Her serious face warned him that she had discovered the cheat. "Are you the owner of this store?" she asked, as she leaned upon the counter, and fixed her mild, yet steady eyes, upon the young man's face. "I am not, ma'am," replied Claire, forcing a smile as he spoke. "Didn't I sell you a lot of goods yesterday?" "You did, sir." "I thought I recognised you. Well, ma'am, there was an error in your bill--an overcharge." "So I should think." "A overcharge of five dollars." Claire, while he affected an indifferent manner, leaned over toward the woman and spoke in a low tone of voice. Inwardly, he was trembling lest Jasper should became cognizant of what was passing. "Will you take goods for what is due you; or shall I hand you back the money?" said he. "As I have a few more purchases to make, I may as well take goods," was replied, greatly to the young man's relief. "What shall I show you, ma'am?" he asked, in a voice that now reached the attentive ears of Jasper, who had been wondering to himself as to what was passing between the clerk and customer. A few articles were mentioned, and, in a little while, another bill of seven dollars was made. "I am to pay you two dollars, I believe?" said the lady, after Claire had told her how much the articles came to. As she said this, Jasper was close by and heard the remark. "Right, ma'am," answered the clerk. The customer laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter. Claire saw that the eyes of Jasper were on him. He took it up, placed it in the money-drawer, and stood some time fingering over the change and small bills. Then, with his back turned toward Jasper, he slipped a five dollar gold piece from his pocket. This, with a three dollar bill from the drawer, he gave to the lady, who received her change and departed. Other customers coming in at the moment, both Jasper and his clerk were kept busy for the next hour. When they were alone again, the former said-- "How large a bill did you sell the old lady from the country, who was in this morning?" "The amount was seven dollars, I believe." "I thought she said two dollars?" "She gave me a ten-dollar bill, and I only took three from the drawer," said the young man. "I thought you gave her a piece of gold?" "There was no gold in the drawer," was replied, evasively. Much to the relief of Claire, another customer entered, thus putting an end to the conference between him and Jasper. The mind of the latter, ever suspicious, was not altogether satisfied. He was almost sure that two dollars was the price named for the goods, and that he had seen a gold coin offered in change. And he took occasion to refer to it at the next opportunity, when his clerk's positive manner, backed by the entry of seven dollars on the sales' book, silenced him. As for Claire, this act of restitution, so far as it was in his power to make it, took from his mind a heavy burden. He had, still, three dollars in his possession that were not rightfully his own. It was by no means probable that a similar opportunity to the one just embraced would occur. What then was it best for him to do? This question was soon after decided, by his throwing the money into the cash-drawer of Jasper. On his way home to dinner that day, Claire called into the store of a Mr. Melleville, referred to in the conversation with his wife on the previous evening. This gentleman, who was somewhat advanced in years, was in the same business with Jasper. He was known as a strictly upright dealer--"Too honest to get along in this world," as some said. "Old Stick-in-the-mud," others called him. "A man behind the times," as the new-comers in the trade were pleased to say. Claire had lived with him for some years, and left him on the offer of Jasper to give him a hundred dollars more per annum than he was getting. "Ah, Edward! How do you do to-day?" said Mr. Melleville, kindly, as the young man came in. "Very well in body, but not so well in mind," was the frank reply, as he took the proffered hand of his old employer. "Not well in mind, ah! That's about the worst kind of sickness I know of, Edward. What's the matter?" "As I have dropped in to talk with you a little about my own affairs, I will come at once to the point." "That is right. Speak out plainly, Edward, and you will find in me, at least, a sincere friend, and an honest adviser. What is the matter now?" "I don't like my present situation, Mr. Melleville!" "Ah! Well? What's the trouble? Have you and Jasper had a misunderstanding?" "Oh no! Nothing of that. We get on well enough together. But I don't think its a good place for a young man to be in, sir!" "Why not?" "I can be plain with you. In a word, Mr. Jasper is not an honest dealer; and he expects his clerks to do pretty much as he does." Mr. Melleville shook his head and looked grave. "To tell the truth," continued Edward, "I have suffered myself to fall, almost insensibly, into his way of doing business, until I have become an absolute cheat--taking, sometimes, double and treble profit from a customer who happened to be ignorant about prices." "Edward!" exclaimed the old man, an expression of painful surprise settling on his countenance. "It is all too true, Mr. Melleville--all too true. And I don't think it good for me to remain with Mr. Jasper." "What does he give you now?" "The same as at first. Five hundred dollars." The old man bent his head and thought for a few moments. "His system of unfair dealing toward his customers is your principal objection to Mr. Jasper?" "That is one objection, and a very serious one, too: particularly as I am required to be as unjust to customers as himself. But there is still another reason why I wish to get away from this situation. Mr. Jasper seems to think and care for nothing but money-getting. In his mind, gold is the highest good. To a far greater extent than I was, until very recently, aware, have I fallen, by slow degrees, into his way of thinking and feeling; until I have grown dissatisfied with my position. Temptation has come, as a natural result; and, before I dreamed that my feet were wandering from the path of safety, I have found myself on the brink of a fearful precipice." "My dear young friend!" said Mr. Melleville, visibly moved, "this is dreadful!" "It is dreadful. I can scarcely realize that it is so," replied Claire, also exhibiting emotion. "You ought not to remain in the employment of Leonard Jasper. That, at least, is plain. Better, far better, to subsist on bread and water, than to live sumptuously on the ill-gotten gold of such a man." "Yes, yes, Mr. Melleville, I feel all the truth of what you affirm, and am resolved to seek for another place. Did you not say, when we parted two years ago, that if ever I wished to return, you would endeavour to make an opening for me?" "I did, Edward; and can readily bring you in now, as one of my young men is going to leave me for a higher salary than I can afford to pay. There is one drawback, however." "What is that, Mr. Melleville?" "The salary will be only four hundred dollars a year." "I shall expect no more from you." "But can you live on that sum now? Remember, that you have been receiving five hundred dollars, and that your wants have been graduated by your rate of income. Let me ask--have you saved any thing since you were married?" "Nothing." "So much the worse. You will find it difficult to fall back upon a reduced salary. How far can you rely on your wife's co-operation?" "To the fullest extent. I have already suggested to her the change, and she desires, above all things, that I make it." "Does she understand the ground of this proposed change?" asked Mr. Melleville. "Clearly." "And is willing to meet privation--to step down into even a humbler sphere, so that her husband be removed from the tempting influence of the god of this world?" "She is, Mr. Melleville. Ah! I only wish that I could look upon life as she does. That I could see as clearly--that I could gather, as she is gathering them in her daily walk, the riches that have no wings." "Thank God for such a treasure, Edward! She is worth more than the wealth of the Indies. With such an angel to walk by your side, you need feel no evil." "You will give me a situation, then, Mr. Melleville?" "Yes, Edward," replied the old man. "Then I will notify Mr. Jasper this afternoon, and enter your service on the first of the coming month. My heart is lighter already. Good day." And Edward hurried off home. During the afternoon he found no opportunity to speak to Mr. Jasper on the subject first in his thoughts, as that individual wished him to attend Mrs. Elder's funeral, and gather for him all possible information about the child. It was late when he came back from the burial-ground--so late that he concluded not to return, on that evening, to the store. In the carriage in which he rode, was the clergyman who officiated, and the orphan child who, though but half comprehending her loss, was yet overwhelmed with sorrow. On their way back, the clergyman asked to be left at his own dwelling; and this was done. Claire was then alone with the child, who shrank close to him in the carriage. He did not speak to her; nor did she do more than lift, now and then, her large, soft, tear-suffused eyes to his face. Arrived, at length, at the dwelling from which they had just borne forth the dead, Claire gently lifted out the child, and entered the house with her. Two persons only were within, the domestic and the woman who, on the day previous, had spoken of taking to her own home the little orphaned one. The former had on her shawl and bonnet, and said that she was about going away. "You will not leave this child here alone," said Edward. "I will take her for the present," spoke up the other. "Would you like to go home with me, Fanny?" addressing the child. "Come,"--and she held out her hands. But the child shrank closer to the side of Edward, and looked up into his face with a silent appeal that his heart could not resist. "Thank you, ma'am," he returned politely. "But we won't trouble you to do that. I will take her to my own home for the present. Would you like to go with me, dear?" Fanny answered with a grateful look, as she lifted her beautiful eyes again to his face. And so, after the woman and the domestic had departed, Edward Claire locked up the house, and taking the willing child by the hand, led her away to his own humble dwelling. Having turned himself resolutely away from evil, already were the better impulses of his nature quickened into active life. A beautiful humanity was rising up to fill the place so recently about to be consecrated to the worship of a hideous selfishness. CHAPTER VI. Edward Claire was in no doubt as to the reception the motherless child would receive from his kind-hearted wife. A word or two of explanation enabled her to comprehend the feeling from which he had acted. "You were right, Edward," said she in hearty approval. "I am glad you brought her home. Come, dear," speaking to the wondering, partly shrinking orphan, "let me take off your bonnet." She kissed the child's sweet lips and then gazed for some moments into her face, pleased, yet half surprised, at her remarkable beauty. Little Fanny felt that she was among friends. The sad expression of her face soon wore off, light came back to her eyes, and her prattling tongue released itself from a long silence. An hour afterward, when she was laid to sleep in a temporary bed, made for her on the floor, her heavy eyelids fell quickly, with their long lashes upon her cheeks, and she was soon in the world of dreams. Then followed a long and serious conference between Edward and his wife. "I saw Mr. Melleville to-day," said the former. "Did you? I am glad of that," was answered. "He will give me a place." "Glad again." "But, Edith, as I supposed, he can only pay me a salary of four hundred dollars." "No matter," was the prompt reply; "it is better than five hundred where you are." "Can we live on it, Edith?" Edward spoke in a troubled voice. "Why not? It is but to use a little more economy in our expenses--to live on two dollars a week less than we now spend; and that will not be very hard to do. Trust it to me, dear. I will bring the account out even. And we will be just as happy. As happy? Oh, a thousand times happier! A hundred dollars! How poorly will that compensate for broken peace and a disquieted conscience. Edward, is it possible for you to remain where you are, and be innocent?" "I fear not, Edith," was the unhesitating reply. "And yet, dear, I should be man enough, should have integrity enough, to resist the temptations that might come in my way." "Do not think of remaining where you are," said the young wife earnestly. "If Mr. Melleville will pay you four hundred dollars a year, take his offer and leave Mr. Jasper. It will be a gain rather than a loss to us." "A gain, Edith?" "Yes, a gain in all that is worth having in life--peace of mind flowing from a consciousness of right action. Will money buy this? No, Edward. Highly as riches are esteemed--the one great good in life as they are regarded--they never have given and never will give this best of all blessings. How little, how very little of the world's happiness, after all, flows from the possession of money. Did you ever think of that, Edward?" "Perhaps not." "And yet, is it not worth a passing thought? Mr. and Mrs. Casswell are rich--we are poor. Which do you think the happiest?" "Oh, we are happiest, a thousand times," said Edward warmly. "I would not exchange places with him, were he worth a million for every thousand." "Nor I with his wife," returned Edith. "So money, in their case, does not give happiness. Now look at William Everhart and his wife. When we were married they occupied two rooms, at a low rent, as we now do. Their income was just what ours has been. Well, they enjoyed life. We visited them frequently, and they often called to see us. But for a little ambition on the part of both to make some show, they would have possessed a large share of that inestimable blessing, contentment. After a while, William's salary was raised to one thousand dollars. Then they must have a whole house to themselves, as if their two nice rooms were not as large and comfortable, and as well suited to their real wants as before. They must, also, have showy furniture for their friends to look at. Were they any happier for this change?--for this marked improvement in their external condition? We have talked this over before, Edward. No, they were not. In fact, they were not so comfortable. With added means had come a whole train of clamorous wants, that even the doubled salary could not supply." "Everhart gets fifteen hundred a year, now," remarked Claire. "That will account, then," said Edith, smiling, "for Emma's unsettled state of mind when I last saw her. New wants have been created; and they have disturbed the former tranquillity." "All are not so foolish as they have been. I think we might bear an increased income without the drawbacks that have attended theirs." "If it had been best for us, my husband, God would have provided it. It is in his loving-kindness that he has opened the way so opportunely for you to leave the path of doubt and danger for one of confidence and safety; and, in doing it, he has really increased your salary." "Increased it, Edith! Why do you say that?" "Will we not be happier for the change?" asked Edith, smiling. "I believe so." "Then, surely, the salary is increased by so much of heartfelt pleasure. Why do you desire an increase rather than a diminution of income?" "In order to procure more of the comforts of life," was answered. "Comfort for the body, and satisfaction for the mind?" "Yes." "Could our bodies really enjoy more than they now enjoy? They are warmly clothed, fully fed, and are in good health. Is it not so?" "It is." "Then, if by taking Mr. Melleville's offer, you lose nothing for the body, and gain largely for the mind, is not your income increased?" "Ah, Edith!" said Claire, fondly, "you are a wonderful reasoner. Who will gainsay such arguments?" "Do I not argue fairly? Are not my positions sound, and my deductions clearly brought forth?" "If I could always see and feel as I do now," said Claire, in a low, pleased tone of voice, "how smoothly would life glide onward. Money is not every thing. Ah! how fully that is seen. There are possessions not to be bought with gold." "And they are mental possessions--states of the mind, Edward," spoke up Edith quickly. "Riches that never fade, nor fail; that take to themselves no wings. Oh, let us gather of these abundantly, as we walk on our way through life." "Heaven has indeed blessed me." Such was the heartfelt admission of Edward Claire, made in the silence of his own thoughts. "With a different wife--a lover of the world and its poor vanities--how imminent would have been my danger! Alas! scarcely any thing less than a miracle would have saved me. I shudder as I realize the fearful danger through which I have just passed. I thank God for so good a wife." The first inquiry made by Jasper, when he met Edward on the next morning, was in relation to what he had seen at the funeral, and, particularly, as to the disposition that had been made of the child. "I took her home with me," was replied, in answer to a direct question. "You did!" Jasper seemed taken by surprise. "How came that, Edward?" "When I returned from the cemetery, I found the domestic ready to leave the house. Of course the poor child could not remain there alone; so I took her home with me for the night." "How did your wife like that?" asked Jasper, with something in his tone that showed a personal interest in the reply. "Very well. I did just what she would have done under the circumstances." "You have only one child, I believe?" said Jasper, after a pause of some moments. "That is all." "Only three in family?" "Only three." "How would you like to increase it? Suppose you keep this child of Elder's, now she is with you. I have been looking a little into the affairs of the estate, and find that there are two houses, unincumbered, that are rented each for two hundred and fifty dollars a year. Of course, you will receive a reasonable sum for taking care of the child. What do you say to it? As executor, I will pay you five dollars a week for boarding and clothing her until she is twelve years of age. After that, a new arrangement can be made." "I can't give an answer until I consult my wife," said Claire, in reply to so unexpected a proposition. "Urge her to accept the offer, Edward. Just think what it will add to your income. I'm sure it won't cost you one-half the sum, weekly, that I have specified, to find the child in every thing." "Perhaps not. But all will depend on my wife. We are living, now, in two rooms, and keep no domestic. An addition of one to our family might so increase her care and labour as to make a servant necessary. Then we should have to have an additional room; the rent of which and the wages and board of the servant would amount to nearly as much as we would receive from you on account of the child." "Yes, I see that," returned Jasper. And he mused for some moments. He was particularly anxious that Claire should take the orphan, for then all the trouble of looking after and caring for her would be taken from him, and that would be a good deal gained. "I'll tell you what, Edward," he added. "If you will take her, I will call the sum six dollars a week--or three hundred a year. That will make the matter perfectly easy. If your wife does not seem at first inclined, talk to her seriously. This addition to your income will be a great help. To show her that I am perfectly in earnest, and that you can depend on receiving the sum specified, I will draw up a little agreement, which, if all parties are satisfied, can be signed at once." Claire promised to talk the matter over with his wife at dinner-time. The morning did not pass without varied assaults upon the young man's recent good resolutions. Several times he had customers in from whom it would have been easy to get more than a fair profit, but he steadily adhered to what he believed to be right, notwithstanding Jasper once or twice expressed dissatisfaction at his not having made better sales, and particularly at his failing to sell a piece of cloth, because he would not pledge his word as to its colour and quality--neither of which were good. The proposition of Jasper for him to make, in his family, a place for the orphan, caused Claire to postpone the announcement of his intention to leave his service, until after he had seen and conferred with his wife. At the usual dinner-hour, Claire returned home. His mind had become by this time somewhat disturbed. The long-cherished love of money, subdued for a brief season, was becoming active again. Here were six dollars to be added, weekly, to his income, provided his wife approved the arrangement,--and it was to come through Jasper. The more he thought of this increase, the more his natural cupidity was stirred, and the less willing he felt to give up the proposed one hundred dollars in his salary. If he persisted in leaving Jasper, there would, in all probability, be a breach between them, and this would, he felt certain, prevent an arrangement that he liked better and better the more he thought about it. He was in this state of mind when he arrived at home. On pushing open the door of their sitting-room, the attention of Claire was arrested by the animated expression of his wife's face. She raised her finger to enjoin silence. Tripping lightly to his side, she drew her arm within his, and whispered-- "Come into the chamber, dear--tread softly--there, isn't that sweet?--isn't it lovely?" The sight was lovely indeed. A pillow had been thrown on the floor, and upon this lay sleeping, arm in arm, the two children. Pressed close together were their rosy checks; and the sunny curls of Fanny Elder were mixed, like gleams of sunshine, amid the darker ringlets that covered profusely the head of little Edith. "Did you ever see any thing so beautiful?" said the delighted mother. "What a picture it would make!" remarked Edward, who was charmed with the sight. "Oh, lovely! How I would like just such a picture! "She is a beautiful child," said Edward. "Very," was the hearty response. "Very--and so sweet-tempered and winning in her ways. Do you know, I am already attached to her. And little Edie is so delighted. They have played all the morning like kittens; and a little while ago lay down, just as you see them--tired out, I suppose--and fell off to sleep. It must have been hard for the mother to part with that child--hard, very hard." And Mrs. Claire sighed. "You will scarcely be willing to give her up, if she remains here long," said Edward. "I don't know how I should feel to part from her, even now. Oh, isn't it sad to think that she has no living soul to love or care for her in the world." "Mr. Jasper is her guardian, you know." "Yes; and such a guardian!" "I should not like to have my child dependent on his tender mercies, certainly. But he will have little to do with her beyond paying the bills for her maintenance. He will place her in some family to board; and her present comfort and future well-being will depend very much upon the character of the persons who have charge of her." Edith sighed. "I wish," said she, after a pause, "that we were able to take her. But we are not." And she sighed again. "Mr. Jasper will pay six dollars a week to any one who will take the entire care of her until she is twelve years of age." "Will he?" A sudden light had gleamed over the face of Mrs. Claire. "Yes; he said so this morning." "Then, why may not we take her? I am willing," was Edith's quick suggestion. "It is a great care and responsibility," said Edward. "I shall not feel it so. When the heart prompts, duty becomes a pleasure. O yes, dear, let us take the child by all means." "Can we make room for her?" "Why not? Her little bed, in a corner of our chamber, will in noway incommode us; and through the day she will be a companion for Edie. If you could only have seen how sweetly they played together! Edie has not been half the trouble to-day that she usually is." "It will rest altogether with you, Edith," said Claire, seriously. "In fact, Mr. Jasper proposed that we should take Fanny. I did not give him much encouragement, however." "Have you any objection, dear?" asked Edith. "None. The sum to be paid weekly will more than cover the additional cost of housekeeping. If you are prepared for the extra duties that must come, I have nothing to urge against the arrangement." "If extra duties are involved, I will perform them as a labour of love. Without the sum to be paid for the child's maintenance, I would have been ready to take her in and let her share our home. She is now in the special guardianship of the Father of the fatherless, and he will provide for her, no matter who become the almoners of his bounty. This is my faith, Edward, and in this faith I would have freely acted even without the provision that has been made." "Let it be then, as you wish, Edith." "How providential this increase of our income, Edward!" said his wife, soon afterward, while the subject of taking Fanny into their little household was yet the burden of their conversation. "We shall gain here all, and more than all that will be lost in giving up your situation with Mr. Jasper. Did I not say to you that good would come of this guardianship; and is there not, even now, a foreshadowing of things to come?" "Perhaps there is," replied Edward thoughtfully. "But my eye of faith is not so clear as yours." "Let me see for you then, dear," said Edith, in a tender voice. "I am an earnest confider in the good purposes of our Heavenly Father. I trust in them, as a ship trusts in its well-grounded anchor. That, in summing up the events of our life, when the time of our departure comes, we shall see clearly that each has been wisely ordered or provided for by One who is infinitely good and wise, I never for an instant doubt. Oh, if you could only see with me, eye to eye, Edward! But you will, love, you will--that my heart assures me. It may be some time yet--but it will come." "May it come right speedily!" was the fervent response of Edward Claire. CHAPTER VII. "Well, Edward, what does your wife say?" Such was the inquiry of Jasper, immediately on the return of his clerk from dinner. "There will be no difficulty, so far as she is concerned," the young man answered. "None, did you say, Edward?" "None. She is willing to take the child, under the arrangement you propose." "That is, for three hundred dollars a year, to find her in every thing?" "Yes; until she is twelve years of age." "So I understand it. After that, as the expense of her clothing and education will increase, we can make a new arrangement. Very well. I'm glad you have decided to take the child. It won't cost you six dollars a week, for the present, I am sure: so the additional income will be quite a help to you." "I don't know how that will be. At any rate, we are willing to take the child into our family." "Suppose then, Edward, we mutually sign this little agreement to that effect, which I have drawn up." And Jasper took a paper from his desk, which he handed to Edward. "I've no objection," said the latter, after he had read it over. "It binds me to the maintenance of the child until she is twelve years of age, and you to the payment therefor of three hundred dollars a year, in quarterly payments of seventy-five dollars each." "Yes, that is the simple statement of the matter. You see, I have prepared duplicates: one for you, and one for myself. I will sign them first." And Jasper took a pen and placed upon each of the documents his sign-manual. Claire did the same; and a clerk witnessed the signatures. Each, then, took a copy. Thus, quickly and fully, was the matter arranged. This fact of giving to the contract a legal form, was, under the circumstances, the very thing Claire most desired. He had already begun to see difficulties ahead, so soon as he announced his intention of leaving Jasper's service; particularly, as no reason that he could give would satisfy the merchant--difficulties growing out of this new relation as the personal guardian of little Fanny Elder. The signing of a regular contract for the payment of a certain sum of money, quarterly, for the child's maintenance, gave him a legal right to collect that sum, should Jasper, from any change of feeling, be disposed at some future time to give him trouble. This was something gained. It was with exceeding reluctance that Claire forced himself, during the afternoon, to announce his intention to leave Mr. Jasper. Had he not promised Mr. Melleville and his wife to do this, it would certainly have been postponed for the present; perhaps altogether. But his word was passed to both of them, and he felt that to defer the matter would be wrong. So, an opportunity offering, he said-- "I believe, Mr. Jasper, that I shall have to leave you." "Leave me, Edward!" Mr. Jasper was taken altogether by surprise. "What is the meaning of this? You have expressed no dissatisfaction. What is wrong?" The position of Edward was a trying one. He could not state the true reasons for wishing to leave his present situation, without giving great offence, and making, perhaps, an enemy. This he wished, if possible, to avoid. A few days before he would not have scrupled at the broadest equivocation, or even at a direct falsehood. But there had been a birth of better principles in his mind, and he was in the desire to let them govern his conduct. As he did not answer promptly the question of Jasper as to his reasons for wishing to leave him, the latter said-- "This seems to be some sudden purpose, Edward. Are you going to receive a higher salary?" Still Edward did not reply; but looked worried and irresolute. Taking it for granted that no motive but a pecuniary one could have prompted this desire for change, Jasper continued-- "I have been satisfied with you, Edward. You seem to understand me, and to comprehend my mode of doing business. I have found you industrious, prompt, and cheerful in performing your duties. These are qualities not always to be obtained. I do not, therefore, wish to part with you. If a hundred, or even a hundred and fifty dollars a year, will be any consideration, your salary is increased from to-day." This, to Edward, was unexpected. He felt more bewildered and irresolute than at first. So important an advance in his income, set against a reduction of the present amount, was a strong temptation, and he felt his old desires for money arraying themselves in his mind. "I will think over your offer," said he. "I did not expect this. In the morning I will be prepared to decide." "Very well, Edward. If you remain, your salary will be increased to six hundred and fifty dollars." To Claire had now come another hour of darkness. The little strength, just born of higher principles, was to be sorely tried. Gold was in one scale, and the heavenly riches that are without wings in the other. Which was to overbalance? The moment Claire entered the presence of his wife, on returning home that evening, she saw that a change had taken place--an unfavourable change; and a shadow fell upon her pure spirit. "I spoke to Mr. Jasper about leaving him," he remarked, soon after he came in. "What did he say?" inquired Edith. "He does not wish me to go." "I do not wonder at that. But, of course, he is governed merely by a selfish regard to his own interests." "He offers to increase my salary to six hundred and fifty dollars," said Edward, in a voice that left his wife in no doubt as to the effect which this had produced. "A thousand dollars a year, Edward," was the serious answer, "would be a poor compensation for such services as he requires. Loss of self-respect, loss of honour, loss of the immortal soul, are all involved. Think of this, my dear husband! and do not for a moment hesitate." But Edward did hesitate. This unexpected offer of so important an increase in his salary had excited his love of money, temporarily quiescent. He saw in such an increase a great temporal good; and this obscured his perception of a higher good, which, a little while before, had been so clear. "I am not so sure, Edith," said he, "that all these sad consequences are necessarily involved. I am under no obligation to deal unfairly with his customers. My duty will be done, when I sell to them all I can at a fair profit. If he choose to take an excess of profit in his own dealing, that is his affair. I need not be partaker in his guilt." "Edward!" returned his wife, laying her hand upon his arm, and speaking in a low, impressive voice--"Do you really believe that you can give satisfaction to Mr. Jasper in all things, and yet keep your conscience void of offence before God and man? Think of his character and requirements--think of the kind of service you have, in too many instances, rendered him--and then say whether it will be possible to satisfy him without putting in jeopardy all that a man should hold dear--all that is worth living for? Oh, Edward! do not let this offer blind you for a moment to the real truth." "Then you would have me reject the offer?" "Without an instant's hesitation, Edward." "It is a tempting one. And then, look at the other side, Edith. Only four hundred dollars a year, instead of six hundred and fifty." "I feel it as no temptation. The latter sum, in the present case, is by far the better salary, for it will give us higher sources of enjoyment. What are millions of dollars, and a disquiet mind, compared to a few hundreds, and sweet peace? If you remain with Jasper, an unhappy spirit will surely steal into our dwelling--if you take, for the present, your old place with Mr. Melleville, how brightly will each morning's sun shine in upon us, and how calmly will the blessed evening draw around her curtains of repose!" Edith had always possessed great influence over her husband. He loved her very tenderly; and was ever loth to do any thing to which she made opposition. She was no creature of mere impulse--of weak caprices--of captious, yet unbending will. If she opposed her husband in any thing, it was on the ground of its non-agreement with just principles; and she always sustained her positions with the clearest and most direct modes of argumentation. Not with elaborate reasonings, but rather in the declaration of things self-evident--the quick perceptions of a pure, truth-loving mind. How inestimable the blessing of such a wife! "No doubt you have the better reason on your side, Edith," replied her husband, his manner very much subdued. "But it is difficult for me to unclasp my hand to let fall therefrom the natural good which I can see and estimate, for the seemingly unreal and unsubstantial good that, to your purer vision, looms up so imposingly." "Unreal--unsubstantial--Edward!" said Edith, in reply to this. "Are states of mind unreal?" "I have not always found them so," was answered. "Is happiness, or misery, unreal? Oh, are they not our most palpable realizations? It is not mere wealth that is sought for as an end--that is not the natural good for which the many are striving. It is the mental enjoyment that possession promises--the state of mind that would be gained through gold as a means. Is it not so? Think." "Yes--that is, undoubtedly, the case." "But, is it possible for money to give peace and true enjoyment, if, in the spirit, even though not in the letter, violence is done to the laws of both God and man? Can ill-gotten gain produce heavenly beatitudes?--and there are none others. The heart never grows truly warm and joyous except when light from above streams through the darkened vapours with which earth-fires have surrounded it. Oh, my husband! Turn yourself away from this world's false allurements, and seek with me the true riches. Whatever may be your lot in life--I care not how poor and humble--I shall walk erect and cheerful by your side if you have been able to keep a conscience void of offence; but if this be not so, and you bring to me gold and treasure without stint, my head will lie bowed upon my bosom, and my heart throb in low, grief-burdened pulsations. False lights, believe me, Edward, are hung out by the world, and they lure life's mariner on to dangerous coasts. Let us remain on a smooth and sunny sea, while we can, and not tempt the troubled and uncertain wave, unless duty requires the venture. Then, with virtue at the helm, and the light of God's love in the sky, we will find a sure haven at last." "It shall be as you wish, Edith," said Claire, as he gazed with admiring affection into the bright and glowing face of his wife, that was lovely in her beautiful enthusiasm. "No--no, Edward! Don't say as _I_ wish," was her quick reply. "I cannot bear that you should act merely under my influence as an external pressure. If I have seemed to use persuasion, it has not been to force you over to my way of thinking. But, cannot you see that I am right? Does not your reason approve of what I say?" "It does, Edith. I can see, as well as feel, that you are right. But, the offer of a present good is a strong temptation. I speak freely." "And I thank you for doing so. Oh! never conceal from me your inmost thoughts. You say that you can see as well as feel that I am right?" "Yes; I freely acknowledge that." "Your reason approves what I have said?" "Fully." "This tells you that it will be better for you in the end to accept of four hundred dollars from Mr. Melleville, than to remain with Mr. Jasper at six hundred and fifty?" "It does, Edith." "Then, my husband, let the reason which God has given to you as a guide, direct you now in the right way. Do not act under influence from me--for then the act will not be freely your own--but, as a truly rational, and, therefore, a wise man, choose now the way in which an enlightened reason tells you that you ought to walk." "I have chosen, Edith," was the young man's low, but firm reply. "How?" The wife spoke with a sudden, trembling eagerness, and held her breath for an answer. "I will leave my present place, and return to Mr. Melleville." "God be thanked!" came sobbing from the lips of Edith, as she threw herself in unrestrained joy upon the bosom of her husband. CHAPTER VIII. "I don't just understand this," said Jasper to himself, after the interview with his clerk described in another chapter. "I thought him perfectly satisfied. He didn't say he was offered a higher salary. Ah! guess I've got it now. It's only a bit of a ruse on his part to get me to increase his wages. I didn't think of this before. Well, it has succeeded; and, in truth, he's worth all I've offered him. Shrewd, quick, and sharp; he's a young man just to my mind. Should he grow restless again, I must tempt him with the idea of a partnership at some future period. If business goes on increasing, I shall want some one with me whom I can trust and depend on more fully than on a clerk." Thus, in the mind of Jasper, all was settled; and he was fully prepared, on the next morning, when he met Edward to hear from him that he would remain in his service. A different decision took him altogether by surprise. "Where are you going?" he asked. Edward hesitated a moment ere replying. "Back to Mr. Melleville's." "To Melleville's! Will he give you more salary than I have agreed to pay?" "No," was the answer; "but I have reasons for wishing to accept the place he offers me." "Well, just as you please," said Jasper, coldly. "Every one must suit himself." And, with the air of a person offended, he turned himself from the young man. Soon after he went out, and did not come back for two or three hours. When he re-entered the store there was an angry flash in his eyes, which rested somewhat sternly upon Claire. "Let me say a word with you, Edward." There happened to be no customer in to engage the clerk's attention, and he retired, with his employer, to the back part of the store. Jasper then turned and confronted him with a stern aspect. "Well, young man!" said he sharply, "it seems that you have been making rather free with my good name, of late; representing me as a cheat and a swindler." For a few moments the mind of Claire was strongly excited and in a perfect maze of confusion. The blood mounted to his face, and he felt a rising and choking sensation in his throat. Wisely he forbore any answer until he had regained his self-possession. Then, with a coolness that surprised even himself, he said-- "That's a broad accusation, Mr. Jasper. Will you go with me to your authority?" Jasper was not just prepared for a response like this; and he cooled down, instantly, several degrees. "My authority is quite satisfactory," he returned, still manifesting angry feeling. "That you have been slandering me is plain; and, also, betraying the confidential transactions of the house. It is full time we parted--full time. I didn't dream that I was warming an adder to sting me?" "I must insist, Mr. Jasper," said Claire firmly, "that you give me your authority for all this. Let me stand face to face with the man who has so broadly accused me." "Then you deny it all?" "I shall neither affirm nor deny any thing. You have angrily accused me of having done you a great wrong. All I ask is your authority, and the right to stand face to face with that authority. This is no light matter, Mr. Jasper." "Well said, young man. It is no light matter, as you will, perhaps, know to your sorrow in the end. Don't suppose, for a moment, that I shall either forget or forgive this outrage. Leave me because I cheat in my business!" An expression of unmitigated contempt was on his face. "Poh! What hypocrisy! I know you! And let Mr. Melleville beware. He, I more than suspect, is at the bottom of this. But he'll rue the day he crossed my path--he will!" And Jasper ground his teeth in anger. By this time, Claire had become entirely self-possessed. He was both surprised and troubled; yet concealed, as far as possible, the real state of his feelings. "So far as Mr. Melleville is concerned," said he, "I wish you to understand, that I applied to _him_ for the situation." "Exactly! That is in agreement with what I heard. I was such a rogue that you could not live with me and keep a clear conscience--so you sought for a place with an honest man." Claire dropped his eyes to the floor, and stood musing for some considerable time. When he raised them, he looked steadily at his employer and said-- "Mr. Jasper, I never made use of the words you have repeated." "If not the very words, those of a like signification?" "To whom? There is no need of concealment, Mr. Jasper." Claire was feeling less and less anxious for the result of this conference every moment. "Speak out freely, and you will find me ready to do the same. There had been some underhand work here--or some betrayal of an ill-advised confidence. The former, I am most ready to believe. In a word, sir, and to bring this at once to an issue--your informant in this matter is Henry Parker, who lives with Mr. Melleville." The change instantly perceptible in the manner of Jasper showed that Edward's suspicion was right. He had, all at once, remembered that, during his conversation with Melleville, this young man was near. "I see how it is," he continued. "An eavesdropper has reported, with his own comments and exaggerations, a strictly confidential interview. Such being the case, I will state the plain truth of the matter. Are you prepared to hear it?" "Oh, certainly," replied Jasper, with a covert sneer in his voice. "I'm prepared to hear any thing." "Very well. What I have to say is now wrung from me. I did not wish to leave you in anger. I did not wish to draw upon me your ill-will. But, what is unavoidable must be borne. It is true, Mr. Jasper, as you have been informed, that I am not satisfied with your way of doing business." "How long since, pray?" asked Jasper, with ill-disguised contempt. "I did not like it in the beginning, but gradually suffered myself to think that all was fair in trade, until I found I was no better than a common cheat! Happily, I have been able to make a sudden pause in the way I was going. From this time, I will serve no man who expects me to overreach a customer in dealing. So soon as my mind was fully made up to leave your employment, I called to see my old friend, Mr. Melleville; stated to him, frankly and fully, what I thought and felt; and asked him if he could not make room for me in his store. Parker doubtless overheard a part of what we were saying, and reported it to you. I would, let me say in passing, much rather hold my relation to this unpleasant business than his. Mr. Melleville offered me my old salary--four hundred dollars--and I agreed to enter his service." "Four hundred dollars!" Jasper said this in unfeigned surprise. "Yes, sir; that is all he can afford to pay, and of course all I will receive." "And I offered you six hundred and fifty." "True." "Edward, you are the most consummate fool I ever heard of." "Time will show that," was the undisturbed reply. "I have made my election thoughtfully, and am prepared to meet the result." "You'll repent of this; mark my word for it." "I may regret your ill-will, Mr. Jasper; but never repent this step. I'm only thankful that I possessed sufficient resolution to take it." "When are you going?" "Not before the end of this month, unless you wish it otherwise. I would like to give you full time to supply my place." "You can go at once, if it so please you. In fact, after what has just passed, I don't see how you can remain, or I tolerate your presence." "I am ready for this, Mr. Jasper," coolly replied the young man. "How much is due you?" was inquired, after a brief silence. "Twenty-five dollars, I believe," answered Claire. Jasper threw open a ledger that lay on the desk, and, turning to the young man's account, ran his eyes up the two columns of figures, and then struck a balance. "Just twenty-seven dollars," said he, after a second examination of the figures. "And here's the money," he added, as he took some bills from the desk and counted out the sum just mentioned. "Now sign me a receipt in full to date, and that ends the matter." The receipt was promptly signed. "And now," sneered Jasper, bowing with mock deference, "I wish you joy of your better place. You will, in all probability, hear from me again. I haven't much faith in your over-righteous people; and will do myself the justice to make some very careful examinations into your doings since you entered my service. If all is right, well; if not, it won't be good for you. I'm not the man to forgive ingratitude, injury, and insult--of all three of which you have been guilty." "We will not bandy words on that subject, Mr. Jasper," said Claire--"I simply deny that I have been guilty of either of the faults you allege. As for an investigation into my business conduct, that you can do as early and as thoroughly as you please. I shall feel no anxiety for the result." Jasper did not reply. For a few moments the young man stood as if expecting some remark; none being made, he turned away, gathered together a few articles that were his own private property, tied them into a bundle and marked his name thereon. Then bowing to the merchant, he retired--oppressed from recent painful excitement, yet glad, in his inmost feelings, that a connection so dangerous as that with Jasper had been dissolved--dissolved even at the cost of making an enemy. CHAPTER IX. As no event of particularly marked interest occurred with those whose histories we are writing, during the next few years, we will pass over that time without a record. Some changes of more or less importance have taken place, in the natural progress of things; but these will become apparent as we pursue the narrative. A dull, damp November day was losing itself in the sombre twilight, when Edward Claire left the store of Mr. Melleville, and took his way homeward. An errand for his wife led him past his old place of business. As he moved along the street, opposite, he noticed a new sign over the door, the large gilt letters of which were strongly reflected in the light of a gas-lamp. It bore the words, JASPER & PARKER. Involuntarily the young man sighed. If he had remained with Jasper, there was little doubt but that his name would have been the one now associated with his in a copartnership. Parker was the young man who had betrayed the conversation between Claire and Mr. Melleville. His end in doing this was to gain the favour of Jasper, and thus secure the place left vacant by the departing clerk. He had succeeded in his purpose. Jasper offered him the situation, and he took it. Five years afterward, in which time Jasper had made money rapidly, he was elevated to the position of partner, with a fair interest in the business. He had been honest toward his employer, because he saw that through him there was a chance to rise. Honest in heart he was not, for he never scrupled to overreach a customer. Edward Claire, as we have remarked, sighed involuntarily. His own prospects in life were not what are called flattering. His situation with Mr. Melleville was now worth five hundred dollars a year, but his family had increased, and with the increase had come new wants. The condition of Mr. Melleville's business gave him no encouragement to hope for a larger income while in his service. Several times during the last two years he had made application for vacant places, but without success. Sometimes he felt restless and discouraged, as his vision penetrated the future; but there was ever a cheerful light at home that daily dispelled the coming shadows. Scarcely had the sigh lost itself on the air, when a hand was laid on his arm, and an old acquaintance said-- "Ah, Edward! How are you?" Claire seeing the face of his friend, returned the greeting cordially. "What have you been doing with yourself?" asked the latter. "It is months, I believe, since I had the pleasure of meeting you." "Busy all day," returned Clare, "and anchored at home in the evening. So the time is passing." "Pleasantly and profitably, I hope," said the friend. "Pleasantly enough, I will own," was answered; "as to the profit--if you mean in a money sense--there is not much to boast of." "You are still with Melleville?" "Yes." "At what salary?" "Five hundred." "Is that all? How much family have you?" "Three children; or, I might say four; but the fourth brings us three hundred dollars a year for her maintenance." "That is something." "Oh yes. It is quite a help." "By the way, Edward--the new store we just past reminds me of it--your old friend Jasper has just given one of his clerks, named Parker, an interest in his business." "So I am aware." "Jasper is doing first-rate." "He is making money, I believe." "Coining it. The fact is, Edward, you never should have left him. Had you kept that situation, you would have been the partner now. And, by the way, there was rather a strange story afloat at the time you took it into your head to leave Jasper." "Ah! what was it?" "It is said that you thought him a little too close in his dealings, and left him on that account. I hadn't given you credit for quite so tender a conscience. How was it, Edward?" "I didn't like his modes of doing business, and, therefore, left him. So far you heard truly." "But what had you to do with _his_ modes of doing business?" "A great deal. As one of his employées, I was expected to carry out his views." "And not being willing to do that, you left his service." "That is the simple story." "Excuse me, Edward, but I can't help calling you a great fool. Just see how you have stood in your own light. But for this extra bit of virtue, for which no one thinks a whit the better of you, you might this day have been on the road to fortune, instead of Parker." "I would rather be in my own position than in his," replied Claire firmly. "You would!" His companion evinced surprise. "He is in the sure road to wealth." "But not, I fear, in the way to happiness." "How can you say that, Edward?" "No man, who, in the eager pursuit of money, so far forgets the rights of others as to trample on them, can be in the way to happiness." "Then you think he tramples on the rights of others?" "I know but little, if any thing, about him," replied Claire; "but this I do know, that unless Leonard Jasper be a different man from what he was five years ago, fair dealing between man and man is a virtue in a clerk that would in nowise recommend him to the position of an associate in business. His partner must be shrewd, sharp, and unscrupulous--a lover of money above every thing else--a man determined to rise, no matter who is trampled down or destroyed in the ascent." "In business circles such men are by no means scarce." "I am aware of it." "And it is unhesitatingly affirmed by many whom I know, that, as the world now is, no really honest man can trade successfully." "That is more than I am ready to admit." "The sharpest and shrewdest get on the best." "Because it is easier to be sharp and shrewd than to be intelligent, persevering, industrious, patient, and self-denying. The eagerness to get rich fast is the bane of trade. I am quite ready to admit that no man can get rich at railroad speed, and not violate the law of doing as you would be done by." "Doing as you would be done by! O dear!" said the friend; "you certainly don't mean to bring that law down into the actual life of the world?" "It would be a happier world for all of us if this law were universally obeyed." "That may be. But, where all are selfish, how is it possible to act from an unselfish principle?" "Do you approve of stealing?" said Claire, with some abruptness. "Of course not," was the half-indignant answer. "I need not have asked the question, for I now remember to have seen the fact noticed in one of our papers, that an unfaithful domestic in your family had been handed over to the police." "True. She was a thief. We found in her trunk a number of valuable articles that she had stolen from us." "And you did right. You owed this summary justice as well to the purloiner as to the public. Now, there are many ways of stealing, besides this direct mode. If I deprive you of your property with design, I steal from you. Isn't that clear?" "Certainly." "And I am, to use plain words, a thief. Well, now take this easily to be understood case. I have a lot of goods to sell, and you wish to purchase them. In the trade I manage to get from you, through direct misrepresentation, or in a tacit advantage of your ignorance, more than the goods are really worth. Do I not cheat you?" "Undoubtedly." "And having purposely deprived you of a portion of your money, am I not a thief?" "In all that goes to make up the morality of the case, you are." "The truth, unquestionably. Need I proceed further? By your own admission, every businessman who takes undue advantage of another in dealing, steals." "Pretty close cutting, that, friend Claire. It wouldn't do to talk that right out at all times and in all places." "Why not?" "I rather think it would make some people feel bad; and others regard themselves as insulted." "I can believe so. But we are only talking this between ourselves. And now I come back to my rather abrupt question--Do you approve of stealing? No, you say, as a matter of course. And yet, you but just now were inclined to justify sharp dealing, on the ground that all were sharpers--quoting the saying of some, that no honest man could trade successfully in the present time. For the direct stealing of a few articles of trifling value, you hand a poor, ignorant domestic over to the police, yet feel no righteous indignation against the better-taught man of business, who daily robs his customers in some one form or another." "You are too serious by far, Edward," returned his companion, forcing a laugh. "Your mind has fallen into a morbid state. But you will get over this one of these times. Good evening! Our ways part here. Good evening!" And the young man turned off abruptly. "A morbid state," mused Claire to himself, as he continued on alone. "So thousands would say. But is it so? Is honesty or dishonesty the morbid state? How direct a question! How plain the answer! Honesty is health--dishonesty the soul's sickness. To be honest, is to live in obedience to social and divine laws; dishonesty is the violation of these. Is it possible for a diseased body to give physical enjoyment? No! Nor can a diseased mind give true mental enjoyment. To seek happiness in the possession of wealth obtained through wrong to the neighbour, is as fruitless as to seek bodily pleasure in those practices which inevitably destroy the health. To me, this is self-evident, and may God give me strength to live according to my clear convictions!" The very earnestness with which Claire mentally confirmed himself in his honest convictions, and especially his upward looking for strength in conscious weakness, showed that his mind was in temptation. He had felt somewhat depressed during the day, in view of his external relation to the world; and this feeling was increased by his observation of the fact that Parker had been advanced to the position of a partner to his old employer. It seemed like a reward for unfair dealing, while honesty was suffered to remain poor. The young man's enlightened reason--enlightened during five years' earnest search after and practice of higher truths than govern in the world's practice--strongly combated all the false arguments that were presented to his mind, during this season of his overshadowing. The combat was severe, and still continued on his arrival at home--causing his mind to be in a measure depressed. CHAPTER X. The increase of Claire's family had caused him, some time before, to remove from the two comfortable rooms in which were passed the first pleasant years of his married life. He now occupied a small house in a retired street, the rent of which, though moderate, drew pretty heavily on his income. But he had managed, through the prudent co-operation of his wife, not only to keep even with the world, but to lay by a small sum of money. Few homes, in the large city wherein dwelt this obscure family, were so full of all the elements of happiness. If, sometimes, the spirit of Claire was overshadowed by passing clouds--as would unavoidably happen from his contact with the world, and his own variant states--the evening's return to the bosom of his family, generally made all bright again. Little Fanny Elder, now ten years of age, had been steadily growing into his affections from the first. It is questionable whether his love for his own children was a purer passion. Older, by several years, than Edith, she had been to him more companionable; and had ever greeted his return at evening with warmer expressions of pleasure than were manifested by Edith, or the two younger children who had been added to the number of his household treasures. On this evening, as Claire drew nearer and nearer to his home, and his thoughts began to make pictures of the scene within, its light and warmth penetrated his feelings, and when he opened, at length, the door, he was himself again. First to bound into his arms was Fanny Elder. What a beautiful, fairy-like creature she was! How more than fulfilled the promise of her early childhood! Next came Edith, now six years of age, side by side with her brother Harry, a wild little rogue, and were only a few seconds behind Fanny in throwing themselves upon their father; while little baby Mary, as she sat on the carpet, fluttered her tiny arms, and crowed out her joyous welcome. What a merry romp they all had for the next two or three minutes. When quiet came back again, baby was sitting on one knee, Harry on the other, and Fanny leaning her face on the shoulder of her "father"--for so she called him with the rest--while her glossy curls were resting in sunny clusters upon his bosom. The memory of the child's former home and parents seemed to have faded almost entirely. If the past ever came back to her, like a dream, with its mingled web of sunshine and tears, she never spoke of it. Fully had she been taken into the hearts and home of her now parents; and she rested there as one having a right to her position. And the pure spirit who presided over this little Paradise, where was she? Present--observing all, and sharing in the delight her husband's return had occasioned. The expected kiss had not long been kept from her loving lips. Happy household! What have its inmates to envy in those around them? Within the circle of many squares were none so rich in all the elements of happiness. Soon after the evening meal was over, the children, after another merry romp with their father, went off to bed. When Mrs. Claire returned from the chamber, whither she had accompanied them, she held a letter in her hand. "I had forgotten all about this letter, Edward," said she. "It was left here for you, this afternoon." Claire took the letter and broke the seal, running his eye down to the signature as he unfolded it. "Leonard Jasper! What is this?" His brow contracted instantly, as he commenced reading the letter. It was brief, and in these words-- "MR. EDWARD CLAIRE--_Sir_: From this time I relieve you of the burden of my ward, Fanny Elder. Mrs. Jasper and myself have determined to take her into our own family, in order that we may give the needful care to her education. Call around and see me to-morrow, and we will arrange this matter. Yours, &c. LEONARD JASPER." The face of the young man had become pale by the time he had finished reading this letter; but that of his wife, who did not yet know a word of its contents, was almost white--the effect produced on her husband filling her with a vague alarm. "What is it, Edward?" she asked, in a low, eager whisper. "Jasper wants us to give up Fanny." Edith sank into a chair, exclaiming-- "Oh, Edward!" "But she is only ten years of age," said the husband, "and our contract is to keep her until she is twelve." "We cannot give her up," murmured Edith, tears already beginning to flow over her cheeks. "I never thought of this. What can it mean?" "Some sudden determination on the part of Jasper, and based on nothing good," was the reply. "But, as I said, our contract is binding until Fanny is twelve years of age, and I will never consent to its being broken. He was over anxious to hold me in writing. He did not value his own word, and would not trust mine. It was well. The dear child shall remain where she is." "But, after she is twelve, Edward? What then? Oh, I can never part with her," said Mrs. Claire, now weeping freely. "Two years will pass ere that time. Jasper may have other purposes in view when our present contract expires." "You will see him in the morning?" "O yes. I must understand all about this matter. What can it mean? 'Needful care to her education!' A mere hypocritical pretence. What does he care for her, or her education? What, in fact, does he know of her? Nothing at all. Has he ever called to see her? Has he ever made the first inquiry after her? No. There is something wrong, without doubt. This movement bodes no good to our dear child. But she has one friend who will stand between her and harm--who will protect her, if need be, at the risk of his own life." Claire, as his words indicate, had suffered himself to become much excited. Seeing this, his wife recovered, to some extent, her own self-possession, and spoke to him soothingly. "We will wait and see what it means," said she. "Mr. Jasper cannot force her away from us now, if he would." "After seeing him to-morrow, you can understand better what we are to expect. This note may have been written from some momentary feeling. I cannot think that he has a settled purpose to take the child from us." "Time will show," was the abstracted response. Not for years had so unhappy an evening been spent by Edward Claire and his wife; and when they retired, it was to pass the night in broken intervals of sleep. Early on the next morning, Claire called at the store of Jasper, who received him with cold politeness, and at once came to the matter uppermost in both their thoughts, by saying-- "You received my note?" "I did," was the reply. "Well? All right, I suppose?" "Fanny is not twelve years of age yet!" "Isn't she? Well, what of that?" There was some impatience in the manner of Jasper. "I agreed to take the care of her until she was twelve." "Well--well--suppose you did? I'm her guardian, and wish to have her now in my own family. If you agreed to keep her, I did not say that she should positively remain." "There was a contract signed to that effect," firmly replied Claire. "A contract! Humph! Are you sure?" "Very sure. You drew it yourself." "Have you a copy of it?" "I have." Jasper seemed thrown aback by this. He had not forgotten the contract, for all his affected ignorance thereof. He only hoped that Edward had, through carelessness, lost his copy. But he was mistaken. "A contract! A contract?" said Jasper, as if communing with his own thoughts. "I do remember, now, something of the kind. And so there was a written contract?" "Yes, sir; and I have a copy in your own hand." "And I am to understand, Edward, that notwithstanding my wish, as the child's legal guardian, and, therefore, the representative of her parents, to have her in my own family, that you will interpose a hasty-signed contract?" "Mr. Jasper," said the young man, changing his manner, "we have had this child in our family for over five years, and have grown strongly attached to her. In fact, she seems to us as one of our own children; and we, to her, are in the place of parents. To remove her would, therefore, be doing a great violence to our feelings, and I know it would make her unhappy. Let her remain where she is, and you may rest assured that she will be cared for as tenderly as our own." "No, Edward, it is no use to talk of that," replied Jasper, positively. "I wish, now, to have her in my own family, and trust that you will not stand for a moment in the way." "But, Mr. Jasper"-- "It will be of no avail to argue the point, Edward," said the merchant, interrupting him. "I was fully in earnest when I wrote to you, and am no less in earnest now. I am certainly entitled to the possession of my ward, and will not bear, patiently, any attempt on your part to deprive me of that right." There was an angry quivering of the lips, and a stern knitting of the brows, on the part of Jasper, as he closed this emphatic sentence. Claire felt excited, yet was so fully conscious of the necessity of self-control, that he quieted down his feelings, and endeavoured to think calmly. "Well, what do you say?" imperatively demanded Jasper, after waiting some moments for a reply. "We cannot part with the child," said the young man, in a low, appealing voice. "You _must_ part with her!" was the quick, resolute response. "Must? That is a strong word, Mr. Jasper." Claire's manner underwent another change, as was shown by the firm compression of his lips, and the steady gaze of his eyes, as he fixed them on the merchant. "I know it is strong, but no stronger than my purpose; and I warn you not to stand in my way. I've got an old grudge against you, so don't provoke me too far in this matter. A pretty affair, indeed, when _you_ attempt to come between me and my legal rights and duties." "Duties!" There was a stinging contempt in the young man's voice. The manner of Jasper had chafed him beyond all manner of self-control. "You forget to whom you are speaking," said the latter, offended now, as well as angry. "But we will not bandy words. Will you, without further trouble, give into my hands the child of Mr. Elder?" "I cannot do it, Mr. Jasper." "Speak positively. Will you, or will you not do as I wish?" "I will not," was the decided answer. "Enough." And Jasper turned away, muttering in an undertone, "We'll soon see who is to be master here." Claire lingered a short time, but, as Jasper showed no disposition to renew the conversation, he left the store, greatly disturbed and troubled in his mind. CHAPTER XI. When Edward Claire and his wife drew together on the evening of that day, after the children were in bed, both were calmer than at their previous interview on a subject that necessarily brought with it strong excitement of feeling. Both had thought much and felt much, and were now prepared to look calmly at the new relation affairs had so suddenly assumed. At dinner-time, Edward had related the substance of his interview with Jasper. "What can he do?" asked Edith, referring now to the muttered threat of that individual. "I don't know that he can do any thing more than withhold the regular sums heretofore paid for the support of Fanny. If he does that, I will collect them legally." "Can't he take her away by force? Won't the law compel us to give her up?" asked Edith, in a troubled voice. "Our contract gives us a right to her possession until she is twelve years of age. In that, the law will undoubtedly sustain us." "The law is very uncertain, Edward." "But our contract is plainly worded, and, in this State, private written contracts between parties to an agreement are good in law. At best, however, we can only keep her two years longer; that is what troubles me most." "We must do our duty by her," said Edith, endeavouring to speak calmly, "during that time; and wean our hearts from her as much as possible, so that the giving of her up, when it has to be done, will cause as little grief as possible. Poor child! It will be hard for her to leave us, and go to her new home. That thought is beginning to pain me most." "And such a home! I have seen Mrs. Jasper frequently, and, if my observation is correct, she is no true woman. Dress, it seemed to me, was all she cared for; and there was a captiousness and ill-temper about her, at times, that was, to say the least of it, very unbecoming." "And to her care we must resign this precious one," said Edith, with a sigh. "Oh, how the thought pains me! Dear, dear child!" "The time is yet distant," remarked Claire--"distant by nearly two years. Let it be our duty to prepare her as fully for the new relation as possible. Two years is a long time--many changes will take place, and among them, it may be, a change in the purpose of Mr. Jasper. We will hope for this, at least; yet wisely prepare for a different result." "As things now appear, I do not see what else remains for us to do. Ah me! How like lightning from a summer sky has this flashed suddenly over us. But, Edward, we must not, in the strong trial of our natural feelings, permit ourselves to forget that dear Fanny is in the higher guardianship of One who is infinitely wise and good. If she is to pass from our care to that of Mr. Jasper and his family, it is through His permission, and He will bring out of it good to all." "I can see that in my understanding, Edith," replied her husband; "but, it is hard to _feel_ that it is so." "Very hard, Edward. Yet, it is something--a great deal--to have the truth to lean upon, even though it seems to bend under our weight. Oh! without this truth, it seems as if I would now fall to the ground helpless. But, let us try and view this painful subject in its brightest aspect. It is our duty to the child to keep her, if we can, until she passes her twelfth year." "Clearly," replied the husband. "And you think we can do so?" "We have two advantages--possession and a written contract guaranteeing the possession." "True." "These on our side, I think we have little to fear from Jasper. The great trial will come afterward." To this conclusion, that is, to retain Fanny until her twelfth year, if possible--they came, after once more carefully reviewing the whole subject; and, resting here, they patiently awaited the result. With what a new interest was the child regarded from this time! How the hearts of Claire and his wife melted toward her on all occasions! She seemed to grow, daily, more and more into their affections; and, what to them appeared strange--it might only have been imagination--manifested a more clinging tenderness, as if conscious of the real truth. Weeks elapsed and nothing further was heard from Jasper. Claire and his wife began to hope that he would make no attempt to separate Fanny from them; at least not until her twelfth year. Let us turn to him, and see what he is doing, or proposing to do, in the case. Two or three days subsequent to the time when Claire received the notification from Jasper, just referred to, two men sat, in close conference, in the office of an attorney noted for his legal intelligence, but more noted for his entire want of principle. For a good fee, he would undertake any case, and gain for his client, if possible, no matter how great the wrong that was done. His name was Grind. The two men here introduced, were this lawyer and Jasper. "Do you really think," said the latter, "that, in the face of my guardianship, he can retain possession of the child?" "He has, you say, a copy of this contract?" Grind held a sheet of paper in his hand. "Yes. To think that I was such a fool as to bind myself in this way! But I did not dream, for a moment, that things were going to turn up as they have." "It is a contract that binds you both," said the lawyer, "and I do not see that you can go round it." "I must go round it!" replied Jasper, warmly. "You know all the quirks and windings of the law, and I look to you for help in this matter. The possession of that child, is, to me, a thing of the first importance." "After two years she will come into your hands without trouble, Mr. Jasper. Why not wait?" "Wait! I will not hear the word. No! no! I must have her now." "The law will not give her to you, Mr. Jasper," returned Grind, with the utmost self-possession. "The contract is clearly expressed; and it is binding." "Is there no way to accomplish my end?" said Jasper, impatiently. "There must be. I cannot be foiled in this matter. Even pride would forbid this. But, there are stronger motives than pride at work now." "Can you allege ill-treatment against the young man or his wife? Or neglect of your ward's comfort? Have they failed to do their duty by her in any respect?" "I should not wonder; but, unfortunately, I can prove nothing." "You might call for an investigation." "And if every thing was proved right on their part?" "The court would, most probably, return the child to their care. I am ready to take all necessary steps for you; but, Mr. Jasper, I very strongly incline to the opinion that the least noise you make in this matter, the better. Couldn't you--for a consideration in money, for instance--overcome the reluctance of Claire and his wife to part with the child? Honey, you know, catches more flies than vinegar." "Buy him off, you mean?" "Yes." "No--no! I hate him too cordially for that. He's a villain in disguise; that's my opinion of him. A low, canting hypocrite. Buy him off for money. Oh no!" "Could he be bought?" asked the lawyer. "Could he?" A flush of surprise lit up, for a moment, the face of Jasper. "What a question for _you_ to ask. Hasn't every man his price? Bought! Yes, I could buy him fifty times over." "Then do so, and in the quietest manner. That is my advice." "I'll steal the child!" exclaimed Jasper, rising up in his excitement, and moving uneasily about the room. Grind shook his head, as he replied-- "All folly. No man ever did a wise thing while he was in a passion. You must permit yourself to cool down a great many degrees before you can act judiciously in this matter." "But to be thwarted by him!" An expression of the deepest disgust was in the face of Jasper. "All very annoying, of course," was the response of Grind. "Still, where we can't make things bend exactly to our wishes, it is generally the wisest policy to bend a little ourselves. We often, in this way, gain a purchase that enables us to bring all over to our side." It must not be supposed that Grind, in giving his client advice that was to prevent an appeal to law, did so from any unselfish friendliness. Nothing of the kind. He saw a great deal to gain, beyond; and, in his advice, regarded his own interests quite as much as he did those of Jasper. He was not, however, at this interview, able to induce the merchant to attempt to settle the matter with Claire by compromise. The most he could do was to get him to promise, that, for the present, he would make no effort to get the person of the child into his possession. Jasper, when he left his lawyer, was less satisfied with him than he had ever been. In previous cases, he had found Grind ready to prosecute or defend, and to promise him the fullest success--though success did not always come. Several more consultations were held during the succeeding two or three weeks, and, finally, Jasper was brought over fully to his lawyer's way of thinking. CHAPTER XII. The minds of Claire and his wife were yet in a state of suspense, when, some weeks after the first interview, the former received a politely worded note from Jasper, requesting him to call at his store. He went, accordingly, and Jasper received him with marked suavity and kindness of manner, and, after making a few inquiries about his family, said-- "Edward: I believe I must confess to having been a little over-excited at our last interview. The fact is, I had forgotten all about that contract; and when you brought it to my mind so abruptly, I was thrown somewhat off of my guard, and said things for which I have since felt regret. So let what is past go. I now wish to have another talk with you about Fanny Elder. How is the child?" "She is very well." "And she has grown, I presume, finely?" "Yes. She's now quite a stout girl." "What kind of a child is she? Docile and obedient?" "None could be more so. A sweeter disposition I have never seen." "How are you getting on now, Edward?" Mr. Jasper's voice was kind and insinuating. "Comfortably," was answered. "What is your salary?" There was a momentary hesitation on the part of Claire, and then he replied-- "Five hundred dollars." "Is that all? I was under the impression that you received a thousand. I am very certain that some one told me so. Too little, Edward--too little. You are worth more than that to any one. Are you acquainted at Edgar & Co.'s?" "No." "I wish you were. One of their young men is going to leave, and they will have to fill his place immediately. The salary is twelve hundred." Claire's heart gave a quick bound. "Shall I speak to Edgar for you?" added the merchant. "If you will do so, Mr. Jasper," said Edward, with a sudden earnestness of manner, "I shall be greatly indebted to you. I find it a little difficult to get along on five hundred dollars a year." "How much family have you now?" "Three children." "Indeed. Oh yes, you should have a higher salary. I know you would just suit Edgar & Co., and I think the place may be secured for you." A few moments of silence followed, and then Jasper resumed-- "But, as just said, I wish to talk with you about this ward of mine. Your salary is so light that you, no doubt, find the income received through her quite a help to you?" "No--no," replied Claire; "it costs for her boarding, clothes, schooling, etc., quite as much as we receive." "It does?" Jasper manifested some surprise. "Oh yes. We have no wish to make any profit out of her." "That being the case, Edward," said the merchant, "why are you so reluctant to give her up?" "Because," was the reply, "both myself and wife have become strongly attached to her. In fact, she seems like one of our own children." "When she is twelve, you know," Edward, returned Jasper, "you will have to resign her. Our agreement only extends to that time." He spoke in a mild, insinuating, friendly tone of voice. So much so, in fact, that Claire, well as he knew him, was partially deceived and thrown off of his guard. "True; unless you have seen reason by that time, which we hope will be the case, to let her remain in her present home. Believe me, Mr. Jasper,"--Claire spoke earnestly--"that Fanny will take the parting very hard, if ever it comes." "As come it must, Edward, sooner or later," was the mild, yet firm response. "Are you so earnest about this, Mr. Jasper? I have flattered myself that you did not really care a great deal about having Fanny." "I am entirely in earnest, Edward," was the reply. "I may have seemed to you indifferent about this child, but such has not been the case. I have feelings and purposes in regard to her which I cannot explain, but which are near my heart. I see your position and that of your wife, and I feel for you. If compatible with what I conceive to be my duty, I would let her remain under your care. But such is not the case. Surely, it will be far better for both you and Fanny for the change that must come to be made now." The calm, kind, insinuating manner of Jasper disarmed Claire, and made him wish that he could meet the desire of his old employer, without the painful breach in his home circle which must be the consequence. With his eyes cast upon the floor, he sat silently communing with his own thoughts for some time. The announcement of a vacancy in the house of Edgar & Co., and the offer to try and get the situation for him, had flattered his mind considerably. If he did not make some compromise in the present case, he could count nothing on the influence of Jasper. But, how could he compromise? There was but one way--to give up Fanny--and that he was not prepared to do. Seeing that the young man remained silent, Jasper said-- "Edward, I will make you this very liberal offer. Understand, now, that I am deeply in earnest--that the possession of Fanny is a thing of great moment to me; and that to gain this desired object, I am prepared to go very far. If you will meet me in a spirit of compromise, I will become as I was some years ago, your friend; and I have the ability to aid any one materially. As just said, I will make you this liberal offer:--Let me have the child now, and for the next two years I will pay you the same that you have been receiving for her maintenance." Claire lifted his head quickly. There was already a flush on his cheeks and a sharp light in his eyes. "Stay--one moment," interrupted Jasper, who saw by the motion of his lips that he was about replying. "I will pay you the whole sum, six hundred dollars, in advance, and, in addition thereto, pledge myself to procure for you, within three mouths, a situation worth a thousand dollars per annum, at least." This was too broad an attempt to buy over the young man, and it failed. Starting to his feet, with a feeling of indignation in his heart so strong that he could not repress it, he answered, with knit brows and eyes fixed sternly and steadily on the merchant--"Leonard Jasper! I thought you knew me better! I am not to be bought with your money." As sudden was the change that passed over the merchant. He, too, sprang to his feet, and conscious that his offer of bribery, which he had humiliated himself to make, had failed, with clenched hand and set teeth, he fairly hissed out-- "You'll rue this day and hour, Edward Claire--rue it even to the moment of death! I will never forget nor forgive the wrong and insult. Don't think to escape me--don't think to foil me. The child is mine by right, and I will have her, come what will." Feeling how useless it would be to multiply words, Claire turned away and left the store. He did not go home immediately, as he had thought of doing, in order to relieve the suspense of his wife, who was, he knew, very anxious to learn for what purpose Jasper had sent for him; but went to his place of business and laid the whole substance of his interview before his fast friend, Mr. Melleville, whose first response was one of indignation at the offer made by Jasper to buy him over to his wishes with money. He then said-- "There is something wrong here, depend upon it. Was there much property left by the child's parents?" "Two houses in the city." "Was that all?" "All, I believe, of any value. There was a tract of land somewhere in the State, taken for debt; but it was considered of little account." "Regard for the child has nothing to do with this movement," remarked Mr. Melleville. "The character of Jasper precludes the supposition." "Entirely. What can it mean? The thing comes on me so suddenly that I am bewildered." Claire was distressed. "You are still firm in your purpose to keep Fanny until she is twelve years old?" "As firm as ever, Mr. Melleville. I love the child too well to give her up. If a higher good to her were to be secured, then I might yield--then it would be my duty to yield. But, now, every just and humane consideration calls on me to abide by my purpose--and there I will abide." "In my mind you are fully justified," was the reply of Mr. Melleville. "Keep me fully advised of every thing that occurs, and I will aid you as far as lies in my power. To-day I will call upon Edgar & Co., and do what I can toward securing for you the place said by Jasper to be vacant. I presume that I have quite as much influence in this quarter as he has." CHAPTER XIII. Scarcely had Edward Claire left the store of Jasper, ere the latter went out hurriedly, and took his way to the office of Grind, the lawyer, to whom he said, as he entered-- "It's just as I feared. The miserable wretch proved as intractable as iron." Jasper was not only strongly excited, but showed, in his voice and manner, that he had suffered no ordinary disappointment. "Couldn't you buy him over?" There was a mixture of surprise and incredulity in the lawyer's tones. "No," was the emphatic response. "That's strange! He's poor?" "He gets five hundred a year, and has a wife and three children to support." "Why didn't you tempt him with the offer to get him a place worth a thousand?" "I did." "With what effect?" "He wouldn't give up the child." "Humph!" "Isn't it too bad, that a mean-souled fellow like him should stand in our way at such a point of time? I could spurn him with my foot! Hah!" And Jasper clenched his teeth and scowled malignantly. "I am disappointed, I confess", said Grind. "But angry excitement never helped a cause, good or bad. We must have possession of this child somehow. Martin came down from Reading this morning. I saw him but an hour ago." "Indeed! What does he say?" "The indications of coal are abundant. He made very careful examinations at a great number of points. In several places he found it cropping out freely; and the quality, as far as he was able to judge, is remarkably good." "Will he keep our secret?" said Jasper. "It is his interest to do so." "We must make it his interest, in any event. No time is now to be lost." "I agree with you there. A single week's delay may ruin every thing. The coal is our discovery, and we are, in all equity, entitled to the benefit." "Of course we are. It's a matter of speculation, at best; the lucky win. If we can get an order for the sale, we shall win handsomely. But, without producing the child, it will be next to impossible to get the order. So we must have her, by fair means or by foul." "We must," said the lawyer, compressing his lips firmly. "And have her now." "Now," responded Grind. Jasper rose to his feet. "It's easy enough to say what we must have," remarked Grind, "but the means of gaining our ends are not always at hand. What do you propose doing?" "I shall get the child." "Don't act too precipitately. Violence will excite suspicion, and suspicion is a wonderful questioner." "We must play a desperate game, as things now are, or not play at all," said Jasper. "True; but the more desperate the game, the more need of coolness, forethought, and circumspection. Don't forget this. How do you mean to proceed?" "That is yet to be determined." "Will you make another effort to influence Claire?" "No." "Do you regard him as altogether impracticable?" "No influence that I can bring would move him." "You will, then, resort to stratagem or force?" "One or the other--perhaps both. The child we must have." "Let me beg of you, Jasper, to be prudent. There is a great deal at stake." "I know there is; and the risk increases with every moment of delay." Grind showed a marked degree of anxiety. "If the child were in our possession now," said Jasper, "or, which is the same, could be produced when wanted, how soon might an order for the sale be procured?" "In two or three weeks, I think," replied the lawyer. "Certain preliminary steps are necessary?" "Yes." "If these were entered upon forthwith, how soon would the child be wanted?" "In about ten days." "Very well. Begin the work at once. When the child is needed, I will see that she is forthcoming. Trust me for that. I never was foiled yet in any thing that I set about accomplishing, and I will not suffer myself to be foiled here." With this understanding, Jasper and the lawyer parted. A week or more passed, during which time Claire heard nothing from the guardian of Fanny; and both he and his wife began to hope that no further attempt to get her into his possession would be made, until the child had reached her twelfth year. It was in the summer-time, and Mrs. Claire sat, late in the afternoon of a pleasant day, at one of the front-windows of her dwelling, holding her youngest child in her arms. "The children are late in coming home from school," said she, speaking aloud her thought. "I wonder what keeps them!" And she leaned out of the window, and looked for some time earnestly down the street. But the children were not in sight. For some five or ten minutes Mrs. Claire played with and talked to the child in her arms; then she bent from the window again, gazing first up and then down the street. "That's Edie, as I live!" she exclaimed. "But where is Fanny?" As she uttered this inquiry, a sudden fear fell like a heavy weight on her heart. Retiring from the window, she hastened to the door, where, by this time, a lady stood holding little Edie by the hand. The child's eyes were red with weeping. "Is this your little girl?" asked the lady. "Oh, mamma! mamma!" cried Edie, bursting into tears, as she sprang to her mother's side and hid her face in her garments. "Where did you find her, ma'am? Was she lost?" asked Mrs. Claire, looking surprised as well as alarmed. "Won't you walk in, ma'am?" she added, before there was time for a reply. The lady entered, on this invitation, and when seated in Mrs. Claire's little parlour, related that while walking through Washington Square, she noticed the child she had brought home, crying bitterly. On asking her as to the cause of her distress, she said that she wanted Fanny: and then ran away to some distance along the walks, searching for her lost companion. The lady's interest being excited, she followed and persuaded the child to tell her where she lived. After remaining some time longer in the square, vainly searching for Fanny, she was induced to let the lady take her home. After hearing this relation, Mrs. Claire said to Edith, in as calm a voice as she could assume, in order that the child might think without the confusion of mind consequent upon excitement-- "Where is Fanny, dear?" "She went with the lady to buy some candies," replied the child. "What lady?" asked the mother. "The lady who took us to the square." "The lady who took you to the square?" said the mother, repeating the child's words from the very surprise they occasioned. "Yes, mamma," was the simple response. "What lady was it?" "I don't know. She met us as we were coming home from school, and asked us to go down and walk in the square. She knew Fanny." "How do you know, dear?" disked Mrs. Claire. "Oh, she called her Fanny; and said what a nice big girl she was growing to be." "And so you went down to the square with her?" "Yes, ma'am." "And what then?" "We walked about there for a little while, and then the lady told me to wait while she took Fanny to the candy-store to buy some candy. I waited, and waited ever so long; but she didn't come back; and then I cried." The meaning of all this, poor Mrs. Claire understood but too well. With what a shock it fell upon her. She asked no further question. What need was there? Edie's artless story made every thing clear. Fanny had been enticed away by some one employed by Jasper, and was now in his possession! With pale face and quivering lips, she sat bending over Edie, silent for several moments. Then recollecting herself, she said to the lady--- "I thank you, ma'am, most sincerely, for the trouble you have taken in bringing home my little girl. This is a most distressing affair. The other child has, evidently, been enticed away." "You will take immediate steps for her recovery," said the lady. "Oh, yes. I expect my husband home, now, every moment." While she was yet speaking, Claire came in. Seeing the white face of his wife, he exclaimed-- "Mercy, Edith! What has happened?" Edith could only murmur the word "Fanny," as she started forward, and buried her face, sobbing, on his bosom. "Fanny! What of her? Oh, Edith! speak!" The agitation of the wife was, for the time, too overpowering to admit of words, and so Claire turned to the lady and said, hurriedly-- "Will you tell me, madam, what has happened?" "It appears, sir," she replied, "that a strange lady enticed the children to Washington Square, on their way from school"-- "And then carried off our dear, dear Fanny!" sobbed out Edith. "Carried off Fanny!" exclaimed Claire. "This lady," said Edith, growing calmer, "found our little Edie crying, in the square, and brought her home. Edie says the lady took them down there, and then told her to wait until she went with Fanny to buy some candies. They went, but did not return." The meaning of all this was quite as clear to the mind of Edward Claire as it was to his wife. He understood, likewise, that this was the work of Jasper, and that Fanny was now in his possession. What was to be done? "Our first step," said Claire, after the stranger had retired, "must be to ascertain, if possible, whether what we believe to be true in regard to Fanny is really true. We must know certainly, whether she be really in the hands of Mr. Jasper." "Where else can she be?" asked Edith, a new fear throwing its quick flash into her face. "We, naturally," replied her husband, "take it for granted that Mr. Jasper has put his threat into execution. There is a bare possibility that such is not the case; and we must not rest until we have, on this point, the most absolute certainty." "For what other purpose could she have been enticed away?" said Mrs. Claire, her face again blanching to a deadly paleness. "We know nothing certain, Edith; and while this is the case, we cannot but feel a double anxiety. But, I must not linger here. Be as calm as possible, my dear wife, in this painful trial. I will go at once to Mr. Jasper, and learn from him whether he has the child." "Go quickly, Edward," said Edith. "Oh! it will be such a relief to have a certainty; to know even that she is in his hands." Without further remark, Claire left his house and hurried off to the store of Jasper. The merchant was not there. From one of his clerks he learned his present residence, which happened not to be far distant. Thither he went, and, on asking to see him, was told by the servant that he was not at home. He then inquired for Mrs. Jasper, who, on being summoned, met him in one of the parlours. The manner of Claire was very much agitated, and he said, with an abruptness that evidently disconcerted the lady-- "Good evening, madam! My name is Claire. You remember me, of course?" The lady bowed coldly, and with a frown on her brow. "Is little Fanny Elder here?" was asked, and with even greater abruptness. "Fanny Elder? No! Why do you ask that question?" There was something so positive in the denial of Mrs. Jasper, that Claire felt her words as truth. "Not here?" said he, catching his breath in a gasping manner. "Not here?" "I said that she was not here," was the reply. "Oh, where then is she, madam?" exclaimed the young man, evincing great distress. "How should I know? Is she not in your possession? What is the meaning of this, Mr. Claire?" The lady spoke sternly, and with the air of one both offended and irritated. "Somebody enticed her away, on her return from school this afternoon," said Claire. "Mr. Jasper said that he would have her; and my first and natural conclusion was that he had executed his threat. Oh, ma'am, if this be so, tell me, that my anxiety for the child's safety may have rest. As it is, I am in the most painful uncertainty. If she is here, I will feel, at least"-- "Have I not told you that she is not here, and that I know nothing of her," said Mrs. Jasper, angrily, interrupting the young man. "This is insolent." "How soon do you expect Mr. Jasper home?" inquired Claire. "Not for several days," replied Mrs. Jasper. "Days! Is he not in the city?" "No, sir. He left town yesterday." Claire struck his hands together in disappointment and grief. This confirmed to him the lady's assertion that she knew nothing of Fanny. In that assertion she had uttered the truth. Sadly disappointed, and in far deeper distress of mind than when he entered the house, Edward Claire retired. If Mr. Jasper left the city on the day previous, and his wife had, as he could not help believing, no knowledge whatever of Fanny, then the more distressing inference was that she had been enticed away by some stranger. On his way home, Claire called again at the store of Jasper. It occurred to him to ask there as to his absence from the city. The reply he received was in agreement with Mrs. Jasper's assertion. He had left town on the previous day. "Where has he gone?" he inquired. "To Reading, I believe," was the answer. "Will he return soon?" "Not for several days, I believe." With a heavy heart, Claire bent his way homeward. He cherished a faint hope that Fanny might have returned. The hope was vain. Here he lingered but a short time. His next step was to give information to the police, and to furnish for all the morning papers an advertisement, detailing the circumstances attendant on the child's abduction. This done, he again returned home, to console, the best he could, his afflicted wife, and to wait the developments of the succeeding day. Utterly fruitless were all the means used by Claire to gain intelligence of the missing child. Two days went by, yet not the least clue to the mystery of her absence had been found. There was no response to the newspaper advertisements; and the police confessed themselves entirely at fault. Exhausted by sleepless anxiety, broken in spirit by this distressing affliction, and almost despairing in regard to the absent one, Mr. and Mrs. Claire were seated alone, about an hour after dark on the evening of the third day, when the noise of rumbling wheels ceased before their door. Each bent an ear, involuntarily, to listen, and each started with an exclamation, as the bell rang with a sudden jerk. Almost simultaneously, the noise of wheels was again heard, and a carriage rolled rapidly away. Two or three quick bounds brought Claire to the door, which he threw open. "Fanny!" he instantly exclaimed; and in the next moment the child was in his arms, clinging to him, and weeping for joy at her return. With a wonderful calmness, Mrs. Claire received Fanny from her husband, murmuring as she did so, in a subdued, yet deeply gratified voice-- "O, God! I thank thee!" But this calmness in a little while gave way, and her overstrained, but now joyful feelings, poured themselves forth in tears. Poor child! She too had suffered during these three never-to-be-forgotten days, and the marks of that suffering were sadly visible in her pale, grief-touched countenance. To the earnest inquiries of her foster-parents, Fanny could give no very satisfactory answer. She had no sooner left the square with the lady mentioned by little Edith, than she was hurried into a carriage, and driven off to the cars, where a man met them. This man, she said, spoke kindly to her, showed her his watch, and told her if she would be a good girl and not cry, he would take her home again. In the cars, they rode for a long time, until it grew dark; and still she said the cars kept going. After a while she fell asleep, and when she awoke it was morning, and she was lying on a bed. The same lady was with her, and, speaking kindly, told her not to be frightened--that nobody would hurt her, and that she should go home in a day or two. "But I did nothing but cry," said the child, in her own simple way, as she related her story. "Then the lady scolded me, until I was frightened, and tried to keep back the tears all I could. But they would run down my cheeks. A good while after breakfast," continued Fanny, "the man who had met us at the cars came in with another man. They talked with the lady for a good while, looking at me as they spoke. Then they all came around me, and one of the men said-- "'Don't be frightened, my little dear. No one will do you any harm; and if you will be a right good girl, and do just as we want you to do, you shall go home to-morrow.' "I tried not to cry, but the tears came running down my face. Then the other man said sharply-- "'Come now, my little lady, we can't have any more of this! If you wish to go home again tomorrow, dry your tears at once. There! there! Hush all them sobs. No one is going to do you any harm.' "I was so frightened at the way the man looked and talked, that I stopped crying at once. "'There!' said he, 'that is something like. Now,' speaking to the lady, 'put on her things. It is time she was there.' "I was more frightened at this, and the men saw it; so one of them told me not to be alarmed, that they were only going to show me a large, handsome house, and would then bring me right back; and that in the morning, if I would go with them now, and be a good girl, I should go home again. "So I went with them, and tried my best not to cry. They brought me into a large house, and there were a good many men inside. The men all looked at me, and I was so frightened! Then they talked together, and one of them kept pointing toward me. At last I was taken back to the house, where I stayed all day and all night with the lady. This morning we got into the cars, and came back to the city. The lady took me to a large house in Walnut street, where I stayed until after dark, and then she brought me home in a carriage." Such was the child's story; and greatly puzzled were Claire and his wife to comprehend its meaning. Their joy at her return was intense. She seemed almost as if restored to them from the dead. But, for what purpose had she been carried off; and who were the parties engaged in the act? These were questions of the deepest moment; yet difficult, if not impossible of solution--at least in the present. That Jasper's absence from the city was in some way connected with this business, Claire felt certain, the more he reflected thereon. But, that Fanny should be returned to him so speedily, if Jasper had been concerned in her temporary abduction, was something that he could not clearly understand. And it was a long time ere the mystery was entirely unravelled. CHAPTER XIV. From that time Claire and his wife heard no more from Jasper, who regularly paid the sums quarterly demanded for Fanny's maintenance. This demand was not now made in person by Claire. He sent a written order, which the guardian never failed to honour on the first presentation. Mr. Melleville, according to promise, called upon the firm of Edgar & Co., in order to speak a good word for Edward; but learned, not a little to his surprise, that no vacancy was anticipated in the house. "Mr. Jasper," said he, "told one of my young men that a clerk had left, or was about leaving you." "It's a mistake," was the positive answer. "He may have meant some other firm." "All a wicked deception on the part of Jasper," said Melleville to himself, as he left the store. "A lie told with sinister purpose. How given over to all baseness is the man!" Claire was no little disappointed when this was told him; but his answer showed how he was gaining in just views of life; and how he could lean on right principles and find in them a firm support. "I would rather," said he, "be the deceived than the deceiver. The one most wronged in this is Leonard Jasper. Ah! is he not preparing for himself a sad future? As for me, I am more and more satisfied, every day, that all events, even to the most minute, are in the direction or permission of Providence; and that out of the very occurrences we deem afflictive and disastrous, will often arise our greatest good. For the moment I was disappointed; but now I feel that it is all right." No change of marked importance occurred in the family of Claire during the next two years, to the close of which period both he and his wife looked with increasing earnestness of mind. Fanny had grown rapidly during this time, and was now tall for her age--and still very beautiful. In character she was every thing the fondest parents could desire. At last came the child's twelfth birthday. Neither Clare nor his wife referred to the fact; though it was present to both their minds--present like an evil guest. Must they now give her up? Their hearts shrank and trembled at the bare idea. How plainly each read in the other's face the trouble which only the lips concealed! Never had Fanny looked so lovely in the eyes of Claire as she did on that morning, when she bounded to his side and claimed a parting kiss, ere he left for his daily round of business. Could he give her up? The thought choked in their utterance the words of love that were on his lips, and he turned from her and left the house. As Claire, on his way to Mr. Melleville's store, came into the more business portions of the city, his thoughts on the child who was soon to be resigned, according to the tenor of his contract with her guardian, he was suddenly startled by seeing Jasper a short distance ahead, approaching from the direction in which he was going. Happening, at the moment, to be near a cross street, he turned off suddenly, in obedience to an instinct rather than a purpose, and avoided a meeting by going out of his way. "How vain," he sighed to himself, as the throbbing of his heart grew less heavy and his thoughts ran clear. "I cannot so avoid this evil. It will most surely find me out. Dear, dear child! How shall we ever bear the parting!" All day long Claire was in momentary dread of a visit or a communication from Jasper. But none came. A like anxiety had been suffered by his wife, and it showed itself in the pallor of her cheeks, and the heavy, almost tearful, drooping of her eyelids. The next day and the next passed, and yet nothing was heard from the guardian. Now, the true guardians of the child began to breathe more freely. A week elapsed, and all remained as before. Another week was added; another and another. A month had gone by. And yet the days of a succeeding month came and went, the child still remaining in her old home. Up to this time but brief allusions had been made by either Claire or his wife to the subject first in their thoughts. They avoided it, because each felt that the other would confirm, rather than allay, fears already too well defined. "It is strange," said Claire, as he sat alone with his wife one evening, some three months subsequent to the twelfth birthday of Fanny, "that we have heard nothing yet from Mr. Jasper." Edith looked up quickly, and with a glance of inquiry, into his face; but made no answer. "I've turned it over in my mind a great deal," resumed Claire, thoughtfully; "but with little or no satisfactory result. Once I thought I would call on him"-- "Oh, no, no! not for the world!" instantly exclaimed Edith. "I see, with you, dear, that such a step would be imprudent. And, yet, this suspense--how painful it is!" "Painful, it is true, Edward; yet, how in every way to be preferred to the certainty we so much dread." "O yes--yes. I agree with you there." Then, after a pause, he said, "It is now three months since the time expired for which we agreed to keep Fanny." "I know," was the sighing response. They both remained silent, each waiting for the other to speak. The same thought was in the mind of each. Excited by the close pressure of want upon their income, Edward was first to give it voice. "Mr. Jasper," said he, touching the subject at first remotely, "may have forgotten, in the pressure of business on his attention, the fact that Fanny is now twelve years old." "So I have thought," replied Edith. "If I send, as usual, for the sum heretofore regularly paid for her maintenance, it may bring this fact to his mind." "I have feared as much," was the low, half-tremulous response. "And yet, if I do not send, the very omission may excite a question, and produce the consequences we fear." "True, Edward. All that has passed through my mind over and over again." "What had we better do?" "Ah!" sighed Edith, "if we only knew that." "Shall I send the order, as usual?" Edith shook her head, saying-- "I'm afraid." "And I hesitate with the same fear." "And yet, Edith," said Claire, who, as the provider for the family, pondered more anxiously the question of ways and means, "what are we to do? Our income, with Fanny's board added, is but just sufficient. Take away three hundred dollars a year, and where will we stand? The thought presses like a leaden weight on my feelings. Debt, or severe privation, is inevitable. If, with eight hundred dollars, we only come out even at the end of each year, what will be the result if our income is suddenly reduced to five hundred?" "Let us do what is right, Edward," said his wife, laying her hand upon his arm, and looking into his face in her earnest, peculiar way. Her voice, though it slightly trembled, had in it a tone of confidence, which, with the words she had spoken, gave to the wavering heart of Claire an instant feeling of strength. "But what is right, Edith?" he asked. "We know not now," was her reply, "but, if we earnestly desire to do right, true perceptions will be given." "A beautiful faith; but oh, how hard to realize!" "No, Edward, not so very hard. We have never found it so: have we?" Love and holy confidence were in her eyes. "We have had some dark seasons, Edith," said Claire sadly. "But, through darkest clouds has come the sunbeam. Our feet have not wandered for want of light. Look back for a moment. How dark all seemed when the question of leaving Jasper's service came up for decision. And yet how clear a light shone when the time for action came. Have you ever regretted what was then done, Edward?" "Not in a sane moment," replied the young man. "O no, no, Edith!" speaking more earnestly; "that, with one exception, was the most important act of my life." "With one exception?" Edith spoke in a tone of inquiry. "Yes." Claire's voice was very tender, and touched with a slight unsteadiness. "The _most_ important act of my life was"-- He paused and gazed lovingly into the face of his wife. She, now comprehending him, laid, with a pure thrill of joy pervading her bosom, her cheek to his--and thus, for the space of nearly a minute, they sat motionless. "May God bless you, Edith!" said Claire at length, fervently, lifting his head as he spoke. "You are the good angel sent to go with me through life. Ah! but for you, how far from the true path might my feet have strayed! And now," he added, more calmly, "we will look at the present difficulty steadily, and seek to know the right." "The right way," said Edith, after she had to some extent repressed the glad pulses that leaped to her husband's loving words, "is not always the way in which we most desire to walk. Thorns, sometimes, are at its entrance. But it grows pleasanter afterward." "If we can find the right way, Edith, we will walk in it because it is the right way." "And we will surely find it if we seek in this spirit," returned the wife. "What, then, had we best do?" asked Claire, his thought turning earnestly to the subject under consideration. "What will be best for Fanny? That should be our first consideration," said his wife. "Will it be best for her to remain with us, or to go into Mr. Jasper's family?" "That is certainly a grave question," returned Claire, seriously, "and must be viewed in many aspects. Mr. Jasper's place in the world is far different from mine. He is a wealthy merchant; I am a poor clerk. If she goes into his family, she will have advantages not to be found with us--advantages of education, society, and position in life. To keep her with us will debar her from all these. Taking this view of the case, Edith, I don't know that we have any right to keep her longer, particularly as Mr. Jasper has signified to us, distinctly, his wish, as her guardian, to take her into his own family, and superintend her education." Edith bent her head, thoughtfully, for some moments. She then said-- "Do you believe that Mr. Jasper gave the true reason for wishing to have Fanny?" "That he might superintend her education?" "Yes." "No, Edith, I do not. I believe a selfish motive alone influenced him." "You have good reasons for so thinking?" "The best of reasons. I need not repeat them; they are as familiar to you as they are to me." "Do you believe that, under his superintendence, she will receive a better education than under ours?" "She will, undoubtedly, Edith, if remaining with us she fails to bring the means of education. We are poor, Edith, and the claims of our own children--bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh--must not be forgotten." A quick change passed over Edith. Her countenance became troubled. The difficulties in the way of retaining the child were suddenly magnified to her thoughts. Ah! how painfully did she feel that often the first steps in the way of duty are among thorns. "Can we be just to Fanny and just also to our own children?" asked Claire. "If we still received the old sum for her maintenance, we could. I would not ask its increase to the amount of a single dollar." "Nor I, Edith. Were we certain of having this continued, there would be no doubt." "There would be none in my mind. As for the higher position in society which she would attain, as an inmate of Mr. Jasper's family, that might not be to her the greatest good; but prove the most direful evil. She could not be guarded there, in her entrance into life, as we would guard her. The same love would not surround her as a protecting sphere. I tremble at the thought, Edward. How great would be her danger! Fourfold would be her temptation, and tenfold her exposure." "We will keep her," said Claire, firmly, as his wife ceased speaking. "She must not be so exposed. God has given her to us; she is our child, for we love her as tenderly as if she were of our own blood. When her mother was taken, God transferred the love she had borne her child into your bosom, and from that time you became her mother. No, Edith, we must not let her go forth, in her tender innocence. We love her as our own; let us share with her the best we have; let her become more really our own than she has yet been." "If," said Edith, after some moments, "we lose the regular income from Mr. Jasper, Fanny will be deprived of most important advantages. Just now we are about adding materially to the cost of her education." "I know," replied Edward. "But if the income is withheld?" "We have not yet applied for it." Claire looked, for some moments, steadily into his wife's face. "You think, then, that we should make the usual application?" "I have not said so, Edward. My mind is far from clear. Jasper may not, now, want the trouble of Fanny. He doubtless had some purpose to subserve when he demanded her; a purpose gained, probably, at the time of her mysterious removal from the city, which I have always believed was through his agency. If you were to send for the money, as usual, it is more than probable that he would pay it." "But, if he should refuse, and demand the child?" "If his purpose to do this remains, and he has forgotten Fanny's age, your omission to send for the money will be more likely to call his thought to the subject, than your regular demand for the price of her maintenance." "True." "And if he still means to have her, the execution of his purpose cannot in any event be long delayed." "No." "Can _we_ unaided give her the education she is entitled to receive?" Claire shook his head. "Then had we not better continue to apply for the sum necessary to her support and education. If Mr. Jasper is indifferent about her, the money will be paid as usual; if he means to take her into his own family, our failure to apply will defer but for a very short season the evil day." Edith's mind had become clear by this time. Her husband not making an immediate reply, she added-- "This acting on mere policy, is never, I think, the wisest. Does it not clearly involve a distrust in Providence, and a weak reliance on mere human prudence? There is a provision for Fanny's support and education, and she is justly entitled to all those natural advantages which this provision was designed to give. Under Providence, Mr. Jasper has been chosen her guardian; and under Providence the personal care of the child has fallen to our lot. Thus far we have endeavoured to discharge our duty faithfully--thus far we have done as well by the child as if she had been our own. Now, if it is best for her to remain with us, the same Providence will so dispose of events as to provide for her remaining; but if it is best for her to go into the family of Mr. Jasper, she will go there. Let us not, therefore, in our practical distrust of Providence, seek to hide ourselves from the observation of a mere creature." "I see much in this," said Claire, as soon as his wife had ceased speaking. "Man proposes; God disposes. With Him are all our ways. Out of the evil designs and selfish purposes of men, He is ever bringing forth good." "Then let us not fear to trust him. As we have been doing, let us continue to do, confidently believing that He will overrule all for good. To our present sight, it seems, that, unless we receive, as heretofore, a sum of money for Fanny's support and education, we cannot do for her what is right. This, at least, is my view." "And it is mine," replied the husband. "Then let us act from the light we have. None can do better than this." And so it was determined to send an order to Jasper, as usual. CHAPTER XV. On the next day, a fellow-clerk, who had always performed this little service for Claire, took the order to Jasper. With a nervous impatience that he found it impossible to repress, Claire awaited his return. On his appearance, he said, with ill-concealed anxiety-- "Did he pay the order?" The young man shook his head. "What! Didn't pay it?" Though half-expecting such a result, he was none the more prepared for it, nor the less disturbed when it was known. "No; he said that the contract entered into with you for boarding the child was at an end three months ago." "What else did he say?" "Nothing else." "Did he send no message to me of any kind?" "None. When I handed him the order, he pushed it back, and used the words I have repeated. I waited a little while for some further remark, but he made none." "Did he seem angry?" "Not angry; but rather pleased, I should say. There was a heartless smile on his face, as if he enjoyed the act of refusal." Claire made no further remark. For a time he groped about, mentally, like one in darkness and lost. It appeared as if there was no escape; as if the evil which had long dogged his steps was upon him. But in a short time, a ray of light shone in here and there, paths that might be walked in safely were dimly perceived--escape seemed possible. Still, he was deeply depressed and sorely troubled. Edith received the intelligence in a calmer spirit than her husband had expected. "The way will be made plain before us," said she. "It is plainer now than it was last night--much plainer." "How can you say that, Edith?" "Mr. Jasper has refused to pay any thing more to us for Fanny's support." "Yes." "But in the refusal said nothing about our giving her up to him." "Well?" "I gather from this, and the fact that he was aware of her being twelve years old, that he does not really want her now in his own family, but refuses to pay us for her board and education from a feeling of ill-will toward you. His manner to the young man who presented the order clearly indicates this." "You may be right there, Edith," said Claire, a further light breaking into his mind. "We have at least done our duty toward Fanny in making this demand on her guardian. And now, the question left for us to decide may be whether it will be just toward her, and also toward our own children, still to keep her in our own family, and let her share, with the others, the best that it is in our power to give." "And will it be hard to make that decision?" said Edith, a slight flush coming into her earnest face. "I think not," was the firm reply. "Have we loved her less than our own?" asked Edith. "I believe not." "Love seeks the highest good for its object." "Yes--yes." "Can a stranger love the child as we have loved her?" Claire shook his head. "Can a stranger, even with more of what the world gives, yet with less of a genuine affection, secure for her, as we may, what should justly be regarded as the highest good in life." "No stranger can ever be to her, Edith, what you have been, and will continue to be." "We must not thrust her out, Edward. We cannot thrust her out. While God permits her to remain, let us keep her, assured that He will send for her use all things needful." "Most cheerfully will I prolong my daily toil for her sake," replied Claire; "and cheerfully will I make sacrifice of personal comfort. Yes, let her remain where she is, so long as, in God's providence, she is permitted to remain. If Jasper continues to withhold the price of her maintenance, there will be the more left for her when she becomes of age; and then, if there are defects in her education, a few years of earnest application on her part, will remove them. Even now, we could compel him to pay for her a reasonable sum, but in securing this, we would assuredly lose the child, for this man's anger would burn hot against us." "I have thought of that," replied Edith. "No, our only plain course, for the present, is to look away from Jasper, and regard Fanny as one of our own children." To this conclusion the mind of Claire and his wife came firmly. Then the painful agitation they had for some time suffered gradually subsided, and they began earnestly to cast about for the ways and means whereby so large an extra draft as was likely to be made upon their slender income could be met. Two propositions were made by Edith: one was, that they should make a reduction in their expenses, by moving into a smaller house. They now paid two hundred dollars annually for rent; and she was sure that, for one hundred and fifty, they might suit themselves very well. The other proposition was, to give two or three hours every evening, after the children were in bed, to fine needle-work, in which she was well skilled. "I could easily earn two dollars a week, in this way," was her confident remark. Claire, who had other plans in his mind, did not speak very encouragingly of these propositions, though he avoided disapproval. Increased expense demanded an increase of income; and his thoughts were all now bent suggestively in that direction. As for Edith, her burdens were heavy enough; and her husband, though he did not check her generous enthusiasm, by no means acquiesced in the plan of evening toil for his wife out of the range of her many domestic duties. A few days went by, with no incident of importance. Claire, during the time, appeared, to his wife more thoughtful that usual. One evening he came home with a brighter countenance. "Good news, Edie," said he in a cheerful voice, as soon as the children's glad and noisy welcome of their father was over; and he drew his wife aside as he spoke. "Good news, dear," he repeated. "I was sure the way would open for us, and it has opened." "How, Edward?" asked Edith, with a quickly flushing face. "How has it opened?" "I've secured employment for my evenings, at six dollars a week. So all will go on with us the same as usual. The only drawback lies in the fact that you will have to remain at home alone. But, for the sake of the end, you will bear that cheerfully." The light which had come into Edith's countenance faded. "What kind of employment?" she inquired, with a slight huskiness of voice. "I've engaged to act as clerk in an auction store, where they have regular night-sales." Edith shook her head. "I thought you would be so delighted," said her husband, evidently much disappointed. "You often come home, now, overwearied with the day's labour," replied Edith. "An hour at tea-time will refresh me for the evening's work. Don't think of that a moment, Edith." "How can I help thinking of it? No, no, Edward, you must not do this. It will destroy your health. You are not very strong." "My health is perfectly good, Edith." But Edith shook her head-- "Not so very good. You look paler, and are much thinner than you were a year ago. A little over-exertion throws your system off of its balance; and then you are sick." "I will be very careful of myself," replied Claire. "If, after a few weeks, the extra labour is found to be too severe, I can give up the place. Nothing like trying, you know, dear." Still, Edith was not satisfied. Very strongly she urged her husband not to increase his labour in the degree contemplated. "Let us try if we can reduce our expenses by a closer economy. It is better to deny ourselves things not necessary to health, than to injure health by extra labour." She urged this view, however, in vain. Claire could not, without at least a trial of his strength, decline the important offer which had been made to him. And so, after a consultation with Mr. Melleville, he entered upon his new employment, leaving his wife to spend the hours of his absence alone. Not idly were those hours spent. What she had at first proposed to do, she now began to execute. Without saying any thing to her husband, she had procured, from a friend who kept a fancy-store, and who took in from the ladies a great deal of work, some fine sewing; and with this she was busily occupied until his return, which did not take place on the first night until near eleven o'clock. There was a slight drawback in the pleasure both felt in meeting at this late hour--the drawback of weariness. Yet their hearts were tranquil and elevated in the consciousness that they were denying self for the good of another--and that one most tenderly beloved. Again the way had become plain before them; and if strength only were given to bear their increased burdens, they would move on with even lighter footsteps than before. And now, after having lingered thus long with the humble clerk, let us turn to the rich merchant; for Jasper has become a man of extensive possessions. Wealth flowed in upon him with extraordinary rapidity--not in the regular course of trade, overreaching and unscrupulous as he was in dealing, but through what are called fortunate speculations. How he made his first hundred thousand dollars--the basis of his present very large fortune--was not clearly understood, though sundry vague rumours on the subject were afloat, none of them, however, very near the truth, except in the admission that a fraud on somebody had been committed. But let us introduce Mr. Jasper. On the night that Claire entered upon his duties as clerk in the auction store, and about the same hour that his duties began, Mr. Jasper, who was walking restlessly the floor of his richly furnished parlours, his mind busy with some large money-making scheme, yet fretted by a recent disappointment, found himself suddenly in the presence of, to him, a well-known individual, whose ring at the door he had not observed. "Martin!" he exclaimed, in no affected surprise. "Is it possible?" "Ah, Jasper! How are you? Right glad to get sight of your face again!" said the other familiarly, as he grasped the merchant's passive hand, and squeezed it until the joints cracked. "When did you arrive in the city?" returned Jasper, as he reached his visitor a chair. He did not speak with much warmth; and yet there was an effort to be at ease and cordial. "Some two hours ago," said Martin, in whose face was already beginning to gather a few lines in token of the sober thoughts that lay beneath his assumed smiling exterior. "From which direction did you come?" "West. I'm from the Upper Mississippi." "Ah!" "I went to Galena some five or six months ago; and have since been actively engaged in lead-mining. A great business that, Mr. Jasper." "Ah?" This "ah?" was particularly chilling. "There are more rapid fortunes made at the lead-mines in the neighbourhood of Galena, at present, than in any part of the United States," said Martin, approaching, by rapid advances, the subject nearest to his thoughts. "You think so?" returned Jasper, with cold incredulity. "I know so," was the positive response. "I could point you to a dozen men who have made their tens of thousands annually for the last five or ten years." "It is easy to talk about making tens of thousands, Martin; but the fact itself is a more difficult matter." "A fact is a fact, however, Mr. Jasper," said the other. "What is done, is done." "Of course." "It is a fact that money is made at the lead-mines, hand over fist," continued Martin. "Of this I am prepared to give you the strongest kind of evidence." "Why should you be so anxious to convince me of this fact?" returned the merchant. "I have quite as many irons in the fire now as I can see to." "Ah! That may be," said Martin, forcing to his rather hard features a bland smile. "But these new irons I will keep from burning." "It's no use, Martin, to talk of lead-mines to me," said Jasper firmly. "I am spread out enough already. Contraction, not expansion, is my present motto. I've met with more than one heavy loss since I saw you." "Have you, indeed? I'm sorry for that. But a false card will turn up now and then, you know. The game in the long run is sure." "We're sure of nothing," replied Jasper, with considerable feeling. "I wouldn't like to say that. Of course, all plans will not succeed; for man's judgment is far from possessing the virtue of infallibility. But human reason would be a poor endowment, did it not lead us, in most cases, to right conclusions, if we are careful in our modes of using this high faculty." "The purpose of your visit to the East," said Jasper, who understood perfectly the man with whom he was dealing, and, therefore, determined to know at once the length and breadth of what he was expected to do, "is, I presume, to enlist some capitalists here in a lead-mining speculation?" "My ideas do not extend quite that far," was Martin's answer. "Too many cooks, you are aware, sometimes spoil the broth. To come to the point at once, let me explain the purpose of my present journey to the East." "Well; I am all attention." "My fur-trade business, as I wrote you a year ago, turned out disastrously." "Yes." "After that, I opened a small store in one of the frontier towns, and I did very well, all things considered. But the gain was too slow to suit my ideas of things; so, meeting with a fair chance, I sold out, and bought a lead-mine, which I have been working ever since to good profit. Recently, I struck upon one of the richest veins ever discovered. If properly worked, it will yield a rapid fortune. But I have not sufficient capital to avail myself of the advantages offered, and have come on here to lay the matter before you, and to offer you a share in the business." Jasper shook his head, saying-- "I have more business on my hands now, Martin, than I can possibly attend to." "You don't know what you are declining, Mr. Jasper," urged Martin warmly. "You havn't yet looked at the statements which I am prepared to lay before you." "I do know one thing," was the feeling answer, "and that is, that I am declining trouble and cost. About that part of the business, there can be little question." "Then," said Martin, his manner changing, "I am to understand that you do not wish to join me in this matter?" "Yes. I would like you to understand that distinctly." "Very well. I am sorry you refuse so advantageous an investment of money; for right sure am I that no other investment you can make will turn out as this would have done. But, as you have declined, I will not offer a share in my good fortune to any one else; but prosecute the work to my own advantage." "I thought you hadn't the capital to do that," said Jasper, speaking with ill-repressed eagerness. "Nor have I," coolly answered Martin. "The proposition I was about to make was this--an advance of twenty thousand dollars capital on your part, to constitute you an equal partner in the mine. But this you decline." "Certainly! certainly! I would not have entertained it for a moment." "Exactly. So I have already inferred. I will, therefore, as just said, retain this advantage in my own hands. But, Mr. Jasper, I shall need some help." The visitor fixed his eyes keenly on the merchant as he said this. There was a momentary pause. Then he resumed. "I shall only want about ten thousand dollars, though; and this you must obtain for me." "Martin! Do you think I am made of money?" exclaimed Jasper, starting to his feet, and facing his companion, in the attitude and with the expression of a man who, finding himself in the presence of an enemy, assumes the defensive. "Oh no," was the quiet answer--"not _made_ of money. But, for a particular friend, you can no doubt, easily raise such a trifle as ten thousand dollars?" "Trifle! You mock me, sir!" "Don't get excited about this matter, Mr. Jasper," coolly returned Martin, whose name the reader has probably recognised as that of an agent employed by the merchant and Grind, the lawyer, some years before, in making investigations relative to the existence of coal on certain lands not far from Reading, Pennsylvania. "Don't get excited," he repeated. "That will do no good. I have not come to rob you. I don't ask you to give me ten thousand dollars. All I want is a loan, for which I will pledge good security." "What kind of security?" asked Jasper quickly. "Security on my lead-mine." "Pooh! I wouldn't give the snap of a finger for such security!" Jasper, thrown off his guard, spoke more contemptuously than was prudent. An instant change was visible in Martin, who, rising, commenced buttoning up his coat. There was about him every mark of a man deeply offended. "Good evening, sir!" said he, with a low, formal bow, yet with his eyes fixed searchingly in those of the merchant. "Martin,"--Jasper did not smile, nor was there in his voice the slightest affectation of good feeling--yet his manner and tone were both decisive,--"Martin, sit down again. Talk in reason, and I will hear." The man resumed his seat, and, with his eyes still in those of Jasper, said-- "I have talked in reason. You are worth, so report says, not less than three hundred thousand dollars. How the first hundred thousand came, is known, certainly, only to one man beside you and me. In procuring that large sum I was a very prominent agent." "You have already been paid for your services a dozen times over." "There may be a difference of opinion about this," replied the man boldly--"and there _is_ a difference of opinion." "I have already advanced you over five thousand dollars." "What of that! Five thousand to three hundred thousand that you have made by the operation." "You are in error, Martin," said Jasper, with a blended look of perplexity and distress. "I am not worth the sum you have mentioned--nothing like it. My losses during the past six months have been very heavy." "It is your interest to say this. I can credit as much of it as I please." "You are insulting! You presume on the power a knowledge of my affairs has given you. I will look for a more honourable agent the next time." "Honourable! Ha! ha!" The visitor laughed in a low, guttural voice. "Martin! I will not hear this from any living man." The face of Jasper was almost purple with suppressed anger. "Go!" he added. "Leave my house instantly. I defy you!" Scarcely had these words passed his lips, ere Martin glided from the drawing-room, and in a few moments the street-door shut with a heavy, reverberating jar. The merchant stood, like one bewildered, for a few moments, and then, as he sank into a chair, uttered a low groan. For a long time he remained as motionless as if sleeping. CHAPTER XVI. On leaving the house of Jasper, Martin--who, instead of having been in the city only a few hours, arrived two days previously--took his way to the office of Grind, the lawyer. He had seen this individual already several times, and now called on him again by appointment. The two men, on meeting, exchanged looks of intelligence. "Did you see him?" asked the lawyer, as Martin took a proffered chair. "I saw him," was replied. "Can you make any thing out of him?' "I think so. He fights a little hard; but the odds are against him." "How much did you ask him to loan you?" "Ten thousand?" "Martin! That's cutting a little too sharp." "Not a hit. He'll never miss such a trifle." "You can't bleed him that deep," said the lawyer. "Can't I? You'll see; I could get twenty thousand. But I'm disposed to be generous. Ten thousand I must and will have." And the man laughed in a low, self-satisfied, sinister chuckle. "He's able enough," remarked Grind. "So you have told me. And if he is able, he must pay. I helped him to a fortune, and it is but fair that he should help me a little, now that a fortune is in my grasp. I only want the money as a loan." "Wouldn't five thousand answer your purpose?" asked the lawyer. "That is a large sum. It is not a very easy matter for even a rich man, who is engaged heavily in business, to lay down ten thousand dollars at call." "Five thousand will not do, Mr. Grind." "Jasper has lost, to my certain knowledge, twenty thousand dollars in three months." "So much?" "At least that sum. Money came in so fast, that he grew a little wild in his speculations, and played his cards with the dashing boldness of a gambler while in a run of luck. I cautioned him, but to no good purpose. One of his latest movements had been to put fifty or sixty thousand dollars in a cotton factory?" "Poh! What folly." "A most egregious blunder. But he fancies himself an exceedingly shrewd man." "He has been remarkably fortunate in his operations." "So he has. But he is more indebted, I think, to good luck than to a sound judgment. He has gone up to dizzy height so rapidly, that his weak head is already beginning to swim." "What has become of that pretty little ward of his?" asked Martin, somewhat abruptly. "Why didn't you put that question to him?" replied Grind. "You would have been more likely to get a satisfactory answer." "I may do so after I have the ten thousand dollars in my pocket. That was rather a shameful business, though; wasn't it? I never had a very tender conscience, but I must own to having suffered a few twinges for my part in the transaction. He received over a hundred thousand dollars for the land?" "Yes; and that clear of some heavy fees that you and I claimed for services rendered." "Humph! I'm not quite paid yet. But, touching the child, Mr. Grind: don't you know any thing about her?" "Nothing, personally." "What was it Jasper paid for the tract of land?" "One thousand dollars." "Paid it into his own hands as the child's guardian." "Yes; that was the simple transaction." "Has the public never made a guess at the real truth of this matter?" "Never, so far as my knowledge goes. There have been some vague whisperings--but no one has seemed to comprehend the matter." "The purchase was made in your name, was it not?" "Yes." "That is, you bought from Jasper as the child's guardian; and afterward sold it back to him." "Yes." "Why didn't you hold on to it when it was fairly in your hands? I only wish I had been in your place?" The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, but did not commit himself by acknowledging that he had, more than once, regretted his omission to claim the property while legally in his hands, and defy Jasper to wrest it from him. Leaving these two men, whose relation to Jasper is sufficiently apparent to the reader's mind, we will return to the merchant, whom we left half-stupefied at the bold demand of an associate in wrong-doing. A long time passed ere his activity of mind returned. While he sat, brooding--dreamily--over what had just passed, a little daughter came into the parlour, and seeing him, came prattling merrily to his side. But in attempting to clamber upon his knee, she was pushed away rudely, and with angry words. For a few moments she stood looking at him, her little breast rising and falling rapidly; then she turned off, and went slowly, and with a grieving heart, from the room. Jasper sighed heavily as the child passed out of sight; and rising up, began moving about with a slow pace, his eyes cast upon the floor. The more he dwelt upon the visit of Martin--whom, in his heart, he had wished dead--the more uneasy he felt, and the more he regretted having let him depart in anger. He would give twice ten thousand dollars rather than meet the exposure which this man could make. Riches was the god of Leonard Jasper. Alas! how little power was there in riches to make his heart happy. Wealth beyond what he had hoped to obtain in a whole lifetime of devotion to mammon, had flowed in upon him in two or three short years. But, was he a happier man? Did he enjoy life with a keener zest? Was his sleep sweeter? Ah, no! In all that went to make up the true pleasure of life, the humble clerk, driven to prolonged hours of labour, beyond what his strength could well bear, through his ill-nature and injustice, was far the richer man. And his wealth consisted not alone in the possession of a clear conscience and a sustaining trust in Providence. There was the love of many hearts to bless him. In real household treasures few were as rich as he. But, in home treasures, how poor was Leonard Jasper! Poor to the extreme of indigence! The love of his children, reaching toward him spontaneously its tendrils, he rejected in the selfish devotion of every thought and feeling to business as a means of acquiring wealth. And as to the true riches, which many around him were laying up where no moth could corrupt nor thieves break through and steal, he rejected them as of no account. With such a man as Leonard Jasper, holding the position of head of a family, how little of the true home spirit, so full of tenderness and mutual love, is to be expected! Had Mrs. Jasper been less a woman of the world; had she been capable of loving any thing out of herself, and, therefore, of loving her husband and children, with that true love which seeks their higher good, a different state of things would have existed in this family, spite of Jasper's unfeeling sordidness. But, as it was, no fire of love melted the natural perverseness inherited by the children, and they grew up, cherishing mutual antagonism, and gradually coming to regard their parents only as persons with power to thwart their inclinations, or as possessing the means of gratifying their desires. With all his wealth, how few were the real sources of happiness possessed by Jasper! Pressed down with anxiety about the future, and forced to toil beyond his strength, how many of life's truest blessings were poured into the lap of Edward Claire! The sleep of the poor clerk, that night, was sound and refreshing. The merchant tossed to and fro on his pillow until long after the midnight watches advanced upon the morning; and then, when wearied nature claimed her due, he slept only for brief periods, continually startled by frightful dreams. At an early hour next day, he called upon Grind, who was still his legal adviser. "Have you seen Martin?" he asked the moment he entered the office. "Martin! Surely he is not in the city!" returned Grind evasively. "He surely is," said Jasper, fretfully. "Martin. Where in the world did he come from? I thought him somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Rocky Mountains. What does he want? "No good, of course." "That may be said safely. Have you seen him?" "Yes." "When? This morning?" "No; he called at my house last night." "Called last night! What did he want?" "Ten thousand dollars," replied Jasper. "Ten thousand dollars!!" The lawyer's well-feigned surprise completed the deception practised upon Jasper. He did not, for an instant, suspect collusion between him and Martin. "Yes; he very coolly proposed that I should lend him that sum, enable him to carry on some lead-mining operations in the west." "Preposterous!" "So I told him." "Well, what did he say?" "Oh, he blustered, and made covert threats of exposure, of course." "The scoundrel!" said Grind, fiercely. "He's a villain double-dyed. I have never ceased to regret that we brought him into this business. We should have had a man of better spirit--of a nicer sense of honour." "Yes, Mr. Jasper, that is true enough," replied Grind; "but the mischief is, your men of nicer honour are too squeamish for the kind of work in which we employed him. This is the defect in all such operations. Men cannot be thoroughly trusted." The merchant sighed. He felt too deeply the force of Grind's remark. "You know," said he, "this Martin better than I do. What is his character? Is he a mere blusterer, whose bark is worse than his bite; or is he vindictive and unscrupulous?" "Both vindictive and unscrupulous. I must warn you not to provoke his ill-will. He would take delight in exposing all he knows about this business, if he is once fairly turned against you. A fast friend--he is a bitter enemy." "But see what a price he demands for his friendship! I have already given him some five thousand dollars for his services, and now he demands ten more. In a year he will be back, and coolly seek to levy a contribution of twenty thousand dollars." "I understood you to say that he only asked for a loan," remarks the lawyer. "A loan! That's mere mockery. If you placed ten thousand dollars in his hands, would you ever expect to see the first copper of it again?" Grind shrugged his shoulders. "Of course you would not. It's a levy, not a loan--and so he, in his heart, regards it." "He's a dangerous man," said the lawyer, "and it's to be regretted that you ever had any thing to do with him. But, now that your hand is in the lion's mouth, the wisest thing is to get it out with as little detriment as possible." "Ten thousand dollars!" ejaculated the merchant. "Why, it's downright robbery! He might just as well stop me on the highway." "It's a hard case, I must own, Mr. Jasper. You might resist him, and, at least not let him obtain what he demands without a struggle; but the question is, may you not receive a mortal wound in the contest." "Ah! that is the rub, Grind. Rather than meet the exposure he could make, I would give twenty thousand dollars; yea, half, if not all I am worth." Can wealth, held on such a tenure, and in such a state of mind, be called riches? Ah, no. How the possession is changed from a blessing into a curse! "Then, Mr. Jasper," replied the lawyer, "there is but one course plain before you. If you make this man your enemy, he will surely pursue you to the death. There is no pity in him." Jasper groaned aloud. Ere he could reply, the door of the office opened, and the individual about whom they were conversing entered. With the skill of practised actors, each instantly assumed a part, and hid, under a false exterior, their true states of mind. With something of cordiality each greeted the other: while side-glances, unobserved by Jasper, passed rapidly between Martin and the lawyer. A few commonplace inquiries and remarks followed, when Jasper made a movement to go, saying, as he did so-- "Mr. Martin, I will be pleased to see you some time to-day." "Thank you; I will do myself the pleasure to call," was coolly answered. "At what time will you be most at leisure?" "During the afternoon. Say at four or five o'clock." "I will be there at four," returned Martin, in a bland voice, and with a courteous inclination of the head. "Very well--you will find me in." The merchant bowed to the accomplices--they were nothing better--and retired. "Humph! I didn't expect to find him here quite so early," said Martin, with a sinister smile. "I rather guess I frightened him last night." "I rather guess you did," returned the lawyer, his countenance reflecting the light that played on the other's face. "Will the money come?" asked Martin. "Undoubtedly." "That's good. Ten thousand?" "Yes." "What did he say? He came to consult you, of course?" "Yes." "Well, what did he say?" "More than I need take time to repeat. He is thoroughly frightened. That is enough for you to know." "Ten thousand," said Martin musingly, and speaking to himself. "Ten thousand! That will do pretty well. But, if he will bleed for fifteen thousand, why may I not set the spring of my lancet a little deeper. I can make good use of my money." "No--no," returned the lawyer quickly. "Ten thousand is enough. Don't play the dog and the shadow. This is over-greediness." "Well--well. Just as you say. I can make him another friendly call in a year or so from this time." The lawyer smiled in a way peculiar to himself, and then said-- "Hadn't you better be content with five thousand now. This goose will, no doubt, lay golden eggs for some years to come." "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," was the quick answer. "I have gone in now for the ten thousand; and ten thousand I must have. I may be content with a smaller sum at my next appearance." "You are to see him at four o'clock?" said Grind. "Yes; that was the hour I named. So you must get all the necessary papers ready for me in time. I don't want to let him get the hitch on me of seeking to extort money. I only ask a loan, and will give bona-fide security on my lead-mine." Then, with one of his low chuckles, he added--"If he can get ten thousand dollars out of it, he will do more than any one else can. Ha! ha! ha!" "The evidence of property, which you have," said Grind, "is all as it shows on the face?" "It is, upon honour." "Very well. Then I will draw the necessary papers, so that as little delay as possible need occur in the transference of security for the loan." What further passed between the parties is of no consequence to the reader. At four o'clock, precisely, Martin was at the store of Jasper. "I hope to find you a little more reasonable today," said the merchant, with a forced smile, as the two men, after retiring to a remote part of the store, sat down and faced each other. "I should be sorry to do any thing out of reason," returned Martin. His manner was more serious than Jasper's. "I think your present demand out of reason," was answered. "No good can possibly come, Mr. Jasper," said Martin, with a slight air of impatience, "out of an argument between you and I, on this subject. The sum I named to you last night I must have. Nothing less will meet my present want. But, understand me distinctly, I only ask it as a loan, and come prepared to give you the fullest security." As Mr. Martin said this, he drew a package of papers from his pocket. "Here are the necessary documents," he added. "Ten thousand dollars! Why, my dear sir, a sum like this is not to be picked up in the streets." "I am very well aware of that," was the cool answer. "Had such been the case, I never would have troubled you with procuring the sum; nor would I have gone to the expense and fatigue of a long journey." "You certainly ought to know enough of business, Martin, to be aware that ten thousand dollars is not always to be commanded, even by the wealthiest, at a moment's notice." "I do not ask the whole sum in cash," replied Martin. "Three or four thousand in ready money will do. Your notes at four and six months will answer very well for the balance." But we will not record further what passed between these two men. It was all in vain that Jasper strove to escape; his adversary was too powerful. Ere they separated, Martin had in his possession, in cash and promissory notes, the sum of ten thousand dollars! Already were the ill-gotten riches of Leonard Jasper taking to themselves wings. Unhappy man! How wretched was he during that and many succeeding days! Rolling, so to speak, in wealth, he yet possessed not life's highest blessing, a truly contented mind, flowing from conscious rectitude and an abiding trust in Providence. Without these, how poor is even he who counts his millions! With them, how rich is the humble toiler, who, receiving day by day his daily bread, looks up and is thankful! CHAPTER XVII. A few weeks subsequent to the occurrences mentioned in the last chapter, Leonard Jasper received a call from Mr. Melleville, in whose service Claire still remained. The greeting of the two men was distant, yet courteous. A few words on current topics passed between them, after which Mr. Melleville said-- "I have called to ask you a question or two in regard to a child of the late Mr. Elder, to whom you are guardian." The blood came instantly to the face of Jasper, who was not prepared for this; and in spite of his struggle to seem self-possessed, his eyes sank under those of his visitor. In a few moments, he recovered himself, and replied-- "The child, you mean, who is boarding with Edward Claire?" "The same." The eyes of Melleville were fixed on those of Jasper so steadily, that the latter wavered, and, finally, again dropped to the floor. "Well, I am ready to hear any thing that you have to say." Jasper had thrown off, once more, the vague sense of coming evil that made him cower under the steady gaze of Melleville. "I learn," said the latter, "from Mr. Claire, that you refuse to pay any further sums for her maintenance. Is the property left by her father, to which common report has affixed considerable value, exhausted, or"-- "I have refused to pay _him_ any further sums," said Jasper, in a quick, excited voice, interrupting Mr. Melleville. "Our contract, regularly entered into, has expired by limitation. He was to have the care of her only until she reached her twelfth year. Of this fact he is clearly advised, and I wonder at his pertinacity in endeavouring to retain the child, when he knows that I, her guardian, wish to have her in my own possession." "He has had her ever since she was a little child; and both he and his wife are now strongly attached to her. In fact, she regards them as her parents; and their affection for her is not exceeded by their affection for their own children. To separate them would be exceedingly painful to all parties. As for the child, it would make her very unhappy." "I can't help that, Mr. Melleville." Jasper spoke coldly. "Under all the circumstances," said Mr. Melleville, after a pause, speaking slowly, and with considerable emphasis in his words, "it is my opinion that you had better let the child remain where she is." "Why do you say so?" Jasper spoke with ill-concealed surprise; and the uneasy, suspicious manner, at first exhibited, returned. "Claire regards the child as his own; and must so continue to regard her, even though taken out of his hands." "Well, what of that?" "It is for you, Mr. Jasper," was returned, "to determine for yourself, whether the surveillance of a man like Claire, who cannot now cease to feel a parent's interest in your ward, will be altogether agreeable." "Surveillance! What do you mean? I don't understand this language. It looks like an effort to force me into measures. Pray, what have I to fear from Edward Claire?" "Sometimes," replied Melleville, with a slow, meaning enunciation, "those we regard as most insignificant are the very ones we should most fear." "Fear! Fear, Mr. Melleville! You make use of strange language." "Perhaps I do," was answered. "And, as it seems unpleasant to you, I will say no more. I did not mean, when I called, to speak just as I have done. But, as the words have been uttered, I beg you to weigh them well, and to believe that they have a meaning. Good morning." Jasper suppressed the utterance of the word "stay," which arose to his lips, and returned the bow of Mr. Melleville, who left without further remark. "What can this mean?" Thus mused Leonard Jasper, when alone. "Can this scoundrel, Martin, have dropped a hint of the truth?" A slight shiver went through his nerves. "Something is wrong. There is suspicion in the thought of Melleville. I didn't look for trouble in this quarter." To his own unpleasant reflections we will leave the merchant, and return to Edward Claire and his true-minded, loving-hearted wife. For a week or two after the former entered upon his new duties as assistant clerk in a night-auction, he experienced no serious inconvenience from his more prolonged labours, although it did not escape the watchful eyes of his wife that his complexion was losing its freshness, and that his appetite was far from being so good as before. After this, he began to suffer oppressive weariness, that made the evening's toil a daily increasing burden. Then succeeded a feverish state, accompanied by pains in the head, back, and through the breast. Edith remonstrated, even with tears; but still Claire went nightly to his task, though each successive evening found him with less and less ability for its performance. At last, he came home from the store of Mr. Melleville, at the usual tea-time, feeling so unwell that he was forced to lie down. He had no appetite for supper, and merely sipped part of a cup of tea brought to him by his wife as he still reclined upon the bed. "Don't get up," said Edith, seeing her husband, after he had lain for some time, about to rise. "I can't lie here any longer; it's nearly seven o'clock now." "You're not going out to-night!" "O yes; I must be at the store. There is no one to take my place, and the sales will begin by the time I can get there." "But you are too sick to go out, Edward." "I feel much better than I did, Edith. This little rest has refreshed me a great deal." "No--no, Edward! You must not go away," said his wife in a distressed voice. "You are sick now, and the extra exertion of an evening may throw you into a serious illness." "I feel a great deal better, dear," urged Claire. "But, sick or well, I must be there to-night, for the sale cannot go on without me. If I do not feel better to-morrow, I will ask Mr. F---- to get some one, temporarily, in my place." Still Edith opposed, but in vain. By the time Claire arrived at the auction store, his head was throbbing with a pain so intense that he could scarcely see. Still, he resolutely persevered in his determination to go through, if possible, with the duties of the evening; and so, taking his place at his desk, as the auctioneer went upon the stand to cry the goods which had been advertised for sale, he prepared to keep the usual record of purchasers and prices. This he was able to do for half an hour, when overtaxed and exhausted nature could bear up no longer. "Mr. Claire," said the auctioneer, as he took in hand a new article, "did you make that last entry?--Mr. Jackson, ten cents a yard." Claire's head had fallen over on the book in which he had been writing, and the auctioneer, supposing him only yielding to a momentary feeling of fatigue, or indolence, thus called his attention to his duties. But Claire made no answer. "Say! young man! Are you asleep!" The auctioneer spoke now with some sharpness of tone; but, as before, his words were not heeded. "What's the matter, Mr. Claire? Are you sick?" Still no response or movement. "Mr. Claire! Bless me!" The auctioneer was now by his side, with his hand on him. "Bring some water, quick! He's fainted--or is dead! Here! some one help me to lay him down." Two or three men came quickly behind the auctioneer's stand and assisted to lift the insensible man from the high stool on which he was seated, and place his body in a reclining position. Then water was dashed into his face, and various other means of restoration used. Full ten minutes passed before signs of returning life were exhibited. His recovery was very slow, and it was nearly an hour before he was well enough to be removed to his dwelling. The shock of his appearance, supported from the carriage in which he had been conveyed home, by two men, was terrible to his wife, whose anxiety and fear had wrought her feelings already up to a high pitch of excitement. "Oh! what is the matter? What has happened?" she cried, wringing her hands, while her face blanched to a deathly paleness. "Don't be frightened," returned Claire, smiling feebly. "It was only a slight fainting fit. I'm over it now." "That's all, madam," said the men who had brought him home. "He merely fainted. Don't be alarmed. It's all over." After receiving the thanks of Claire and his assurances that he needed nothing further from their kindness, the men retired, and Edward then made every effort in his power to calm down the feelings of his wife, who continued weeping. This was no easy task, particularly as he was unable long to hide the many evidences of serious illness from which he was suffering. Against his remonstrance, so soon as she saw how it was with him, Mrs. Claire sent off the domestic for their family physician; who on learning the causes which led to the condition in which he found his patient, hesitated not to say that he must, as he valued his life, give up the night tasks he had imposed upon himself. "Other men," said Claire, in answer to this, "devote quite as many hours to business." "All men are not alike in constitution," returned the physician. "And even the strongest do not make overdrafts upon the system, without finding, sooner or later, a deficit in their health-account. As for you, nature has not given you the physical ability for great endurance. You cannot overtask yourself without a derangement of machinery." How reluctantly, and with what a feeling of weakness, Claire acquiesced in this decision, the reader may imagine. The morning found him something better, but not well enough to sit up. Mrs. Claire had, by this time, recovered in a measure her calmness and confidence. She had thought much, during the sleepless hours of the preceding night, and though the future was far from opening clearly to her straining vision, her mind rested in a well-assured confidence that all things would work together for their good. She knew in whom she trusted. On the Rock of Ages she had built the habitation where dwelt her higher hopes; and the storms of this world had no power to prevail against it. How little dreamed gentle Fanny Elder--or Fanny Claire, as she was called--when she laid her cheek lovingly to that of her sick "father"--she knew him by no other name--and drew her arms around his neck, that he was suffering alone on her account. In her unselfish love, Claire felt a sweet compensation--while all he endured on her account had the effect to draw her, as it were, into his very heart. As quickly as it could be done, Mrs. Claire got through with the most pressing of her morning duties, and then, the older children away to school, she came and sat down by her husband's bedside, and took his hand in hers. As he looked into her face, pale from sleeplessness and anxiety, tears filled his eyes. "O, Edie!" said he, his voice tremulous with feeling, "isn't this disheartening? What _are_ we to do?" "_He_ careth for us," was the low, calmly spoken reply; and, as Edith lifted a finger upward, a ray of heavenly confidence beamed in her countenance. "I know, Edie; I know, but"-- The sick man left his sentence unfinished. A heavy sigh marking his state of doubt and darkness. "We must feel as well as know, Edward," said his wife. "God is good. In looking back through all our past life, does not the retrospection lead to this undoubting conclusion? I am sure you will say yes. Has he not, in every case, proved better to us than all our fears?--Why, then, should we distrust him now? In the beautiful language of Cowper, let us say in these dark seasons-- 'Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.' "Shall we doubt the sun's existence, because the night has fallen? No, dear husband, no! There are bright stars smiling above us in token of his unerring return. We know that the morning cometh after a season of darkness; and so, after our spirits have lingered awhile in the realm of shadows, the light will break in from above. Has it not always been so, Edward?" "He has led us by a way which we knew not." The sick man's eyes were closed as he murmured these words; and his voice was slightly tremulous, yet expressive of a returning state of confidence. "Yet, how safely," replied Edith. "When our feet were in slippery places, and we leaned on Him, did he not support us firmly? and when the mire and clay were deep in our path, did He not keep us from sinking therein?" "He is goodness itself," said Claire, a calmer expression coming into his face. "It is wrong so to let doubt, distrust, and fear creep in and get possession of the heart; but, we are human--weakness and error are born with us. When the way in which we are walking is suddenly closed up before us, and we see the opening to no other way, how can we keep the faint heart from sinking?" "Only as Peter was saved from sinking. If we look to God, He will lift our hearts above the yielding billows. If we stand still, hopefully and trustingly, the high mountain before us will become as a plain, so that we can walk on in a smooth way, joyful and rejoicing." "And so this high mountain, which has risen up so suddenly, will soon be cleft for us or levelled to a plain, if we wait patiently and confidingly for its removal?" "Oh! I am sure of it, Edward," replied Mrs. Claire, with a beautiful enthusiasm. "We are His creatures, and He loves us with an infinite love. When his children are disposed to trust too much to the arm of flesh, He sometimes shows them their weakness in order that they may feel His strength. Faithfully and unselfishly, my husband, have you tried to meet the suddenly increased demand upon us: and this out of love for one of God's children. In the trial, weakness has prevailed over strength. Suddenly your hands have fallen to your side powerless. God saw it all; and permitted it all; and, in His own good time, will supply, from other sources, all that is really needed. We have the promise--our bread shall be given, and our water sure--not only the natural food that sustains outward life, but the true bread of heavenly affections, and the waters of pure truth, which nourish and sustain the spirit." Edith ceased speaking. Her husband did not make an immediate reply; but lay pondering her words, and letting his thoughts expand their wings in the purer atmosphere into which she had lifted him. After that they conversed together hopefully of the future; not that they saw the way more clearly before them, but heavenly confidence had taken the place of human distrust. It was, perhaps, eleven o'clock in the day--the doctor had been there, and pronounced the condition of his patient favourable, but enjoined quiet and prolonged rest from either bodily or mental exertion--and the mind of Claire was beginning to run again in a slightly troubled channel. "Here is a letter for you," said his wife, coming into the room, after a brief absence. "A young man just left it at the door." Claire took the letter, wondering as he did so who it could be from. On breaking the seal, and unfolding it, he was greatly surprised to find within a check to his order for one hundred and fifty dollars, signed Leonard Jasper; and still more surprised to read the accompanying note, which was in these words: "Enclosed you will find one hundred and fifty dollars, the sum due you for Fanny Elder's maintenance during the past and current quarter. When convenient, I should be glad to see you. Seeing that the child has remained with you so long, I don't know that it will be advisable to make a change now, although I had other views in regard to her. However, when you call, we can settle matters in regard to her definitively." "Better to us than all our fears," murmured Claire, as he handed the letter to his wife, who read it with a truly thankful heart. "Our way is smooth once more," she said, smiling through outpressing tears--"the mountain has become a level plain. All the dark clouds have been swept from our sky, and the sun is shining even more brightly than of old." It was more than a week before Claire was sufficiently recovered to go out and attend to business as usual. At the first opportunity, he called upon Mr. Jasper, who received him with marked kindness of manner. "I do not, now," said the merchant, "entertain the same views in regard to my ward that I did some time ago. Your opposition to my wishes then, fretted me a good deal; and I made up my mind, decisively, that so soon as she was twelve years of age, you must give her up. It was from this feeling that I acted when I refused to pay your last order. Since then, I have reflected a good deal on the subject; and reflection has modified, considerably, my feelings. I can understand how strong must be the attachment of both yourself and wife, and how painful the thought of separation from a long-cherished object of affection." "The dread of separation, Mr. Jasper," replied Claire, "has haunted us during the last two years like an evil spirit." "It need haunt you no more, Edward," was the kindly spoken reply. "If you still wish to retain the care of this child, you are free to do so." "You have taken a mountain from my heart, Mr. Jasper," was the young man's feeling response. "It is settled, then, Edward, that she remains with you. And now I must say a word about her education. I wish that to be thorough. She must have good advantages; better than the sum now paid for her maintenance will procure." Claire made no reply, and Jasper continued-- "I have this to propose. The bulk of property left by her father is contained in two moderate-sized houses, one of which is at this time without a tenant. It is a very comfortable house for a small family. Just the thing, I should say, for you. If you will move into this house, you shall have it rent free, as a set-off to the increased charge Fanny will be to you in future. The three hundred per annum will be paid as usual. How will that do?" "The compensation, I think, will be greater than the service," replied Claire. "Not at all. During the next five or six years, or until she gains her majority, you will find the cost of clothing and education a constantly increasing sum. I know more about these things than you do. And I am very sure, since I understand your relation to her, that twice this expenditure, could not gain for her what she will have while in your care. As her guardian, I feel it my duty to provide liberally for her comfort and education, and to this you, of course, can have nothing to object." And Claire did not object. In a few weeks from that time he removed into one of the houses mentioned by Jasper--a larger and far more comfortable one than that in which he had lived for several years. Here, with a thankful heart, he gathered his wife and children around him. How happy they all were! Not selfishly happy--if such contradictory terms may be used--but happy in the warmth of mutual love. A heaven on earth was this little household. Shall we contrast it with that of Leonard Jasper? No!--the opposite picture would leave upon the reader's mind too sad an impression; and we will not burden this chapter with another shadow. CHAPTER XVIII. During the five or six following years, a number of events occurred bearing more or less seriously upon some of the actors in our story. With Edward Claire and his family, life had flowed on in an even current; and, but for the fact that his health never fairly recovered from the shock it received in consequence of his having taxed his physical system beyond its capability of endurance, the sunshine would never have been a moment from his threshold. The important addition made to his income through the new arrangement volunteered by Fanny's guardian, gave to his external condition a more favourable aspect. He was no longer troubled about the ways and means of providing for his needful expenses. A much better situation, so far as a higher salary was concerned, had, during this time offered; but, as it required an amount of confinement and labour which he could not give, without endangering his health, he wisely declined the offer. Far less smoothly had the current of Leonard Jasper's life flowed on. Twice during this period had he received visits from his old acquaintance, Martin, and each time he was made poorer by five thousand dollars. It was all in vain that he struggled and resisted. The man had no compassion in him. He cared not who suffered loss, so he was the gainer. There were other miners at work sapping the foundations of Jasper's fortune, besides this less concealed operator. Parker, the young man who succeeded to the place of Claire, and who was afterward raised to the condition of partner, with a limited interest, was far from being satisfied with his dividend in the business. The great bulk of Jasper's means were used in outside speculations; and as the result of these became successively known to Parker, his thoughts began to run in a new channel. "If I only had money to go into this," and, "If I only had money to go into that," were words frequently on his tongue. He regarded himself as exceedingly shrewd; and confidently believed that, if he had capital to work with, he could soon amass an independent fortune. "Money makes money," was his favourite motto. Unscrupulous as his partner, it is not surprising that Parker, ere long, felt himself perfectly authorized to use the credit of the house in private schemes of profit. To do this safely, it was necessary to have a friend outside of the firm. Such a friend he did not find it very hard to obtain; and as nearly the whole burden of the business fell upon his shoulders, it was not at all difficult to hide every thing from Jasper. Confident as Parker was in his great shrewdness, his speculations outside of the business did not turn out very favourably. His first essay was in the purchase of stocks, on which he lost, in a week, two thousand dollars. Like the gamester who loses, he only played deeper, in the hope of recovering his losses; and as it often happens with the gamester, in similar circumstances, the deeper he played, the more he lost. And so it went on. Sometimes the young man had a turn of good fortune, and sometimes all the chances went against him. But he was too far committed to recede without a discovery. There was no standing still; and so newer and bolder operations were tried, involving larger and larger sums of money, until the responsibilities of the firm, added to the large cash drafts made without the cognizance of Jasper, were enormous. To all such mad schemes the end must come; and the end came in this instance. Failing to procure, by outside operations, sufficient money to meet several large notes, he was forced to divulge a part of his iniquity to Jasper, in order to save the credit of the firm. Suspicion of a deeper fraud being thereby aroused in the mind of his partner, time, and a sifting investigation of the affairs of the house, revealed the astounding fact that Parker had abstracted in money, and given the notes of the firm for his own use, to the enormous amount of fifty thousand dollars. A dissolution of co-partnership took place in consequence. Parker, blasted in reputation, was dragged before a court of justice, in order to make him disgorge property alleged to be in his possession. But nothing could be found; and he was finally discharged from custody. The whole loss fell upon Jasper. He had nursed a serpent in his bosom, warming it with the warmth of his own life; and the serpent had stung him. Is it any wonder? This circumstance, the discovery of Parker's fraudulent doings, took place about two years prior to the time when Fanny Elder attained her legal age. The first thought of Jasper, after his separation from Parker, which took place immediately on discovering that he had used the credit of the firm improperly, was to send for Claire, and offer him a salary of a thousand dollars a year, to come in and fill the responsible position as clerk, from which Parker had just been ejected as partner. "I can trust him fully," said Jasper to himself; "and I don't know anybody else that I can trust. He is honest; I will give him credit for that; too honest, it may be, for his own good. But, I don't know. Who would not rather be in his shoes than in Parker's?" For some time Jasper's mind was favourable to making Claire the offer proposed, and he was about writing him a note, when a new view of the case struck him, dependent on the young man's relation to his ward, Fanny Elder. "Oh no, no, no!" said he emphatically, speaking to himself--"that, I fear me, will not do. It would give him too open an access to my books, papers, and private accounts, in which are entries and memoranda that it might be dangerous for him to see." Jasper sighed deeply as he finished this sentence, and then fell into a musing state. His thoughts, while this lasted, were not of the most self-satisfying character. Some serious doubts as to his having, in the main, pursued the wisest course in life, were injected into his mind; and, remarkable as it may seem for one so absorbed in the love of gain, there were moments when he almost envied the poor, but honest clerk, who had an approving conscience, and feared no man's scrutiny. It was with no slight reluctance that he finally came to the conclusion that it would be altogether unsafe to take Claire into his employment. And so he cast about for some one to supply the place left vacant by Parker's withdrawal from the business. In his final selection he was not over-fortunate, as the result proved. The new clerk was shrewd, and capable enough, and apparently as much devoted to his employer's interests as Jasper could wish. Had not his own interests been regarded as paramount to those of the merchant, Jasper would have possessed in him a valuable assistant. But the clerk did not rise superior to temptations which came in his way. Jasper continued to trade on the close-cutting, overreaching, and unscrupulous system; and under such a teacher his clerk proved an apt learner. "He cuts right and left," said he to himself, "and why may not I cut left and right when a good opportunity offers?" Soon he began to "cut left and right," as he termed it, and it was not remarkable that, in his cutting operations, his employer occasionally suffered. The upshot was, after holding his situation a year, that several false entries, in his hand-writing, were discovered in the books of Mr. Jasper. To what extent he robbed his employer, the latter never accurately knew; but he was worse off by at least three or four thousand dollars through his peculations. Again the question of taking Claire once more into his employment came up in the mind of Jasper. After viewing it on every side, the decision was adverse. He felt that too great a risk was involved. And so he employed one in whom he could confide with less certainty. Several years had now passed since the merchant began to feel the shock of adverse winds. All before was a summer sea, and the ship of his fortune had bent her sails alone to favouring breezes. But this was to be no longer. His ship had suffered not only by stress of weather, but also by the sacrifice of a portion of cargo to save what remained. And, at last, she was driving on toward the breakers, and her safety from destruction only hoped for through the activity, skill, and tireless vigilance of her helmsman. A few years before, Mr. Jasper considered himself worth between two and three hundred thousand dollars; now, he passed sleepless nights in fear of impending ruin. He had trusted in riches; he had called them, in his heart, the greatest good. At his word they had poured in upon him from all sides, until he was half bewildered at sight of the glittering treasures; but, just as he began to feel secure in his possessions, they began to take themselves wings and fly away. And, alas for him! he had laid up no other treasures. None in heaven; none in the hearts of his wife and children; none in his own mind. The staff upon which he had leaned was now a splintering reed, wounding as it bent under him. CHAPTER XIX. There was one point of time to which Leonard Jasper looked with no little anxiety, and that was to the period of Fanny Elder's majority, when it was his purpose to relinquish his guardianship, and wash his hands, if it were possible to do so, entirely clean of her. Until the estate left by her father was settled up, the property in her hands and receipts in his, there was danger ahead. And, as the time drew nearer and nearer, he felt increasing uneasiness. On the very day that Fanny reached her eighteenth year, Jasper sent a note to Claire, asking an interview. "I wish," said he, when the latter came, "to have some conference with you about Miss Elder. She has now, you are no doubt aware, attained the legal age. Such being the case, I wish, as early as it can be done, to settle up the estate of her father, and pay over to her, or to any person she may select as her agent, the property in my hands. It has increased some in value. Will you consult her on the subject?" Claire promised to do so; and, at the same time, asked as to the amount of Fanny's property. "The total value will not fall much short of eight thousand dollars," replied Jasper. "There are two houses and lots that would sell at any time for six thousand dollars. You live in one of these houses, and the other is rented for two hundred and fifty dollars. Then there are nearly two thousand dollars in six per cent. stocks. When her father died, his estate consisted of these two houses, and a piece of poor land which he had taken as satisfaction for a debt. At the first opportunity, I sold the land and invested the money. This sum, with accumulations of interest, and rents received for several years, beyond what was required for Fanny's maintenance, has now increased to within a fraction of two thousand dollars, and is, as just said, invested in stocks. I think," added Jasper, "that you had better assume the management of this property yourself. Get from Miss Elder a power of attorney authorizing you to settle the estate, and the whole business can be completed in a very short time. I will make you out an accurate statement of every thing, so that you will be at no loss to comprehend the accounts." To this there could, of course, be no objection on the part of Claire. He promised to confer with Fanny, and let Jasper know, in a day or two, the result. Now came a new trial for Claire and his wife. They had taken Fanny, when only four years of age, and taken her so entirely into their home and affections, that she had almost from the first seemed to them as one of their own children. In a brief time the earlier memories of the child faded. The past was absorbed in the present; and she loved as parents none other than those she called by the tender names of "father" and "mother." The children with whom she grew up she knew only as her brothers and sisters. This thorough adoption and incorporation of the child into their family was not, in any sense, the work of design on the part of Claire and his wife. But they saw, in the beginning, no reason to check the natural tendency thereto. When little Fanny, of her own accord, addressed them, soon after her virtual adoption, as "father" and "mother," they accepted the child's own interpretation of their relative positions, and took her from that moment more entirely into their hearts. And so Fanny Elder grew up to womanhood, in the full belief that she was the child of Mr. and Mrs. Claire. The new trial through which this excellent couple were now to pass, the reader can easily imagine. The time had come when Fanny must know the real truth in regard to herself--must be told that she had no natural claim upon the love of those whose love she prized above all things. It seemed cruel to take away the conscious right to love and be loved, which had so long blessed her. And yet the truth must now be made known, and Mrs. Claire took upon herself the task of breaking it as gently as possible. A woman in age and stature, yet with all the gentle deference of a daughter, Fanny moved by the side of Mrs. Claire with a loving thoughtfulness, daily sharing her household duties. Some months before she had left school, but was still taking lessons in music and French, and devoting a portion of time to practice in drawing, for which she had a decided taste. On the day after Mr. Claire's interview with Jasper, Mrs. Claire said to Fanny, with a seriousness of tone and manner that brought a look of surprise to her face-- "Come to my room with me, dear. I have something to say to you." Fanny moved along by her side, wondering to herself what could be in her mother's mind. On entering the chamber, Mrs. Claire shut the door, and then, as she sat down, with an arm around the young girl's waist, she said, in a thoughtful, earnest voice-- "Fanny, I want you to tell me the first thing you recollect in life." "The first thing, mother?" She smiled at a request so unexpected, and Mrs. Claire smiled in return, though from a different cause. "Yes, dear. I have a reason for asking this. Now, let your thoughts run back--far back, and recall for me the very first thing you can recollect." The countenance of Fanny grew thoughtful, then serious, and then a half-frightened look flashed over it. "Why, mother," said she, "what can you mean? What do you want to know?" "Your first recollection, dear?" returned Mrs. Claire, with an assuring smile, although her heart was full, and it required the most active self-control to prevent her feelings from becoming manifest in her voice. "Well, let me see! The first? The first? I was playing on the floor with a dear little baby? It was our Edie, wasn't it?" "Yes--so far your memory is correct. I remember the time to which you refer as perfectly as if but a week had passed. Now, dear, try if you can recall any thing beyond that." "Beyond that, mother? Oh, why do you ask? You make me feel so strangely. Can it be that some things I have thought to be only the memory of dreams, are indeed realities?" "What are those things, my child?" "I have a dim remembrance of a pale, but beautiful woman who often kissed and caressed me--of being in a sick-room--of a strange confusion in the house--of riding in a carriage with father to a funeral. Mother! is there any thing in this; if so, what does it mean?" "That woman, Fanny," said Mrs. Claire, speaking with forced composure, "was your mother." The face of the young girl grew instantly pale; her lips parted; and she gasped for breath. Then falling forward on the bosom of Mrs. Claire, she sobbed-- "Oh, mother! mother! How can you say this? It cannot, it cannot be. You are my own, my only mother." "You did not receive your life through me, Fanny," replied Mrs. Claire, so soon as she could command her voice, for she too was overcome by feeling--"but in all else I am your mother; and I love you equally with my other children. If there has ever been a difference, it has all been in your favour." "Why, why did you destroy the illusion under which I have so long rested?" said Fanny, when both were more composed. "Why tell me a truth from which no good can flow? Why break in upon my happy ignorance with such a chilling revelation? Oh, mother, mother! Forgive me, if I say you have been cruel." "Not so, my child. Believe me, that nothing but duty would have ever driven me to this avowal. You are now at woman's legal age. You have a guardian, in whose hands your father, at his death, left, for your benefit, some property; and this person now desires to settle the estate, and transfer to you what remains." Bewildered, like one awakening from a dream, Fanny listened to this strange announcement. And it was some time before she really comprehended her true position. "Not your child--a guardian--property!--What does it all mean? Am I really awake, mother?" "Yes, dear, you are awake. It is no dream, believe me," was the tender reply of Mrs. Claire. "But, remember, that all this does not diminish our love for you--does not remove you in the least from our affections. You are still our child, bound to us by a thousand intertwining chords." But little more passed between them at this interview. Fanny asked for no more particulars, and Mrs. Claire did not think it necessary to give any further information. Fanny soon retired to her own chamber, there to commune with her thoughts, and to seek, in tears, relief to her oppressed feelings. The meeting of Claire with Fanny, on his return home, was affecting. She met him with a quivering lip and moistened eyes, and, as she laid her cheek against his breast, murmured in a sad, yet deeply affectionate voice-- "My father!" "My own dear child!" quickly replied Claire, with emotion. And then both stood for some time silent. Leading her to a seat, Claire said tenderly-- "I have always loved you truly, and now you are dearer to me than ever." "My more than father," was her simple response. "My own dear child!" said Mr. Claire, kissing her fondly. "We have ever blessed the day on which you came to us from God." Words would only have mocked their feelings, and so but few words passed between them, yet how full of thoughts crowding upon thoughts were their minds--how over-excited their hearts with new emotions of love. After the younger members of the family had retired on that evening, Mr. and Mrs. Claire and Fanny were alone together. All three were in a calmer state of mind. Fanny listened with deep attention, her hand shading her countenance so as to conceal its varying expression, to a brief history of her parentage. Of things subsequent to the time of her entrance into her present home, but little was said. There was an instinctive delicacy on the part of Claire and his wife, now that Fanny was about coming into the possession of property, which kept back all allusion to the sacrifices they had made, and the pain they had suffered on her account, in their contentions with her guardian. In fact, this matter of property produced with them a feeling of embarrassment. They had no mercenary thoughts in regard to it--had no wish to profit by their intimate and peculiar relation. And yet, restricted in their own income, and with a family growing daily more expensive, they understood but too well the embarrassment which would follow, if any very important change were made in their present external relations. To explain every thing to Fanny, would, they knew, lead to an instant tender of all she possessed. But this they could not do; nor had they a single selfish desire in regard to her property. If things could remain as they were, without injustice to Fanny, they would be contented; but they were not altogether satisfied as to the amount they were receiving for her maintenance. It struck them as being too much; and they had more than once conferred together in regard to its reduction. The first thing to be done was to make Fanny comprehend her relation to Mr. Jasper, her guardian, and his wish to settle up the estate of her father, and transfer to her, or her representative, the property that remained in his hands. "I will leave all with you, father," was the very natural response made to this. "All I have is yours. Do just as you think best." On the next day a power of attorney in the name of Edward Claire was executed; and, as Jasper was anxious to get the business settled, every facility thereto was offered. Claire examined the will of Mr. Elder, in which certain property was mentioned, and saw that it agreed with the guardian's statement. All the accounts were scrutinized; and all the vouchers for expenditure compared with the various entries. Every thing appeared correct, and Claire expressed himself entirely satisfied. All legal forms were then complied with; and, in due time, the necessary documents were prepared ready for the signature of Claire, by which Jasper would be freed from the nervous anxiety he had for years felt whenever his thoughts went forward to this particular point of time. On the evening preceding the day when a consummation so long and earnestly looked for was to take place, Jasper, with his mind too much absorbed in business troubles to mingle with his family, sat alone in his library, deeply absorbed in plans and calculations. His confidence in fortune and his own prudence had been growing weaker, daily; and now it seemed to him as if a great darkness were gathering all around. He had fully trusted in himself; alas! how weak now seemed to him his human arm; how dim the vision with which he would penetrate the future. He was mocked of his own overweening and proud confidence. This was his state of mind when a servant came to the library-door, and announced a gentleman who wished to see him. "What is his name?" asked Jasper. "He said it was no difference. He was a friend." "It might make a great difference," Jasper muttered in an undertone. "Show him up," he said aloud. The servant retired, and Jasper waited for his visitor to appear. He was not long in suspense. The door soon reopened, and a man, poorly clad, and with a face bearing strong marks of intemperance and evil passions, came in. "You do not know me," said he, observing that the merchant, who had risen to his feet, did not recognise him. Jasper shook his head. "Look closer." There was an air of familiarity and rude insolence about the man. "Martin!" exclaimed Jasper, stepping back a few paces. "Is it possible!" "Quite possible, friend Jasper," returned the man, helping himself to a chair, and sinking into it with the air of one who felt himself at home. Surprise and perplexity kept the merchant dumb for some moments. He would quite as lief have been confronted with a robber, pistol in hand. "I do not wish to see you, Martin," said he, at length, speaking in a severe tone of voice. "Why have you intruded on me again? Are you not satisfied? Have you no mercy?" "None, Leonard Jasper, none," replied the man scowling. "I never knew the meaning of the word--no more than yourself." "You are nothing better than a robber," said the merchant, bitterly. "I only share with bolder robbers their richer plunder," retorted the man. "I will not bear this, Martin. Leave my presence." "I will relieve you certainly," said the visitor, rising, "when you have done for me what I wish. I arrived here, to-day, penniless; and have called for a trifling loan to help me on my way North." "Loan! what mockery! I will yield no further to your outrageous demands. I was a fool ever to have feared the little power you possess. Go, sir! I do not fear you." "I want your check for two hundred dollars--no more," said Martin, in a modified tone--"I will not be hard on you. Necessity drives me to this resort; but I hope never to trouble you again." "Not a dollar," replied Jasper, firmly. "And now, my friend, seek some other mode of sustaining yourself in vice and idleness. You have received from me your last contribution. In settling the estate of Reuben Elder to the entire satisfaction of all parties, I have disarmed you. You have no further power to hurt." "You may find yourself mistaken in regard to my power," replied Martin as he made a movement toward the door, and threw back upon the merchant a side-glance of the keenest malignity. "Many a foot has been stung by the reptile it spurned." The word "stay" came not to Jasper's lips. He was fully in earnest. Martin paused, with his hand on the door, and said-- "One hundred dollars will do." "Not a copper, if it were to save you from the nether regions!" cried Jasper, his anger and indignation o'erleaping the boundaries of self-control. He was alone in the next moment. As his excitement cooled down, he felt by no means indifferent to the consequences which might follow this rupture with Martin. More than one thought presented itself, which, if it could have been weighed calmly a few minutes before, would have caused a slightly modified treatment of his unwelcome visitor. But having taken his position, Jasper determined to adhere to it, and brave all consequences. While Claire was yet seated at the breakfast-table on the next morning, word was brought that a gentleman was in the parlour and wished to see him. On entering the parlour, he found there a man of exceedingly ill appearance, both as to countenance and apparel. "My name is Martin," said this person--"though you do not, I presume, know me." Claire answered that he was to him an entire stranger. "I have," said the man, speaking in a low, confidential tone of voice, "became cognisant of certain facts, which it much concerns you, or at least your adopted daughter, Fanny Elder, to know." For a few moments, Claire was overcome with surprise. "Concerns Fanny Elder to know! What do you mean, sir?" "Precisely what I say. There has been a great fraud committed; and I know all the ins and the outs of it!" "By whom?" asked Claire. "Ah!" replied the visitor, "that we will come to after a while." "Upon whom, then?" "Upon the estate of Ruben Elder, the father of your adopted daughter." Not liking either the man's appearance or manner, Claire said, after a moment's reflection-- "Why have you called to see me?" "To give the information I have indicated--provided, of course, that you desire to have it." "On what terms do you propose to act in this matter? Let us understand each other in the beginning." "I can put you in the way of recovering for Miss Elder from twenty to a hundred thousand dollars, out of which she has been cheated. But, before I give you any information on the subject, I shall require an honourable pledge on your part, as well as written agreement, to pay me twenty per cent. of the whole amount recovered. Will you give it?" Claire bent his head in thought for some moments. When he looked up he said-- "No, sir. I can make no compact with you of this kind." "Very well, sir. That closes the matter," replied Martin, rising. "If you will not buy a fortune at so small a cost, you deserve to be poor. How far your conscience is clear in respect to Miss Elder, is another matter. But, perhaps you don't credit what I say. Let me give you a single hint. Fanny Elder was missing once for three days. I had a hand in that affair. Do you think she was carried off, and taken to another city for nothing? If so, you are wonderfully mistaken. But good morning, sir. If you should, on reflection, change your mind, you can hear of me by calling at the office of Grind, the lawyer." "Good morning," returned Claire, showing not the least disposition to retain the man, toward whom he experienced a strong feeling of dislike and sense of repulsion. Martin lingered a few moments, and then went out, leaving Claire bewildered by a rush of new thoughts. CHAPTER XX. The meeting of Claire and Jasper, for the final settlement of Mr. Elder's estate, was to take place at the office of Grind, at ten o'clock. Before keeping his appointment, the former turned over in his mind, with careful deliberation, the circumstances which had just occurred; and the more he thought of it, the better satisfied was he that a fraud had been committed. The author of that fraud could be no one else but the guardian of Fanny; of whose honesty Claire had, with good reason, no very high opinion. His conclusion was, not to accept, at present, a settlement of the estate. With an uneasy foreboding of evil--he was, in fact, rarely now without that feeling--Leonard Jasper took his way to the office of Grind. Notwithstanding he had defied Martin, he yet feared him. But he was so near to the point of comparative safety, that he hoped soon to be past all real danger from this quarter. Too little time had elapsed, since he parted with him, for Martin to see Claire, even if a thought of assailing him in that quarter had crossed his mind. So Jasper believed. How sadly taken by surprise was he, therefore, when, on meeting Claire, the latter said-- "Since I saw you yesterday, a matter has come to my knowledge which I feel bound to investigate, before proceeding any farther in this business." As if struck by a heavy blow, Jasper moved a pace or two backward, while an instant pallor overspread his face. Quickly recovering himself, he said-- "Explain yourself, Edward. What matter has come to your knowledge?" "On that subject I would prefer speaking with you alone," replied Claire. "This room is at your service," said Grind, rising and retiring toward his front office. "You will be altogether free from intrusion." And he passed out, closing the door behind him. "Edward," said Jasper, in as firm a voice as he could assume, "What is the meaning of this? You look at me with an expression of countenance, and have spoken in a tone that implies a belief on your part that I have not acted fairly in the matter of this guardianship." "Such, at least, is my impression," replied Claire, firmly. "Have you come here to insult me, sir?" Jasper drew himself up with an offended manner. "No, Mr. Jasper. I have no such intention. All I purpose is, to ascertain how far certain information received by me this morning is correct." "What information?" The merchant became a good deal agitated. "A man named Martin called on me"-- "Martin! oh, the wretch! My curses rest on him, for a base betrayer!" Claire was startled at the effect produced by his mention of the name of Martin. Jasper, on hearing this name, believed that every thing had been divulged, and, in the bitterness and despair of this conviction, threw off all concealment. His countenance, which had partly gained its usual colour, became pallid again, while large beads of sweat oozed from the relaxed pores and stood upon his forehead. Moving back a step or two, he sank into a chair, and averting his face, sat struggling with himself to regain the mastery over his feelings. How changed, in a few brief years, had become the relation of these two men. The poor, humble, despised, but honest clerk, now stood erect, while the merchant cowered before him in humiliation and fear. "Edward," said Jasper, as soon as he had sufficient composure of mind to think somewhat clearly and speak calmly, "What do you purpose doing in this matter?" "What is right, Mr. Jasper," answered Claire, firmly. "That is my duty." "Ruin! ruin! ruin!" exclaimed Jasper, in a low voice, again losing command of himself, and wringing his hands hopelessly. "Oh! that it should have come to this!" Astonished as Claire was by what he now heard and saw, he felt the necessity of preserving the most entire self-possession. When Jasper again put the question-- "What do you purpose doing, Edward?" he replied. "I shall be better able to answer that question when I have all the particulars upon which to make up a decision. At present, I only know that a large amount of property has been withheld from Miss Elder; and that I have only to bring this man Martin into a court of justice to have every thing made clear." "And this you purpose doing?" "I shall do so, undoubtedly; unless the object to be gained by such a course is secured in another way." "Quite as much, believe me, Edward, can be gained through private arrangement as by legal investigation," returned Jasper, his manner greatly subdued. "You and I can settle every thing, I am sure, between ourselves; and, as far as my ability will carry me, it shall be to your entire satisfaction. I have greatly mistaken your character, or you will take no pleasure in destroying me." "Pleasure in destroying you?" Claire was still further affected with surprise. "In no man's destruction could I take pleasure." "I believe you Edward. And now let me give you a history of this matter from the beginning. You will know better what course to pursue when you comprehend it fully." And then, to the astonished ears of Claire, Jasper related how, through the man Martin, he became possessed of the fact that the supposed almost valueless piece of land in Pennsylvania which Mr. Elder had taken to secure a debt of five hundred dollars, contained a rich coal deposite--and how, as executor to his estate, and the guardian of his child, he had by presenting the child in person before commissioners appointed by the court, obtained an order for the sale of the land, with the declared purpose of investing the proceeds in some productive property. It was for this that he had been so anxious to get Fanny, and for this that he carried her off forcibly, although his agency in the matter did not appear. He then related how, in the sale, he became the real purchaser; and how, afterward, the tract, as coal land, was sold to a company for nearly a hundred thousand dollars. "But Edward," said Jasper, as he concluded his humiliating narrative, "I am worse off to-day than if I had never made this transaction. It gave me a large amount of capital for trade and speculation, but it also involved me in connections, and led me into schemes for money-making, that have wellnigh proved my ruin. In all truth, I am not, this day, worth one-half of what I received for that property." Jasper ceased speaking; but astonishment kept Claire silent. "And now, Edward," resumed the former, "I am ready to make restitution as far as in my power lies. You can drag me into court, and thus blast my reputation; or, you can obtain for Miss Elder as much, or even more, than you would probably get by law--for, if driven into the courts, I will contend to the last moment--through an amicable arrangement. Which course are you disposed to take?" "I have no desire to harm you, Mr. Jasper--none in the world. If the terms of settlement which you may offer are such as, under all the circumstances, I feel justified in accepting, I will meet your wishes. But you must bear in mind that, in this matter, I am not acting for myself." "I know--but your judgment of the case must determine." "True--and in that judgment I will endeavour to hold an equal balance." The two men now retired from the lawyer's office; and, ere parting, arranged a meeting for that evening at the store of Jasper, where they could be entirely alone. For two or three successive evenings these conferences were continued, until Claire was entirely satisfied that the merchant's final offer to transfer to the possession of Fanny Elder four houses, valued at five thousand dollars each, in full settlement of her father's estate, was the very best he could do; and far more than he would probably obtain if an appeal were made to the law. As quickly as this transfer could be made, it was done. Not until the long-desired documents, vouching for the equitable settlement of the estate, were in Jasper's hands, did he breathe freely. Oh! through what an ordeal he had passed. How his own pride, self-consequence, and self-sufficiency had been crushed out of him! And not only in spirit was he humbled and broken. In his anxiety to settle up the estate of Mr. Elder, and thus get the sword that seemed suspended over his head by a single hair, removed, he had overstepped his ability. The houses referred to were burdened with a mortgage of nearly ten thousand dollars; this had, of course, to be released; and, in procuring the money therefor, he strained to the utmost his credit, thus cutting off important facilities needed in his large, and now seriously embarrassed business. It is the last pound that breaks the camel's back. This abstraction of money and property took away from Jasper just what he needed to carry him safely through a period of heavy payments, at a time when there was some derangement in financial circles. In less than a month from the time he settled the estate of Reuben Elder, the news of his failure startled the business community. He went down with a heavy plunge, and never again rose to the surface. His ruin was complete. He had trusted in riches. Gold was his god; and the idol had mocked him. CHAPTER XXI. Beyond what has already been written, there is not much, in the histories of those whom we have introduced, to be told, except briefly, worthy the reader's interested attention. Martin, the old accomplice of Jasper, finding his power over that individual gone, and failing in the card he played against Claire's nice sense of honour and integrity of purpose, now turned, like an ill-natured, hungry cur, and showed his teeth to the man through whose advice he had so long been able to extort money from Jasper. He felt the less compunction in so doing, from the fact that Grind, angry with him for having been the agent of Jasper's final destruction, which involved him in a severe loss, had expressed himself in no measured terms--had, in fact, lashed him with most bitter and opprobrious words. Several times, during the progress of events briefly stated in the concluding portions of the last chapter, Martin had, in his frequent visits to the lawyer, hinted, more or less remotely, at his great need of money. But to these intimations, Grind never gave the slightest response. At last the man said boldly-- "Mr. Grind, you must help me to a little money." This was directly after the failure of Jasper. "I cannot do it," was the unequivocal reply. "You have, by your miserable vindictiveness, ruined Jasper, after having subsisted on him for years--base return for all you owe him--and, in doing so, half destroyed me. You have killed the goose that laid the golden egg, and there is no one but yourself to thank for this folly." "You must help me, Mr. Grind," said Martin, his brows knitting, and the muscles of his lips growing rigid. "You had a hand in that business as well as Jasper; you took a big slice, if he did keep the major part of the loaf; and so I have a right to ask some slight return for important service rendered." "What! This to me!" exclaimed Grind, roused to instant excitement. "This to you," was the cool, deliberate answer. "You have mistaken your man," returned the lawyer, now beginning to comprehend Martin more thoroughly. "I understand my whole relation to this affair too well to be moved by any attempt at extortion which you can make. But I can tell you a little secret, which it may be interesting for you to know." "What is it?" growled the man. "Why, that I hold the power to give you a term in the State's prison, whenever I may happen to feel inclined that way." "Indeed!" Martin spoke with a cold, defiant sneer. "I am uttering no vague threat. From the beginning, I have kept this trap over you, ready to spring, if need be, at a moment's warning." "I suppose you thought me a poor fool, did you not?" said Martin as coldly and contemptuously as before. "But you were mistaken. I have not been altogether willing to trust myself in your hands, without good advice from a limb of the law quite as shrewd as yourself." "What do you mean?" exclaimed Grind, somewhat startled by so unexpected a declaration. "Plainly," was answered, "while I took your advice as to the surest way to act upon Jasper, I consulted another as to the means of protecting myself from you, if matters ever came to a pinch." "Oh! Preposterous!" Grind forced a laugh. "That's only an afterthought." "Is it. Hark!" Martin bent close to his ear, and uttered a few words in an undertone. Grind started as if stung by a serpent. "Wretch!" "It is useless to call ill names, my friend. I have you in my power; and I mean to keep you there. But I shall not be very hard on you. So, don't look so awfully cut down." For once the scheming, unscrupulous lawyer found himself outwitted. His tool had proved too sharp for him. Without a doubt he was in his power to an extent by no means agreeable to contemplate. Grind now saw that conciliation was far better than antagonism. When Martin retired from the lawyer's office, he had in his pocket a check for two hundred dollars, while behind him was left his solemn pledge to leave the city for New Orleans the next day. The pledge, when given, he did not intend to keep; and it was not kept, as Grind soon afterward learned, to his sorrow. A drunkard and a gambler, it did not take Martin long to see once more the bottom of his purse. Not until this occurred did he trouble the lawyer again. Then he startled him with a second visit, and, after a few sharp words, came off with another check, though for a less amount. And for years, leech-like, Martin, sinking lower and lower all the time, continued his adhesion to the lawyer, abstracting continually, but in gradually diminishing sums, the money needed for natural life and sensual indulgence, until often his demands went not above a dollar. Grind, reluctantly as he yielded to these demands, believed it wiser to pay them than to meet the exposure Martin had it in his power to make. And so it went on, until, one day, to his inexpressible relief, Grind read in the morning papers an account of the sudden and violent death of his enemy. His sleep was sounder on the night that followed than it had been for a long, long time. Of Edward Claire, and his happy family--not happy merely from an improved external condition, for the foundation of their happiness was laid in a deeper ground--we have not much to relate. When Claire brought to Fanny the title-deeds of the property which he had recovered from Jasper, she pushed them back upon him, saying, as she did so-- "Keep them, father--keep them. All is yours." "No, my dear child," replied Claire, seriously, yet with tenderness and emotion, "all is not mine. All is yours. This property, through a wise Providence, has come into your possession. I have no right to it." "If it is mine, father," said Fanny, "have I not a right to do with it what I please?" "In a certain sense you have." "Then I give it all to you--you, my more than father!" "For such a noble tender, my dear child, I thank you in the very inmost of my heart. But I cannot accept of it, Fanny." "Why not, father? Why not? You have bestowed on me more than wealth could buy! I know something of what you have borne and suffered for me. Your health, now impaired, was broken for me. Oh, my father! can I ever forget that? Can I ever repay you all I owe? Were the world's wealth mine, it should be yours." Overcome by her feelings, Fanny wept for some time on the breast of him she knew only as her father; and there the interview closed for the time. Soon after it was renewed; and the occasion of this was an advantageous business offer made to Claire by Mr. Melleville, if he could bring in a capital of twelve thousand dollars. Two of the houses received from Jasper, with some stocks, were sold to furnish this capital, and Claire, after his long struggle, found himself in a safe and moderately profitable business; and, what was more, with a contented and thankful spirit. Of what treasures was he possessed? Treasures of affection, such as no money could buy; and, above all, the wealth of an approving conscience. Mrs. Claire--happy wife and mother!--how large too was her wealth. From the beginning she had possessed the riches which have no wings--spiritual riches, that depend on no worldly changes; laid up in the heaven of her pure mind, where moth could not corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal. The better worldly fortune that now came added to her happiness, because it afforded the means of giving to their children higher advantages, and procured for them many blessings and comforts to which they were hitherto strangers. Five years, passed under an almost cloudless sky, succeeded, and then the sweet home circle was broken by the withdrawal of one whose presence made perpetual sunshine. One so good, so lovely, so fitted in every way to form the centre of another home circle as Fanny Elder, could hardly remain unwooed or unwon. Happily, in leaving the paternal haven, her life-boat was launched on no uncertain sea. The character of her husband was based on those sound, religious principles, which regard justice to man as the expression of love to God. A few weeks after the husband of Fanny had taken his lovely young wife to his own home, Claire waited upon him for the purpose of making a formal transfer of his wife's property. "There are four houses," said Claire, in describing the property; "besides twelve thousand dollars which I have in my business. A portion of this latter I will pay over; on the balance, while it remains"-- "Mr. Claire," returned the young man, interrupting him, "the house you now live in, Fanny says, is your property--also the capital in your business." "No--no--no. This is not so. I do not want, and I will not keep a dollar of her patrimony." "You are entitled to every thing, in good right," said the young man, smiling. "But we will consent to take one-half as a good start in life." "But, my dear sir"-- We will not, however, record the arguments, affirmations, protestations, etc., made by each party in this contention, but drop the curtain, and leave the reader to infer the sequel. He cannot go very far wide of the truth. THE END. STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON AND CO. PHILADELPHIA. J.W. BRADLEY, 48 NORTH FOURTH ST., PHILADELPHIA; AND L.P. CROWN & CO., 61 CORNHILL, BOSTON, PUBLISH THE FOLLOWING WORKS BY JOHN FROST, LL.D. * * * * * THRILLING ADVENTURES AMONG THE INDIANS. Comprising the most remarkable Personal Narratives of events in the early INDIAN WARS, as well as of Incidents in the recent Indian Hostilities in Mexico and Texas. Illustrated with over 300 Engravings, from designs by W. CROOME, and other distinguished artists. NOTICES OF THE PRESS. "The matter contained in this handsome volume, is as well calculated to give a correct idea of the character of the Indians, and their modes of life, as that of any book ever published. All that gives a charm to romance may be found in the narrative contained in this work, but all of them possess the never-failing attractions of truth. The sufferings of numerous captives are also detailed, together with their contrivances of escape from their savage captors. The illustrations, by the well-known W. Croome, are excellent in design and execution, and the printing and binding of the work are fine specimens of each art." GREAT EVENTS IN MODERN HISTORY: Comprising the MOST REMARKABLE DISCOVERIES, CONQUESTS, REVOLUTIONS, GREAT BATTLES, and other Thrilling Incidents, chiefly in Europe and America, from the commencement of the Sixteenth Century to the present time. Embellished with over 600 Engravings, by W. CROOME, and other eminent artists. The following are extracts from notices of the press received by the Publisher. NOTICES OF THE PRESS. "We have here, within the compass of eight hundred pages, the history of those events of modern history, which have been 'big with mighty consequences,' and with which, therefore, all men should become acquainted. Beginning with the discovery of America, by Columbus--that new starting-point of civilization--the work proceeds through the history of the various European nations, culling those great periods when, either by wars or revolutions, each nation began to occupy a conspicuous place in the general estimation of men, and to make its influence felt by those without its limits. The late revolutions in Europe, the Mexican war, and the gold discoveries in California, are rapidly and vividly sketched. The illustrations, principally from designs by Croome, are numerous, well executed, serving to impress the striking scenes and characters of history upon the tablet of memory. The whole work, in design and execution, reflects great credit upon all concerned in its production." J.W. BRADLEY, No. 48 NORTH FOURTH STREET, PHILADELPHIA; AND L.P. CROWN & CO., 61 CORNHILL, BOSTON, PUBLISH THE FOLLOWING WORKS BY T.S. ARTHUR. * * * * * LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF REAL LIFE, with an autobiography and portrait of the author, over 600 pages octavo, with fine tinted engravings. NOTICES OF THE PRESS. In this volume may be found a "moral suasion," which cannot but effect for good all who read. The mechanical execution of the work is very beautiful throughout.--_New Haven Palladium_. It is by far the most valuable book ever published of his works, inasmuch as it is enriched with a very interesting, though brief autobiography.--_American Courier_. No family library is complete without a copy of this book--_Scott's Weekly Paper_. No better or worthier present could be made to the young, no offering more pure, charitable, and practicable, could be tendered to those who are interested in the truly benevolent reforms of the day.--_Godey's Lady's Book_. The paper, the engravings, the binding, and the literary contents, are all calculated to make it a favourite.--_Penn. Inquirer_. 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In the princely mansions of the Atlantic merchants, and in the rude log cabins of the backwoodsman, the name of Arthur is equally known and cherished as the friend of virtue.--_Graham's Magazine_. We would not exchange our copy of these sketches, with its story of "The Methodist Preacher," for any one of the gilt-edged and embossed annuals which we have yet seen.--_Lady's National Magazine_. The first story in the volume, entitled, "The Methodist Preacher, or Lights and Shadows in the Life of an Itinerant," is alone worth the price of the work.--_Evening Bulletin_. It is emphatically a splendid work.--_Middletown Whig_. Its worth and cheapness should place it in every person's hands who desire to read an interesting book.--_Odd Fellow, Boonsboro_. "The Methodist Preacher," "Seed Time and Harvest," "Dyed in the Wool," are full of truth, as well as instruction, and any one of them is worth the whole price of the volume.--_Lowell Daystar, Rev. D.C. Eddy, Editor_. There is a fascination about these sketches which so powerfully interests the reader, that few who commence one of them will part with it till it is concluded; and they will bear reading repeatedly.--_Norfolk and Portsmouth Herald_. Those who have not perused these model stories have a rich feast in waiting, and we shall be happy if we can be instrumental in pointing them to it.--_Family Visitor, Madison, Geo_. No library for family reading should be considered complete without this volume, which is as lively and entertaining in its character, as it is salutary in its influence.--_N.Y. Tribune_. The work is beautifully illustrated. Those who are at all acquainted with Arthur's writings need hardly be told that the present work is a prize to whoever possess it.--_N.Y. Sun_. We know no better book for the table of any family, whether regarded for its neat exterior or valuable contents.--_Vox Populi, Low_. The name of the author is in itself a sufficient recommendation of the work.--_Lawrence Sentinel_. T.S. Arthur is one of the best literary writers of the age.--_Watchman, Circleville, Ohio_. The name alone of the author is a sufficient guaranty to the reading public of its surpassing merit.--_The Argus, Gallatin, Miss_. Probably he has not written a line which, dying, he could wish to erase.--_Parkersburg (Va.) Gazette_. THE WAY TO PROSPER, AND OTHER TALES, 12mo, over 200 pages, with six illustrations. NOTICES OF THE PRESS. This is one of Mr. Arthur's best books. His object, and he always has in view a noble one, is to recommend family union, a firm adherence to the law which requires us to respect the holy tie of family union, which requires brother to assist brother, and sister, sister. By means of a lively and pleasing narrative, he shows that this principle is not only right, but politic, and that the law of family unions is really the true way to prosper. We commend the volume to our readers as one of the best and most profitable of the many useful works which have been produced by the same accomplished writer.--_Godey's Lady's Book_. This is the title of a small volume published by Mr. J.W. Bradley, of this city. It is from the pen of Mr. T.S. Arthur--the story of two families, one of which prospers by the union of good-will which prevails among the brothers, and leads them always to aid each other in their worldly undertakings; while the other goes to rack and ruin, because the brothers always act upon the maxim, "Every one for himself." The moral is excellent, and cannot be too earnestly and widely inculcated. Mr. Bradley has produced this little work in very handsome style, with original embellishments from the fertile pencil of Mr. Croome.--_Scotts Weekly_. GOLDEN GRAINS FROM LIFE'S HARVEST FIELD, bound in full gilt, with a beautiful mezzotint engraving, 12mo, 240 pages. NOTICES OF THE PRESS. It is not too much to say, that the Golden Grains here presented to the reader, are such as will be productive of a far greater amount of human happiness than those, in search of which, so many are willing to risk domestic peace, health, and even life itself, in a distant and inhospitable region. These narratives, like all of those which proceed from the same able pen, are remarkable not only for their entertaining and lively pictures of actual life, but for their admirable moral tendency. It is printed in excellent style, and embellished with a mezzotint engraving. We cordially recommend it to the favour of our readers.--_Godey's Lady's Magazine_. TRUE RICHES; or, WEALTH WITHOUT WINGS, 12mo, 210 pages, with a fine mezzotint Frontispiece. NOTICES OF THE PRESS. This volume is written by T.S. Arthur, the most popular of all our American writers on domestic subjects. His intention is to direct the reader to the real riches of life, the wealth which cannot be taken away by the adverse events of fortune. The true wisdom of life, he shows us, is to place our fortune in ourselves, to make our own minds rich in intellectual treasures, and our hearts true to the legitimate purposes and ends of life. When the doctrine of this little volume becomes universally prevalent, a new era of happiness will dawn upon mankind.--_Godey's Lady's Book_. Mr. Arthur, in this volume, impresses upon his readers the importance of laying up treasures in the really profitable way--moral and intellectual treasures, which, in all the storms of ill-fortune, never leave their possessor without ample resources. The world acknowledges the truth of his moral, but often forgets to reduce it to practice. It therefore, becomes the duty of the world's moral teachers, of which Mr. Arthur is one of the most successful, to impress the truth by a well-written narrative.--_Scott's Weekly_. [Illustration: A Home Scene] 
33465	----	[Frontispiece: "Joy, darling Joy," Patience said, "you have often said you had wished you had known your mother." _Page_. 167. _Little Miss Joy._ BY EMMA MARSHALL, AUTHOR OF "LITTLE QUEENIE;" "BLUE BELL;" "ROBERT'S RACE;" "HURLY-BURLY;" ETC. NEW EDITION. JOHN F. SHAW (1928) & CO., LTD. _Publishers,_ 3, PILGRIM STREET, LONDON, E.C.4. 1892 PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN AT THE ANCHOR PRESS, TIPTREE, ESSEX CONTENTS. _CHAPTER I._ WAITING AND WATCHING _CHAPTER II._ LITTLE MISS JOY _CHAPTER III._ "AN HONEST BOY" _CHAPTER IV._ HIS OWN WAY _CHAPTER V._ A TEA-PARTY IN THE ROW _CHAPTER VI._ A VISIT TO THE SKINNERS _CHAPTER VII._ DARK DOINGS _CHAPTER VIII._ IN PERIL OF THE SEA _CHAPTER IX._ ON THE WIDE, WIDE SEA _CHAPTER X._ "ONLY A LITTLE BOX" _CHAPTER XI._ MR. SKINNER IN COMMAND _CHAPTER XII._ THE SPIRIT OF PEACE _CHAPTER XIII._ A TOKEN AT LAST _CHAPTER XIV._ THE WAITING IS OVER _CHAPTER XV._ THE HERITAGE OF PEACE LITTLE MISS JOY. CHAPTER I. _WAITING AND WATCHING._ The sea lay calm and still under a cloudless sky. The tide was out, and there was only a faint murmur like the whisper of gentle voices, as the little waves told to the sands that they were coming back soon, for the tide had turned. It was yet early morning, and the old town of Great Yarmouth was asleep. The fishing boats had been out all night, and were lying like so many black birds with folded wings, waiting for the flow of the water to bring them to the beach. All the blinds were down in the houses facing the level strand. There was no one moving yet, for the resonant clock of Saint Nicholas Church had only just struck four. The children of visitors to Yarmouth, tired with their exertions on the sand the evening before, were all wrapt in profound slumber. Happy seaside children, who had paddled and delved on the beach to their hearts' content, who had braved all the reproaches of mothers and nurses, and had gone home with their buckets full of seaweed, pebbles, and shells, looking like the veriest little ragged waifs and strays, who were known as "the beach children," and who were an ever-moving population gathered from the depths of the town, pattering with naked feet round the boats as they came to shore, to pick up odd fish which fell from the nets as they were spread out to dry. A great expanse of sand stretches out from Yarmouth, and over this the wind whistles through the long parched grass which grows in patches, interspersed with the little pink mallow and stunted thistles, which are not discouraged by their surroundings, and flourish in spite of difficulties. This wide expanse of sand and sand-mounds is called the Denes; and as little weary feet plod over it, it seems in its vastness a very desert of Sahara. Yet there is a charm about the Denes which the children feel. A sense of freedom, and a power to deal with the sand after their own will, were checked by repeated exhortations from governess or nurse to take care of their clothes. Yet the soft silvery sand can do no harm, and a prick from a blade of the pointed grass, or a scratch from a thistle, are the only dangers that beset it. The town of Yarmouth lies at some distance from the sea, and possesses one feature of rather unusual interest. There is a fine quay, shaded by trees, alongside which many large ships from all countries lie. There is a wide market-place and several good streets. But the heart and core of the old town is to be found in the "rows," narrow thoroughfares with tall houses on either side, where many a competency, if not a fortune, has been made in days past. Very little sunshine or light penetrates the rows, and some of the inhabitants have a faded, washed-out look, like that of a plant shut in a dark place, which shows but a faint colour of either leaves or blossom. Perhaps the pale woman standing by the door of a small shop, the shutters of which were not yet taken down, was a fair specimen of her neighbours. She was tall, but drooped so much that her real height was lost. She had a sad face, where lines of care and anxiety had made a network perhaps earlier in life than wrinkles had any right to appear, if they should be traced by time rather than by sorrow. For Patience Harrison was not an old woman, and had scarcely entered her thirty-sixth year. As she stood at the narrow entry of the shop, her hands folded, her head bent forward, she might well attract any passer-by, while she looked right and left, as if in hopes of seeing a well-known figure come into the row, from either end. Up and down, up and down, that eager, hungry glance, with an infinite pathos in the dark eyes, scanned the narrow passage; and grew more pathetic and more hungry every moment. At last footsteps were heard on the pavement. Patience started, and took a step forward, only to draw back again disappointed. "The top of the morning to you, Mrs. Harrison. You are about early. It is as fine a summer morning as I ever was out in." The speaker was a tall, well-knit young man of two or three and thirty, with a fine open countenance, and a broad square brow, round which thick light curls clustered. No contrast could be greater than between Patience Harrison and George Paterson: the man so full of life, and the enjoyment of life; the woman so languid and weary-looking. He seemed as if the world were a pleasant place to him, she as if it were a waste and a wilderness. "You are up and about early," George repeated. "Indeed, you look as if you hadn't been to bed. I hope you haven't been up all night. Have you, now?" "Yes. How could I sleep? How could I rest? There was a worse storm than ever last night at supper-time, and--and--Jack ran away out of the house, and has never come back." "The young rascal!" George exclaimed. "I'd like to thrash him!" "Oh, don't say so! Don't say so! If ever a boy is scourged by a tongue, Jack is. I mean to leave this house; I can't--I can't bear it any longer." "Well," George said, his eyes shining with a bright light--the light of hope--"well, there's a home ready for you, you know that. The sooner you come, the better." "You know I can't do it. Why do you ask me? I wonder you should ask me." "I see no wonder in it," was the answer. "You've watched and waited for eleven years; sure that's long enough! He will never come back." "Yes," she said sadly; "yes. I have waited and watched, as you say. It is the business of my life. I shall watch and wait to the end." George Paterson gave an impatient gesture, and settled the workman's basket on his broad shoulders, as if he were going to walk on. But after a pace or two he seemed to change his mind, and stopping, he said-- "But what about Jack? How did it happen?" "He offended her yesterday. He brought dirty boots into the parlour; and he blew a tune on the little cornet you gave him, when she told him to be quiet. He upset a jug of water on the table, and he made a face at her, and he called her 'an old cat.' He had no business to call her names." George laughed. "A very fitting name, I think; he has felt her claws often enough. Well, what then?" "Then she boxed his ears--it was at supper--and he flew into a rage, and he would not listen to me, but tore out of the room, out of the house, and has never come back. Oh, George, what if there should be two to wait and watch for, instead of one! Jack! Jack! How could he leave me?" "He can't have gone far; and, as to being out all night, why, that won't hurt him. The young rascal, to give you all this trouble! Yes, I'll go and hunt for him; and if I catch him, won't I give it to him!" "No, George; no. Remember his provocation. Remember he has had no father, only a mother like me to control him." "Only a mother like you! I should like to know where a better could be found! I am sorry for the boy that he has had to live with a cross-grained old maid, but for your sake he ought to have put up with it." "She means well. She took us in for my father's sake, and she has kept me and the boy from starving." "You have earned your living; you have worked well for her, and she knows it. But I will go and hunt for Master Jack. See! I will leave my basket of tools here as an assurance that I am coming back. You go and lie down, and I'll have the young master back before an hour is over. Come, go indoors; you look ready to drop." But Patience shook her head. "I am used to waiting and watching," she said again; "it's nothing new." Then her eyes began their search up and down the row, with the same wistful, eager gaze. George Paterson had put the basket of tools just within the doorway, and turning to her said-- "Look up at that strip of blue sky, Patience; look up, not downward so much." As he spoke he raised his head, and pointed to the narrow bit of sky which made a deeply blue line above the tops of the tall houses. "That tells of love," he said--"God's love which is over us. Take heart, and lift it up to Him in your trouble." George spoke out of the fulness of his own heart: not in any way as if he set himself up to lecture his listener, but just simply to try to raise her thoughts from the gnawing anxiety which had laid hold on her. "Yes," she said, "the bit of sky is beautiful, but it is so far off; and--don't be angry with me, George, but I wish you would go and find him. Let me come with you!" she exclaimed. "No, no; I shall be quicker than you are. I can get over the ground in half the time." Neither asked the other where George would look for the truant. Both had one thought--Jack had been to the quay, and was perhaps on board one of the ships lying there. He had threatened before that he would go to sea, and leave Miss Pinckney and her scoldings and fault-findings behind him. "If it had not been for his mother he would have done so long ago," he said. "He loved the sea, and he wished to be a sailor, as his father had been before him." As George's quick, firm steps were heard dying away in the distance, Mrs. Harrison pulled a stool towards her out of the shop, and seated herself just within the doorway. She was scarcely conscious of anything but the fear, growing greater every moment, that Jack--the sunshine of her life, the light of her eyes--had gone from her. She leaned her head against the door, and looked up at the sky half unconsciously. As she looked, a blind in one of the windows of the opposite house was lifted, and the window cautiously opened, while a head with a tangle of golden hair was thrust out, and a little voice--clear, like the sound of a thrush in a tree--sang in sweet dulcet tones some verses of a childish morning hymn:-- "Now the eastern sky is red, I, too, lift my little head; Now the lark sings loud and gay, I, too, rise to praise and pray. "Saviour, to Thy cottage home Once the daylight used to come: Thou hast often seen it break Brightly o'er the Eastern lake. "Blessed Jesus! Thou dost know What of danger, joy, or woe, Shall to-day my portion he-- Let me meet it all in Thee." Here the sweet, clear voice broke off suddenly, for the child saw that her opposite neighbour on the doorstep was looking up at her. "Mrs. Harrison," she said, nodding and kissing her hand. "_I_ see you! I'm coming down when I'm dressed. Uncle Bobo isn't awake yet." Then the head disappeared, and there was silence for a few minutes. Presently the bolts of the opposite door were gently drawn, and out came the daintiest little figure, in a fresh blue cotton frock and white pinafore, her rosy lips parted with a smile, and her eyes dancing with the light of the morning of life. Dear unclouded child-eyes! How soon they lose that first sweet innocent gaze! How soon the cares and sins of this weary world shadow their depths, and the frank gaze which tells of faith in all that is lovely and beautiful is changed into one of distrust, and sometimes of sorrow. "Well, little Miss Joy!" Patience Harrison said, as the child tripped across the row, and flung her arms round the waiting mother's neck. "Well, dear Goody Patience. Why are you sitting here all alone, and looking so sad? Why, Goody, _dear_ Goody, you are crying!" For the child's loving caress had touched the fountain of tears, and, sobbing, the poor mother said-- "Oh, little Miss Joy! Jack has run away. I couldn't sleep, so I came down here." "Run away, Jack! Oh, how naughty of him to grieve you! But he will come back--of course he will. Don't cry, my dear Goody Patience; don't cry. Of course he'll come back. What was it all about?" "A fuss with his poor Aunt Amelia, as usual; and Jack was rude, I know, and he did not behave well; but----" "I am afraid," Joy said thoughtfully, "Jack is not a good boy to Miss Pinckney. He is no end good to _me_, and I love him dearly, and so does Uncle Bobo. He says he is like a fine ship--all sails set and flags flying and no compass--which gets on rocks and quicksands, because there is no guide. That is what Uncle Bobo says." "It is quite true--quite true," Patience said. "I do not excuse him, though I know he has had a great deal to try his temper in his Aunt Amelia's house." "I dare say he will come back, and be a good boy. I'll talk to him," Joy said, with a wise nod of her golden head. "I'll talk to him, and he will never run away again." "But, Joy, he is gone; and though Mr. Paterson thinks he knows where to find him, I don't believe he _will_ find him." "I must go indoors now; for here is Peter coming to take down our shutters, and Uncle Bobo will be wanting his breakfast, and I always help Susan to get it ready. I shall be on the watch, and the minute Jack comes back I will run over." Then, with showers of kisses on the pale, woe-struck face, little Miss Joy was gone. CHAPTER II. _LITTLE MISS JOY._ Little Miss Joy was the pride of the row, and always seemed to bring a ray of sunshine with her. She lived with an old man she called "Uncle Bobo," who kept a curiously mixed assortment of wares, in the little dark shop where he had lived, man and boy, for fifty years. He was professedly a dealer in nautical instruments, the manufacture of which was carried on in Birmingham or Sheffield. Every now and then a large packing-case would excite the inhabitants of the row, as it was borne on one of the Yarmouth carts constructed on purpose for the convenience of passing through the rows, and dropped down with a tremendous thud on the pavement opposite Mr. Boyd's door. No wheels but the wheels of these carts were ever heard in the row, unless it were a wheelbarrow or a truck. And none of these were welcome, as it was difficult for foot-passengers to pass if one of these vehicles stopped the way. The nautical instruments by no means represented all Mr. Boyd's stock-in-trade. Compasses and aneroids and ship's lamps were the superior articles to be sold. But there were endless odds and ends--"curiosities"--bits of carving, two or three old figure-heads of ships, little ship-lanthorns, and knives of all shapes and sizes, balls of twine, rolls of cable, and all packed into the narrow limits of the tiny shop. "Uncle Bobo" was coming home one night--a Christmas night--a few years before the time my story opens, when he heard a wailing cry as he fitted the latch-key into his own door. The cry attracted him, and looking down on the threshold of his home he saw--a bundle, as it seemed to him, tightly tied up in a handkerchief. Stooping to pick it up, the faint wailing cry was repeated, and Uncle Bobo nearly let the bundle fall. "It's a child--it's an infant!" he exclaimed. "Where's it dropped from? Here, Susan!" he called to his faithful old servant, "here's a Christmas-box for you; look alive!" Susan, who had appeared with a light, groped through the various articles in the shop, and received the bundle from her master's hand. "Dear life, Mr. Boyd, what are you going to do with it then?" "Can't say," was the answer, as Mr. Boyd rolled into the parlour, where a bright fire was burning and the kettle singing on the hob. "Unpack the parcel, Sue, and let's have a look." Susan untied many knots and unrolled fold after fold of the long scarf-shawl of black and white check in which the child was wrapped: and then out came, like a butterfly out of a chrysalis, a little dainty girl of about two years old, who, looking up at Mr. Boyd, said, "Dad-da!" There was no sign of ill-usage about the child. She was neatly dressed, and round her waist a purse was tied. Mr. Boyd fitted his large black-rimmed spectacles on his nose, and while Susan sat with the child on her knee, warming her pink toes in the ruddy blaze, he untied the ribbon with which the purse was fastened to the child's waist, and opened it. It was an ordinary purse, with pockets, and within the centre one, fastened by a little spring, was one sovereign and a bit of paper, on which was written: "It is the last money I have in the world Take care of the bearer till you hear more. Keep her for me." Eight years had gone by since that Christmas night, and nothing more had ever been heard about this "Christmas-box;" but Uncle Bobo never repented that he had kept the child. She had been the interest and delight of his old age, and he had fondly called her "My little Joy." The neighbours wondered a little, and some looked severely on this deed of kindness of Mr. Boyd's. The person who looked most severely at it was Miss Amelia Pinckney, who kept a small haberdasher's and milliner's shop opposite Mr. Boyd's. Now neighbours in the Yarmouth rows, especially opposite neighbours, are very near neighbours indeed; and if it was almost possible to shake hands over the heads of the passers-by from the upper windows, it was quite possible to hear what was said, especially in summer, when the narrow casements were thrown open to admit what air was stirring. Thus Miss Pinckney's voice, which was neither soft nor low, reached many ears in the near vicinity, and Mr. Boyd was well aware that she had called him "a foolish old fellow," adding that "the workhouse was the place for the child, and that she had no patience with his folly." Truth to tell, Miss Pinckney had but little patience with any one. She had, as she conceived, done a noble deed by allowing her stepsister and her boy to take up their abode with her. But for this deed she took out very heavy interest; and poor Mrs. Harrison, who was, as her sister continually reminded her, "worse than a widow"--a deserted wife--had to pay dearly for the kindness which had been done her. Many a time she had determined to leave the uncongenial roof, and go forth to face the world alone; but then she was penniless, and although she worked, and worked hard too, to keep herself and her boy, by executing all Miss Pinckney's millinery orders, and acting also as general servant as well as shopwoman of the establishment, still she was never allowed to forget that she was under an obligation to her sister, and that she ought to be "thankful for all her mercies!" "It is not as if it was only yourself, Patience. Think what it is to have a boy like yours! Enough to drive one mad, with his monkey tricks and his impudence. I don't say that I regret taking you in. Blood is thicker than water, and you are my poor father's child, though he had cause to rue the day he married your silly mother--he never had a day's peace after that." Such sentiments, expressed with freedom and without intermission, were a trial in themselves; but lately things had assumed a far more serious aspect. Jack had been a mere baby when first he and his mother had been taken in by Miss Pinckney. But eleven years had changed the baby of two years old into a strong, self-willed boy of thirteen, impatient of control, setting all his aunt's rules at defiance, and coming in from school every day, more antagonistic, and more determined, as he said, to "pay the old auntie back in her own coin." In vain Mrs. Harrison had remonstrated; in vain she had striven to keep the peace. For ever before her eyes was the dread that Jack would carry his oft-repeated threat into execution, and go to sea. Then, indeed, the light of her stricken life would finally go from her, and she would have nothing left to live for! Jack was a boy likely, in spite of all his faults, to fill a mother's heart with pride. He was the picture of merry, happy boyhood, with a high spirit, which was like a horse without a bridle, and carried him away beyond all bounds of tongue and temper. But to his mother he could be gentle and penitent, acknowledging his faults, and showing real sorrow at having grieved her by warfare with his aunt. There was an excellent boys' school in Yarmouth, where he made good progress with his lessons, and was a favourite with his school-fellows; and the master, though often irritated by his tricks and carelessness, found it hard to be angry with him, or to inflict the punishment he deserved. It is possible that Jack would have been able to get on more peaceably at home, had there not been another person frequently at his aunt's home with whom he waged a perpetual warfare. This person was a tall, meagre-looking young man, a clerk in an Excise office, who made great profession of being better than his neighbours. He was always coming into Miss Pinckney's to tea or supper, and invariably, when listening to the aunt's stories of Jack's misdemeanours, talked of the bad end to which naughty boys were brought, and of the sins of disobedience bringing their sure reward. Mr. Skinner had the disagreeable habit of uttering truths in the most unpleasant manner. A great deal that he said was correct; but somehow his words seemed to have no effect on those whom he addressed. There was a dash of unreality about Mr. Skinner, and a certain want of candour, which Jack's eyes were quick to detect. He suspected that Mr. Skinner came to Miss Pinckney's "for what he could get," that he liked a chair by her fire in the back parlour, and that the glass of hot gin and water, sweetened to his taste, with a bit of lemon floating on the top, was his grand attraction. The smell of this glass of spirit and water was odious to Jack; and he naturally felt aggrieved, when on one occasion Mr. Skinner, coming in to tea, devoured the whole plate of hot buttered toast or muffins, and talked of the duty of thankfulness, and how much more any of us had than we deserved--Jack meantime having slices of very stale bread scraped with a little salt butter. The contrast between his own share of the fare and Mr. Skinner's was sufficiently provoking. Then too of late Jack had been conscious that both Mr. Skinner and his aunt had been doing their best to bring his mother round to their view--that he was "the worse-behaved and most ill-conditioned boy that ever lived." That last great outbreak of temper, when he had rushed off, and left his mother to pass a sleepless and tearful night, had been caused not so much by the shower of reproaches heaped on him, as by his aunt's bitter words: "If you go on like this, you'll break your mother's heart. Even she is getting sick of you, and you would be a good riddance!" He knew well enough it was not true. He knew that if all the world were against him, his mother would never give him up. But, stung to the quick, he had poured out a torrent of angry words; and addressing his aunt as "an old cat, who shouldn't have the chance of setting her claws into him again!" he had rushed off and left his mother miserable. As soon as the house was quiet and Miss Pinckney's long tirade against "spoilt wicked boys" had ceased, Patience Harrison had crept downstairs again, and, slipping the bolt off the door, had taken up her position there. And there George Paterson had found her, pale and worn with sleepless sorrow, and with an aching sense of loss which was well-nigh hopeless. CHAPTER III. "_AN HONEST BOY._" When little Miss Joy had tripped across the row to her own door, Mrs. Harrison had gone into the house. The shutters were being taken down from several of the windows, blinds were drawn up, doors opened, and the row was waking to life and the business of life. Mrs. Harrison went about her usual work of clearing up and dusting and sweeping, and about half-past six she called a boy from one of the opposite houses to take down the shutters of the little shop front. The boy looked wistfully at her sad face, and asked, "Is Jack ill, please, ma'am?" "No, not ill," she answered, unwilling to spread the news that he had run away; "not ill; but I am up early." The boy asked no further question, but said to himself, "Something is up; and here comes Mr. Paterson!" "Have you found him?" Patience asked, under her breath. "Any news? Any news?" George passed into the house, for he did not wish to excite observation. "No--no direct news; but I hear some ships got under weigh about three o'clock. The tide served, and it is just likely that the boy is aboard one. Don't you think me unfeeling now if I say, it is just as well he should go; he may learn a lesson you couldn't teach him." "The same story, the same trial over again! Oh, how can I bear it?" Patience said, in a voice that filled the honest heart of George Paterson with deep pity and almost deeper pain. "Well," he said, "this wrangling here was bad for all parties. The boy was always in hot water." "Because she was so cross-grained--because she hated him. Oh, I cannot, cannot bear to think of it!" "Pray," said a sharp, shrill voice from the bottom step of the very narrow staircase which led into the still narrower passage, "pray, what is all this about?" "Jack never came home last night," Patience said in a voice of repressed emotion. "He never came home. He is gone, and I shall never see him again." "Oh, fiddlesticks!" was the reply. "Bad pennies always turn up. I never knew one in my life that was lost. Mark my words, you have not seen the last of him--worse luck." "That's not a very pleasant way to talk, Miss Pinckney: you'll excuse me for saying so," said Mr. Paterson. "The boy was a good boy on the whole." "A good boy!" Miss Pinckney was screaming now. "Well, George Paterson, your ideas of goodness and mine differ. You may please to take yourself off now, for I've no time to spend in gossip;" and Miss Pinckney began her operations by flapping with a duster the counter of the shop, and taking from the drawers certain boxes of small articles in which she dealt. While she was thus engaged, she suddenly stopped short, and uttered an exclamation of horror, turning a white face to her sister, who was listening to the few words of comfort George had to bestow. "Look here!" she exclaimed; "look here! The secret's out. The little tin cash-box is gone, and the thief is out of reach. What do you say to your good boy now, eh, George Paterson?" George Paterson took one step into the shop, and said-- "How do you know he took it? He is the last boy I could think of as a thief." "Of course. Oh, he is a perfect boy--a good boy! I only wish he had never darkened my doors--the young villain!" "Hush, now Miss Pinckney. Calm yourself, and let us have a look for the box. Where was it put?" "Why, in the drawer, to be sure, under the counter. I keep the key of the drawer in my key basket. I always locked it--always. He got the key and opened it. There was four pounds and odd money in it--close on five pounds." "I am certain," said Patience, "Jack did not steal your money, sister Amelia." Poor Patience was calm now. "It is impossible," she continued. "He was--he was as honest as the day, and as true as gold." "All that's very fine--very fine indeed. He stole the money, and made off. If he didn't, who did?" Patience stood wondering for a few moments, going over all that day--that last day. Jack had been at school and out till nearly tea-time; then he had sat with his books till supper; and then came the uproar with his aunt, and he had rushed away--straight out of the house. He could not have stopped in the shop on the way; besides, a plot must have been laid to get the key. It was impossible Jack could be guilty. She looked at George, and read in his face deep sympathy, and also read there a reassuring smile. "No," he said. "Whoever is the thief, Jack is innocent. Circumstances may be against him--his running off to sea, and his passion-fit against you--but I believe him to be innocent. You had better leave things as you found them, and I'll call in a policeman. There'll be one on his beat at the end of the row by this time. It is right and just all proper inquiries should be made." The policeman--a stolid, sober individual, who never wasted words--came at George Paterson's bidding, and looked with a professional eye at the drawer whence the money had been abstracted. "Box and all gone! That's queer. Key of box fastened to it by a string. Humph! Any servant in the house?" "No." "Boy that cleans up and takes down the shutters, eh?" "_No_--that is--my nephew was in the house, and," said Miss Pinckney with emphasis, "he ran off to sea last night." The policeman gave a prolonged "Ah!" Then he proceeded to examine the lock of the drawer. "Where's the key?" "Here, in my key basket. I lock the drawer the last thing, and lock the shop-door myself. You know that, Patience. Speak up." "Yes, I know it--I know it." "Well, there seems no certain clue," the policeman said, twisting the key of the drawer round and round in the lock. "There's this clue," Miss Pinckney said; "my nephew who ran off to sea stole the box. He and I had quarrelled a bit, for he was the most impudent and trying young vagabond. If you wish to know my thoughts, policeman, they are that he took the cash-box." "There's no proof. We must have proof. But there's suspicion. We must try to track the youngster, find out what ship he sailed in; and when she comes into port, why, we'll keep an eye on the little chap." The policeman had no more to say just then, and departed, saying to George, who shouldered his tools and followed him, "I know the boy. A sharp one, isn't he?" "An honest one, if ever an honest boy lived," was the rejoinder, as George Paterson strode away. CHAPTER IV. _HIS OWN WAY._ Jack Harrison had no fixed purpose when he rushed out of his aunt's house, except to get away from the sound of her angry words, and from the sight of his mother's grieved face--that face, which bore the marks of so many storms, and which he loved better than any other in the world. "I had better go," he reasoned with himself. "I may make a fortune. Suppose I go aboard a whaling ship, as my father did. I won't go aboard a smack or trawler; I should not care for that life--handling fish, and out all weathers, north of the Dogger trawling--no, that would not pay, but a good ship would; and I'll take a look round the quay as soon as it's light." Jack had found the convenient shelter of an old boat on the beach, and there he curled himself up and fell asleep. He was awoke by feeling something touching his face, and starting up, just distinguished in the dim light the shape of a dog, which began to whine piteously, and licked his hands. "What, are you lost, or run away like me?" he asked. "Have you been treated ill, eh?" Jack was now thoroughly awake, and crept out of his shelter on to the soft sand, which almost gave way under his feet. The dog continued whining and jumping on him, and seemed to want to show him the way to some place. "What do ye want, eh? I can't make you out," Jack said; but in the light of the strengthening dawn which was breaking over the sea he saw a dark mass of something at some distance on the sand, and towards this the dog was evidently trying to guide him. There was not a creature to be seen on the level strand, and no sound but the gentle murmur of the tide just turning. Presently, however, another sound made Jack pause and listen. The dog heard it also, and grew more and more frantic in his efforts to lead Jack on. When he got near the dark mass, Jack found it was the figure of a man, and that the sounds came from him, for he was groaning and crying as if in great pain. The dog ran to him, and leaping on his prostrate figure, and then back again to Jack, showed that the place to which he had to bring him was reached. As plainly as a dog could speak, he was saying, "Help my master." Jack bent down over the man, and said-- "What's the matter? Are you hurt?" "Yes, I've sprained my leg; and if I don't get to the quay by four o'clock I am ruined. I'm mate of the _Galatea_. Look alive and help me to the ship; it's all right when I'm there, for the captain is a jolly fellow--but oh, this leg!--all along of my catching my foot in a net. Toby here and I were coming along the beach from my old step-mother's, over t'other side of the Monument, and I fell, and must have twisted my foot as I fell on that big stone. Now, I say, will you help me to limp to the quay? Doubt if I can do it, but I'll try all the same." The light was momentarily increasing now, and as Jack bent over the man to take his arm and pull him into a sitting posture, he saw a sad, pensive face turned up to him. Evidently the impression that was mentally made was a good one, for the man said-- "Where are you off to, young un?" "To see if I can get aboard any ship, and work my passage." "Whew!--oh!--here, wait a bit, my boy; I must ask the Lord to help me. I have been crying and groaning like a baby; that won't do. No, Dick Colley, you mustn't be a coward. Pain! well, what's pain! Toby there would bear it better!" After a moment's silence the man said-- "Now, heave-to, my boy, and I'll put down the right leg, and make you answer for the left. Ahoy! ahoy!" The "ahoy" was nearly a groan again, and then there was a muttered oath. "Did ye hear that, boy? That's the hardest job a man has to do--to cure himself of cursing. It's worse than drinking. I've been hard at it for a twelvemonth now, and I'm blessed if I ain't beaten over and over again. This pain will---- Don't you think, boy, I consider it a fine thing to swear, and take the Lord's name in vain. I think it is a shame to do it--and I beg Him to forgive me the next minute. It's just this--that habits, bad or good, stick like a leech. Now then, ahoy!" This time Dick Colley was fairly on his feet, and by the support of Jack's strong shoulder progress towards the quay was made. It was slow and difficult, and Toby followed close to his master's side with a dejected air, his stubby tail between his legs, giving every now and then a little whine of sympathy. "I am hard put to it, lad, to get along. I am feeling faintish and bad; but I can't afford to lose this voyage; it's a long one, and good pay, and I've an old mother and a pack of children to keep." "Rest a bit," said Jack. "Here's a post will do." "Ay; I dare say I'm pretty near breaking your shoulder-blade. I shan't forget you, youngster. I say, what's up? mischief, eh?" "I want to be off to sea just for a bit. Will you take me?" "Well, I must go aboard first, before I can promise. Now then, on we go." The quay was reached at last, and it was now broad daylight. The stately ships were all getting under weigh, and there was no bustle or noise. The cargoes had been shipped overnight, and there was only a silent waiting for the tide. "Here she is; here's my berth. You help me aboard, and we'll see what can be done." "Dick Colley, the mate, as sure as I'm alive!" said one of the crew, who was turning a loose cable round and round into a coil of many circles. "Why, old chappie, what's amiss with 'ee?" "Give us a hand aboard. I've been and sprained my ankle. This youngster helped me along, or I'd never have got here." "You are just in time, mate; for we are off to the river's mouth in a twinkling. Here, why, look alive! he's awful bad." With Jack's help they got Dick Colley on board and down below, where the ship's surgeon bandaged the swollen ankle, and Jack stood by with Toby. In the general hurry of departure, when the captain gave the word, no one noticed Jack, or if they noticed him, concluded that he was aboard the _Galatea_ as a passenger, of which there were a few. It was not till they were well out to sea that the captain, coming down into the mate's berth, said-- "Hallo, Colley! who's the youngster aboard with the curly hair? What's he about?" "He wants to work his way out, captain; set him to it. I promised I'd say a word for him. He just helped me across the sand, when I was pretty near dying of the pain. You'll let him stay?" The captain turned on his heel, somewhat sulkily. "Do you suppose he's to do the work of your lame foot, eh? Well, he hasn't come here to eat the bread of idleness. I'll soon show him that." And the captain kept his word. Long before the sun--which had risen in a cloudless sky that morning--had set behind a bank of clouds, Jack was put to work. Washing the decks and performing other like offices fell to his share on that first bright day, when to sail over the blue calm sea, with the crisp air blowing from the great German Ocean, was a pleasant sensation in itself. But night came on, and the stars looked down from their immeasurable depths; and Jack, lying on a bench, with his arms folded, and his face resting on them, had time to think. He had done it now. Often, when in a storm of passion he had said he would leave his aunt's roof for ever, he had relented, and even at his mother's instigation and entreaty had expressed sorrow for his burst of anger, and asked to be forgiven. He had done this only a fortnight before, and his aunt had received his apology with a short-- "It's all very well to think by saying you are sorry you make it all right. It's deeds not words, for me." This ungracious manner of receiving an expression of contrition had often hardened the boy's heart against his aunt. Still more so when, from the other side of the parlour, Mr. Skinner would say, in a nasal, squeaky voice-- "It's a wonder to me how your kind, generous aunt puts up with you for a single hour. Only a good woman like her would give you house room at all." "What business is it of yours, I should like to know?" had been Jack's retort; and all the real sorrow he had felt, awakened by his mother's gentle words, had vanished. That Skinner! How he hated him; how instinctively he turned from him with positive dislike and loathing. Now, as he lay alone and unnoticed beneath the star-strewn sky of the summer night, it was not of Skinner that he thought, not of his aunt, not of anything he had suffered--but of his mother. And he had left her without a word--without a kiss! Many and many a time had he felt her kiss upon his forehead as he was sinking off into the sound sleep of childhood. Many a time he had heard her whispered prayer as she knelt by his side; and now he had left her desolate! "Joy will be there," Jack thought--"little Miss Joy, and she will comfort her--dear little Joy!" And somehow, as all these memories of those he had left behind him came before him, tears rose all unbidden, and chased each other down his cheeks. Presently a rough kick from a man's boot made him start. "The mate is singing out for you, youngster," he said; "get along with you and go where you are wanted, for you ain't wanted here." "Where's the mate?" "Where, stupid? In his berth, a groaning and sighing. There ain't much the matter with him, that's my belief; only some folks can afford to make a fuss." Jack drew himself together and walked towards the companion ladder. As he was putting his foot on it with the cautious air of the uninitiated, a rude push from behind, followed by a derisive laugh, sent him down to the bottom with a heavy thud. "Shame!" cried a voice, "to treat the boy like that." "Oh, he will be one of Colley's lambs, canting no end, you'll see! For my own part, I'd soon chuck him overboard." "I know you are spiteful enough for anything," was the reply; "and I pity that boy if he's in your clutches." Another laugh, and Jack, now on his feet, turned round with a defiant air, and, half-stunned and bewildered, was climbing up the stairs again, to give his adversary a blow with his fist, when a voice called-- "Stop, lad! don't go and give evil for evil." Colley from his berth had seen Jack fall, and had heard the mocking laugh. "Come here, lad. I'm a bit easier now, and I want to talk to you. There, sit down on my locker, and we'll spin a yarn. You've run away, haven't you? I was so mad with pain, or I should have talked to you before. Come, you've run away now?" "Yes," the boy said. "Then you've been and acted very foolish, let me tell you. I did the same, boy, and I've repented it all my life. I grieved the best of old fathers by my wild career, and then I ran off; and when we put into port after the first voyage, I went to the old place to find him dead. Now, how do you think I felt? Why, ready to kill myself with remorse. What if you find your mother dead, when we put into port again? Now look here, boy. You've done me a good turn, and I'll do you one. I'll get the captain to put you ashore, if you choose, and I'll put a few shillings in your pocket to get back home. Do you hear?" "Yes," Jack said, "I hear; but I am in for it now, and I had better stick to it. I should only make more trouble by going back. That old aunt, who made my life miserable, would only be worse than ever. No, sir, thank you; I'll go on, and I must put up with it." "Lie on the bed you've made for yourself, lad? Ah, that's a precious uneasy one! I'd like to tell you how I made mine, and I will some day; but now you'd better turn in, there's the watch on deck, telling midnight." "Where am I to turn in?" Jack asked. "There's an empty hammock close by. Climb up there, and sleep till I call you. There isn't much sleep for me. Good-night." Jack found it no easy matter to climb into the hammock. Like everything else, it requires practice; he took off his boots and made attempts to clamber up, but failed each time. "You young cur, what are you about?" called a gruff voice. "Can't you turn in without waking a fellow from his sleep? Get along with you;" and a leg was thrust out, which gave Jack a very emphatic kick. At last he gave up the attempt, and taking off his jacket he made a pillow of it, and curled himself up on the deck. The motion of the ship began to be more decided, for just at dawn a fresh breeze sprung up, and the _Galatea_ curtesied on the crest of the waves, and the water made a splash against her sides. Jack was rolled against a locker, and found sleep impossible. The sailor who had grumbled at his disturbing him by his unsuccessful attempt to get into his berth, turned out at three o'clock, to relieve the watch on deck, and stumbling over Jack exclaimed-- "You baby bunting! So you can't get to your berth! I'll teach you!" And taking Jack roughly by one arm and leg, he tossed him as if he had been a feather into the hammock, and said-- "Lie there till you are wanted, and be thankful you've got there!" There is a certain rule which I think has seldom an exception, though I know we say that all rules _have_ an exception to prove their truth. But it is seldom indeed that we see the rule departed from, that "as a man soweth so shall he reap." We all of us prove its truth at one time or other of our lives. "He that soweth to the flesh shall of the flesh reap corruption"; and many a bitter tear of self-reproach is caused by the crop our own hands have sown, when we took _our own way_, and turned from His way, "who gave us an example that we should follow in His steps." CHAPTER V. _A TEA-PARTY IN THE ROW._ The hot summer days passed by in the Row, and the inhabitants took advantage of the long evenings to go down to the beach and pier, and listen to the bands playing merry tunes, and watch the gaily-dressed people who frequent Yarmouth in the season. Little Miss Joy was drooping somewhat with the heat, for the summer was one of rather unusual warmth. But though she was quieter, and her voice was not so often heard singing like a bird from her high window opposite Mrs. Harrison's, still she did not get dull or cross. "My Sunbeam!" her old friend called her; and there was nothing he liked better than to sit at his door, after business hours, while Joy talked to him or read him a story. She went to a little day-school in the market-place, and was, in old Mr. Boyd's opinion, a wonderful scholar. Joy had many things to tell of her school-fellows, and there was one who use to excite her tender pity and her love. Bertha Skinner was a tall, angular girl of fourteen, who was the butt of the school, often in tears, always submissive to taunts, and never resenting unkindness. That little Miss Joy should choose this untaking girl as her friend was the cause of much discontent and surprise in Miss Bayliff's little "seminary for young ladies." No one could understand it, and little Miss Joy was questioned in vain. "Such an ugly, stupid girl, always dressed like a fright, and she can't add two and two together. I wonder you speak to her, Joy." But Uncle Bobo, though confessing that he was surprised at Joy's taste, had a faint notion of the reason she had for her preference. "It's like my little Joy," he said; "it's just out of the kindness of her heart. She thinks the girl neglected, and so she takes her up, bless her!" "May I ask poor Bet to spend Thursday afternoon with me, Uncle Bobo?" Joy asked one hot August morning as she was ready for school. "_May_ I, please? It's early closing day, and we have a half-holiday. Dear Goody Patience says she will take us to the sands, and perhaps Jim Curtis may give us a row. I _should_ like that." "Well, I have no objection, my pretty one; the poor thing has no treats!" "Treats! Oh, Uncle Bobo, she is miserable! Her grandmother is so sharp, and tells her she is a useless fright, and things like that. And then there's her Uncle Joe, he is horrid!" Mr. Boyd laughed. "Ah, ah! Miss Pinckney's suitor; he isn't very nice, I must say." "Suitor, Uncle Bobo; what's a suitor?" "You'll know time enough, my dear, time enough. You'll have a score of them, I dare say; and I hope not one of them will be like Master Skinner, that's all. He's like one of the lean kine you read to me about last Sunday in the Bible. But leanness is no sin; p'r'aps he'll get fatter by-and-by." Little Miss Joy was mystified, and repeated to herself, and then aloud: "Does suitor mean the same as 'young man' and 'lover,' I wonder?" "Bless the child's innocence! Yes, my dear, you've got it now." "But, Uncle Bobo, could an old, old lady like Miss Pinckney have a suitor?" "Oh, yes, my dear, yes! She set her cap at me once. She is--well--not much short of fifty; that's a girl, you know. All are girls till they marry; old girls, we call them!" "But my dear Goody Patience is ever so much younger, and oh! she said last night, 'I don't feel as if I was ever young, or a girl,' and then she looked so sad." "Ah! my dear, she has had a sight of trouble, has poor Mrs. Harrison. First, her husband making off, leaving a good business--a very good business here, as a master of a lot of herring boats, with a share in one of the big curing houses where the bloaters are the best to be had in the trade. But my young man must needs be off whaling, and never came back again. Poor Patience! It's a sad story. For my part, I wish she would call herself a widow and have done with it. There's some one ready enough to make her a happy wife." "Really, Mr. Boyd, if I was you I would not put such nonsense into the child's head," said the good old servant. She had lived behind the little dark shop for some thirty years, and now came forward into the light, blinking as an owl might blink in the bright rays of the August sun, which at this time of day at this time of year penetrates the narrow row and shines right down into it. "Yes, I say it's nonsense to put into the child's head. Run off, my dear; run off." "And I may ask Bet Skinner to come to tea, and dear Goody too; and you'll buy a plum-roll and cheese-cakes for a treat. Will you, Uncle Bobo?" "Yes, my dear; I'll make a feast, see if I don't; and we'll have a good time." "Tea on the leads, tea upstairs, Uncle Bobo." Uncle Bobo nodded; and Joy ran off gaily with her invitation ready for poor Bertha. Uncle Bobo was as good as his word, and on Thursday morning sallied forth early to the confectioner's shop at the end of the row, and returned with a variety of paper bags stuffed full of cakes, and chucking them across the counter to Susan, said-- "Spread the tea up aloft, as the child wishes it; it's cool up there, and plenty of air." Tea on the leads may not seem to many who read my story a very enchanting prospect, but to little Joy it was like tea in Paradise! The houses of the rows had many of them flat roofs behind the gables, which faced those opposite, and here flowers were cultivated by those who cared to do so, linen was hung out to dry, and in one or two instances pet doves cooed, or poor caged thrushes sang their prison song. Susan grumbled not a little at carrying up the provisions; but the boy Peter was pressed into the service, and Uncle Bobo brought up an old flag, which Peter tied to a pole, and set up to wave its rather faded colours over the feast. While these preparations were being made, Mrs. Harrison, and little Joy, and Bertha Skinner were on their way to the beach to watch the pleasure-boats pulling off with the visitors, and the children making their sand-castles and houses, and paddling in the pools the sea had left. The tide was ebbing, and wide patches of yellow sand were separated from the beach by streams of water; sea-weeds threw out their pink feathery fronds, and shells of many varied colours lay beneath. Mrs. Harrison sat down, leaning her back against a boat, and the children ran down to the water's edge. The wife and mother was sad at heart; not one word from Jack--not one word. She looked across the boundless sea, and thought how it had taken from her the husband of her youth, and the boy who was the light of her eyes. Why was she so tried? Why was her trouble always to be, as it were, in one direction, her position always suspense, always uncertainty, always waiting and watching, and dreading what news might come at last? George Paterson was a ship's carpenter, and well known along the coast and on the quay. He had made every inquiry, but could not get any direct tidings of Jack. Several ships had sailed early that fine morning--the _Galatea_, for Constantinople; the _Siren_, for a Norwegian port; the _Mermaid_, for Genoa; but no one had any recollection of noticing a boy go aboard. Indeed, there were but few people who could have seen him, for few were stirring at that early hour, except those who were obliged to be at their post at sea or on shore, and they were probably too much engrossed with their own concerns to heed him, even if he had been seen. Patience had borne up bravely under this last sorrow. In some ways Jack's absence was a relief--she had been always treading, as it were, on the edge of a volcano, that might send up fire and smoke at any time. We all know what a strain it is upon body and mind to be always seeking for peace, while those around us make themselves ready for battle; and the terror at every meal that there would be a scene between Jack and his aunt, with the effort to prevent it, had been a perpetual strain upon Mrs. Harrison. At least that fear and dread were taken from her, and her heart said-- "If only I knew he was well and happy I should be glad to know that he was gone away from so much that jarred and fretted him; but it is the silence and the terrible suspicion they raise that he was a thief that overwhelms me sometimes." As these thoughts were passing through Mrs. Harrison's mind George Paterson came up; he had been watching her and the children for some minutes, and the sympathy for the poor deserted wife and mother filled his honest blue eyes with tears. All the gay people about her--the singing of a large party which filled one of the pleasure-boats, the bustle and activity everywhere--seemed to force upon George Paterson the painful contrast between the glad and happy and the sad and deeply-tried woman, whom he loved better than anything in the wide world. Oh that she would let him comfort her, take her to a pleasant home on the Gorlestone Road, with a garden full of flowers, and where peace and plenty reigned! But George loved Patience too well to weary her with importunity. He would never add a straw's weight to her care by undue persistence in urging his suit. "Well," he said, pointing to Joy and her companion, "they seem happy enough. It's odd that little Miss Joy should choose for her friend that untaking niece of Joe Skinner's. She is very like him--just as unwholesome-looking and sly too." "Poor girl! She has a melancholy time of it at home, so Joy tells me. It is just like her to take pity on one who is not cared for." "I dare say. She is a little darling, and no mistake!" "This is early-closing day, and a half-holiday at Joy's school--that is why we are out pleasuring. We are to have tea on the leads at Mr. Boyd's. Will you come with us? for we ought to be getting back. I promised Amelia I would be in at six o'clock, as she wants to go walking with Mr. Skinner." "Well, she had better stay at home, that's certain. That fellow is a rogue, if ever there was one!" Mrs. Harrison was silent for a moment; then she said quietly, "I have no reason to love him, for he helped to drive my boy out of the house." "No doubt he did; and--I hardly like to say what I think--but I believe he made a plot about that money-box." "Oh! I have often thought so, and put away the thought as wrong and wicked." "We'll speak plain English for once," George Paterson said. "That man means to marry your sister, and get hold of all she possesses." "Oh, George! Amelia is close on fifty, and Mr. Skinner can't be much over thirty." "That does not matter; the same thing is done every day. Don't we see great folks setting the example, and ladies of any age marrying young fellows who want their money? You may depend upon it, Skinner has this in his little sly eye. Well, I shan't do him any good by abusing him, nor myself neither; so I'll have done." "Not a word from Jack," Mrs. Harrison sighed out--"not a word." "If he is off on a long voyage, as he may be, I never thought you would have a word. You must wait till Christmas for news." "Till Christmas! Ah! those were his father's last words--'I'll be back by Christmas;' and how many Christmases have come and gone since that day, and never a word--never a sign." "The dead cannot give either words or signs," George said; and then, as he saw Patience cover her face with her hands, he was sorry that he had uttered what was an obvious truth, and added gently-- "If your husband had been alive he would come or write, for he loved you; and how can any man who loved _you_ forget or change?" Patience did not reply, and little Miss Joy, having caught sight of George Paterson, came springing towards him. "Oh! I have got some beautiful shells," she said--"such a big one. Put it to your ear, and listen to the sound of the sea. And Bet has got one too. Come, Bet, and show it." Bet advanced slowly and awkwardly, her angular shoulders nearly touching her ears, her rough sandy hair gathered into a little knot at the back of her head, on which a very shabby brown hat was set on one side. Bertha had the cringing, deprecating manner of an ill-used dog. No one liked her, no one cared for her, and she was fully alive to the fact. Only sweet little Miss Joy ever said a kind and pleasant word to her, and her devotion to this merry child filled her whole soul. She dare not show it; she dare not lavish any of the ordinary endearments upon her. She saw the other girls at Miss Bayliff's kiss and fondle her; she heard her praised and admired; she saw little gifts showered upon her--but she did none of these things. Poor Bertha's was a blind and dumb worship for one who smiled at her when others frowned, who could seek her society when others shunned it, and could encourage her with her tasks--so far below her age--when others called her a dunce and an idiot. The tea on the leads was a great success; although, to be sure, a few black tokens from a neighbouring chimney peppered the cakes, and one or two danced into Mr. Boyd's large breakfast-cup full of tea. Before tea was over, however, the shop-door bell was heard to ring furiously, and Susan, who had been invited to her share of the feast, trudged down, to trudge back, breathless and indignant, after a few minutes' absence, saying-- "Miss Pinckney can't give no one any rest. She is wanting you, Mrs. Harrison, to go and keep the house, as she is off with Mr. Skinner. I shouldn't hurry now if I was you. Let her wait, Mrs. Harrison." "No; I promised to go back by six o'clock." "Saint Nicholas clock has not struck yet," said Uncle Bobo. "Don't you hurry, Mrs. Harrison, for we must have a song before we part--eh, my Joy?" "If you please, Uncle Bobo, let it be 'Tom Bowling.'" Whereupon Mr. Boyd began to groan forth in not very dulcet tones the familiar song and strain, beginning-- "Here, a sheer-hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling." Mr. Boyd's voice had not been very musical in youth, and now the sounds seemed to come more from his boots than from his lips. But Joy was a delighted listener. Then she followed with one of Mrs. Alexander's "hymns for little children," and as she sang, in her sweet childish treble, the words seemed to speak peace. "On the dark hill's western side The last purple gleam has died; Twilight to one solemn hue Changes all, both green and blue. "In the fold and in the nest, Birds and lambs are gone to rest; Labour's weary task is o'er, Closely shut the cottage door. "Saviour, now in sweet repose I my weary eyelids close, While my mother through the gloom Singeth from the outer room." Joy paused, and putting her little hand in Mrs. Harrison's, said-- "I have never any mother but you, dear Goody; and I know she must be glad I've got you, as God took her away from me." It was very seldom that Joy referred to her position in Uncle Bobo's house, and indeed very seldom that she thought of it. She had been told that she had been laid at Uncle Bobo's door as a Christmas gift, and that had been enough for her. But since she had been to Miss Bayliff's school there had arisen a question in her little mind as to why she had never known either father or mother--a question no one could answer. The bell ringing again more violently than before made Mrs. Harrison hasten away, and she had just gone when the clock struck six. "I should like to take Bet home, Uncle Bobo. That will be such a nice end to our feast. Will you come?" Uncle Bobo was not fond of walking, but he never liked to refuse Joy anything, and very soon he might be seen toddling along the row, with his short, stout legs, and rosy apple face, singing out a cheery "Good-evening" to such neighbours as were about, and taking Joy's little hand in his, while she danced at his side. Presently she let go her hold on Uncle Bobo's hand, and said in a low voice-- "I think I'd better walk with poor Bet, Uncle Bobo. She looks so sad walking behind us." "So do, my Joy, so do. You've a kind little heart, and may no one ever say a cross word to you, or do an unkind action." Joy fell back with a radiant smile, and, putting her hand into Bet's arm, drew her on in front. CHAPTER VI. _A VISIT TO THE SKINNERS._ Mr. Skinner was very like his mother. No one could mistake that they bore this relationship. Some old age is lovely--radiant with the chastened light of eventide. Mrs. Skinner's was certainly unlovely. Tall and spare, with sharp pinched features, and thin pitiless lips, from which very few kindly words had ever fallen, and where a smile was almost unknown--she was an almost friendless woman. She who had never rendered a neighbour a kindly service neither expected nor received any from others. She had the reputation of being a cross-grained old woman, who had driven her only daughter away by her unkindness, and had spent what love she had upon her two sons, who suited her in many ways far better than her daughter. The youngest of these--Bertha's father--had married a woman much older than himself, and Bertha was his orphan child, her mother having died at her birth. She had been taken to live with her grandmother, at the dying wish of her father: what maternal affection she possessed responded to this last request of her youngest son, and Bertha had known no other home. It was a home, as far as the shelter of a roof and food and clothing went; and the education of Miss Bayliff's school, given somewhat grudgingly, was to be granted till Bertha was fifteen. "_Then_ she must work for her living," Mrs. Skinner had said; "and," she added, "few people would have done what _I_ have done." "A great deal too much!" Joe would say when his mother indulged in this self-congratulation--"a great deal too much; and I, for one, don't approve of this girl being nursed in idleness; it was the ruin of Maggie." Mrs. Skinner winced a little at the name; for Maggie had disappeared, and no trace could be found of her. She had been, so those who remembered her said, of a very different type to her family, as if she had dropped down from the clouds into it. That was long ago now, but the people who could look back some years in the neighbourhood where Mrs. Skinner lived could remember this bright, gay girl disappearing, and the mother's reply to any inquiry-- "I know nothing about her, nor do I wish to know. She has been and made her bed, and she must lie on it." Report said that Maggie had married against her mother's wish, and that she had literally turned her out of her house. This was about all that was ever heard, and nothing was really known. Any attempt to question Mrs. Skinner was met by a sharp rebuff, and very few people, even the boldest, dare approach her even with an attempt to find out what she chose to keep secret. Mrs. Skinner and her son Joe lived in a detached red brick house, built long before villas with bay windows and gabled roofs, and little dormer windows in them, were thought of. It was a straight little house, with a window on each side of the door, and three above it, a lean-to at the back, and a square of garden in front. The path to the door was of pebbles, and they always made a disagreeable crunching sound as the feet of any comers to the house walked over them. That was not often; and the little iron gate grated on its hinges, it was so seldom opened, as Mr. Boyd pushed it back to admit the two girls. "No, no," Uncle Bobo had said, in answer to Joy's entreaty. "I'll just walk across to that bench and wait for you, my Joy. I don't fancy the old lady, and she doesn't fancy me. So ta-ta!" Mr. Boyd toddled across the bit of sandy road to a bank mound of sand, covered with long pointed grass, which hid the view of the sea from the lower window of Mrs. Skinner's house, and sitting down on a wooden seat, resigned himself to patient waiting. Bertha crept slowly up to the door, and seemed half afraid to make her coming known. She turned the bright brass handle of the door, but it was locked. "We must go in by the back door; p'raps grandmother won't mind." "Are you afraid to go in, Bet?" "Well, grandmother is very particular; she isn't like Mr. Boyd." "Do you mean," said Joy, "that you would rather I didn't come in? Oh, then I will run back to Uncle Bobo! Good-bye, Bertha." "No, no, I didn't mean that," said Bertha, much distressed. "I--I----" As she was hesitating the door was opened, and Mrs. Skinner's tall figure filled the narrow entrance. She stood without saying a word for a moment, and then, in a harsh, discordant voice, she asked--"Who is _that_?" "If you please, ma'am, I am Joy. I go to school with Bertha, and she has been home to tea with me and Uncle Bobo, and I have brought her back." "She does not want bringing," was the sharp reply; "she can bring herself, I suppose. Go round to the back door, will you?" "I think I had better _not_," Joy said with emphasis, "because you do not wish me to come into your house." Mrs. Skinner had been standing motionless at the door while Joy was speaking, and there was a strange expression on her sharp thin features. "Where do you say you live, child?" "I live with Uncle Bobo, in the row, opposite Miss Pinckney and Mrs. Harrison. Miss Pinckney keeps the milliner's shop, where the widows' caps hang up." "_I_ know," was the reply; "I never bought any article there, and I never mean to. Well, you may run round with Bertha for a few minutes." "Thank you," Joy said. "I hope you'll let Bet come to tea again; and if you'd like to come too, I am sure Uncle Bobo wouldn't mind." "I don't spend _my_ time gadding about taking tea with folks. I leave that to drones, who've got nothing better to do. Did you say, child, you lived with Boyd, at the instrument shop?" "Yes, ma'am; he's my uncle." Mrs. Skinner turned away, and then the door was shut with a sharp bang, and the two girls were left outside. "I don't think I'll come in, Bet," little Miss Joy said; "for your grandmother does not like me--she looks so cross." "She always looks like that," Bertha said; and then she added, "Every one but you is cross to me; you are always kind. Oh, I do love you!" Then Bet's cheeks, after making this declaration, were suffused with blushes, which made her poor sallow face a dark purplish-red. "Do come in a moment--_do_," she said. The two girls went in at the back door, and along a narrow stone passage. The door on the right was open, and Bet said, in a low whisper-- "There's Uncle Joe's room. There's where he sits at night, and I hear people coming in, 'cause my window is one in the lean-to." Uncle Joe's proceedings had not much interest for Joy, and she just looked round the room standing on the threshold, and said-- "What a big table for such a wee little room, covered with green cloth, and what funny little boxes! They are like the big hour-glass in Uncle Bobo's glass case. It's not a pretty room at all," she said decidedly. "Come away, Bet." Bertha then led the way up a very narrow flight of steps, which were scarcely to be called a staircase. They creaked under her feet, and even Joy's light tread made them squeak and shake. "Here's where I sleep;" and Joy found herself in a little room with a sloping roof and a beam. The room was in fact only a loft for storage, but it was thought good enough for Bertha. "I wanted to show you this," Bertha said; "it's the only keepsake I've got. It was once my poor Aunt Maggie's, and she gave it to me. I can just remember her kissing me one night, and saying, 'God bless you--you poor orphan.' I must have been a little thing, perhaps four years old, for it's such a long time ago, and I am nearly fifteen." Bertha had dived into the depths of a trunk covered with spotted lilac paper, and which contained most of her worldly goods. From the very bottom she pulled out a square leather frame, and as she rubbed the glass, which was thick with dust, with her sleeve, she said-- "Isn't she pretty?" It was an old faded photograph of what must have been a pretty girl, in a white dress with a band of ribbon, which a photographic artist had painted blue, and had touched the eyes with the same colour. "I think she is beautiful," Bertha said. "I never saw any one so pretty till I saw you, and I think you are like poor Aunt Maggie." Joy looked doubtfully at the portrait, and said-- "Yes, it's very nice. She looks so good and so sweet, as if she could never have been cross or naughty." "That's just what _I_ think," Bertha said; "and she _is_ like you, for you are good, and I am sure you are never cross." "Oh!" little Miss Joy said, "that's a mistake. I am naughty when I hate Miss Pinckney, and when I am impudent to Susan. She _says_ I am impudent, and Miss Pinckney has called me a 'saucy little baggage' very often. That's why I don't go into Miss Pinckney's shop to see dear Goody Patience and Jack. "Ah!" Joy added with a sigh, "there is no Jack to see now; he is gone, and I do miss him so. He used to be so good to me;" and her eyes grew dim, and the corners of her rosy lips turned down ominously. "But I must go to Uncle Bobo now; he must be tired of waiting, and he'll get fidgety." "Very well," Bet said; "I don't want you to get a scolding." "A scolding!" Joy said, recovering herself from the momentary depression which the thought of Jack's loss had caused. "Uncle Bobo never scolded me in his life." Then Joy stepped cautiously down the narrow stairs, and turning said-- "Good-bye, Bet; good-bye." "Good-bye," poor Bet said, as, standing at the back-door, she watched her friend skipping off across the road to the seat where Uncle Bobo sat, with his round back--very round--and his short legs tucked up, one wide-toed boot upon the other, to give support. "I wish she'd kissed _me_," poor Bet thought, as she saw Joy throw her arms round the old man's neck, and kiss all that was visible of his rosy cheek beneath his large wide-awake. "I'd like her to kiss me like that;" and poor Bet followed the two figures with lingering, longing eyes till they were out of sight. Other eyes were following them also. Mrs. Skinner was standing by the window of her parlour, peering over the short white muslin blind at Uncle Bobo and Joy. What was she thinking about? For her thin lips were parted as if she were speaking to some one, and her long fingers worked convulsively with the strings of her black alpaca apron. Presently the door opened softly, and Bet came creeping in. She never knew what reception she might get, and she had the miserable cowed manner of a beaten dog. "Grandmother!" Mrs. Skinner started, and said sharply-- "Well, what do you want?" "Isn't she pretty? Isn't she a darling?" "Stuff and nonsense! I don't care about beauty; it's only skin deep; and I dare say she's a pert little hussy. Don't go and bring her here again, I don't want her." CHAPTER VII. _DARK DOINGS._ When Mr. Skinner had escorted Miss Pinckney home after their walk, he seated himself at supper with the air of one who was thoroughly at home and at his ease. "He knows on which side his bread is buttered," Uncle Bobo's Susan said, as she had watched Miss Pinckney walking up the row with her tall, ungainly suitor. For Uncle Bobo was right. Mr. Skinner had every intention of coming to the point; though, I need not say, it was not his custom to go straight to the point. Mr. Skinner always preferred a circuitous route. When they were seated at supper Mr. Skinner said-- "You have had no tidings of your runaway, I presume, Mrs. Harrison?" This question was asked as Mr. Skinner looked at Jack's mother with that oblique glance Jack had boldly called a "squint." Patience shook her head. She could not bring herself to talk of her boy to Mr. Skinner. "Ah," he said, "what a home he has left, and what a friend! When I think of Miss Pinckney's generosity and nobility of temper, I grieve that they were expended on so unworthy an object." The colour rose to Mrs. Harrison's cheeks. "You will be so kind, Mr. Skinner," she said, "not to talk about my boy. It is not a matter I care to speak of to any one." "True, true!" was the reply. "'Least said, soonest mended.' But I suppose I may be permitted to offer my humble tribute of admiration to my dear, kind friend, who always gives me a welcome to her hospitable board." Here Mr. Skinner stretched out his long, thin fingers, and laid them gently on Miss Pinckney's, who was in the act of handing him another triangular cut from the pork pie, which had been the _pièce de résistance_ of the supper-table. "Oh! dear me, Mr. Skinner," Miss Pinckney exclaimed, "I don't look for gratitude--never! So I am not disappointed. Gratitude isn't a plant that grows in these parts. It doesn't flourish. The air doesn't suit it, I suppose." This was said with a glance at poor Patience, who was well accustomed to such side-hits. "It is a plant that has a deep root in my heart," said Mr. Skinner, "and I hope the flower is not unpleasing, and that the fruit will be satisfying." This was a great flight of poetical rhetoric, and Miss Pinckney bridled and simpered like a girl of sixteen. "You are kindly welcome surely to anything I have to give, Mr. Skinner, now and at _all_ times. Those that don't care for what I provide, well, they may seek their fortune elsewhere, and the sooner the better." Patience Harrison had long been disciplined to self-control, or she could never have borne the "quips" and "quirks" of her sister. Thus she kept silence, determined not to wrangle with Miss Pinckney in the presence of witnesses; above all, not in the presence of the man whom she distrusted. So she quietly cleared away the supper when the meal was concluded, and retired to the back premises to wash up the dishes, and put everything in order for the night. It was about ten o'clock when Mr. Skinner--having sipped his glass of hot gin and water bid his hostess an affectionate adieu, and turned his steps homewards. When he reached his own gate he exchanged a quiet greeting with two men, who were evidently waiting for him. Then all three went softly round to the back of the house, and entered it by the door through which Bet and little Miss Joy had gone in that afternoon. Mr. Skinner opened the door with a latch-key, and all three men passed silently into the little room with the big table, covered with the green cloth--the table which little Joy had said looked too big for the room. "Well," one of the men said, "'Fortune favours the brave.' I am in for luck to-night. What have you got to drink? I dare say there's a bottle of rum in the cupboard, eh?" "Well," Mr. Skinner said, "I don't drink anything myself. So, no doubt, what you left is to be had." "Ah, ha! ah, ha!" laughed the other man. "You don't drink at your own expense; is that it? The old lady in the row finds you in toddy." "Shut up!" said the elder of the two men; "don't talk all night, but let us to business." Then two packs of cards were produced with the black bottle, and very soon the game began. Ah me! that ruinous game, which so many, I fear, play, and thereby lose all sense of honour and right. Who shall say how long is the list of broken hearts for which gambling is responsible? And not only the sordid gambling, such as that in which Mr. Skinner and his boon companions indulged, with dirty packs of cards, in a low room where the mice scampered about behind the loose boards, and the whole aspect was uninviting; but, alas! there is the same game going on amongst those who, from education and social position, should be the first to shun this crying evil. It matters not whether the stakes be for a pound or a penny, the danger and the sin is the same. The winner is always the winner at the expense of the loser. The success of one is the destruction and misery of the other. Deceit and fraud, with too often strong drink to silence the cry of remorse and the voice of conscience, follow in the gambler's train. No departure from the paths of honesty is single in its consequences, and there is no sin but may be compared to the throwing of a pebble into a still lake, when the circles which follow the fall of the stone widen and widen, and that indefinitely. Gambling in all its forms is a grievous wrong; and whether from betting on horses, or speculating in stocks and shares, or descending to a shabby little room such as that where Mr. Skinner and his friends sat on this fair summer night, shuffling their cards, for what seemed by comparison insignificant sums, we are bound to protest against it with all our might, and to guard the young under our care from the first beginnings of what is indeed the cause of untold misery to many who, in thousands of cases, suffer for the sins of others. The stakes for which Mr. Skinner and his companions played were small; but his usual good fortune seemed to have deserted him of late, for he had lost again and again. One of the men, as he threw down the cards, said-- "I have a score against you for last Tuesday, Skinner. Do you want to run up further?" and he pulled out a bit of dirty paper from a pocket-book, and read from it sums which amounted to several pounds. Mr. Skinner treated the matter with lofty indifference, saying-- "You needn't fear; I am going in for a prize, and I shall win!" "Ah, well, win or lose, I must be paid. It is rather inconvenient to be out of pocket like this." Mr. Skinner threw down another four shillings, and said-- "Try again." Again, the stakes being trebled on a card, he lost--though the winner this time was the third man of the company. Then a good deal of wrangling and quarrelling in an undertone followed, and Bet, in her room above, was awoke by it. She had been awoke before from the same cause; but to-night she sat up in bed and listened. The joists that divided the room in this lean-to of Mr. Skinner's cottage, which could hardly be called a "wing," were very thin and far apart, and a knot in one of the boards of her room had been forced out and left a hole through which it was possible to get a peep into the room below. Presently the voices ceased, and she heard the stealthy footsteps of the men retreating across the yard, and then, as they reached the deep soft sand, they were heard no longer. Bet got up, and standing on tip-toe tried to look out of the little attic window that lighted her room. As she did so the hole in the floor attracted her, for she could see the light through it from the room below. She lay down on the boards, and, looking through, could see her uncle at the table. He had a small box before him, from which he took out some coins, and then he put a key attached to the box in the lock, and fastened it. Bertha watched, she hardly knew why, with deep interest her uncle's proceedings, and saw him rise from the table with the box in his hand and go out. She climbed on the seat to bring her face on a level with the little window, and distinctly saw her uncle, with a lantern in one hand, which he set down by his side, and in the other a spade, with which he dug a hole in the soft, sandy mould by the strip of garden, where Mrs. Skinner cultivated some straggling cabbages, which went to _stalk_ with but few leaves, in the poor soil of the little enclosure. Presently he put something from his pocket into the hole, and then covering it with the soft soil, he returned to the house. What did it all mean? Poor Bet felt something was wrong, and yet how could she help it? "I wish there was any one I could tell," she thought; "but there is nobody. Little Miss Joy wouldn't care to hear, and nobody else would listen to me if I did tell them. And I suppose Uncle Joe has a right to bury his things if he likes; but it's very odd." Then she crept back to her bed, and was soon asleep. Bet went off to school the next morning with a lighter heart than usual, for she had received a convincing proof of little Joy's friendship, by her invitation to tea at the row. The midsummer holidays were approaching, and she was determined to bear all the rebuffs she met with from her school-fellows with fortitude. What did anything matter if Joy loved her! When Bet reached the gates of the garden before Miss Bayliff's school, she saw a knot of girls standing there. She came slowly towards them, shuffling her feet as usual in an awkward fashion, and not daring to draw too near the charmed circle, for her defender was not there. "Little Joy is late this morning," one of the girls said. "But we must go indoors; Miss Bayliff is in a rage if we crowd outside. Here, Bet, do you know where little Miss Joy is?" "How should she?" said another voice. "Here comes May Owen; let us ask her: she lives in Broad Row." May Owen was the daughter of an ironmonger, whose premises were at the corner of the row, just above Uncle Bobo's shop. "Well," she said, "have you heard about poor little Joy?" "No; what's the matter?" asked a chorus of voices. "She was out last evening with Mr. Boyd, and as they were coming home a horse came galloping along the Market Place, and Joy was knocked down. She has hurt her head, they say, or her back. The doctor has been there half the night, and Mr. Boyd is mad with grief. It has made a scene, I can tell you, in the row." "Why, Bet!" one of the girls exclaimed, "don't do that!" For poor Bet had seized the arm of the girl nearest her to support herself. Her heart beat wildly, her face was blanched with fear, as she gasped out-- "Oh, I must go to little Miss Joy! I must, indeed I must!" "Nonsense! Don't squeeze my arm like that; you'll pinch me black and blue. _You_ can't go to little Miss Joy; she wouldn't want _you_." "No; I should think not!" said May Owen. "The notion of a scarecrow like you being a pleasant sight to Mr. Boyd in his trouble! Mrs. Harrison is with the child." "Tell me--tell me," poor Bertha gasped; "will she get well? will she live?" "I don't know. Let us hope so, for she is a darling, and every one loves her," said another voice. And then a bell rang, and the girls trooped up the steps into the house, and the business of the morning began. Who shall tell the misery of those long hours in school to Bertha? She could only gaze at the white face of the clock, and count the minutes as the long hand passed over them. As to her lessons in class, she was, as the governess who taught her said, "Hopelessly muddled." Vain were her efforts to get through her repetition of Cowper's lines on his mother's picture. She sat with a sum before her on a slate, and blurred it with tears; and finally had a long array of bad marks, and was sent by the assistant governess to Miss Bayliff to receive a lecture, and to be given a long column of the Dictionary to write out and learn by heart in addition to her usual lessons. It did not strike Miss Bayliff that sorrow for Joy was the cause of Bet's woe-begone face. Miss Bayliff herself was really distressed at the news which had circulated through the school of Joy's accident, but she did not think Bet could feel as she did for little Miss Joy. The moment school was over, Bet seized her hat from the peg in the passage, and set off to the row to learn the worst. To her great relief she saw Mrs. Harrison coming from her own door to Uncle Bobo's. She clutched her arm pretty much as she had clutched her schoolfellow's; but she was not thrust away this time. Patience Harrison said kindly, "My dear, our little Joy seems a trifle better. She has opened her eyes and smiled at Uncle Bobo." "Will she get well? May I see her?" "You must not see her; she has to be kept very quiet." "Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?" Bet exclaimed. "Pray for her," was the reply, "and trust in God's love whichever way it goes with her." And then, moved to deep pity for poor Bet, Mrs. Harrison stooped and kissed her, and went into the little shop. CHAPTER VIII. _IN PERIL OF THE SEA._ The _Galatea_ was a good sailing vessel, loaded with goods, and was bound for Constantinople. She was a trading vessel, with a few passengers who paid a moderate sum for their berths, and were provided with very fair accommodation on board. Jack certainly proved himself a good sailor. As soon as the first misery of sea-sickness was over, he made himself very useful to the crew generally, and to Dick Colley in particular. "He is worth his biscuit, captain," Colley said one day. "A sharp lad, eh?" "Yes, and a handy one too. It's well for you that you have had that boy to help you, with your lame leg; and you are trying to make him one of your sort, I see." "One of my sort! No. I hope a long sight better than my sort, captain. I am but a beginner, learning the alphabet late in life; but, please God, I'll stumble on following Him, and I hope I may get others to follow Him too." "You needn't look for me in that following, Colley; but you are welcome to the boy. It is all very fine to preach about God's love and care for us when the sea is stirred by a pleasant breeze, just enough to give us a capful of wind, and we are making our proper knots an hour straight for port; but when the waves are roaring, and the timbers of the ship groaning and creaking, and we know not but that we may go to the bottom any minute--don't tell me it is God's love then, when poor fellows are fighting the waves for life, knowing that if they are drowned they leave wife and child poor and desolate. No, no, Colley; that motion won't hold water." "Begging your pardon, captain," said Colley, "it's better to trust in the Lord's love in a storm, than curse, and swear, and shriek as you and I have seen some of our mates take on, in mortal terror. You can't deny that." "I deny nothing," was the reply. "I am content to let things take their course, and religion with the rest. Let them pray who like; it's no odds to me." Jack had been near during this conversation; and as the captain turned on his heel and took up his position again at the helm, Colley called Jack. "Were you within ear-shot just now, boy?" "Yes," Jack said. "I heard what you and the captain were saying. My mother talks as you talk; and as to little Miss Joy, she is always singing hymns, and loves taking Uncle Bobo's hand and trotting to church with him. I wish you could see little Miss Joy; you would love her as much as I do." "P'r'aps I may see her one day. She is a pretty little thing, you say?" "Pretty!" Jack said; "she is a great deal more than pretty. Her eyes are like the sky; and how she can laugh, to be sure! it's like silver bells ringing. Many a time, when I have been half wild with Aunt Amelia's grating tongue, I have run over to Mr. Boyd's, and Joy has put me right. She would always be on the watch for me when I came back from school, and she calls my mother 'Goody,' and she is just like a little daughter to her. Then when there were sharp words between Mr. Boyd and his old servant, Joy made peace. She would climb on Uncle Bobo's knee, and kiss him, and put her hand before his mouth, and beg him to be quiet, and not get angry with Susan, because hard words did no good." "That's true, boy--that's true; and now I want to know what you are going to do when we are safe in port? Go home and show you are sorry, eh?" "Not home to my aunt's house; I'd rather break stones. Look here, she just makes me feel wretched, as little Miss Joy makes me feel good." "Ah, boy, that's the wrong end of the stick--the feeling good and wicked, as you say. No, no; 'goodness,' as you call it, don't depend on little Miss Joy, or wickedness on sharp-tempered viragos like you say your aunt is. It is the _heart_, boy. If that is turned to God, then we may hope to keep straight, by watching and praying; but it is a fight, boy, as I find. As I told you, I find it hard enough to curb my tongue; for it is like a ship flying afore the wind, with no rudder and no pilot. Off I go, and the words drop from my lips like mad! But I pray for help to bridle my tongue, and I cry to God for pardon every time I take His blessed name in vain. Don't you learn bad ways aboard. Most of the crew are steady young fellows. One or two of 'em are on the right track; but that man who kicked you when you came aboard, you beware of him. He is more dangerous when he is friendly than when he's your enemy. So don't listen to him; it won't do you no good." Amongst the passengers was a sweet-faced woman, with her little boy. Jack took greatly to the child. He reminded him of Miss Joy, and he would take his hand and lead him about the ship, and show off Toby's tricks for his amusement. The woman was on her way to Cairo to join her husband, who had a place there in an English family as courier and valet. She had been sent home by the doctors for her health, and was now on her outward-bound voyage, with her little son. She soon found that Jack was trustworthy, and she allowed her little Peter to be with him whenever Jack had time to amuse him. Old Colley, too, would set him on his knee, and tell him stories of the sea, and the names of the sea-birds, which often followed the ship, and would sometimes pounce down on any bit of biscuit or salt meat which might be on deck. It was a pretty sight when little Peter's golden hair rested against Colley's blue jersey, and the child would put up his hand and stroke the stubby beard of his new friend, and say-- "I shall be a sailor when I grow up. I love the sea." Then Colley would stroke his head and say--"In calm weather it's pleasant enough, boy. You wait till you have seen a storm." The voyage out promised well till they came to the Bay of Biscay, when contrary winds and a storm drove the _Galatea_ to take refuge in the port of Lisbon. The captain was anxious to make his way to Constantinople, and against the advice of Colley and the second mate sailed out from Lisbon in rough weather. "The storm is over," he said, "and I've no time to spend with the men kicking their heels aboard, or going ashore to get into mischief." So the orders were given, and the _Galatea_ went curtesying over the billows, under a bright sky, with all sails set. "We are in the track of a storm, and if I'm not mistaken," Colley said, "we shall find ourselves in a worst plight before forty-eight hours have come and gone. I never saw the moon look as she did last night without a meaning." But for that night Colley's prophecy seemed to be unfulfilled. The wind sank, the sea became like glass, and the _Galatea_ made but little progress. The weather was intensely hot, and the nights scarcely cooler than the days. It was on the evening of the second day, after sailing out of the port of Lisbon, that Colley asked Jack if he saw a dark line drawn along the horizon. "Yes," Jack said, "I see." "That's the storm coming, and it will be upon us fast enough." The captain, who was standing at his post with his glass, saw it also, and very soon orders were shouted to reef sails, and "every man to his post." Before a landsman could believe it possible, the mysterious dark line had spread over the sky, and there was a hissing sound as of coming breakers. Then a swift forked flash struck across the waters, and was followed by a peal of thunder which was deafening. In another quarter of an hour the waves were roaring, and the noise of the thunder and the gathered blackness of darkness were awful. The _Galatea_ was well manned, and every one of the crew held gallantly to their post. The captain encouraged the frightened passengers, and tried to quiet their fears. Jack obeyed orders, and never flinched from his duty. Presently the angry billows broke with terrific violence over the poor _Galatea_, and she bowed herself in her distress till the masts and timbers creaked, and every time she went down into the deep valleys between the mountainous waves, it seemed impossible that she should right herself again. "We are in great peril, boy," Colley said in Jack's ear, or rather he shouted the words at the pitch of his voice. "You put your trust in God, and He will hear your cry." Ah! in moments of dire distress and fear, the soul that has before been dumb cries unto God. Poor frail mortals think they can do very well without God, when skies are blue, and all things, golden, bright, and prosperous; but in the hour of death, and in all times of tribulation, few indeed are to be found who do not cry to God for refuge and deliverance. Jack stood face to face with death, and he knew it. All his short life seemed to rise clearly before him, and his mother's face as he knelt to repeat his little prayer at her knee in childish days. His mother! she had been left a widow, although she could not believe it; his mother! to whom he should have been a stay and comfort, deserted, because he had been a coward, and could not meet the trials of his daily life--his aunt's sharp tongue, and Mr. Skinner's side-hits. He had run away to sea to escape these, to please himself--and this was the end. Oh! his mother! his mother! Had he not seen her watch and wait for his father's return? and had he not seen the lines of care deeping on her sweet face? And now he had added to her sorrow, and could never hear her words of forgiveness. All this passed through Jack's mind far more quickly than I can write it here, or you can read it; and hot tears mingled with the cold, salt spray, which drenched him through and through as he stood firm by the rope which was entrusted to him. The storm raged with unabated fury, and the darkness was only just pierced by the rising moon, itself invisible, but which cast a strange weird whiteness athwart the gloom. The worst had not yet come. It was about midnight that cries arose above the storm, and a violent shock told that the _Galatea_ had struck on a rock. There was no hope then--the _Galatea_ was doomed. The boats had been kept in readiness, and the captain's voice was heard, shouting his orders to let them down. For the _Galatea_ had parted in midships, and was settling down into those black waters where, here and there, the white surf on the wave-crests was seen with ghastly clearness in the murky gloom. "All women and children first," the captain ordered; and Peter's mother, clasping the child close, with the few passengers, were let down into the first boat. "Back, you coward!" the mate shouted, as the man who had been so unfeeling to Jack, on first starting, stumbled forward and tried to jump into the boat. Alas! too late was the command to stop. The boat was swamped, and smothered cries arose from the surging depths. The other boats were lowered, and old Colley remained to the last. "Now, captain," he said, "it's your turn. She's settling down fast." And between the roar of the storm and the more distant roll of the thunder, a swishing, gurgling noise told that the water was fast gaining ground, and the _Galatea_ going down. "I leave the ship last, or die with her. Forward, Colley! Do you hear?" "After you, captain; after you." "Colley, old fellow, you never disobeyed me before. You won't do it now." Then a great shudder seemed to thrill through the ship, and she turned on her side, and with a mighty rush the waves seized their prey, and the _Galatea_ went down into the stormy waters. Jack found himself struggling in the surging waves; but a boat was near him, and a hand seized him and dragged him in. It was old Colley's hand, and he had in his other arm little Peter, and a whine told that Toby was with his master. It was a perilous position--the boat was tossed like a feather on those stormy billows; while above the raging of the storm could be heard cries for help from those who were clinging to broken rafts and pieces of the wreck. "She was cracked like a walnut," Colley said; "and the captain's heart was broken--that's why he said he would die with her." CHAPTER IX. _ON THE WIDE, WIDE SEA._ The boat was drifting off, and every minute seemed to put a further distance from the place where the _Galatea_ had struck the rock and perished. At this time the fury of the storm had abated, and a rift in the clouds showed the moon in its last quarter floating like a boat on its back in a silvery sea. The pale rays shed a flickering light upon the waters, and there was a lull. Behind them rose a low black mass, with the points of the masts showing where the _Galatea_, had gone down. No other object was visible, and Colley covered his face with his hands. "I don't believe there's one of 'em saved," he said; "I don't indeed. The boats were swamped, and this is the only one that righted. But, boy, I don't know where we are, nor where we are drifting." "Are we going home?" said a little voice from the bottom of the boat. "I want to get home with mother." "Ay, my lad; but I expect we must all three give up an earthly home, and turn our thoughts to a heavenly one." When morning dawned they were far out on the trackless waters, and not a sail in eight. Jack, at Colley's bidding, tied his shirt to the oar, in the hopes that, fluttering in the breeze, it might attract the notice of some passing vessels. But although several sail were seen on the horizon, none seemed to come across the track of the little lonely boat. The scorching sun of noon beat on their unprotected heads, and poor little Peter cried and moaned with a pain in his head. Hunger too, and thirst, began to be unbearable; and Colley had some difficulty in preventing Jack from drinking the sea-water, and giving it to little Peter. "Don't you do it, boy; it will drive you mad, and you will repent it if you touch it." Towards evening the air became cooler, and Peter, pulling at Jack's trousers, said-- "There is something hard under my head, and Toby is sniffing at it." Oh, how untold was the thankfulness with which Colley pulled out a canvas bag of sea biscuits, which had been stowed away under one of the seats, with a stone jar in which was a little rum! "Thank the Lord, you won't starve, you young ones; there's enough to keep you alive." "Enough to keep us all alive!" Jack said; "and I shan't touch a crumb unless you eat the same quantity as I do." The boy lying at their feet had already set his teeth into a biscuit like a hungry dog, and was putting his mouth to the stone bottle. "Gently, now, gently," Colley said, trying to take the bottle away from the child. But he did not succeed till he had swallowed a considerable quantity, and lay in a kind of stupor. Another night closed in, and the stillness and darkness were acceptable after the burning heat of noon. At day-dawn Jack saw a ship. Surely it was coming nearer and nearer. He stood up and called "Ahoy!" with all his might, and poor Toby whined and barked. Colley, awakened from a light dose, stood up also, and joined in the cry. But, alas! there was no answer, and the white sails, glistening in the level rays of the rising sun, vanished like a bird taking flight. "It is no use hoping for help," Jack said, sinking down. "I say, Colley, are we to go on floating over the wide sea for ever?" "Nay, lad, nay; it won't be for ever. Please the Lord, He'll put an end to these long watches in His own time." "Colley," Jack said, "do you think I am being punished for my sins? I ran away in a fit of temper, and I know how my mother is waiting and watching for me, as she did for my father, and she will watch and wait in vain. Oh, Colley, do you think God is very angry, and that this is my punishment--to die out here, with no one to care, no one to----" Jack broke down, and hid his face on his sleeveless arms, for his blue jersey was fluttering in the morning breeze. "Boy," Colley said, "it is just this: You wanted your own way, and you were let to take it. You have made your own punishment; but as to God's anger--well, if you turn your heart to Him in Christ's name, He won't send you empty away. He will speak peace for His dear Son's sake, whether He lets you go back to you poor mother, or whether He takes you through the Valley of Death to His kingdom in heaven." "Colley," Jack said vehemently, "I don't want to die. I want to live, and show my mother I am sorry." "We can't choose, boy, we can't choose; and we are just in God's hands, and must be quiet." But, oh! through that long day of heat and oppression it was hard to be quiet. The poor child moaned, and was rapidly becoming insensible. Jack's lips were so sore and chapped he could not bite the hard biscuit; and though Colley soaked his in a few drops of rum, he felt sick at the smell and taste of the spirits, and when offered a morsel, he turned away, saying-- "It reminds me of Skinner. I hate the smell." The great waste of waters, of varied opal hues, in the clear depths of which the forms of many sea creatures could be seen darting hither and thither--how desolate it was! Above, snowy gulls flew and floated now and again on the waves. One came so near that Colley seized it and took it into the boat. It looked up with wondering eyes, and Colley said-- "You poor stupid thing! You have come to your death;" and then he wrung the bird's neck, saying, "If the worst comes to the worst, we must eat it raw." "I would sooner die," Jack said wearily. "I begin to wish to die, Colley. Yesterday I wanted to live, but I don't feel to care now, and I believe that poor little darling is going." "Help me to lift him up--lift him up," Colley said; and between them, feeble as they both were, the old man and the boy, they managed to get the poor child's head to rest on Colley's knees. Towards evening the child opened his eyes. "Mother," he said, "I'm coming." Then he smiled, and Jack said, "He is better." But Colley shook his head. "No; but he will be better soon;" and then he said a few words of prayer, and bid Jack think of some hymn his mother had taught him. Jack tried to summon a verse from his confused brain, and the one little Miss Joy had often said came to his lips, and he repeated in a low voice, quavering with weakness and emotion-- "Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high: "Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, Till the storm of life is past; Safe into the haven guide, Oh, receive my soul at last! "Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; Leave, ah! leave me not alone, Still support and comfort----" "Oh! Colley," Jack said, breaking off, "look!" The little boy's eyes were wide open, gazing upwards. Then a smile, a sweet smile, a shudder as if in answer to a welcome, and the spirit of the child had fled! Colley bowed his head weeping. "A pretty little lad!" he said, "his mother's pride aboard ship. Well, well, she is waiting for him, and God's will be done." When the shadows crept over the blue expanse that night, Colley lifted the child's body tenderly in his arms, and said to Jack-- "Kiss him for his mother, boy. He is saved from the death which, unless God send help, lies before you and me--the death of starvation. You are young, but I am an old man; for all sailors are old at fifty, and few see sixty. I shall go next." "Oh, Colley, Colley, do not leave me all alone!" Colley shook his head. "Again I say, Let God's will be done. I wish--I wish I had a memory for a text of Scripture to say before I bury this child; for we must bury him, and now. You've been at school, you say, up to the time you ran away. Can't you say the words of Scripture which you have learned? You must know a lot." Poor Jack rubbed his head and tried to collect his thoughts, but in vain. "It's what the Lord said to Mary when her brother Lazarus died. Ah, I've got it now!" and Colley slowly and solemnly repeated, "I am the Resurrection and the Life; he that liveth and believeth on Me shall never die." Then the old sailor clasped his weather-beaten hands over the child's lifeless form, and with tears running down his rugged cheeks he said: "O heavenly Father, Thou hast called this child from pain and suffering. In Thy mercy send for me next; but let poor Jack live to go back to his mother. For Christ Jesus' sake." Then tenderly and gently the little form slipped over the side of the boat; there was a sudden splash, a rippling sound, and all was still--so still, except for the mysterious murmur which always sounds like whispers from another world at nightfall on the sea. Again the sun rose, and again the silent sea was flooded with the rays of the sun. The inhabitants of the little boat were too weak now to speak much. Even Toby could scarcely wag his tail, but lay with his head on his paws, gazing up to his master's face, questioning as to what it meant--this faintness and weakness which seemed to be creeping over him. The dead gull lay untouched. There was not strength left to eat it, even if there had been inclination. Jack still grasped the oar, and still the poor blue jersey fluttered in the breeze. But Colley lay at the bottom of the boat, breathing heavily, though his eyes were open, and his rough weather-beaten hands folded as if in prayer. They had drifted far out in the Atlantic, but not in the direct line hitherto of the many steamers which continually cross the great dividing waters which lie between the Old World and the New. Jack had ample time for thought, as the long weary hours went by. But a stupor was fast creeping over him, and everything became dreamlike and unreal. Even the images of his mother and Joy, which had been so vivid, grew taint and indistinct, and he was scarcely conscious, when a loud "Ahoy!" fell on his ear. He started up, and there, at last, was a boat alongside of theirs. "Wake up, boy!" said a cheery voice. "What's happened, eh?" "Oh, Colley, Colley!" Jack cried, "we are saved, we are saved!" And then from excess of joy and emotion he fell prone upon the prostrate figure of the old sailor. "A man, a boy, and a dog," said one of the boat's crew. "Half-starved, I declare! Look alive, mates, and let's get 'em aboard our ship as quick as may be. I told you this object we saw was a craft of some sort, though you were so slow to believe me. A happy thing for these poor creatures I got the boat lowered." In another quarter of an hour two pairs of sturdy arms were pulling the boat and those in it to the good ship _Claudia_, bound for the islands of the Southern Seas. CHAPTER X. "_ONLY A LITTLE BOX._" Uncle Bobo was sitting at the door of his shop one golden September day, when the atmosphere of the row was oppressive, and his heart was heavy within him. Little Miss Joy was mending--so the doctors said; for Uncle Bobo had declared two heads were better than one, and had insisted on calling in a second opinion. Yes; they all said little Miss Joy was better. But in what did this betterness consist? She was still lying in that upper chamber, whence she had always smiled her good-morning on Patience Harrison, and sang her hymn of thanksgiving as the little birds sing their matins to the rising sun. Better! yes, she was better; for there was now no danger to her life. But the fall had injured her back, and she could not move without pain. The colour was gone from her rosy lips, and the light from those lovely gentian eyes was more soft and subdued. Little Miss Joy, who had been as blithe as a bird on the bough and so merry and gladsome, that she deserved her name of "Little Sunbeam," was now a patient sick child, never complaining, never fretful, and always greeting Uncle Bobo with a smile--a smile which used to go to his heart, and send him down to his little shop sighing out--as to-day-- "Better--better! I don't see it; the doctor doesn't know! What are doctors for, if they can't make a child well? I pay enough. I don't grudge them their money, but I expect to see a return for it. And here comes Patience Harrison to tell me what I don't see--that my little sunbeam is better." Patience Harrison was crossing the row to Uncle Bobo's door as he spoke. Her face wore the same expression of waiting for something or some one that never came, as it did on the morning when we first saw her looking up and looking down the row for Jack. It was a wonderfully warm September. No news had been brought of the wanderer: the news for which her soul thirsted. George Paterson, it is true, had heard an inkling of news, but it was not anything certain. He had heard from a sailor that Jack Harrison had been seen aboard the _Galatea_ by a passenger who had been put ashore as the _Galatea_ passed the Lizard; and tidings had come that the _Galatea_ had been lost off the coast of Spain, and only nine of the crew or passengers aboard had survived to tell the tale! That the _Galatea_ was lost seemed certain, but that Jack was aboard her was not proved. The man who reported that he had seen him could not be sure of his name. He heard him called Jack, but so were hundreds of other boys. He had understood that he was a runaway, kept on sufferance by the captain to please the second mate; but that was all, and it was not much. Certainly not enough to warrant adding to Patience Harrison's heavy burden of sorrow. So George Paterson kept the suspicion to himself, and waited for confirmation of the report before he mentioned it. Patience Harrison had nursed and cared for Joy as if she had been her own child, and Uncle Bobo was not ungrateful. "Well," he said, as she leaned against the door, a variety of articles making a festoon over her head, and a bunch of fishing-tackle catching a lock of her abundant hair, which was prematurely grey:--"Well, is the grand affair coming off to-morrow?" "Yes, they are to be married to-morrow at ten o'clock; but there's to be no fuss. They are going to Cromer for a few days, and I have promised to keep shop till they come home." "And what's Joy to do without you?" "I shall run over early every morning and late every evening, and poor Bet Skinner is out of her wits with delight because I said I thought you would let her stay by day and take my place." "To be sure! to be sure! Only don't expect me to hold out a hand to that old lady, Skinner's mother. Is she to be present at the wedding?" "Yes, and so is Bet; and I have excused myself on account of looking after the shop." "Well, your poor sister is making a pretty hard bed for herself to lie on, and I am afraid she will live to repent it; though, to be sure, we can't call it marrying in haste. That sly fellow has been sneaking about here for a long time. What's the mother going to do?" "She will live where she is for the present, and everything will go on the same, except that I cannot live with Skinner. I shall look out for a situation in a shop, as soon as Joy is well again, and does not want me. Or maybe I shall take one of the small houses on the Denes, and let lodgings to folks who can put up with humble accommodation." "You oughtn't to do any such thing," said Mr. Boyd. "You have been a widow now between eleven and twelve years. A good man wants to make you his wife--and," said Uncle Bobo, slapping his knee, "and why shouldn't he?" "Please do not speak of it, Mr. Boyd," Patience said. "Do you think that I could ever marry any man while I am waiting for my husband's return, and now, too, for my boy's? No! it is only pain to me to think that any of my friends could think I should forget." "You'll see the boy safe and sound before long, and you'll find the salt water has washed a lot of nonsense out of him. He will come back, but the other--never!" Mrs. Harrison said no more, but climbed up the narrow staircase to Joy's room. "Oh, Goody dear! I _am_ so glad you are come," Joy said, stretching out her little thin arms and winding them round her friend's neck. "I have been fidgeting so, hearing you talking to Uncle Bobo downstairs. And I've been very snappy to Susan, because she will have it I ought to try to stand. Goody dear, I _can't_." "Susan knows that as well as I do, dearie. I think she tries to make you out much stronger than you are, to comfort Uncle Bobo." "_Dear_ Uncle Bobo!" the child said. "I wish he would not fret about me. Goody! I was dreaming of a horse tearing after me, just as that horse did that evening; and then it wasn't a horse at all, but it was great roaring waves, and I thought Jack was with me, and we were going to be drowned." The lines on Mrs. Harrison's forehead deepened, and she tried to say cheerfully-- "Dreams do not mean anything, dear; and it is said they always go by contrary, you know." Then Mrs. Harrison began to settle Joy's pillows, and put back the curtains so that she might see from her bed the strip of blue sky above the opposite roofs and through a slight aperture between the two houses, where Joy could on clear nights see two or three stars, and at certain, and what seemed to her very long intervals, the moon, on her lonely way through the heavens. "Susan says the wedding will be to-morrow, and that you will have to stay to keep shop while Miss Pinckney is away." "Yes, dear; and Bet is coming to be with you." Joy sighed, and said softly-- "Poor Bet! she does love me very much; but, dear Goody, _I_ don't love her as I love you. When Jack comes home, I shall tell him how kind you have been to me, and we shall be so happy; only I expect Jack will be vexed to see me lying here, instead of running out to meet him." Mrs. Harrison could only turn away her head to hide her tears as Joy went on: "Uncle Bobo said the other day, when he came up and found me crying, just a little bit, 'Why, I shall have to call you little Miss Sorrowful!' And then he seemed choked, and bustled away. I made up my mind then I would try to smile always when he came. I should not like him to call me little Miss Sorrowful, it seems to hurt him so. And then he always says he ought to have snatched hold of me when the horse came galloping after us, and that he ought to have been knocked down, not me. But that is quite a mistake. Uncle Bobo is wanted in the shop, and I don't think I could have done instead of him; and then it would have been worse for him to bear the pain than it is for me; for when he had the gout in his toe, he did shout out, and threw the things about when Susan went to bathe it. So it is best as it is," was little Miss Joy's conclusion; "isn't it Goody?" The wedding came off the next day, and the row was greatly excited by the event. Miss Pinckney was dressed in a cream-coloured cashmere, trimmed with lace, and she wore an apology for a bonnet, with orange blossoms, and a large square of tulle thrown over it. Susan, who reported the appearance of the wedding party, which she watched leaning out of Joy's window, exclaimed: "All in white, or next to white! Deary me! If I was fifty, and had a yellow skin, I wouldn't dress like a young girl. There she goes mincing down the row, and there's a coach waiting at the end with white horses. And there goes Mrs. Skinner looking like a lamp-post, dressed in a grey alpaca; she looks as grim as ever. And there's poor Bet--well, to be sure, what a frock and bonnet! They belonged to her mother, let alone her grandmother, or p'r'aps to that pretty daughter of hers, who ran off--she was that ill-treated by her mother she couldn't bear it! Ah! they are a queer lot, those Skinners; they do say Joe Skinner is a queer customer, and that he is so hard up, that's why he's married that old lady. He will make her money spin, and there won't be much left at the end of a year. Serve her right. I've no patience with folks making themselves ridiklous at her time of life. Why, my dear!" Susan said, growing confidential, as she drew her head in from the window, when the little following of girls and boys who lived in the row had returned from seeing the last of Miss Pinckney--"Why, my dear! I could have married, last fall, the lamplighter who has looked after the lamps in the row for years. But I knew better. I told him I was forty-eight, and he was scarce thirty-eight, and I was not going to make myself a laughing-stock. And he went and married a young girl, and has made a good husband. So that's all right!" It was the same afternoon that Mrs. Harrison, being installed in her sister's place at the shop, Bet came breathlessly up the narrow stairs to say-- "Grandmother wants to see you." "Oh! I'd rather not, please. I feel so afraid of your grandmother. Don't, please don't let her come." But it was too late. Mrs. Skinner's spare figure was already at the door. She was dressed in her wedding gown and bonnet, and came to Joy's bed, standing there like a grey spectre, her bonnet and face all of the same dull grey as the gown. Joy turned up her wistful eyes to the hard, deeply-lined face, and her lips quivered. "If you please," she said, "I am glad you will spare Bet, while Goody is so busy." But Mrs. Skinner did not speak--not a word. "I am getting better," Joy continued; "at least the doctors say so; but--but I can't stand or walk yet, so I am glad to have Bet." Mrs. Skinner had all this time been scanning little Miss Joy's features with a keen scrutiny. Then, after a few minutes, she jerked out: "I hope you'll soon get about again; you are welcome to keep Bet;" and then she turned, and her footfall on the stairs was heard less and less distinct, till the sound ceased altogether. "Your grandmother is--is not like other people," little Miss Joy ventured to say. "I don't like her; but I beg your pardon, I ought not to say so to you." "And do you think _I_ like her?" Bet exclaimed vehemently. "At first I thought I'd try, and I did try; but she was always so hard. She loves Uncle Joe, I think, though she is angry with him for marrying Miss Pinckney, and lately I have heard high words between them." And now Bet took off her wedding bonnet, and sat down by Joy's side, perfectly content that she was thought worthy to be her companion. "You'll tell me if you want anything," she said. "And you won't mind if I am stupid and blunder, will you?" "No," Joy said faintly. "Have you got your work, or a book? Give me my crochet. I like to try to do something, though lying flat it is rather tiring." Bet did as she was told, and then said humbly, "I shan't talk unless you wish me to talk;" and the poor girl settled herself by the window till a bell rang. "That is for you to go down for my tea," Joy said. "It saves Susan's legs, you know." Bet was only too happy to be of use, and hurried down stairs at once for the tray. "Be careful now," Susan said; "and don't fall upstairs and break the crockery. There's a cup for yourself, and Mrs. Harrison has sent over a bit of wedding-cake. It's very black, and I don't like the looks of the sugar; but I dare say it may eat better than it looks." The day wore on to evening, and the row was quiet, when Joy, who had been lying very still, suddenly said-- "I have been dreaming of Jack again--Jack Harrison. I think he must be coming home." "Did you care for Jack Harrison very much?" "Very much," said Joy; "he was always so good to me. That last day before he ran away he lent me that pretty book you were looking at, and said we would learn those verses at the beginning together, and I never saw him again. That was a dreadfully sad time; and then, not content with being very hard on Jack, Miss Pinckney and your uncle said he was a thief. Think of that! Jack a thief! Miss Pinckney said he had got the key of a drawer and taken out a little box, where she kept the money. There were four or five pounds in it." "A box!" Bet said; "was it a big box?" "Oh no; dear Goody says it would go into anybody's pocket. A little box with a padlock and a little key. I knew Jack did not take it, but of course as he ran away that very day it looks _like_ it. Even Susan shakes her head, and I never talk of Jack to her. But," said Joy, "I am tired now, and I think I'll take what Uncle Bobo calls 'forty winks.'" Everything was very quiet after that; and when Bet saw Joy was asleep, she crept downstairs, and in the shop saw Mrs. Harrison. Miss Pinckney's shutters were closed, and she felt free to come over and have a last look at Joy. "A little box! a little box!" Bet repeated to herself as she went home. "A box so small it would go into anybody's pocket." And Bet that night lay awake pondering many things, and repeating very often, "A little box!" CHAPTER XI. _MR. SKINNER IN COMMAND._ Mrs. Skinner was more silent than ever during the next few days, and when she spoke it was to scold Bet in a rasping voice. She was suffering from that very bad mental disease which is beyond the reach of doctors, and is a perpetual torment; and that disease is called remorse. Of late she had been haunted by the memory of her only daughter, and of her harshness to her. The man she had chosen to marry was good, and to all appearance above the class in which Maggie was born. There was nothing against him but poverty. He had been a travelling photographer, who set up his little van with "Photographic Studio" painted on the canvas cover in large letters, and had sometimes done a brisk trade on Yarmouth sands. One of his first customers had been Maggie Skinner, then in her fresh beauty, and a tempting subject for a photographer or artist. About the same time a wealthy grocer in Yarmouth, old enough to be her father, had offered to marry her. He had a villa at Gorlestone: possessed a pony-carriage, and was rich and prosperous. But Maggie shrank from marrying him. Mr. Plummer might be rich, and no doubt he meant well and kindly by her, but she could not marry him. In vain she pleaded with her mother, and with her inexorable brother Joe, that to marry simply for what you were to get by it was a sin--a sin against the law of God, who meant marriage to be a sign and seal of mutual love. Mrs. Skinner at last said that if she did not do as she bid her, and promise to marry Mr. Plummer, she might go and earn her living for she was not going to keep her in idleness. Many stormy scenes followed; and one night Maggie declared that she could not marry Mr. Plummer, for she had promised to marry Roger Chanter, the photographic artist! "And if you do, you shall never see my face again," Mrs. Skinner declared. "I'll turn you out of the house, and you may disgrace yourself as you please. I have done with you. Your brother there knows when I say a thing I mean it." "Oh, mother, you are very cruel!" Ah! how those words sounded sometimes in the dead of night, when Mrs. Skinner lay awake, listening for Joe's return, and to the moaning of the restless sea. "Oh! mother, you are very cruel!" Those were the last words ever heard from Maggie, as she passed out of her mother's sight. The next morning her bed was empty, and she was gone. From that day up to the present time not a word had been heard of her, nor had her mother or her brother troubled themselves to inquire for her. It was supposed she had married the pale, delicate-looking photographer; but her name was never mentioned, and she had passed away as if she had never been. It was the day of the bride and bridegroom's return, and Patience Harrison had put all things in order. The business had not suffered in the absence of the head of the establishment, and Mr. Skinner expressed considerable satisfaction at this. He at once took the keys, and said he would keep the books and the money, and, in fact, rule the establishment, and transact the business. He was fidgeting about the shop the next morning, and peering into all the boxes and drawers, when his wife ventured to remark that perhaps he would be late at the office on the quay, as the clock had struck ten. "My dear," was the reply, "I have resigned my post in the Excise-office, and shall henceforth devote myself to you and my aged mother. I have always been a good son, and I shall often look in on her of an evening when I have settled up matters here." Patience Harrison heard this announcement, and saw her sister's face betray considerable surprise. "Resign the place at the office!" she exclaimed. "Why, Joe!----" "Why, Joe!" he repeated. "Why, my dear, you ought to be delighted; you will have so much more of my company and my help. Now you can take your ease, and sit in your parlour, while Mrs. Harrison waits in the shop, and performs household duties." "What next, Joe! I am not going to sit with my hands before me because I am a married woman. As to a man about in a little shop like mine, with ladies trying on caps and ordering underclothing, it is not to be thought of. The customers won't like it. It is too small a place for three." "You may be easy on that score, sister," Patience said. "I only remained while you were away. I wish to leave you, and think of taking a little house on the Denes, and taking a lodger till they come home." "Pray may I ask who are _they_?" Mr. Skinner said. "My husband and my son," was the reply. "The folly of some women!" exclaimed Mr. Skinner. "No, Mrs. Harrison, you don't know when you are well off. You should recompense your sister's goodness and generosity by staying to assist her in her household cares." "I did not ask for your advice, and I do not want it. Sister, I shall cross over to Mr. Boyd's, and take care of that dear child for the present. I have packed my boxes, and Peter will carry them over." "My dear," Mr. Skinner said, "that being the case, we at once renounce all connection with Mrs. Harrison." "But we shall have to keep a servant," exclaimed his wife; "and servants are such a terrible trouble, and think of the worry and the expense, and----" Poor Mrs. Joe Skinner seemed unfeignedly sorry. She began to magnify her gentle sister's perfections now she was to lose her. "And Patience knows all my ways, and how to use the furniture polish on the chairs and table in the parlour. And---- Oh! really, Patience, I hope you will stay; especially now the boy is gone. You are welcome, I'm sure; very welcome! It was the boy made the trouble. We've gone on so pleasantly since he went." Patience turned away to hide the tears of wounded feeling, and said no more. As she was crossing over to Mr. Boyd's, she saw a ladylike, sweet-faced woman standing at the door of the shop. Mr. Boyd was very busy rubbing up a chronometer, which the captain and mate of one of the small sailing vessels were bargaining for; and as it was difficult for more than three people to stand in the little shop at once, Patience paused before entering. "I am waiting to speak to Mr. Boyd," the lady--for so she looked--said. "I dare say he will be at liberty directly," Patience said. "It is a very small shop, and too full of goods for its size." "Do you happen to know if Mr. Boyd has a little girl living with him? She is now just short of nine years old. She is very----" The voice suddenly faltered, and Patience hastened to say-- "She is a darling child. Mr. Boyd has adopted her, and he calls her Joy. We all call her Joy--little Miss Joy. Do you know anything about her?" The lady grasped Mrs. Harrison's arm. "Let me see Mr. Boyd," she said. "Wait till I see him." The bargain in the shop was now completed, and the captain and mate were departing with their chronometer, when Uncle Bobo sang out to Patience-- "Glad to see you; the little one aloft is just hungry for a sight of you. Bet isn't come yet. She's to help her old grannie before she starts." A bevy of little girls on their way to school now came up with flowers, and some ripe plums in a basket. "Please will you give these to little Miss Joy?" the eldest of the four said, "with our love. Please, Mr. Boyd, how is she? is she better?" "So they say, my dear; so they say. I wish I could say so too. But--well--never mind. Here, Mrs. Patience, take 'em aloft to the child. And now, ma'am, what can I show you?" Mr. Boyd said, turning to the lady. "The child--you call--little Miss Joy," was the reply, in faint tones. "Mr. Boyd, you don't know me, and Mrs. Harrison does not know me. I was once Maggie Skinner, and Little Joy is my child!" Uncle Bobo looked with a keen glance from under his bushy grey eyebrows into the lady's face. "You Maggie Skinner! Well, I never!" "Yes, I have had a great deal of trouble; but it is over now." "Sit down; sit down," Uncle Bobo said, pushing a high round stool with a slippery leather top, the only seat for which the shop could afford room. "Sit ye down; but surely you look too old to be Maggie Skinner!" "I have had many troubles. Oh! Mr. Boyd, can you forgive me? When my darling child was a baby, I wanted bread. My husband died just when she was eighteen months old; I had not a shilling in the world; there was only the workhouse before me, and I could not--no, I could not take my precious child there. So I walked here from Ipswich. I remembered you had a kind heart--so I laid her here on your door-step and stood watching till you came and took her up, and I knew you would be good to her; but I dared not face my mother. I wandered alone all that night; and early in the morning, before any one was stirring, I came to look up at this house. As I stood listening, I heard my baby's little cough. Some one was crooning over her and playing with her." "That was Susan. Hi, Sue! come this way," exclaimed Mr. Boyd. Susan came blundering down the stairs, asking-- "What do you want? I was just giving the precious child her breakfast. She seems a bit brighter this morning." "What is the matter with her?" Maggie Chanter asked. "Is she ill? is she ill?" "She was knocked down by a runaway horse last June, and hurt her back. What do you know about the child?" "I am her mother?" was the answer. "Oh! I thank you all for being kind to her." And then a burst of passionate tears choked the poor mother. Patience Harrison's kind arms were round her in a moment. "My dear," she said, "God is very good to us. Do not fret; you trusted this little one to His care, and He has not forgotten you. Little Miss Joy is loved by every one; she is the sweetest and best of little darlings." "Ah! I am so afraid she may not love me," the poor mother said. "She may think I was cruel to desert her; but what could I do? I knew Mr. Boyd had a kind heart; but many, oh! many a time I have repented of what I did. As I wandered back to the quay that morning I saw a new registry office I had never seen before. I waited till it was open, and went in. A man-servant was waiting with me, and he went into the manager's room first. Presently the manager came out. "'What place do you want?' she asked, "'Any place,' I replied. 'A maid----' "'I think she'll do,' the man said. "Then he told me his young mistress was married a month before, and was to sail from London Docks that night for India. The maid who was to have attended her was sickening of scarlet fever; the lady was at her wits' end; she was staying at Lord Simon's, near Yarmouth. 'Come out,' he said, 'and see her at once.' "I went, and I was instantly engaged. I told my story in a few words, and the lady believed me. Strange to say, she had a photograph taken by my husband, with the name Ralph Chanter on the back. She remembered him and the time when he was taking portraits here. Well, I served her till she died, dear lady, and never returned to England till last week. She has left me a legacy, which will enable me to set up a business, and make a home for my child. You'll give her back to me, Mr. Boyd?" Uncle Bobo's face was a study as he listened to this story, told brokenly, and interrupted by many tears. "It will be kind of hard," he said at last. "Yes, it will be _kind of hard_," with desperate emphasis. "But," he said, heavily slapping his leg, "I'll do what is just and right." "I know you will, I know you will," Patience Harrison said; "but, oh! I am so sorry for you, dear Uncle Bobo." "Let me see my child," Maggie Chanter said. "Let me see her; and yet, oh, how I dread it! Who will take me to her? Will you take me? Will you tell the story, Mr. Boyd?" "No, no, my dear, don't ask me; let Patience Harrison do it; let her. I can't, and that's the truth." Then Patience Harrison mounted the narrow stairs, and pausing at the door said, "We must be careful, she is very weak." Maggie bowed her head in assent, and then followed Patience into the room. "Oh, Goody, I am _so_ glad you are come!" and the smile on Joy's face was indeed like a sunbeam. "Bet has not come yet. I don't like to vex her, but she does blunder so. Susan calls her Blunder-buss; isn't that funny of Susan?" Then Joy turned her head, and caught sight of the figure on the threshold. "Why doesn't she come in?" Joy said; "she looks very kind; and see what flowers and plums the girls have brought me as they went to school!" "Joy, darling Joy," Patience said, "you have often said you wished you had known your mother." "Have I? You are like my mother now." "But what if I were to tell you your very own mother is come, Joy?" And then, pointing to Maggie, she said, "There she is!" The excitement and agitation was all on one side. The mother tried in vain to conceal her deep emotion. Joy, on the contrary, was quite calm, and said, looking at Patience-- "Is it true? _is_ this my mother?" "Yes, yes; your poor unhappy mother. Can you love her, little Joy? Can you forgive her for leaving you to Mr. Boyd?" "Why, yes," Joy said brightly, "of course I can; he has been ever so good to me, and I do love him so." Then Patience Harrison slipped away, and left the mother and the child together. "The meeting is well over," she said as she returned to the shop. "But the parting isn't over," was poor Uncle Bobo's lament; "and I tell you what, when it comes it will break my heart. I shan't have nothing left to live for; and the sooner I cut my cable the better." Patience Harrison felt that it was useless to offer comfort just then, and she remembered Bet had not arrived as usual, and turned out of the row. Towards the market-place, on the way to Mrs. Skinner's cottage, she met George Paterson. His face brightened, as it always did, when they met. "Well," he said, "have the bride and bride-groom come home?" "Yes," she replied, "and I have given notice to quit." "You have!" he said joyfully; "then you will come to me?" "No, George, no--not yet." "Not _yet_! When, then?" he asked quickly. "I was reading in the paper the other day, that when a man is not heard of for seven years it is lawful to marry another. It is getting on for twice seven years since you were left desolate." "My dear kind friend," Patience said, "I have waited so long and prayed so often to be shown the right path, that I feel sure God will not leave me without an answer; and till I am certain that my husband is taken away by death, I could not be the wife of another man." "Then you may wait till you are a hundred," George said impatiently. "How _can_ you ever know?" "Dear George, be patient with me. Do not be angry with me. I have asked God for guidance, and He will give it in His own time." "I am wrong to be hard on you, I know," was the reply; "but to see you drifting alone, and with no home, is enough to madden any man when a home is ready for you." "I have got some strange news for you," Patience said, trying to change the subject. "Our little Joy is Maggie Skinner's child. She left her when destitute on Mr. Boyd's door-step." "How do you know?" "Because she is here in Yarmouth, and I have just left her and her child together." "Well, wonders never cease! and I suppose you know why Joe Skinner has left the office?" "That he may get entire rule in my poor sister's home, and grind every penny out of her. The reason is plain enough." "Ah! but there's another reason. He is dismissed from the office for certain irregularities in the cash. He has narrowly escaped prosecution--so I hear." "Oh, George, then our suspicions about that little cash-box are right!" "It looks like it," George said, as Patience's eyes shone with a wonderful light of hope. "It looks like it; and when the boy comes home, we will see his character cleared." "_When_ he comes home! Oh, another 'when,' another waiting time!" Patience sighed out, "There is a word which gives me comfort, however, and I am always hearing it, as if it were whispered to me: 'If it tarry, wait for it.'" "You find waiting easier than I do," George said. "Easy!" she said, clasping her hands together. "Easy! oh, only God knows how hard!" Then she turned sorrowfully away from him, and pursued her way alone to look for Bet. CHAPTER XII. _THE SPIRIT OF PEACE._ Bet had been sent on an errand for her grandmother, and when Patience came up to her she was laden with a heavy basket of market produce. She was bending under the weight she carried, and as Patience joined her she set down the basket and wiped her hot face with her handkerchief. "Is little Miss Joy worse?" she asked eagerly, "I couldn't come early, for grandmother wanted me to scrub out the room Joe uses, and the passage; and then I had to change my frock and go to the market. I met the girls going to Miss Bayliff's, and they laughed at me, and said they supposed I was so clever I had left school because there was no more to learn; and they laughed and jeered at me as they daren't have done if little Miss Joy had been there. But as she loves me a little, and never laughs at me, I don't mind." "I thought I should meet you, Bet, and I came along to tell you some news." "Not that Jack is come? Oh my!" "No; my wanderer is not come home; but another has--your Aunt Maggie." Bet stared in Mrs. Harrison's face with open mouth. "My Aunt Maggie! she that went away! I have got her picture in a box. I showed it to little Miss Joy that last evening she was ever running about, and she came home with me." "Bet, that Aunt Maggie is Joy's mother." "How do you know?" "She is with Joy now. I have left them together." "Are you come to tell grannie? She has been so mopy since the wedding. Uncle Joe had a breeze with her just before he married. She says she can't get along living in this house alone with me. Come and see her, do; and tell her about Aunt Maggie. I think you must tell her that." "But I do not know your grandmother very well. I have scarcely spoken a dozen words to her in my life." "I feel afraid to tell her," Bet said. "Do come along, please, Mrs. Harrison." Patience did not like to refuse the earnest pleading of poor Bet. Just as they reached the back door--for Bet never entered at the front--she paused. "Little Miss Joy won't care for me, or no one, now that she has got her mother. I say, is it wicked? I almost wish Aunt Maggie had never come back. Little Miss Joy will belong to her now, and--she won't care for me." "Bet," Patience said, "all love that is very, very strong for any person is likely to lead to jealousy; take care, for jealousy would make you unhappy. True love thinks nothing of itself in comparison with the person beloved. Whatever is for the good and for the happiness of any one we love, should make us happy also. Try to see that." "I can't," said poor Bet. "I'd like little Miss Joy to love me, that I would; and I thought she was beginning to love me, and now she'll have her mother, and never want me." "Or _me_," Mrs. Harrison said. "I might say the same; but I think it would be a great mistake if I did, for I believe dear little Joy will love you and me and Uncle Bobo just the same as ever." "Do you?" Bet said; "that's good to hear;" and then Bet opened the door and went up the long narrow passage to the front of the house. Mrs. Skinner was seated by the table in the kitchen, stiff and straight; her hands were folded, and she only nodded as Bet put the basket on the table with both her tired arms. "Grannie, Mrs. Harrison is come to see you." "I don't want Mrs. Harrison," was the reply. "I won't stay long, Mrs. Skinner," Patience said. Mrs. Skinner's back was turned to the door, and she never moved her position. Patience advanced to her side and said-- "Bet thought you would like to hear some good news." "There is never good news for me," was the answer, in a tone so hard and yet so pathetic that Patience's heart was touched. "A wanderer has come home," Mrs. Harrison said. "Oh! your scapegraces I suppose. My son Joe has a very bad opinion of him--I can tell you that." Mrs. Harrison took no notice of this thrust, but said-- "No, my boy has not come home; but your daughter has returned. She is little Joy's mother." "What!" exclaimed Mrs. Skinner; "I don't believe it." "Well, it is true; and you have only to come to Mr. Boyd's to convince yourself of the truth. If other tokens were wanting, the likeness between dear little Joy and her mother is striking; and, besides----" "There, I don't want to hear any more," Mrs. Skinner said. "I'm a miserable woman--that's what I am; but I want no pity, and I want nobody or nothing." Patience Harrison ventured a little nearer, and said, "Come and see our dear little Joy and her mother. You will feel happier then. God will comfort your sore heart, if you turn to Him. Do come and satisfy yourself that you have a child and a grandchild, who will love you if you will let them." Mrs. Skinner took no further notice of what Patience Harrison said, and resolutely turned her head away. But just as Bet was leaving the kitchen with her visitor she said: "You stay at home, and don't go gadding off where you are not wanted. Bide at home and do your duty. Do you hear?" "You had better stay," Patience said, "and be patient. You are sure to hear something from Aunt Maggie before the day is over." It was not till the evening was closing in that a gentle tap was heard at the door, and Bet, opening it, saw her aunt standing there. "You are Bet, I suppose. Little Joy sent me," she whispered. "I was afraid to come till mother wished for me; but Joy begged me to come, and tell her I am sorry I offended her. For, Bet, I ought not to have deserted her, and I see it all now. Where is your grandmother?" "Sitting in the parlour knitting; but she won't speak, and she looks very strange. I've had such a long day, Aunt Maggie, watching the clock, and thinking it would never end. I have got your picture," she added, "and it is very like dear little Miss Joy. _You_ are not like it now." "No, no; trouble and sorrow have changed me. Poor Bet! I remember coming to kiss you that night when I went away. Poor little thing, I pitied you. But, Bet, I ought never to have acted as I did; and God has been kinder to me than I deserve; for my darling found a true friend, and if only she gets well I shall be a happy mother. I think how proud her poor father would have been of such a dear child." "She is dear!" said Bet, in an ecstasy of delight. "But there's grannie calling; you had better come." "Bet, who are you gossiping with out there?" cried Mrs. Skinner. "Shut the door at once, and come in, will you?" Then Maggie Chanter, trembling and half choked with emotion, went up to the table where, by the light of a dull little paraffin lamp, Mrs. Skinner sat. "Mother!" Mrs. Skinner looked up over her spectacles. "Mother, I am so sorry. Please forgive me, and let me comfort your old age, mother! My little Joy sent me. She does so want to see you, and to know you will forgive me." "Forgive you! What do you care for my forgiveness? You chose your own way, and made your own bed, and it isn't my fault you found it hard." "Come to Joy, mother. Hear her dear little voice asking you to--to be kind. Will you come?" "I'll see about it." "But come now; it is not very dark; there's a moon rising. Oh, mother, come!" There was a pause, and then Mrs. Skinner said-- "Get me my cloak and bonnet, Bet. I suppose for peace sake I shall have to go." But Mrs. Skinner's voice trembled, and Bet saw her hand shake so that she could hardly fasten her cloak. She followed her daughter silently out of the house, only saying to Bet, "Be sure to lock the door." Bet was left alone, and had again nothing to do but to count the clock's chimes as it struck the quarters. At last, lulled by the sound of the in-coming tide and the low moan of the wind, she fell asleep in her grandmother's chair. She was awakened by the sound of a laugh--a discordant laugh. It came from her Uncle Joe's old room. Presently there was the chink of money, and Bet, creeping softly to the end of the passage, listened attentively. "Come, that's a good card," said the speaker; "you are in luck's way." "Oh! I know what I'm about now; we'll have shilling stakes to-night." "Won't your pretty bride wonder where you are?" "She'll be taught _not_ to wonder, that's all." "Has that young hopeful ever turned up?" was the next question, as the cards were shuffled. "No, and it will be the worse for him when he does." Silence reigned after this, and it was evident that Joe Skinner thought his mother and Bet were safe in bed. Bet crept upstairs. At last she heard the clock strike eleven, and then the three men below departed, noiselessly as they came, by the back door, of which Joe Skinner had the key. Bet pinched herself to keep awake till she heard her grandmother's step at the front of the house. Running down, she opened the front door before there was time to ring. Mrs. Skinner came in as she had gone out, silent and self-restrained. "Go back to bed, child," she said; "you'll catch your death of cold." "But you are so cold, grannie; let me make up the fire, and get you a cup of tea; let me." Mrs. Skinner said nothing, but she shivered, and leaned her head against the back of the chair. Bet instantly made her preparations, and the kettle was soon boiling, and the cup of tea ready. The crackling of the wood, and the sudden blaze, seemed to thaw poor Mrs. Skinner mentally and bodily. "You are a good girl," she said; "go to bed now." As Bet was leaving the kitchen she looked back, and saw her grandmother with her head bowed on her hands, and heard a low, sobbing cry. The hardly-wrung tears of old age, the painful, difficult sobs of a sore and seared heart, how sad they are! Bet did not return to her grandmother, but, softly closing the door, left her, saying to herself-- "When I'm bad, and crying my heart out, I don't like to be watched. I dare say grannie is like me." Then, faithful and loyal-hearted, she climbed the narrow stairs, and lay down this time to hear no disturbance till the morning dawned. There are moments when the soul is brought, as it were, into the very presence of the all-loving Saviour of the lost. In the silent watches of that night the words which had been spoken by a child had a strange and unwonted power. "Grannie," little Joy had said--"Grannie, God is Love; and as He loves us and forgives us, we'll love and forgive one another, won't we? and we'll be so happy together--you, and I, and mother, and Uncle Bobo, and dear Goody." "Happy! No, I shall never be happy," Mrs. Skinner had replied. Little Miss Joy was disappointed; but she quietly said: "Yes, you _will_, if you make other folks happy, grannie. _That's the secret_." Was it indeed the secret? Again and again, like a breath of heaven, gentle and subtle, an influence unknown before seemed to touch Mrs. Skinner's heart in those solemn, lonely hours as she sat pondering over the sad, sad past. The Holy Spirit had convinced her of sin, and she was turning by that divine power from darkness to a glimmering of light. When the grey, cold dawn of the autumn morning crept through the chinks of the shutters, she went softly to her room, and lay down with the relief a tired labourer feels who has laid down a heavy burden he has borne through the long hot day. That burden was the burden of harsh, unforgiving judgment and remorse. It had been rolled away, like that of one of old, at the foot of the cross--the cross of Him who, in the pains of a cruel death, could pray for those who had done Him wrong, and say, "Father, forgive them." CHAPTER XIII. _A TOKEN AT LAST._ The ship that had picked up Colley and Jack Harrison in mid-ocean, and saved them from the lingering death of starvation, was bound for the islands of the South Pacific, and the captain told them that they must be content to be absent from England till the following spring. He had to call at several of the islands, and exchange cargo, so that even with fair weather their return voyage could not be made under nine months. Poor Colley was slow to recover; indeed, he never did recover fully from the effects of those terrible days and nights at sea. But Jack was young and strong, and he and Toby were soon, as old Colley said, "hale and hearty as ever they were." Jack earned his biscuit and won favour as well; and the captain's kind heart was touched by Colley's history of what had happened to his old mother and his little children at home, and the fear he had that he should never see them again. "I am cut to the heart that I can't work as a able-bodied seaman should," Colley would say. "But God will reward you for your goodness to me and the boy." The captain puffed his short pipe, and said: "I am an old hand now; but I say, Once get a taste of shipwreck like yours, and you are cured of your craze for the sea. Not that I am chicken-hearted, and I'd stand to my ship as your captain did--ay, and go down with her if needs must; but for all that it is a roughish life, and a terrible trial for them that love you and are left ashore." "Ay! ay!" old Colley said, "there's the pinch. The youngster's father made off to better himself now ten years agone, and he's never been heard of from that day to this. Dead, of course; only the poor woman, his wife, won't believe it--so the lad says." A day or two after this the captain called Jack, and said: "The mate wants a word with you in private." "What have I done to offend him, sir?" Jack said. "Don't jump at conclusions, youngster. Did I say anything was wrong? Be off with you." Jack went to the mate's berth, and found him sitting cross-legged on the edge, and looking mysterious. "Is your name Harrison, young 'un?' "Yes," Jack said. "Do you hail from Yarmouth?" "Yes," said Jack again. "Where's your father?" "He was lost at sea--so we think; but we never heard a word about it, and mother thinks he may be still alive." "Did he own several small herring boats, and have a share in a curing-house, before he went a-whaling?" "Yes," Jack said, growing more and more wondering and excited by these questions. "Look here, youngster. When I was a boy, eleven years ago, I was working on a whaleship, and your father was aboard. His name was John Harrison, hailing from Yarmouth." "Oh!" Jack said. "Where is he--do you know?" "No, my lad; let us hope his soul is gone aloft, but his body is lost. We had dragged our boat across a field of ice for some miles, on the look-out for our ship, which we had left, stored with provisions, in open water. We were pretty near starving, for we had missed the track, and the men said they would not go on another step. But your father, boy, had a brave heart, such as I never saw before or since; and he said, if those that were too chicken-hearted to go on, would stay where they were for a few hours, he would go ahead and find the ship, as he knew perfectly well we were near it, and near a village of the folk they call Esquimaux. One youngster, just such another as you, said, 'I'm your man, captain'; and they set off with a good heart. We that were left turned our boat bottom upwards, and a sorry set we were, frost-bitten and starving. We huddled together to keep each other warm--warm! why, I am cold now when I think of it; and look here, I lost a finger and the end of a thumb that same time." "How?" Jack asked. "How? Frost-bitten, of course. Well, those two that left us never came back, and never were seen again. We waited till we were so weak we could scarce crawl, and then two of us--for three of the fellows died--made our way back, and found a ship which took us aboard; but never a word of your father and the young 'un from that day." "My father!" said Jack. "Are you sure?" "Well, I am as sure as I can be of anything. I was rummaging in my locker t' other day, after we had picked you and old Colley up, and I knew your name, and I found an old handkerchief that belonged to John Harrison, and I'll proceed to produce it, lad." The mate then dragged from the depths of the locker a torn and ragged red handkerchief, with yellow spots, and in the corner in white letters was marked with thread, "J. H." "Yes, boy, there's the article, and your father gave it to me to tie up my leg, which had a bad wound. He was uncommon loth to part with it, but there never was a man with a kinder heart, never. He was a bit fiery and off at a tangent, always thinking he was right and every one else wrong; but he was a fine fellow, and you bid fair to be like him. Here, take the handkerchief, and you can show it to your mother. She'll know it; for John said to me, 'I'll let you have it for your poor leg; but when I come back you must give it to me again, because my wife tied it round my neck when I bid her good-bye, and I value it.' I remember he said, 'She is a right good woman is my wife, and I'll see her and the boy again, please God. I never lose heart.' Well, he may see you again in the next world, but never in this, boy, never in this; he is dead and gone long ago." Jack folded the handkerchief, and put it in his pocket. He felt strangely affected by the sailor's story, and could only say: "If ever I see my mother again she shall have this token. She has often prayed for a token that my father was dead, or a sign that he was living; and now she will have it." Then Jack returned to his post on the deck, and, throwing himself down behind some loose crates, found himself sobbing bitterly. The homeward voyage was prosperous, and it was on a bright August evening that the white cliffs of old England came in sight. In another hour Jack and his old friend found themselves dropping down with the tide to St. Catherine's Docks. They were penniless, and how to get back to Yarmouth was a puzzle. Jack could walk, but Colley could only hobble with the help of a stick. The captain was kindly-disposed, and at parting gave Jack a few shillings, saying he had more than earned his biscuit; while the mate said he felt quite downhearted at losing him. "Tell 'ee what, lad," Colley said, "I know there's a place where the shipwrecked fishermen's folk hang out. Let's enquire for it, and may be they'll give us a helping hand." So the two made their way through the crowded thoroughfares to the place which has been a refuge for many in like circumstances. The kindness of their reception greatly cheered old Colley, and they were put up for the night, while inquiries were made about the _Galatea_, and the truth of their story. "The _Galatea_ had been lost, with all hands," was the answer from Lloyd's; and the captain of the _Claudia_, the ship which had picked the poor waifs up in mid-ocean, gave both man and boy an excellent character. "The old geezer was useless, but I didn't grudge him his berth. What's the world like, if we can't hold out a helping hand to one another in trouble?" This was all satisfactory, and money was provided to pay the railway journey to Yarmouth, while Jack's few shillings were expended in a pair of second-hand boots for himself, and a new jersey--that which had served for a flag of distress in mid-ocean being so full of holes that he presented a very ragged appearance. Home at last! Home! Yes, where his mother was, was Home. He would not care about the cold looks of his aunt: he would bear even Mr. Skinner's gibes and scoffs: he would bear everything for his mother's sake. And then, at last he had tidings for her! Colley was put down at a station before Yarmouth was reached, as it was nearer the home of his old mother, who looked after his little ones. "For I married late in life, my boy," he said to Jack, "and lost my poor wife almost as soon as I'd got her. She just lived to be the mother of the youngest of the three children, and then she died. The sailor's life is a hard one, and the wives of sailors have a hard time, boy! The men grow old, like me, before their time. Why, I'm but just over fifty years old, and I feel a vast deal more like seventy. Take my advice, boy, and give up the sea. You are a good scholar, and you are the only son of your mother. Bear all your aunt's hard words, and live ashore, and be a comfort to her. You have had your lesson. God has given you a pretty hard one to learn, first page! But never mind--so much the better for you. Those days and nights were about the worst I ever went through, and I've had a taste of dangers, I can tell you. Don't you forget them, nor the Lord's mercy to you and me in delivering us from the dreadful death of starvation. Don't forget it." "Forget it!" Jack said. "Why, I dream of it most nights, and see little Peter's dying eyes. I----" Jack's voice was choked with tears, and old Colley wrung his hand, while Toby wriggled up to him, and licked his face with silent sympathy. Colley stumbled out of the carriage with Toby in his arms when the station was reached, and so they parted. In a few minutes more Jack found himself in Yarmouth, and was making his way towards the row. His only thought was of his mother and little Miss Joy. He looked up the familiar row, and then darted through it till he came to the little milliner's shop. The widow's caps still showed in the window, and there was a straw bonnet trimmed, and some artificial flowers, lying on a very dusty bit of black velvet. The window that used to be so bright looked dim, and the brass ledge before it dull and stained. Altogether there was a dejected appearance about the place. The door was open, and Jack entered cautiously. His aunt was sitting behind the counter waiting for customers, who were slow to come; for the business had very much declined since Mr. Skinner had taken the command and Mrs. Harrison had left the house. Mrs. Skinner looked very different from the Miss Pinckney of scarcely a year ago. She had a dirty, faded look, and her face was pinched and miserable. When she saw a sailor boy standing by the counter, she rose and said-- "What for you? Have you brought a message from any one?" "No, Aunt Pinckney. Don't you know me? Where's my mother?" Mrs. Skinner was for a moment speechless. Then she raised her shrill voice-- "Joe! Joe! come here; the young thief is come back." Mr. Skinner, who was apparently smoking in the back parlour and taking life easily, now appeared. "What are you making such a row about? screeching like a poll-parrot!" Days of courtship and days of matrimony are apt to differ, in cases like that of Mr. and Mrs. Skinner! Then, having delivered himself of this polite question, Mr. Skinner caught sight of Jack. "You! oh! it's you, is it? Well, the police have been looking for you, and I'll just give you in charge." Jack, utterly bewildered, was for the moment speechless. Then he said-- "Hands off! What do you mean? Where's my mother?" "She is not here; so you needn't think any of her crying and fuss will avail. I'll give you in charge unless you confess." "Confess what?" said Jack, wriggling away from Mr. Skinner's grip. "Hands off, I say! I am not going to run away. What am I to confess?" "Take him into the back parlour, Joe. You'll have the neighbours coming in: take him out of the shop." "Hold your tongue!" was the rejoinder. "I shall do as I choose." "Let me go and call Mr. Boyd," Jack said. "He will tell me where my mother is. Let him be a witness of what you say, and what charge you have against me." Jack now looked across the row for the first time, and saw a young man standing at the door of the little stuffy shop, which, unlike its opposite neighbour, had grown smarter, and had a lot of ships' lanterns hanging over the door, and showy aneroids and compasses in the window. "Where's Mr. Boyd? Where's little Joy's Uncle Bobo?" "Gone! He has sold the business; he is gone right away." "Gone! And where's Joy--little Miss Joy? I tell you I will know. And where is my mother?" "Look here, youngster! This matter must be cleared up. You'll not be let off so easy; but if you confess, well--we shan't be hard on you." "Confess _what_?" Jack shouted now. He was getting very angry, and repeated, "Confess _what_?" "Oh, that's all very fine! Perhaps you've forgotten you ran away and broke your poor mother's heart, and took my little cash-box with you with four pounds odd money in it," said his aunt. "It's convenient to forget. You'd better not try to fool _me_," said Mr. Skinner. "Your aunt's key of that drawer was in her little key-basket. You slily took it out, and when the house was quiet, opened the drawer and put the box in your pocket I see!" Jack's face grew crimson. He felt very much inclined to fly at Mr. Skinner's throat, and pummel him well with his strong young fist. But the vision of his mother and little Miss Joy rose before him, and with a desperate effort he controlled himself. "Prove what you say, and don't call me a thief till you have proved me one." "Well, it's my duty--my painful duty," said Mr. Skinner, "to lock you up till I have fetched a policeman, and communicated with your mother." "You needn't _lock_ me up," said Jack proudly. "If I say I'll stay here, I'll stay. Indeed, I will stay till you have made it all clear. Your little cash-box! Aunt Pinckney----" "No, no, not Aunt Pinckney; I am Mrs. Skinner now." The tone was so sad that Jack's boyish heart was touched. "Do you think I could steal a penny of yours, aunt, when you had kept me and mother all those years? Will you send for her? and I will stay till she comes." But Mr. Skinner pushed Jack into the kitchen behind the parlour. He had just turned the key in the lock, when a voice was heard in the shop--Bet's voice. "I have brought you some fresh eggs, and half a pound of butter, Aunt Skinner," she said. "Aunt Maggie sent them with her love. What is amiss, Aunt?" "Child," Mrs. Skinner said, "Jack is come home. Your uncle has locked him up in the kitchen. Hush! here he is." "Well, what are you prying about here for?" Mr. Skinner said. "Oh, eggs! My dear, poach me a couple for supper; I'm fond of poached eggs." But Bet stood on one foot speechless by the counter, where she had put the basket. "What do you say Jack stole?" "My little cash-box, the night he ran away; but I don't want to be hard on the boy--my only sister's child. I'll forgive him if he'll confess." Bet stood pondering for another moment, and then she said-- "I've got another errand to do. I'll come back for the basket." And Bet was off, as if on the wings of the wind--off to the Denes and the little lonely red-brick house, which was shut up and had a board on a pole in the front garden, with "To Let. Inquire for the key at Mr. Skinner's, Market Row," painted in white letters on it. Bet looked right and left; there was no one in sight, and she went round to the back, and found, to her great joy, an old trowel with half the handle broken, which she seized eagerly. She went down on her hands and knees, and dug and burrowed with her fingers in the soft, sandy soil. Her heart beat wildly with hope and fear; her hat fell back, and her tawny hair fell over her shoulders. The light of the April evening was waning; she had not a moment to lose. "It was here--it was here--it must have been just here," she cried. Some people passing on the raised path where Uncle Bobo had sat on the evening of little Miss Joy's accident turned to look at her once, and wondered what she was doing, digging there on hands and knees. At last Bet stopped, and, raising her head and clasping her hands, said-- "Little Miss Joy would tell me to pray to God to help me to find it. He would hear _her_. Will He hear me, I wonder?" Then poor Bet uttered a few words, calling on God, who saw everything, to show her where what she sought lay hid. She redoubled her efforts, and moving a little further from the house, she dug another hole till she came to some bricks. She lifted them, and there was the little cash-box--empty now, but, oh! of what priceless value! Bet gathered up her stray tools, and putting on her hat, ran off again along the sand by the sea-shore, now left hard by the retreating tide, on and on to the farther end of that part of Yarmouth where a road, then lately made, led towards Gorlestone. Breathless and panting she reached the first of two pretty houses standing together, with a strip of garden in front, bright now with wallflowers and hardy hepaticas and celandines. Under the porch of the first, smoking his pipe, sat Uncle Bobo; and warmly covered with a rug, in a reclining chair by his side, was little Miss Joy. Maggie Chanter was sowing some seeds in the window-box of the next house, and Mrs. Harrison was standing by the porch, waiting and watching. She had her knitting in her hand, but her eyes were on the sea, with the same wistful longing in them as of old. "Jack is come home. Jack!" gasped Bet. "They say he stole the cash-box, but--but--I've found it. Quick! take it to Uncle Joe, and say I found it in the ground at the back of grannie's old home." CHAPTER XIV. _THE WAITING IS OVER._ Sudden news, whether it be good or bad, is always a shock; and when Patience Harrison caught the cry repeated by Maggie Chanter, "Jack is come home!" and echoed by little Miss Joy's silvery voice, and old Uncle Bobo's bass, "Jack is come home!" she sank back in the porch and gasped for breath. Presently the little gate was opened by George Paterson, who hastily asked-- "What is the matter? Jack come home? Well, that's good news." "Yes," Maggie Chanter said; "but Bet there has some other news, which is not so good. They dare to say Jack stole the cash-box the day he ran off, and they have locked him up." "But he didn't, he didn't," Bet said, recovering her breath at last. "Here it is; take it to Uncle Joe, and tell him where I found it." "Yes; take it," said Uncle Bobo; "I'd go myself, only I can't stir my old stumps as fast as you can. Paterson, you are the man for the business." George Paterson was looking at poor Patience, who seemed utterly overwhelmed with the tidings; and behind her stood old Mrs. Skinner, with her arm round her, letting her head rest against her shoulder. "There, there," she said, as Patience began to sob convulsively; "there, there, you've naught to cry for. Your boy is come back; and if Bet is to be believed, my son is the thief, not yours. You needn't break your heart. What made you go and look for the box, Bet? What made you think of it?" "Oh, grannie, I--I saw Uncle Joe bury it in the ground one night! I never knew what it was till I heard a talk about a little box that was lost." "Well, well, the box is found, and now I am off to bring the boy to his mother. Bet, you come along." "No," Bet said; "I dare not, Mr. Paterson, I dare not." "I will come with you, Mr. Paterson," Maggie said. "I am not afraid of Joe--I never was. He ought to be ashamed of himself, and I expect there is worse behind." "I have no doubt about it," said George Paterson, as he and Maggie set out together. The gardens of the two pretty neat houses were divided by low iron railings. One was inhabited by Mr. Boyd, old Susan, and Mrs. Chanter and her darling Joy; the other by Mrs. Skinner and Bet and Patience Harrison. "I can't part with the child," Uncle Bobo had said: "I'd rather cut off my right arm." And, indeed, parting from the little dark shop in the row, and the darker parlour behind it, where he had lived for so many years, had been almost like cutting off a right arm to Uncle Bobo. But when he heard the doctors say that little Miss Joy ought to have fresh air, and that the bedroom where she lay so patiently week after week, with only the occasional variety of being carried "to the leads," where the memorable tea-parties used to be held, was not healthful for her, he decided to sell the business, and remove. What a removal it was! and even now Uncle Bobo said the light was too much for his eyes, and that he liked the shade of the row better than the glare of the sea. But little Miss Joy was so dear to the old man's heart, that he gave even this great proof of his love. The two little houses, away from the bustle and noise of the busy seaport, were hired, and the sitting-room was to be let this season, with one bedroom, to any visitor to Yarmouth who would like the quiet, broken only by the distant murmur of the sea, or the voice of birds in the low copses which had been planted round a house of some pretension not far off. As soon as George Paterson and Aunt Maggie were gone, Joy said-- "Bet, go and ask dear Goody to come here. I want her so much." "What do you want, my lamb?" Uncle Bobo said. "Hi, Mrs. Harrison, you are wanted. Little Miss Joy wants you." That name had always a charm about it, and Mrs. Harrison raised herself, and went slowly, and like one in a dream, down the narrow garden path, out at the little gate, and in at the next. She was met by Bet, who threw her arms round her, and said--"You go and sit with Joy while I go to poor grannie. Oh, I am sorry for grannie; but I _am_ glad for you!" "Here, Mrs. Harrison, take my chair," Uncle Bobo said, "and sit by the child. You'll feel better then. She is the peace-maker--bless her--and every one is the better for being alongside of her." Yes; it was most true. When Susan was put out with new-fangled ways; when Mrs. Skinner relapsed into her old silence, only broken by fault-finding; when Maggie grew impatient of her mother's strange temper; when little breezes disturbed the waters of domestic life in the two homes--then it was that little Miss Joy's presence was sought, and her gentle words were truly like oil on troubled waters. Have we not all felt the presence of such peace-makers to be as a breath from heaven? And are they not most frequently found amongst those who have had the cross of suffering laid upon them, and who are shut out from many of the pursuits and enjoyments of others? Blessed indeed are the maintainers of peace; blessed, thrice blessed, are the child-comforters who can love and pity the erring and soothe the sorrowful, and who by their own beautifully simple child-faith encourage others to seek after a like precious gift. Mrs. Harrison sat with Joy's hand in hers for the next hour, an hour of painful waiting and expectancy. Joy did not say much, but now and then she would put in a little word of her own thoughts. "There is the big star! Look, Goody! isn't it beautiful? Oh, I do like to see the whole sky, and all the stars now! God seems to look at me as I look at them. It was good of Him to let me come to live here, though I loved the dear old row very much when I could run about. Then it is so nice to see mother going about making everything pretty; and doesn't she work beautifully! That last dress she made was lovely. She is teaching me to work too. Don't you care to hear my chatter, dear Goody? You are thinking Jack may come every minute," as Mrs. Harrison heaved a heavy sigh. "I talk to make the time seem shorter--that's all. Uncle Bobo is standing by the gate; he will be the first to tell us when they are coming." It did seem a long, long time. Bet was constantly running backwards and forwards from the door of the next house to the gate; and Susan, with folded arms, was leaning against the side of the house, coming round the corner every now and then to say it was getting too cold for Miss Joy to stay in the porch. "Oh, I am quite warm! let me wait, Susan." "You must have your own way, I suppose, as usual," was the short reply. Susan was fond of saying rather sharp things sometimes, to cover her real love for Joy. She had felt a natural pang of jealousy when she found the young mother had taken her place of waiting on Joy, or rather sharing the waiting with Bet and Mrs. Harrison. She was not quite kindly disposed to Maggie Chanter, and would mumble sometimes-- "It was all very well for folks to leave their children on people's doorsteps, and then when they were grown nicely, and every one loved them, it was very fine to come and claim them;" and she would say, "There's no love lost between me and Mrs. Skinner's daughter, and I don't hold with girls going off with poor sickly photographers when they might have rode in their carriage and married rich grocers." People like Susan generally speak in the plural number when their remarks are directed to one person who is the object of their satire or reproof. The longed-for moment came at last. As the three neared the house, George Paterson said: "Run on and go to your mother alone, boy; she will like it best." Jack did as he was bid, and in a few minutes he was kneeling at his mother's side, clasping her round the waist and covering her with kisses. "Forgive me, mother dear; forgive me!" Mrs. Harrison could only press the boy close to her heart and murmur over him tender words, while Joy's little voice said: "Kiss me too, Jack, dear Jack. Of course every one forgives you--because God for Christ's sake has forgiven us. Oh, dear, _dear_ old Jack!" It was not till Jack was in his bed that night that his mother, kneeling by him, poured out her heart in thankfulness to God. Then he drew from under his pillow the old red and yellow handkerchief, and in a few words told the story as the sailor had told it to him. "The token has come at last," poor Patience said. "Yes, I marked those letters on the handkerchief with my own hand. Oh, Jack! Jack! it all comes back to me, and I have had a weary time of waiting; but it is better to _know_ at last." CHAPTER XV. _THE HERITAGE OF PEACE._ The joy of the hypocrite is but for a moment; and the house that is built on the sand must needs fall to ruin at last. Mr. Skinner received the box with his accustomed composure, though he turned deadly pale. It was an _extra_ordinary coincidence that the box was found in the sandy ground. How it came there he was at a loss to conjecture. "The less said about it the better," George Paterson remarked, "and you owe this boy a full apology." "Well, it _is_ possible there is a mistake somewhere. However, we will give the youngster the benefit of the doubt, and send him home to his mother." "Doubt!" Maggie exclaimed vehemently; "_doubt_! You stole the box, Joe, and hid it in the garden behind your house. You were _seen_ to bury it; you had better make a clean breast of it." "Oh, spare him, Maggie Chanter!" poor infatuated Mrs. Skinner said. "Joe! Joe!" Then, with a white face and an expression on it none who saw it will ever forget, Mr. Skinner, with a wave of his long thin hand, left the house. Nothing more was ever heard of him. The crooked paths of deceit and dishonesty can have but one end, unless by God's grace those paths are forsaken, and the strait and narrow way chosen in their place. Poor Aunt Amelia had indeed reason to rue the day when she had listened to the flattering words of the wily man. He left her with an empty purse, a ruined custom, and a sore heart. But she was now delivered from one who in her folly she had trusted, and there were many who, hearing her story, pitied her, and gave back the custom they had withdrawn. * * * * * Another year passed away, and it brought more peaceful times. Perhaps Patience Paterson's life could not be called sunny or bright; but it is calm and peaceful, and she is the happy wife of a good and noble-hearted man, who had loved her faithfully for many years. George Paterson was conscious that the deep respect he now felt for his wife would scarcely have been the same had she yielded to his wishes, and, taking it for granted that her husband was dead, had married him while his end was undecided. Patience may well set an example to others in this matter, and her evening-tide light will be clouded by no misgivings and no self reproaches. She had asked for some token, and it was given. Through the trial of her boy's absence came the blessing of the long-looked-for tidings; and in this, as in many another step of her pilgrimage, she could feel the truth of the words, "To the upright there ariseth light in the darkness." They took a pretty house near Gorlestone, and George became a prosperous man. Jack was taught his business as ship's carpenter, and the control exercised by his step-father was most salutary. He is likely to grow up a good and useful man. The two houses, called by Uncle Bobo "The Home, Number One and Number Two," became popular as lodgings for single ladies and their maids, and were said to be amongst the best and most comfortable in or near Yarmouth. Old Colley and his children were not forgotten, and were often invited to tea in the garden behind the two houses, where Uncle Bobo and Colley would exchange many stories or yarns of their early days. Little Miss Joy did not get strong or vigorous, but she was able to walk about by the help of an arm. Uncle Bobo would sometimes hire a donkey-chair, and trudge by her side as it rolled along the esplanade, or was taken down to the edge of the water, where she loved to sit and think, and listen to the sweet music of the chime of the waves. It was one lovely summer's evening when little Miss Joy was enjoying the air and her favourite song of the waves, that Bet, now grown a tall and less ungainly girl, came up to her with a thin, sad-looking woman dressed in black. "I've made Aunt 'Melia come," Bet said. "I told her you wanted her, and here she is." "I've got the camp-stool in the chair," Joy said. "Sit down, Aunt Amelia, and let us be comfortable and happy." Mrs. Skinner shook her head. "No, my dear, I can never be happy. I leave that to other people." "Oh, yes, you can be happy!" little Miss Joy said. "No, no; not with a broken heart!" "God can mend broken hearts. Don't you know that, Aunt Amelia? 'He gives medicine to heal their sickness.'" "Not when troubles are brought upon one's self by one's own folly and sin, my dear. No, no." "I don't think that makes any difference," said little Miss Joy in her clear, musical voice. "He healeth those that are broken in heart; He giveth medicine to heal their sickness. He telleth the number of the stars: He calleth them all by their names. I do _love_ that psalm, because it shows God cares for little things like me and my little troubles, and for great and mighty things like the stars. For, you know, I _have_ my little troubles. I do long to run and skip as I used to do, and wait on Uncle Bobo and mother, when she is tired and the lodgers are rather tiresome, and poor grannie is cross, and _I_ am inclined to grumble and be cross too." "Never, never, my dear," said Mrs. Skinner. "Well, I know I _feel_ cross, and I go to God for His medicine. I wish you would go too, Aunt 'Melia." Mrs. Skinner shook her head. "I think grannie has gone to Him, and she is happier, I know. He will give it you if you ask Him. His medicine is love, the love He had for us when He gave us the Lord Jesus." Mrs. Skinner still shook her head, but tears rolled down her thin, faded cheeks. "I must be going now," she said. "Good-bye, my dear." "Good-bye. Kiss me, Aunt 'Melia;" and then Bet, who had purposely kept apart, came up with some shells she had gathered for Joy, and said, as she had gone to fetch Aunt Amelia, she would take her home again. So they turned and left Joy, and then Uncle Bobo came down from the seat where he had been watching what passed, and, calling the donkey-boy, he told Joy it was time to be going home. "What have you been saying to poor Mrs. Skinner?" he asked. "Not much, dear Uncle Bobo; but, oh, I am so sorry for her, and I wish I could comfort her! I love poor Mrs. Skinner now, indeed I do." "Love her! Well, bless your little heart, you love everybody, I think." "Yes, I think I do, and I am so happy, Uncle Bobo. Let us go home now." Dear little Miss Joy! Who shall say what is the guerdon she and those like her wear? Truly those that are the maintainers of peace have a blessed heritage; for the golden fruit of righteousness is a glorious harvest for those who make peace. Yes, and for those childlike souls there is quietness and assurance for ever. * * * * * [Transcriber's note: the three illustrations between pages 53/54, 103/104, and 157/158 were missing from the source book.] * * * * * 
6757	----	by Al Haines. FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL; OR, HONESTY REWARDED. TO WHICH ARE ADDED OTHER TALES. BY SELINA BUNBURY. FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL "Come, buy my flowers; flowers fresh and fair. Come, buy my flowers. Please ma'am, buy a nice bunch of flowers, very pretty ones, ma'am. Please, sir, to have some flowers; nice, fresh ones, miss; only just gathered; please look." Thus spoke, or sometimes sung, a little girl of perhaps eight years old, holding in her hand a neat small basket, on the top of which lay a clean white cloth, to shade from the sun the flowers which she praised so highly, and a little bunch of which she presented to almost every passer-by, in the hope of finding purchasers; while, after one had passed rudely on, another had looked at her young face and smiled, another had said, "What a nice child!" but not one had taken the flowers, and left the penny or the half-penny that was to pay for them the little girl, as if accustomed to all this, only arranged again the pretty nosegays that had been disarranged in the vain hope of selling them, and commenced anew in her pretty singing tone, "Come, buy my flowers; flowers fresh and fair." "Your flowers are sadly withered, my little maid," said a kind, country-looking gentleman, who was buying some vegetables at a stall near her. "Oh, sir! I have fresh ones, here, sir; please look;" and the child lifted up the cover of her basket, and drew from the very bottom a bunch of blossoms on which the dew of morning still rested. "Please to see, sir; a pretty rose, sir, and these pinks and mignonette, and a bunch of jessamine, sir, and all for one penny." "Bless thee! pretty dear!" said the old lame vegetable-seller, "thou'lt make a good market-woman one of these days. Your honor would do well to buy her flowers, sir, she has got no mother or father, God help her, and works for a sick grandmother." "Poor child!" said the old gentleman. "Here, then, little one, give me three nice nosegays, and there is sixpence for you." With delight sparkling in every feature of her face, and her color changed to crimson with joy, the little flower-girl received in one hand the unusual piece of money; and setting her basket on the ground, began hastily and tremblingly to pick out nearly half its contents as the price of the sixpence; but the gentleman stooped down, and taking up at random three bunches of the flowers, which were not the freshest, said, "Here, these will do; keep the rest for a more difficult customer. Be a good child; pray to God, and serve Him, and you will find He is the Father of the fatherless." And so he went away; and the flower-girl, without waiting to put her basket in order, turned to the old vegetable-seller, and cried, "Sixpence! a whole sixpence, and all at once. What will grandmother say now? See!" and opening her hand, she displayed its shining before her neighbor's eyes. "Eh!" exclaimed the old man, as he approached his eyes nearer to it. "Eh! what is this? why thou hast twenty sixpences there; this is a half-sovereign!" "Twenty sixpences! why the gentleman said, there is sixpence for thee," said the child. "Because he didn't know his mistake," replied the other; "I saw him take the piece out of his waistcoat-pocket without looking." "Oh dear! what shall I do?" cried the little girl. "Why, thou must keep it, to be sure," replied the old man; "give it to thy grandmother, she will know what to do with it, I warrant thee." "But I must first try to find the good gentleman, and tell him of his mistake," said the child. "I know what grandmother would say else; and he cannot be far off, I think, because he was so fat; he will go slow, I am sure, this hot morning. Here, Mr. Williams, take care of my basket, please, till I come back." And without a word more, the flower-girl put down her little basket at the foot of the vegetable-stall, and ran away as fast as she could go. When she turned out of the market-place, she found, early as it was, that the street before her was pretty full; but as from the passage the gentleman had taken to leave the market-place, she knew he could only have gone in one direction, she had still hopes of finding him; and she ran on and on, until she actually thought she saw the very person before her; he had just taken off his hat, and was wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. "That is him," said the little flower-girl, "I am certain;" but just as she spoke, some persons came between her and the gentleman, and she could not see him. Still she kept running on; now passing off the foot-path into the street, and then seeing the fat gentleman still before her; and then again getting on the foot-path, and losing sight of him, until at last she came up quite close to him, as he was walking slowly, and wiping the drops of heat from his forehead. The poor child was then quite out of breath; and when she got up to him she could not call out to him to stop, nor say one word; so she caught hold of the skirt of his coat, and gave it a strong pull. The gentleman started, and clapped one hand on his coat-pocket, and raised up his cane in the other, for he was quite sure it was a pickpocket at his coat. But when he turned, he saw the breathless little flower-girl, and he looked rather sternly at her, and said, "Well, what do you want; what are you about? eh!" "Oh, sir!" said the girl; and then she began to cough, for her breath was quite spent. "See, sir; you said you gave me sixpence, and Mr. Williams says there are twenty sixpences in this little bit of money." "Dear me!" said the gentleman; "is it possible? could I have done such a thing?" and he began to fumble in his waistcoat pocket. "Well, really it is true enough," he added, as he drew out a sixpence. "See what it is to put gold and silver together." "I wish he would give it to me," thought the little flower-girl; "how happy it would make poor granny; and perhaps he has got a good many more of these pretty gold pieces." But the old gentleman put out his hand, and took it, and turned it over and over, and seemed to think a little; and then he put his hand into his pocket again, and took out his purse; and he put the half-sovereign into the purse, and took out of it another sixpence. "Well," he said, "there is the sixpence I owe you for the flowers; you have done right to bring me back this piece of gold; and there is another sixpence for your race; it is not a reward, mind, for honesty is only our duty, and you only did what is right; but you are tired, and have left your employment, and perhaps lost a customer, so I give you the other sixpence to make you amends." "Thank you, sir," said the flower-girl, curtseying; and taking the two sixpences into her hand with a delighted smile, was going to run back again, when the old gentleman, pulling out a pocket-book, said, "Stay a moment; you are an orphan, they tell me; what is your name?" "Fanny, sir." "Fanny what?" "Please, I don't know, sir; grandmother is Mrs. Newton, sir; but she says she is not my grandmother either, sir." "Well, tell me where Mrs. Newton lives," said the gentleman, after looking at her a minute or so, as if trying to make out what she meant. So Fanny told him, and he wrote it down in his pocket-book, and then read over what he had written to her, and she said it was right. "Now, then, run away back," said he, "and sell all your flowers, if you can, before they wither, for they will not last long this warm day; flowers are like youth and beauty--do you ever think of that? even the rose withereth afore it groweth up." And this fat gentleman looked very sad, for he had lost all his children in their youth. "O yes! sir; I know a verse which says that," replied Fanny. "All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of grass--but good morning, and thank you, sir," and away Fanny ran. And now, before going on with my story, I must go back to tell who and what Fanny, the flower-girl, was. Mrs. Newton, whom she called her grandmother, was now a poor old woman, confined to her bed by a long and trying illness, that had nearly deprived her of the use of her limbs. But she had not been always thus afflicted. Some years before, Mrs. Newton lived in a neat cottage near the road-side, two or three miles from one of the great sea-port towns of England. Her husband had good employment, and they were both comfortable and happy. Just eight years from this time, it happened that one warm summer's day, Mrs. Newton went to look out from her cottage door down the road, and she saw a young woman standing there, leaning against a tree, and looking very faint and weak. She was touched with pity and asked the poor traveller to walk into her house and rest. The young woman thankfully consented, for she said she was very ill; but she added, that her husband was coming after her, having been obliged to turn back for a parcel that was left behind at the house where they had halted some time before, and therefore she would sit near the door and watch for him. Before, however, the husband came, the poor woman was taken dreadfully ill; and when he did arrive, good Mrs. Newton could not bear to put the poor creature out of the house in such a state; she became worse and worse. In short, that poor young woman was Fanny's mother, and when little Fanny was born, that poor sick mother died, and Fanny never saw a mother's smile. The day after the young woman's death, kind Mrs. Newton came into the room where her cold body was laid out on the bed; and there was her husband, a young, strong-looking man, sitting beside it; his elbows were on his knees, and his face was hid in his open hands. Mrs. Newton had the baby in her arms, and she spoke to its father as she came in; he looked up to her; his own face was as pale as death; and he looked at her without saying a word. She saw he was in too much grief either to speak or weep. So she went over silently to him, and put the little baby into his arms, and then said, "May the Lord look down with pity on you both." As soon as the unhappy young man heard these compassionate words, and saw the face of his pretty, peaceful babe, he burst into tears; they rolled in large drops down on the infant's head. Then in a short time he was able to speak, and he told Mrs. Newton his sad little history; how he had no one in the whole world to look with pity on him, or his motherless child; and how God alone was his hope in this day of calamity. His father had been displeased with him because he had married that young woman, whom he dearly loved; and he had given him some money that was his portion, and would do nothing else for him. The young man had taken some land and a house, but as the rent was too high, he could not make enough of the land to pay it; so he had been obliged to sell all his goods, and he had only as much money left as would, with great saving, carry him to America, where he had a brother who advised him to go out there. "And now," said he, looking over at the pale face of his dear wife, "What shall I do with the little creature she has left me? how shall I carry it over the wide ocean without a mother to care for it, and nurse it?" "You cannot do so," said Mrs. Newton, wiping her eyes; "leave it with me; I have no children of my own, my husband would like to have one; this babe shall lie in my bosom, and be unto me as a daughter. I will nurse it for you until you are settled in America, and send or come for it." The young man wept with gratitude; he wanted to know how he was to repay Mrs. Newton, but she said for the present she did not want payment, that it would be a pleasure to her to have the baby; and it would be time enough to talk about payment when the father was able to claim it, and take it to a home. So the next day they buried the poor young woman, and soon after the young man went away and sailed off to America, and from that day to this Mrs. Newton had never heard anything of him. As she had said, that poor little motherless babe lay in her bosom, and was unto her as a daughter; she loved it; she loved it when it was a helpless little thing, weak and sickly; she loved it when it grew a pretty lively baby, and would set its little feet on her knees, and crow and caper before her face; she loved it when it began to play around her as she sat at work, to lisp out the word "Ganny," for she taught it to call her grandmother; she loved it when it would follow her into her nice garden, and pick a flower and carry it to her, as she sat in the little arbor; and she, holding the flower, would talk to it of God who made the flower, and made the bee that drew honey from the flower, and made the sun that caused the flower to grow, and the light that gave the flower its colors, and the rain that watered it, and the earth that nourished it. And she loved that child when it came back from the infant school, and climbed up on her lap, or stood with its hands behind its back, to repeat some pretty verses about flowers, or about the God who made them. That child was Fanny, the flower-girl; and ah! how little did good Mrs. Newton think she would be selling flowers in the streets to help to support her. But it came to pass, that when Fanny was nearly six years old, Mrs. Newton's husband fell very ill; it was a very bad, and very expensive illness, for poor Mrs. Newton was so uneasy, she would sometimes have two doctors to see him; but all would not do; he died: and Mrs. Newton was left very poorly off. In a short time she found she could not keep on her pretty cottage; she was obliged to leave it; and the church where she had gone every Sunday for so many years; and the church-yard where her husband was buried, and little Fanny's mother; and the infant school where Fanny learned so much; and the dear little garden, and the flowers that were Fanny's teachers and favorites. Oh! how sorry was poor Mrs. Newton. But even a little child can give comfort; and so little Fanny, perhaps without thinking to do so, did; for when Mrs. Newton for the last time sat out in her garden, and saw the setting sun go down, and told Fanny she was going to leave that pretty garden, where she had from infancy been taught to know God's works, the child looked very sad and thoughtful indeed, for some time; but afterwards coming up to her, said, "But, grandmother, we shall not leave God, shall we? for you say God is everywhere, and He will be in London too." And oh! how that thought consoled poor Mrs. Newton; she did not leave God,--God did not leave her. So she left the abode of her younger years--the scene of her widowhood; and she went away to hire a poor lodging in the outlets of London; but her God was with her, and the child she had nursed in her prosperity was her comfort in adversity. Matters, however, went no better when she lived with little Fanny in a poor lodging. She had only one friend in London, and she lived at a distance from her. Mrs. Newton fell ill; there was no one to nurse her but Fanny; she could no longer pay for her schooling, and sometimes she was not able to teach her herself. All this seemed very hard, and very trying; and one would have been tempted to think that God was no longer with poor Mrs. Newton; that when she had left her cottage she had left the God who had been so good to her. But this would have been a great mistake. God was with Mrs. Newton; He saw fit to try and afflict her; but He gave her strength and patience to bear her trials and afflictions. One afternoon her friend came to pay her a visit: she was going out a little way into the country to see a relation who had a very fine nursery-garden, and she begged Mrs. Newton to let little Fanny go with her own daughter. Mrs. Newton was very glad to do so for she thought it would be a nice amusement for Fanny. The nurseryman was very kind to her; and when she was going away gave her a fine bunch of flowers. Fanny was in great delight, for she loved flowers and knew her dear grandmother loved them too. But as she was coming back, and just as she was entering the streets, she met a lady and a little boy of about three years old, who directly held out his hands and began to beg for the flowers. His mamma stopped, and as Fanny was very poorly dressed, she thought it probable that she would sell her nosegay, and so she said, "Will you give that bunch of flowers to my little boy, and I will pay you for it?" "Please, ma'am, they are for grandmother," said Fanny blushing, and thinking she ought to give the flowers directly, and without money to any one who wished for them. "But perhaps your grand-mother would rather have this sixpence?" said the lady. And Mrs. Newton's friend, who had just come up, said, "Well, my dear, take the lady's sixpence, and let her have the flowers if she wishes for them." So Fanny held the flowers to the lady, who took them and put the sixpence in her hand. Fanny wished much to ask for one rose, but she thought it would not be right to do so, when the lady had bought them all: and she looked at them so very longingly that the lady asked if she were sorry to part with them. "Oh! no, ma'am," cried her friend, "she is not at all sorry--come now, don't be a fool, child," she whispered, and led Fanny on. "That is a good bargain for you," she added as she went on; "that spoiled little master has his own way, I think; it would be well for you, and your grandmother too, if you could sell sixpenny worth of flowers every day." "Do you think I could, ma'am?" said Fanny, opening her hand and looking at her sixpence, "this will buy something to do poor granny good; do you think Mr. Simpson would give me a nosegay every day?" "If you were to pay him for it, he would," said her friend; "suppose you were to go every morning about five o'clock, as many others do, and buy some flowers, and then sell them at the market; you might earn something, and that would be better than being idle, when poor Mrs. Newton is not able to do for herself and you." So when Fanny got back, she gave her dear grandmother the sixpence. "The Lord be praised!" said Mrs. Newton, "for I scarcely knew how I was to get a loaf of bread for thee or myself to-morrow." And then Fanny told her the plan she had formed about the flowers. Mrs. Newton was very sorry to think her dear child should be obliged to stand in a market place, or in the public streets, to offer anything for sale; but she said, "Surely it is Providence has opened this means of gaining a little bread, while I am laid here unable to do anything; and shall I not trust that Providence with the care of my darling child?" So from this time forth little Fanny set off every morning before five o'clock, to the nursery garden; and the nursery-man was very kind to her, and always gave her the nicest flowers; and instead of sitting down with the great girls, who went there also for flowers or vegetables, and tying them up in bunches, Fanny put them altogether in her little basket, and went away to her grandmother's room, and spread them out on the little table that poor Mrs. Newton might see them, while the sweet dew was yet sparkling on their bright leaves. Then she would tell how beautiful the garden looked at that sweet early hour; and Mrs. Newton would listen with pleasure, for she loved a garden. She used to say, that God placed man in a garden when he was happy and holy; and when he was sinful and sorrowful, it was in a garden that the blessed Saviour wept and prayed for the sin of the world; and when his death had made atonement for that sin, it was in a garden his blessed body was laid. Mrs. Newton taught Fanny many things from flowers; she was not a bad teacher, in her own simple way, but Jesus Christ, who was the best teacher the world ever had, instructed his disciples from vines and lilies, corn and fruit, and birds, and all natural things around them. And while Fanny tied up her bunches of flowers, she would repeat some verses from the Holy Scriptures, such as this, "O Lord, how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches." And afterwards she would repeat such pretty lines as these:-- "Not worlds on worlds, in varied form, Need we, to tell a God is here; The daisy, saved from winter's storm, Speaks of his hand in lines as clear. "For who but He who formed the skies, And poured the day-spring's living flood, Wondrous alike in all He tries, Could rear the daisy's simple bud! "Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, Its fringed border nicely spin; And cut the gold-embossed gem, That, shrined in silver, shines within; "And fling it, unrestrained and free, O'er hill, and dale, and desert sod, That man, where'er he walks, may see, In every step the trace of God." "And I, too, have had my daisy given to me," poor Mrs. Newton would say, with tearful eyes, as she gazed on her little flower-girl; "I too have my daisy, and though it may be little cared for in the world, or trodden under foot of men, yet will it ever bear, I trust, the trace of God." But it happened the very morning that the gentleman had given Fanny the half-sovereign in mistake, Mrs. Newton's money was quite spent; and she was much troubled, thinking the child must go the next morning to the garden without money to pay for her flowers, for she did not think it likely she would sell enough to buy what they required, and pay for them also; so she told Fanny she must ask Mr. Simpson to let her owe him for a day or two until she got a little money she expected. Fanny went therefore, and said this to the kind man at the garden; and he put his hand on her head, and said, "My pretty little girl, you may owe me as long as you please, for you are a good child, and God will prosper you." So Fanny went back in great delight, and told this to Mrs. Newton; and to cheer her still more, she chose for her morning verse, the advice that our Lord gave to all those who were careful and troubled about the things of this life "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, oh ye of little faith?" And then she repeated some verses which both she and Mrs. Newton liked very much. "Lo! the lilies of the field, How their leaves instruction yield! Hark to nature's lesson, given By the blessed birds of heaven. "Say with richer crimson glows, The kingly mantle than the rose; Say are kings more richly dressed, Than the lily's glowing vest! "Grandmother I forget the next verse," said Fanny, interrupting herself; "I know it is something about lilies not spinning; but then comes this verse-- "Barns, nor hoarded store have we"-- "It is not the lilies, grandmother, but the blessed birds that are speaking now-- "Barns, nor hoarded store have we, Yet we carol joyously; Mortals, fly from doubt and sorrow, God provideth for the morrow." Poor Mrs. Newton clasped her thin hands, and looked up, and prayed like the disciples, "Lord, increase our faith!" "Eh!" said she, afterwards, "is it not strange that we can trust our Lord and Saviour with the care of our souls for eternity, and we cannot trust Him with that of our bodies for a day." Well! this was poor Mrs. Newton's state on that day, when the gentleman gave Fanny the half-sovereign instead of sixpence, for her flowers. When the little flower-girl came back from her race with her two sixpences, she found the old vegetable-seller had got her three or four pennies more, by merely showing her basket, and telling why it was left at his stall; and so every one left a penny for the honest child, and hoped the gentleman would reward her well. The old man at the stall said it was very shabby of him only to give her sixpence; but when she went home with three sixpences and told Mrs. Newton this story, she kissed her little girl very fondly, but said the gentleman was good to give her sixpence, for he had no right to give her anything, she had only done her duty. "But, grandmother," said Fanny, "when I saw that pretty half-sovereign dropping down to his purse, I could not help wishing he would give it to me." "And what commandment did you break then, my child?" "Not the eighth--if I had kept the half-sovereign I should have broken it," said Fanny, "for that says, thou shalt not steal--what commandment did I break, grandmother; for I did not steal?" "When we desire to have what is not ours Fanny, what do we do? we covet; do we not?" "Oh! yes--thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods," cried Fanny, "that is the tenth commandment; and that half-sovereign was my neighbor's goods, and that fat gentleman was my neighbor. But, grandmother, it is very easy to break the tenth commandment." "Very easy indeed, my dear," said Mrs. Newton, with first a faint smile, and then a deep sigh, "therefore," she added, "we ought always to pray like David, 'Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity.'" There is a very common saying, that when things are at the worst they mend. It is hard to say when matters are at the worst; poor Mrs. Newton knew they might yet be worse with her; but certainly, they were very bad; and a few days after this, as Fanny was tying up her flowers as usual, she lay on her bed thinking what she was to do, and praying that God would direct her to some way of providing for the poor child. While she was thinking and praying, tears stole down her face; Fanny saw them, and stopped her work, and looked sorrowfully at her-- "Now you are crying again, grandmother, she said," and that's what makes me break the tenth commandment, for I can't help wishing the gentleman had given me that half-sovereign. But I will say the verses again to-day about the lilies and birds; for you know I said that morning-- 'Mortals fly from doubt and sorrow, God provideth for the morrow,' and when I came back with my three sixpences, you said God _had_ provided for the morrow, for you had only two or three pennies in the house when I went out." "And how many pennies, pray, have you in the house to-day?" said a rather gruff voice at the door. Mrs. Newton and Fanny started; but there, standing at the door, Fanny saw the fat gentleman who had given her the half-sovereign. "So you have been wishing for my gold, you little rogue," he said, looking as if he meant to frighten her. "Never mind," he added, smiling, "you are a good child, and did what was right; and I always meant to bring it back to you, but I have been kept rather busy these few days past. There it is for you, and try not to break the tenth commandment again." Then turning to Mrs. Newton, he said, "We should not expect rewards, ma'am, for doing our duty, but if children do not meet with approbation when they do right, they may be discouraged, and perhaps think there is no use in being good: for they are silly little creatures, you know, and do not always recollect that God will reward the just one day if men do not." "Oh! sir!" said poor Mrs. Newton, but the tears streamed down, and she could not say a word more. And there Fanny sat gazing on the half-sovereign, as if she was half stupefied. "Well, take up that bit of gold, and do what you like with it," said the fat gentleman; "and then run off to sell your flowers, for we must not be idle because we have got enough for to-day. But do what you like with that money." Fanny rose up from her seat, and looking very much as if she was moving in her sleep, with her wondering eyes fixed on the shining piece that lay in her hand, she walked slowly over to Mrs. Newton, and putting it into hers, said,-- "May I go to the grocer's now, grandmother, and get you the tea for your breakfast?" "Yes, my love," said Mrs. Newton, kissing her, "and take care of this, and bring back the change carefully." Then turning to the gentleman, she said, "I am not young, sir, and I am very, very poorly; I find it hard to go without my tea, but it is a luxury I have been obliged latterly to forego." "But could you not get tea on credit, from the grocer?" said the gentleman. "Oh! yes, I believe so; but there would be no use in getting credit;" said Mrs. Newton, "for I am not certain of being better able to pay next week than I am this week; and when I have not the money to pay for what I wish to get, it is better to do without it, than to add to one's anxieties by running in debt. Do you not think so, sir?" "Ma'am," said the old gentleman, sitting down, and resting his large silver-topped stick between his knees, "it is of very little consequence what I think; but if you wish to know this, I will tell you that I think very well both of you and your little girl, who, as I have heard, for I have made inquiries about you both, is a dependant on your bounty. You have trained her up well, though I wouldn't praise the child to her face; and so take as much tea as you like till you hear from me again, and your grocer need be in no trouble about his bill." So after the fat gentleman had made this rather bluff, but honest-hearted speech, and poor Mrs. Newton had wept, and thanked him in language that sounded more polite, the good old gentleman told her his whole history. He began the world very poor, and without relations able to assist him; he was at last taken into the employment of a young merchant in the city; he had a turn for business, and having been able to render some important services to this young man, he was finally, to his own surprise, and that of every one else, taken into partnership. "During all this time," said he, "I was attached from my boyhood to the daughter of the poor schoolmaster who first taught me to read; I would not marry her while I was poor, for I thought that would be to make her wretched instead of happy; but when I was taken into partnership I thought my way was clear; I went off to Bethnal Green, and told Mary, and our wedding-day was settled at once. Well, we were glad enough, to be sure; but a very few days after, my partner called me into the private room, and said he wanted to consult me. He seemed in high spirits, and he told me he had just heard of a famous speculation, by which we could both make our fortunes at once. He explained what it was, and I saw with shame and regret, that no really honest man could join in it: I told him so; I told him plainly I would have nothing to do with it. You may think what followed; the deeds of partnership were not yet signed, and in short, in two or three days more I found myself poor Jack Walton again--indeed, poorer than I was before I was made one of the firm of Charters and Walton, for I had lost my employment. "Often and often I used to think that David said, he had never seen the righteous forsaken; yet I was suffering while the unrighteous were prospering. It was a sinful, and a self-righteous thought, and I was obliged to renounce it; when, after some time of trial, a gentleman sent for me--a man of wealth, and told me his son was going into business on his own account; that he had heard of my character, and of the cause of my leaving Mr. Charters; that he thought I would be just such a steady person as he wished his son to be with. In short, I began with him on a handsome salary; was soon made his partner; married Mary, and had my snug house in the country. Mr. Charters succeeded in that speculation; entered into several others, some of which were of a more fraudulent nature, failed, and was ruined. He ran off to America, and no one knows what became of him. I have left business some years. I purchased a nice property in the country, built a Church upon it, and have ever thanked God, who never forsakes those who wish to act righteously. "It pleased God to take all my sweet children from me--every state has its trials--the youngest was just like your little flower-girl." Mrs. Newton was much pleased with this story; she then told her own, and little Fanny's. The fat gentleman's eyes were full of tears when she ended; when he was going away he put another half-sovereign into her hand, and saying, "The first was for the child," walked out of the house. A short time afterwards, a clergyman came to see Mrs. Newton--she was surprised; he sat and talked with her some time, and seemed greatly pleased with her sentiments, and all she told him of herself and Fanny. He then told her that he was the clergyman whom Mr. Walton, on the recommendation of the bishop of the diocese, had appointed to the church he had built; that Mr. Walton had sent him to see her, and had told him, if he was satisfied with all he saw and heard, to invite Mrs. Newton and the little flower-girl to leave London, and go and live in one of the nice widows' houses, which good Mr. Walton had built, near the pretty village where he lived. Then there was great joy in poor Mrs. Newton's humble abode; Mrs. Newton was glad for Fanny's sake, and Fanny was glad for Mrs. Newton's sake, so both were glad, and both said-- "Mortals fly from doubt and sorrow, God provideth for the morrow." But the only difference was, that Mrs. Newton said it with watery eyes and clasped hands, lying on her bed and looking up to heaven; and Fanny--merry little thing!--said it frisking and jumping about the room, clapping her hands together, and laughing her joy aloud. Well, there was an inside place taken in the B---- coach, for Mrs. Newton and Fanny; and not only that, but kind Mrs. Walton sent up her own maid to London, to see that everything was carefully done, as the poor woman was ill, and help to pack up all her little goods; and, with her, she sent an entire new suit of clothes for the flower-girl. They set off, and when they got near to the village the coachman stopped, and called out to know if it were the first, or the last of the red cottages he was to stop at; and Mrs. Walton's maid said, "The last,--the cottage in the garden." So they stopped at such a pretty cottage, with a little garden before and behind it. Mr. Walton had known what it was to be poor, and so, when he grew rich, he had built these neat houses, for those who had been rich and become poor. They were intended chiefly for the widows of men of business, whose character had been good, but who had died without being able to provide for their families. He had made an exception in Mrs. Newton's case, and gave her one of the best houses, because it had a pretty garden, which he thought others might not care for so much. They went inside, and there was such a neat kitchen, with tiles as red as tiles could be; a little dresser, with all sorts of useful things; a nice clock ticking opposite the fire-place, and a grate as bright as blacklead could make it. And then there was such a pretty little room at one side, with a rose tree against the window; and a little shelf for books against the wall; and a round table, and some chairs, and an easy couch. And there were two nice bedrooms overhead; and, better than all these, was a pretty garden. Oh! how happy was the little flower-girl; and how thankful was poor Mrs. Newton! The first thing she did was to go down on her knees and thank God. Then Fanny was to go to the school, for Mrs. Walton had her own school, as well as the national school; but Fanny did not know enough to go to it, so she was sent to the national school first, and afterwards she went to the other, where about a dozen girls were instructed in all things that would be useful to them through life--whether they were to earn their bread at service, or to live in their own homes as daughters, wives, or mothers. But every morning, before she went out, she did everything for her dear, good grandmother. She made her breakfast; she arranged her room; and she gathered some fresh flowers in the garden, and put them on the table in the little parlor. Oh! how happy was Fanny when she looked back, and saw how nice everything looked, and then went out singing to her school-- "Barns, nor hoarded store have we, Yet we carol joyously; Mortals flee from doubt and sorrow, God provideth for the morrow." But God will not provide for the morrow, where people will do nothing to provide for themselves; and so Fanny, the flower-girl, knew, for surely God had blessed the labor of her childish hands. Thus passed time away; and Fanny, under the instruction that she had at church, at school, and at home, "grew in grace, and in the knowledge and love of God, and of Jesus Christ our Lord." Good Mrs. Newton was much better in health, and used to walk about sometimes without any support but Fanny's arm, and so time went on till Fanny came to be about fifteen; and then Mrs. Newton, who was not always free from "doubt and sorrow," began to think what was to become of her if she were to die. So one day, when kind Mr. Walton, whom Fanny used once to call the fat gentleman, came in to see her, Mrs. Newton told him that she was beginning to feel anxious that Fanny should be put in a way of earning her own bread, in case she should be taken from her. Mr. Walton listened to her, and then he said,-- "You are very right and prudent, Mrs. Newton, but never mind that; I have not forgotten my little flower-girl, and her race after me that hot morning; if you were dead, I would take care of her; and if we both were dead, Mrs. Walton would take care of her; and if Mrs. Walton were dead, God would take care of her. I see you cannot yet learn the little lines she is so fond of-- "'Mortals flee from doubt and sorrow, God provideth for the morrow.'" Well, not very long after this conversation came a very warm day, and in all the heat of the sun came Mr. Walton, scarcely able to breathe, into Mrs. Newton's cottage; he was carrying his hat in one hand, and a newspaper in the other, and his face was very red and hot. "Well, Mrs. Newton," said he, "what is all this about?--I can't make it out; here is your name in the paper!" "My name, sir!" said Mrs. Newton, staring at the paper. "Aye, indeed is it," said Mr. Walton, putting on his spectacles, and opening the paper at the advertisement side,--"see here!" And he began to read,-- "If Mrs. Newton, who lived about fifteen years ago near the turnpike on the P---- road, will apply to Messrs. Long and Black, she will hear of something to her advantage. Or should she be dead, any person who can give information respecting her and her family, will be rewarded." Mrs. Newton sat without the power of speech--so much was she surprised; at last she said, "It is Fanny's father!--I know, I am sure it can be no one else!" Mr. Walton looked surprised, for he had never thought of this; he was almost sorry to think his little flower-girl should have another protector. At length he said it must be as Mrs. Newton thought, and he would go up to London himself next day, and see Mr. Long and Mr. Black. So he went; and two days afterwards, when Fanny had returned from Mrs. Walton's school, and was sitting with Mrs. Newton in the little shady arbor they had made in the garden, and talking over early days, when they used to sit in another arbor, and Fanny used to learn her first lessons from flowers, then came Mr. Walton walking up the path towards them, and with him was a fine-looking man, of about forty-five years of age. Mrs. Newton trembled, for when she looked in his face she remembered the features; and she said to herself, "Now, if he takes my Fanny from me?--and if he should be a bad man?" But when this man came nearer, he stepped hastily beyond Mr. Walton, and catching Mrs. Newton's hands, he was just going to drop on his knees before her, when he saw Fanny staring at him; and a father's feelings overcame every other, and with a cry of joy he extended his arms, and exclaiming "my child!'--my child!" caught her to his breast. Then there followed so much talk, while no one knew scarcely what was saying; and it was Mr. Walton, chiefly, that told how Fanny's father had had so much to struggle against, and so much hardship to go through, but how he had succeeded at last, and got on very well; now he had tried then to find out Mrs. Newton and his dear little Fanny, but could not, because Mrs. Newton had changed her abode; how, at last, he had met with a good opportunity to sell his land, and had now come over with the money he had earned, to find his child, and repay her kind benefactor. Oh, what a happy evening was that in the widow's cottage! the widow's heart sang for joy. The widow, and she that had always thought herself an orphan, were ready to sing together-- "Mortals flee from doubt and sorrow, God provideth for the morrow." Mrs. Newton found that Mr. Marsden, that was the name of Fanny's father, was all that she could desire Fanny's father to be:--a Christian in deed and in truth; one thankful to God and to her, for the preservation and care of his child; and who would not willingly separate Fanny from her, or let her leave Fanny. As he found Mrs. Newton did not wish to leave kind Mr. Walton's neighborhood, and that his daughter was attached to it also, Mr. Marsden took some land and a nice farm-house, not far from the Manor House, where Mr. Walton lived. He had heard all about the half-sovereign, and loved his little flower-girl before he saw her. So Mrs. Newton had to leave her widow's house; and she shed tears of joy, and regret, and thankfulness, as she did so; she had been happy there, and had had God's blessing upon her and her dear girl. But Fanny was glad to receive her dear, dear grandmother into her own father's house; her own house too; and she threw her arms round the old lady's neck, when they got there, and kissed her over and over again, and said, "Ah! grandmother, do you recollect when I was a little girl tying up my flowers while you lay sick in bed, I used to say so often-- "'Mortals flee from doubt and sorrow, God provideth for the morrow.'" They had a large garden at the farm-house, and Fanny and Mrs. Newton improved it; and Mrs. Newton would walk out, leaning on Fanny's arm, and look at the lilies and roses, and jessamine, and mignonette, and talk of past times, and of their first garden, and their first flowers, and of their first knowledge of the God who made them; who watches the opening bud, and the infant head; who sends his rain upon the plant, and the dew of his blessing upon the child who is taught to know and love Him. And Fanny's father, when he joined them, talked over his trials and dangers from the day that his poor wife lay dead, and his helpless baby lay in his arms, and then he blessed the God who had led him all his life long, and crowned him with loving-kindness. Three years passed, and Fanny, the little flower-girl, was a fine young woman. A farmer's son in the neighborhood wished to get her for his wife; but her father was very sorry to think of her leaving him so soon for another home. He spoke to Fanny about it, and said,--"My dear girl, I have no right to expect you should wish to stay with me, for I never was able to watch over your childhood or to act a father's part by you." And Fanny answered, with a blush and smile, "And I, father, was never able to act a daughter's part by you until now, and therefore I think you have every right to expect I should do so for some time longer. I have no objections to be Charles Brierley's wife, and I have told him so; but we are both young, and at all events I will not leave you." "Now," said Mrs. Newton, who was sitting by, "instead of that young man taking more land, which is very dear about here, would it not be a good plan if he were to come and live with you, Mr. Marsden, and help you with the farm." And Mr. Marsden said, "That is the very thing; I will go and speak to him about it; and Fanny and her husband can have the house, and farm, and all, as much as they please now, and entirely at my death." So it was all settled; and Fanny was married at the village church, and Mr. and Mrs. Walton were at the wedding. Good Mrs. Newton lived on at the farm-house, and when Fanny's first child was born, it was put into her arms. Then she thought of the time when Fanny herself was laid in the same arms; and she blessed God in her heart, who had enabled her to be of use to one human creature, and to one immortal soul and mind, while she passed through this life to the life everlasting. Joy and sorrow are always mingled on this earth; so it came to pass that before Fanny's first child could walk alone, good, kind Mrs. Newton died, and was buried. As a shock of corn cometh in, in its season, so she sank to rest, and was gathered into the garner of her Lord. But-- "The memory of the just Is blessed, though they sleep in dust;" and Fanny's children, and children's children, will learn to love that memory. Many a day, sitting at work in her garden, with her little ones around her, Fanny let them gather some flowers, and talk to her about them; and then they would beg, as a reward for good conduct, that she would tell them about her dear grandmother and her own childish days; and much as children love to hear stories, never did any more delight in a story, than did these children, in the story of Fanny, the Flower-Girl. Convenient Food. Little Frances was crying; her sister Mary hearing her sobs, ran in haste to inquire what had happened; and saw her sitting in a corner of the nursery, looking rather sulky, as if she had recently received some disappointment. "What is the matter, dear little Frances? why do you cry so?" Frances pouted, and would make no reply. "Tell me, dear Frances; perhaps I can do something for you." "Nothing, Mary," she sobbed, "only"-- "Only what, little Frances? It cannot be _nothing_ that makes you cry so bitterly." "Only mamma would not give--" she looked a little ashamed, and did not finish her sentence. "_What_ would she not give?" "Nothing." "Nothing!" Frances shook her elbows, as if troubled by Mary's inquiries, but the tears continued flowing down her cheeks. Just at that moment their sister Anne came into the room, singing in the joy of her heart, with a piece of plum-cake in her hand, holding it up, and turning it about before her sisters to exhibit her newly-acquired possession, on which Frances fixed her eyes with eager gaze, and the tears flowed still faster, accompanied with a kind of angry sob. "Frances! what is the matter that you are crying so? see what I have got! you will spoil all the happiness of our feast." At the word _feast_, Frances' tears seemed arrested, and her mouth looked as if she were going to smile. She left the corner, and immediately prepared to do her part for the feast, setting a little square table, and then, drawing her own little stool, seated herself in readiness as a guest. "Stay," said Anne, "we will make some little paper dishes and plates, and divide the cake;" so saying, she began the operation, and laying down the paper dishes, "there at the top, see! there shall be two chickens, at the bottom a piece of beef, at one side some potatoes, and at the other some cauliflower;" breaking her cake into small pieces to correspond to her imagined provision. Frances looked very impatient at the long preparation, and as Anne seated herself, inviting Mary to partake, Frances stretched out her hand to take the beef for her own portion. "No, no, Frances, you must not help yourself, you know; wait until we all begin in order." Frances very reluctantly withdrew her hand, and, whilst she waited, betrayed her impatience by a little jerking motion of the body, that threw her breast against the table, as if she would beat time into quicker motion. "O we must not forget William!" Anne exclaimed; "where is he? he must taste our feast; stay here, Mary, with Frances, and I will go and find him." Away she ran, and left poor Frances in a fret at this additional delay, but she began to amuse herself by picking up the small crumbs that had been scattered on the stool, and at last proceeded to touch the beef and chickens. "Do not do so, Frances," Mary said, in a reproving voice. Frances colored. "Do not sit _looking_ on, if you are so impatient; employ yourself, and get a seat ready for William." "_You_ may get it, Mary." "Very well; only do not meddle with Anne's feast." Mary had to go into another room for the seat, and whilst she was away, Frances quickly helped herself to half of the pieces which were on the dishes, and, when Mary returned, resumed her position as if nothing had happened. Mary was so busy in arranging the seats, that she did not observe what had been done. Presently Anne came back, accompanied by her brother William; hastening to her place, and looking on her table, she started with surprise, and seemed to say to herself, as she gazed, How came I to make a mistake, an think my pieces of cake were larger? but the expression of her face called Mary's attention, who at once said, "Anne, I am sure you placed larger pieces on your dishes." "Indeed, I thought so, Mary; who has taken any?" "I do not know." "O you are only _pretending_, and you have been hiding some." "No, Anne; I would not have said I do not know, if I had _hid_ it." "No, no more you would, dear Mary. Never mind," she said, glancing a look at Frances, not altogether without suspicion, "it is only to _play_ with, it does not signify whether it is much or little. "William, shall I help you to a little chicken?" "O no, Anne, you have forgot, help the _ladies_ first; and beside, you ought to have placed me at the bottom of the table to carve this dish. What is it?" "Beef, William." "O beef, very well. Come, Miss Frances, let me sit there, and you come to the side of the table." In haste to begin the eating part of the play, she rose immediately to change places, when, to her disgrace, a quantity of crumbs, which had lodged unobserved in a fold of her frock, fell out, and disordered the neatness of the table. "There!" said William, "we have no question to ask who took the liberty to lessen the dishes." "For shame, William, I--" "O Frances, take care what you say, tell no falsehoods; I will tell one truth, and say you are a greedy girl." Frances began to cry again, "For shame, William, to call me names." "I call no names, I only say what I think, and how can I help it, when it is only just now you cried so, because you said mamma had given me a larger piece of cake than yourself; for you must know," he continued, turning to Mary, "we have both had one piece before, and she half of mine to make her quiet; and then she cried again because a piece was put by for you and Anne, and she cannot be contented now, though Anne shares hers amongst us. If this is not being greedy, I do not know what greedy means. It is no names, it is only saying what a thing is." "Now I know another thing," said Anne; "when mamma called me to receive my piece of cake, she said, 'And you shall take a piece also to Mary,' but when she unfolded the paper, there was only _one_ piece; mamma did not say anything, but I think she _thought_ something." At this remark, Frances redoubled her crying, but, for the sake of a share of the present feast, did not attempt to leave the party. No more was said, and the feast was concluded in good humor by all except the conscious greedy girl, and they then all went into the garden together to finish their hour's recreation before they were called again to their lessons. There was a little plantation of young fir-trees at one corner of the garden, intended to grow there for shelter from the north-west wind: the grass was so high amongst them, that the gardener had orders to go and carefully mow it down. He was engaged in the business when the children ran out to see him work. "Hush! hush!" he exclaimed, as they approached, "I have just cleared a bough from the grass, and see what's there!" All curiosity, they went forward on tip-toe, and were directed to something lodged on the spreading branch of a young larch. "A bird's nest!" said William. "A bird's nest!" they all repeated. "But what is in it, I cannot tell." "Look steadily," said the gardener, "and you will find out." It was difficult to trace what it was; something all in a heap, brown naked skin; alive, as might be known by the heaving breathing. William putting his finger to touch them, immediately four wide mouths stretched open, with little tongues raised, and the opening of their throats extended to the utmost. "Look at the little things," said William; "they thought their mother was come when I touched the branch, and they have opened their mouths to be ready to receive what she would put in. "They are _blind_!" said William. "Yes, they cannot have been hatched more than two days." "Will they take what the mother gives them?" asked William. "Yes," said the man, "they trust her, and swallow down what she puts into their mouths." "I wish the mother would come," said Anne. "But she will not whilst we are here," William replied. "Touch it again, William," said Frances. William touched the edge of the nest "See!" said he, "they think the mother is come, they stretch, their months still wider." "Hark!" said Mary, "what an impatient noise they make: they look ready to stretch themselves out of their nest, and as if their little mouths would tear." "Poor little things! do not disappoint them, give them something," said Anne. "We have not proper food for them," said William. "I will run and fetch some crumbs," said Mary. Mary soon returned with a piece of bread, and giving it to her brother as the most experienced, he broke it into extremely small crumbs, and, again touching the nest, awakened the expectation of the young birds: they opened their mouths wide, and as he dropped a small crumb into each, they moved their tongues, trying to make it pass down into their throat. "Poor little things, they cannot swallow well, they want the mother to put it gently down their throat with her beak." "See! see!" said all the girls, "they want more, give them more." William dropped his crumbs again. "More, more, William; see! they are not satisfied." "I dare not give them more for fear of killing them, we cannot feed them like the mother. We will stand still at a little distance, and you will see them go to sleep." When all was quiet, the little nestlings shut their mouths, and dropped their heads. "I should like to see the mother feed them." "You would see how much better she would do it than we can; perhaps, if we could conceal ourselves behind that laurel, she would come, but she will be very frightened, because all is so altered now the grass is cut down, and her nest is exposed; but I dare say she is not for off, she will be watching somewhere." They took William's hint, and retreated behind the laurel; they had not waited ten minutes, before the hen bird flitted past, and, darting over the larch, as if to inspect whether her little brood was safe, she disappeared again. In a few minutes more, she returned, skimming round to reconnoitre that all was safe, she perched upon the nest. Instantly the little nestlings were awake to the summons of her touch and chirp, and, opening their mouths wide, were ready for what she would give. She dropt a small fly into the mouth of one of them, and, having no more, flew away to provide for the other hungry mouths as fast as she could. As soon as she was gone, they again shut their mouths, and dropt their heads in silence. "What a little bit she gave them," said Frances. "Yes," answered William, "but she knows it is _plenty_." "How contented the others seem to wait till she comes again!" "Yes, Mary," William again answered, unable to resist the comparison which had come to his mind, "they did not take the little bit away from the other. Shall we wait till she comes again?" "O do." "Very well, I want to see whether the one that was fed first will take away the bit the others got." The allusion made a little laugh, but, seeing that Frances understood and felt that it applied to her, Anne said, "Do not let us tease Frances; it is better to tell her at once what her fault is, than to seem to like to hurt her." "Indeed, dear Anne, I have not spared to tell her, her fault, as she knows very well, for she has often given me reason, but I cannot make her ashamed of such things; and I know mamma is very uneasy to see it in her." Frances looked grave, but did not cry; turning pale, however, she said, "O Mary take me out of this laurel--I am so sick!" Mary hastened to take her into the freer air, but all in vain. The sisters were alarmed, and took her in to their mamma; who received her gravely, without expressing any concern for her indisposition. "What can we do for Frances, mamma? Will you let her have your smelling bottle, or shall I run and get some sal volatile?" "Neither, my dear Mary; it is an indisposition caused by her own selfish appetite, and probably the relief may be obtained by her stomach rejecting what she so improperly forced upon it. We will wait a short time, and if not, I will give her something less palatable, perhaps, than plum-cake, but necessary to remove it." Frances was too ill to make any remark; she became paler still, and then quickly flushed almost a crimson color, her eyes were oppressed, and her eyebrows contracted, and she impatiently complained, "O my head! how it beats! What shall I do, mamma?" "Bear the consequences of your own inordinate appetite, Frances, and learn to subject it to the wholesome rules of temperance." "O the nasty plum-cake! I wish you had not given me any, mamma." "You _once_ thought the plum-cake _nice_, and you would not be contented with the small portion I knew to be sufficient and safe for you." "O my head! I think it is very cruel, mamma, that you do not pity me." "I do pity you, Frances, and will take care of you now that I see you require help, as I perceive that you will not have any relief without medicine." Frances began again to cry, "O, I am so sick! I cannot take medicine. I am sure I cannot." "Come to your room, Frances; I shall give you something proper, and you had better lie down after you have taken it; you will, perhaps, drop into a sleep, and be well when you awake again." Her mamma took her hand and led her up stairs, and Frances knew very well it was in vain to make any objection, as her mamma always made a point of obedience. The medicine was administered, although for some time Frances refused to look at it. When she laid down, her mamma placed the pillow high under her head, and, drawing the curtain to shade the light, left the room that she might be perfectly quiet. And when she returned to the drawing-room, she inquired of the other children what they had been doing, and received a full account of the feast, and the bird's nest, and all the little circumstances of each. It was time to resume their studies, and, except that Frances was not in her usual place, all things proceeded as before. When the lessons were finished, they entreated their mamma to go with them, and see the bird's nest." "It is _so_ pretty, mamma!" said Anne; "and they know when the mother comes, and they take what she puts into their mouths." "We will first inquire after Frances," she answered; "if she is well enough, she can accompany us." "I will run up, if you will be putting on your bonnet and shawl, mamma." "Very well, I hope you will find her recovered, we will wait your return." Anne soon returned,--"She is gone! I do not see her anywhere!" "Gone! In perhaps we shall find her at play in the garden." In this expectation they all went out, and as they drew near the spot where the nest was, they saw Frances looking very eagerly into the nest, and seeming to be in some agitation, then she threw something out of her hand, and ran away as if wanting not to be seen. "She is about some mischief," William said, and ran forward to the nest. But what was his grief to see one of the little birds dead on the ground, two others in the nest with pieces of bread sticking in their mouths, gasping, unable to swallow or reject it, and the fourth with its crop gorged, and slowly moving its little unfledged head from side to side, struggling in death. Full of sympathy with the little sufferer, and indignant with Frances, he exclaimed, "Provoking girl! she has stuffed the little creatures as she would like to stuff herself; and I believe she has killed them all." The lively interest the other children had in the nest, impelled them to hasten to the spot, and their lamentations, and even tears, soon flowed. "William, William, cannot you do anything for them? do try." "Well, stand still and do not shake my arm--so saying, he began the attempt, and drew the bread carefully out of the distended mouths of the two. "Now the other! the other, William!" "That I cannot help," he answered: "see! she has forced it down, and we cannot get it back again; it is dying now." Anne picked up the dead one from off the ground, and stroking it with her forefinger, "Poor little thing!" she said, "was she so cruel to you!" It was not long before they heard a rustling in the tree near the place, and then a chirp of fright and distress. "Ah!" said their mamma, "there is the mother! poor things, we will go a little distance to let her come to the nest; perhaps she will be able to save the two." They all withdrew, and the little parent bird was soon on her nest, fluttering and chirping to awaken the dead and dying little ones, till at length she sorrowfully brooded down on her nest, and spread her wings over them, occasionally chirping as if to solicit an answer from her little brood. "Oh!" said Mary, bursting into tears, "I cannot bear it! cruel Frances, to be so unkind to the little birds!" "Go and find Frances," said their mamma, "and bring her to me." "I will go," William answered, "I think I know where she will hide herself." It was not long before William returned, leading Frances, who very reluctantly yielded to accompany him. "Come here," said her mamma, stopping the accusations she saw were ready to overwhelm the offending little girl; "come here, and let me talk to you about this sad thing you have done to the little birds. Do you see what you have done by your ill-judged kindness?" "Kindness! mamma," they all exclaimed. "Yes, dear children, she has been very faulty, but I believe she meant to be kind, and through ignorance did this thing which proves the death of the birds. _You_ would not have done it, William, because you have already learnt there is such a thing as a necessary prudence to deal out your morsels with wisdom, and in a measure suited to the age and the capacity of the birds, and also that their food should be of a wholesome kind suitable to their nature. Nothing of this did Frances know, and it seems she had not learnt wisdom from the circumstances she had herself so lately fallen into. "It reminds me of the scripture, which teaches us to profit: 'Open thy mouth wide, and I will fill it.' These little birds first attracted your attention by their _open mouths_, which they had stretched to receive what their poor mother was preparing to put into them. As one lighted on the edge of their nest, they instinctively opened their little yellow-edged beaks; she delighted to see them do so; and they, taking with content what she had provided for them, with the utmost confidence swallowed it down. She had a bit for every one of them in turn and they waited patiently until it was given them. All was well whilst they were nourished with parental tenderness and prudence, and none other meddled with them, or ventured to give them other things, which they, being blind, received and knew not the hand that gave, nor the consequences of eating food not such as their parent would have provided. "Here you see Frances, neither prudent nor aware of consequences, has stuffed these little birds with improper food, both in quality and quantity. The consequences are fatal; one is dead, another is dying, and it is very uncertain whether the others also will not die. She fed them without measure, and their crops and throats were gorged so as to stop their breathing. They took it greedily, because they knew not the fatal consequences. "Frances, you are a greedy girl. You had been suffering for this offence, and had not the wisdom to leave it to me to apportion your food. You opened your mouth wide, but you must remember it is not written that _you_ are to fill it according to your own desires. 'I will fill it,' saith the Lord. He knows what is good for us, and he will measure his bounty according to his own wisdom." Frances began to look ashamed and sorrowful. "I was to you," her mamma continued, "in the affair of the cake, endeavoring to fulfil this my duty, but you rebelled against my discretion, and would covet more than was right. You _helped yourself_, you gorged your stomach. You were cross and peevish, and ill, and when the medicine had relieved you, as it was designed, you, without reflection, sallied forth and suffocated the little birds. You could not feed them as the _mother_ would. You could not find in the air and on the ground the little insects, and small worms and little grains which were their proper food, and you should have left it to their own mother to fill their opened mouths. _She_ would have made no mistake either in the quality or quantity _convenient_ for them." "O," Mary said, "how that reminds me of the scripture in Proverbs xxx. 8: 'Feed me with food _convenient_ for me.'" "Yes, my dear girl, it's a scripture of great importance and often does it impress my mind in combination with the other I mentioned, Ps. lxxxi. 10: 'Open thy mouth wide, and _I_ will fill it,' in their spiritual application, when I am providing for you, and dividing out your portions, and considering what diet is most suited to your constitution, and limiting the quantity of dainty or rich luxuries not _convenient_ for you. I am also frequently led to apply it to myself, and to offer my petition to the Lord that he will graciously judge for me, both temporally and spiritually to _fill_ my mouth, and feed me with food _convenient_ for me." "I think too, mamma, that there is some meaning belonging to this in our Lord's teaching us to pray, 'Give us this day our daily bread,' Matt. vi. 11." "Assuredly, my dear child, and I am rejoiced to find you are led by this subject to compare spiritual things with spiritual. "You see how the word of God interprets itself, and we are taught to go direct to the bounteous hand who giveth liberally, but never wastefully Our daily bread is sufficient for the day, and we must wait on him still for the daily bread of the succeeding day; so we are instructed to open our mouths wide to ask the Lord to fulfil his promise and to fill them, and to be contented with convenient food." "O Mamma, you cannot think how many scriptures seem to come to my mind, and to give me a clearer understanding. You know the manna which was given in the wilderness, was _convenient_ food when it was gathered daily as the Lord commanded, but when they laid it up, you know it was no longer _convenient,_ for it stunk and bred worms. Does not this teach us to trust God as well as not to _disobey_ him?" "May this ready application of the word of God proceedeth from that grace, my child, which teaches you, like Job, to esteem the word of God more than your necessary food, for you will also remember what our Lord said to the tempter, 'It is written, Man does not live by _bread alone,_ but _by every word_ that proceeded out of the mouth of God.' But we are too apt to forget this, and to imagine that we can provide well for ourselves by fulfilling the desires and lusts of the flesh, and by so doing, we are likely to be brought to _forget_ God, the bountiful and wise Supplier of all our wants." "I remember the text, mamma, which has in it, 'Feed me with food _convenient_ for me; and in another part, 'lest I be full and deny thee,' Prov. xxx. 9; and this little bird's nest has helped me to understand it better." "May the Holy Spirit engrave it on your heart, for it will often remind you of the thankful contentedness with which you ought to wait on the Lord." "Yes, mamma," William said, "but there is no harm, you know, in opening the mouth _wide_." "No, William, certainly no _harm_, for it is a _duty_. 'Open thy mouth wide,' is an injunction of God, but it is immediately subjoined and strictly said, 'and I will fill it.' Therefore bear in mind the double instruction. Neither take the filling on yourself, nor be ready to swallow every crude and unwholesome morsel which the ignorant or the wicked would present to you. Do you remember a certain day last week when something happened?" William looked anxious to recollect what his mamma alluded to, and in less than a minute he shook his head, and said, "Ah, mamma, that is too bad, you mean when Mrs. Arnot called, and you were out." "Yes I do, William; you all opened your mouths wide, and _she_ filled them. Her sweet things did not prove _convenient_ food. You see, therefore, we should learn to discriminate between a heavenly Father's provision, and that of a stranger, whose busy interference may cost you your life. I was not many minutes away from my little nest, when a stranger came, and, by mistaken kindness made you all ill. "Frances, have you never read that scripture: 'Put a knife to thy throat, if thou be a man given to appetite.'" Frances cried, and, sobbing, said, "I do not know what it means?" "What can it mean, my dear Frances, but parallel with those, 'If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off. It is better for thee to enter into life halt or maimed, than, having two hands or two feet, to be cast into everlasting fire,' Matt. xvvi. 29, 30. ii. 8, 9. It means that spirit which will sacrifice the lust of the heart, and deny itself, though it should be a present mortification. The _throat_ of an inordinate or diseased appetite is to be cut, and its carnal desires crucified." "Was it not something of this kind that Isaac fell into when he sent Esau to hunt venison, and make him savory meat, such as his soul loved? Gen. xxvii. 4." "Yes, William, and this very thing he desired presented the temptation by which he was deceived. And you might have mentioned, too, how Esau himself yielded to his appetite, and sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, Gen. xxv. 29. When we yield to these propensities of the flesh, we lay a snare for our own souls, and expose our weakness to an adversary, ever ready to take advantage of our infirmity. It is a common fault in children to desire with greedy appetite such food as is pernicious, and to wish for more than even a mouth opened wide requires--till at length they learn to lust after _forbidden_ things. And what does it lead to? Frances, you began to pick and steal, and your own iniquity chastised you:--you were sick and ill." Frances hid her face in her frock. "Ah mamma," said Anne, "I shall be afraid of wanting anything, as I used to do; and I hope I shall remember how much better you can feed me, than I can feed myself." "I wish I may too," said William. "If Eve had but waited for the Lord only to fill her mouth, she would not have eaten that which brought sin and death." "Tell me, Frances, if you feel the force of all we have learnt from the little birds, and your own mistaken idea of what would be good for them?" Frances did not answer. "But you know, my child, you were guilty of another fault; when the medicine was offered, which was likely to do you good,--you _refused_ to open your mouth, and was long before you would let me fill it, so you see we must leave it all to the Lord to give us much or little, bitter or sweet, just as he knows to be _convenient_ for us." "Yes," Mary said, "these poor little birds will long teach us a lesson. We may imitate them to open our mouth wide, but we must be warned by what happened to them, to let the _Lord_ only fill them." "Let us look again at the nest." They approached, and frightened the mother so, that she flew off. "See, see! William," said Anne, "the two little things are opening their mouths again. O how beautiful! let us never meddle with them any more. Only remember, 'Open thy mouth wide, and I will fill it.' Now, Frances, do not cry any more: come, we will bury these little dead birds." Frances wiped her eyes, and Anne giving her a kiss, they went away to do as she proposed. After they had made a little coffin, they put the two little dead birds into it Then William got a spade, and dug a grave just large enough to hold the little coffin: and, as he lowered it into the grave, Mary wiped away the tears which gathered in her eyes. When William had filled up the grave, they all returned to their mamma, who said-- "My dear children, do not let us dismiss this interesting subject without a closer application. My dear Frances, come near to me, and hear what I have to say." Frances drew near with some timidity. Conscious of her faults, and expecting the word of truth to be directed to her heart, she had at that moment rather have escaped from it. But her mamma, taking her hands into hers, and sitting down on a garden stool that was nigh, she felt that the words would be words of love, aid her heart beginning to soften, the tears were ready to flow, for she knew that her mamma would speak to her of Jesus and of his blood, which was shed for sinners. "Do you know quite well, my child, that among the fruits of the Spirit enumerated, Gal. v., there is one called TEMPERANCE?" "Yes, mamma," she replied. "Are you not also conscious, my dear child, that your desire of indulging your appetite is quite contrary to this holy fruit?" "Yes, mamma." "Then what are you to do in order to overcome the one, and to obtain the other?" "I must ask the Lord Jesus to give me the Holy Spirit." "Yes, my child, to him must you come for all help, and he will not send you empty away. Here is a subject on which you must indeed open your mouth wide, in earnest prayer, and wait on the Lord for his gracious answer. 'Ask, and ye shall receive,' he says, and after showing how an _earthly_ father will act towards his child that asks for bread, how does he conclude?" "He says, 'How much _more_ will your _heavenly_ Father give the _Holy Spirit_ to them that ask Him!'" "Will you then, my dear Frances, profit by this gracious instruction, and will _you_ ask for the Holy Spirit?" "Yes, mamma, I will try." "Do you believe the Lord will give you the Holy Spirit when you ask?" "He _says_ He _will_, mamma." "That is enough, my child; what the Lord says is yea and amen. It is written, 'Hath he said, and will he not do it?'" "Yes, mamma, I know God is _Truth_, He cannot lie." "But you know also, my dear Frances, when the Holy Spirit is given, he takes up his abode in the heart, and he _acts_ in the soul, and will not dwell there without producing his holy fruit; and tell me now what is the fruit you particularly want to overcome this sinful desire of appetite which prevails in your heart." "Is it not _temperance_, mamma?" "Yes, and if He comes into your heart, he will give it you, and moreover teach you to _repent_ of your sins; for consider, my Frances, sin is an offence against him, and needs to be repented of. Do you repent?" "I am very sorry, mamma." "But repentance is more than sorrow; it will make you ashamed before God, and make you feel yourself vile; and it will also make you carefully watchful against the temptation; it will make you anxious to quit the sin, and clear your soul from its power; it will make you indignant against it, and urge you to seek that strength from the Spirit, which will resist the sin, and overcome it. When, therefore, you ask for the Holy Spirit, be _willing_ that the Lord should _fill_ you. Be ready to _exercise_ the mighty gift for _all_ his offices, to convict you of sin, to lead you to true expectations, and to strengthen you to overcome your sin, giving you that grace which is specially opposed to the leading sin of your heart." "I wish I had this gift; for my sin makes me very unhappy: I know it is wrong." "Do not stop in _wishes_, dear child, go and _pray_; '_Ask_, and ye shall receive.' 'Open your mouth wide' in the full utterance of all your distress, and of all you desire; pray for what you _want, name_ it; pray for _repentance_, and for _temperance_. Pray that the _lust of your appetite_ may be _crucified_, and pray that the blood of Jesus, the Lamb of God who taketh away sin, may be sprinkled upon your guilty soul, and cleanse it from all sin. He giveth liberally, and upbraideth not. He is angry only when we neglect his promises and his gifts. "It is not long since, dear Mary, that you and I conversed on this text, 'My people would not hearken to my voice, Israel would none of me: _so I gave them up to their own heart's lusts_,' Psa. lxxxi. A dreadful judgment! what would become of _you_, dear Frances, if you were given up to the dominion of your appetite?" "But, my dear mamma," Mary said, "do you not remember the end of that psalm, what a sweet verse there is?" "Repeat it, dear girl, and let little Frances hear it!" "'_Had_ they hearkened and obeyed, then should he have fed them with the finest of the wheat, and with honey out of the rock should I have satisfied them.'" "O my children," said their mamma, "here is spiritual food for the spiritual appetite! You know who is the Bread of Life, and who is the Rock of our salvation. Turn unto him your whole heart, and though you feel the burden of the body of this death, you shall soon be able to thank God, who, through Jesus Christ our Lord, will deliver you." "Poor Esau repented too late, That once he his birth-right despis'd, And sold for a morsel of meat, What could not too highly be priz'd. How great was his anguish when told, The blessing he sought to obtain Was gone with the birth-right he sold, And none could recall it again! He stands as a warning to all, Wherever the gospel shall come! O hasten and yield to the call, While yet for repentance there's room! Your season will quickly be past; Then hear and obey it to-day, Lest when you seek mercy at last, The Saviour should frown you away. What is it the world can propose? A morsel of meat at the best! For this are you willing to lose A share in the joys of the blest? Its pleasures will speedily end, Its favor and praise are but breath; And what can its profits befriend Your soul in the moments of death? If Jesus, for these, you despise, And sin to the Saviour prefer, In vain your entreaties and cries, When summon'd to stand at his bar: How will you his presence abide? What anguish will torture your heart, The saints all enthron'd by his side, And you be compelled to depart. Too often, dear Saviour, have I Preferr'd some poor trifle to thee; How is it thou dost not deny The blessing and birth-right to me? No better than Esau I am, Though pardon and heaven be mine To me belongs nothing but shame, The praise and the glory be thine." I. The Little Pavior. "Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be pure, and whether it be right,"--PROVERBS, xx. 11. Happy the child who is active, intelligent and obliging, and who takes pleasure in serving those that are about him! Happy above all is the child, who, fearing and loving the Lord, shows himself thus zealous and obliging, from a feeling of piety, and a desire to please God. Such was Francis, and this we shall soon see, from the following narrative: Francis, who was about eight years old, was spending the month of June with his Grandpapa in the country. His Grandpapa lived in a pretty house, roofed with slates, and surrounded with a verandah, in which were seats, and between each seat, some flower-pots. Jessamine and roses entwined themselves around the verandah, and adorned it with elegant festoons of flowers. Behind the house was a yard, where chickens, turkeys, and guinea-fowls, were kept; and in the front, looking towards the west, was laid out a fine garden, well provided with evergreens, such as holly, yew, and pine-trees, and amongst these, also, many birch and ash-trees flourished. At the bottom of the garden, which sloped a little, flowed a pure, but shallow stream, which was crossed by means of a wooden bridge, surrounded with elders and large hazels. This was a delightful dwelling-place, but those who inhabited it, were still more delightful than the beautiful garden or the smiling groves. For it was the beauty of piety which was found in them, united with that gentleness and amiability of character, that humble spirit of cordiality, which our Saviour enjoins upon all his true disciples. These inhabitants, so good and so amiable, were the Grandpapa and Grandmamma of Francis, and their domestics, who, with them served the Lord, and lived in that peace, which His Spirit gives to such as delight in His Word. This dear Grandpapa then, since he was pious, was charitable, and took particular pleasure in visiting his aged neighbors, especially the poor peasants, to whom he always carried comfort and encouragement from that gracious God, with whom he himself daily endeavored more and more to live. He used generally to pay these charitable visits in the middle of the day; after having read the Holy Bible for the second time, in a retired summer-house in the garden, near which a little gate opened upon a footpath, which, passing through the orchard, led to the village. Francis, who was already acquainted with his Grandpapa's habits, never came to disturb him while he was in the summer-house, and whenever he saw his Grandpapa going out of the little gate he took good care not to follow him. But in about an hour or two, he would go to meet him, sometimes towards the road, at others, as far as the bridge over the stream;--his Grandmamma was never uneasy, because she knew that Francis was a prudent boy, and that God watched over him, as one of the lambs of the good shepherd. Grandpapa then, had just finished reading; he had put on his hat and taken his cane, and had gone out through the gate. Francis, who was sitting before the house, under the pretty green verandah, saw him pass behind the garden hedge, and was already thinking of going to meet him at the end of an hour, when to his great surprise he saw his Grandpapa pass again behind the hedge, and then enter the garden through the little gate, walking apparently with much difficulty. "What is the matter, dear Grandpapa?" cried Francis, springing towards the garden.--"Oh! how you are covered with mud! It must be that rude Driver who wanted to fawn upon you. He has always such dirty paws." "You must not scold Driver, but _me_," mildly replied his Grandpapa, "for I incautiously, and most imprudently, walked upon that part of the path which has been inundated by the water from the fountain." "Grandpapa, did you fall?" asked Francis, quite alarmed. "Yes my boy, your Grandfather fell like a heedless man.... But thanks to our gracious God, who ever takes care of us! it was nothing; I was only a little frightened. You see, Francis, you must not forget that we only stand, because God supports us." So saying, his Grandfather entered the house, and with the same serenity related his accident to his wife, who bestowed every attention upon him. Whilst his Grandfather was resting himself, and Francis had ascertained that he had not suffered much, he hastened to look at the spot where his kind Grandpapa had slipped and fallen. It was a little bit of the path, perhaps about three paces long, covered with the water which was issuing from the fountain, and which being of clay, had become very slippery. The trench round the fountain had been already deepened more than once, in order to turn its course from that part of the orchard, but as the ground was rather low, the water always returned. Francis examined all this, and tried to find out what could be done to remedy the evil, in a more durable manner. "_I know!_" he cried at last. "I must make a pavement here, a little higher than the path is at present!" "Come! cheer up! 'Where there's a will,' says Grandpapa, 'with God's help there's a way.' To work, to work! 'For he who does nothing makes little progress,' says also, my dear Grandpapa." It may be here well asked, how a little child, eight years of age, could even conceive such a project, and much more how he could have had sufficient strength to accomplish it. But Francis was not a thoughtless or inattentive child; on the contrary he observed on his way _to_, and _from_ School, and when he walked out with his Papa, everything that workmen did. It was thus that he had often noticed how the Paviors first laid down the stones, and then pressed them together, and as we shall soon see, he found no difficulty in what he was going to attempt. "First and foremost," said he, "the tools!" and immediately he ran off to look for a little wheel-barrow which his Grandpapa had made for him; with the spade, the trowel, and the iron rake, which were at his disposal. When the tools were collected, Francis, having taken off his jacket, traced out the portion to be paved. "Now," said he, "I must take away two or three inches of earth, that the stones may fit in." He then took away the earth, and piled it up on the upper side of the path, in order to compel the water to pass by the drain. "Now," he said, "I must find some sand; where is there any? Oh! behind the hen-house; the masons, who plastered the walls of the yard over again, have left a large heap of it there"--and then he quickly ran with his wheelbarrow, once, twice, and even three times, and soon had as much as was necessary. He spread it out, and arranged it, and then pronounced the great word of all his work, "_Stones!_ No stones, no pavement! I must have at least fifty of them!" He ran about, searched and gathered, near the fountain, round the house, and along the wall of the yard, and soon brought back four wheelbarrows full of nice stones, well shaped, and not too large. But there were not enough, for he was obliged to put five or six abreast. Where are there any more to be found? "In the brook," cried he! "It is rather far off, but I shall soon be there!" And indeed in about a quarter of an hour, he had collected all the proper materials. Then should he have been seen at work! The trowel in his right hand, a stone in his left; the sand which he placed between each stone, and the blows which forced it down, these things succeeded each other rapidly, and were often repeated; till at length, at the end of the third hour, the slippery bit of foot-path was no longer in existence, but in its stead was to be seen a pavement slightly raised, which could never be wetted by the overflowing of the fountain. "That will not do well," said Francis, when he had finished, and was walking over the pavement; "it is uneven, Grandpapa will hurt his feet upon it." And so saying, he ran to the woodhouse in the yard, and returned, bending under the weight of the mallet, with which Thomas used to strike the axe and wedges, when he split the large pieces of oak. "Here is _my_ rammer," said Francis, laughing, as he thought of those used by the paviors; and holding the mallet perpendicularly, he struck with the butt-end, first one stone, and then another, until at length the pavement was completed! It was solid, even and clean, and Francis, repeating in truth, "Where there's a will, with God's help, there's a way," gave thanks in his heart to that good heavenly Father, who gave him both the idea and the will to do this act of filial love, and enabled him to accomplish it. Some sand and a few stones remained; Francis took them up and carried them back near to the house. Then he cleared away the rubbish, and having put on his coat again, returned joyfully to replace his tools in the green-house. All this was done after dinner, between the hours of three and six. The evening passed quietly away. Grandpapa had not received any bruises, and he could not sufficiently thank the Good shepherd, the Lord Jesus, who had, as it were, "carried him in his arms," and "kept all his bones." Grandmamma joined in his praises and thanksgivings, and these two faithful servants blessed the Lord together, whose mercies are over all his works. "To-morrow, please God," said Grandpapa to Francis, "I shall go and see old George. He must have expected me to-day! But be assured, my dear Francis, that your Grandpapa will walk no more like a giddy child; and if the path is still slippery, I shall place my foot prudently upon it." Francis said he hoped the path would be better; and however that might be, that the Lord would preserve him thenceforth from slipping, and above all, from falling. Grandpapa made Francis read the Bible as usual to the whole household. He spoke piously of God's paternal care for our bodies as well as for our souls, and in his prayer he gave abundant thanks to the Saviour who had so graciously preserved him. The morrow came. Grandpapa had quite recovered his accident of the preceding day, and after reading in the summer-house, he got up to go and see old George. Francis, who was observing him from beneath the verandah, no sooner saw him come near the little gate, than he ran round the house to hide himself behind a hazel bush, a short distance from the pavement, in order to see what his Grandpapa would do. Grandpapa walked on towards the orchard, and as soon as he set his foot on the path, he prepared to proceed very carefully. He took three or four steps, and then suddenly stopped, and raising his hands, exclaimed, a "pavement! a pavement here already! How does this happen? Who could have done this? It must be my faithful Thomas!"--he continued--"I must thank him for it;" and he called out loudly, "Thomas! Thomas!" Thomas, who was in the cow-house, heard his voice, and ran to him in alarm. "Have you tumbled again, sir," he asked anxiously? "On the contrary," said Grandpapa, "thanks to _you_, Thomas, for having made this good substantial pavement so quickly and so well; it is really excellent," said he, stamping upon it with his foot, and walking over it in every direction. "It is solid, and even, and slopes on either side! I am very much obliged to you, Thomas." "Alas! sir," said the man, "it is not I who did it--how vexed I am that I did not think of it what stupidity!"... "Who is it then?" asked Grandpapa, "for this has been done since yesterday, and surely these stones are not mushrooms! Who could have thought of this?" "I think I know who it is, sir," answered Thomas, "for yesterday in the afternoon I saw master Francis going down to the brook with his wheelbarrow. I could not think what it was for, but now I understand." "Francis! did you say," exclaimed Grandpapa; "how could that child have done it even if he had wished? Are these stones only nuts, that _that_ dear boy's little hands could have been able to knock them into the ground?" "Do you wish, sir, that I should look for him and bring him here?" asked Thomas. Francis could no longer remain concealed. He ran from behind the bush, and threw himself into his Grandpapa's arms; saying, "Dear Grandpapa, how happy I am to have been able to succeed." "It is _you_ then, indeed, my son!" cried Grandpapa, as he shed tears of joy. "God bless your filial piety towards me! May He return you two-fold all the good you have done my heart. But how did you manage?" "You have often told me, dear Grandpapa, that 'Where there's a will, with the help of God, there's a way,' and I prayed to God, and was able to do it." "Well then, dear Francis," said Grandpapa, solemnly, "I promise you, that every day of my life, as long as I shall walk here below, when I pass over this pavement, which your affection has made for me, I will say to God 'O Lord, prevent Francis from falling in his way! May thy goodness _pave_ for him the path of life, whenever it becomes slippery.'" Francis understood, and respectfully received this blessing; and whilst his Grand father paid his visit, the little pavior went and told his Grandmamma, what he had been able to do, and how God had already blessed him for it. II. The Silver Knife. "Then said Jesus unto him: Go and do thou likewise."--LUKE, x. 37. _Mary_.--(After having searched about the dining-room,) "Who has seen my silver knife? William, John, Lucy, you who are amusing yourselves in the garden, have you seen my silver knife?" _William_.--(Going up to the window, and in a sententious tone of voice,) "'Disorder,' says an ancient writer, 'occasions sorrow, and negligence, blame.'" _Mary_.--"Admirable! But that does not apply to _me_, for it is scarcely an hour since I laid my knife on this very table, which certainly belongs to us." _Lucy_.--"Are you quite sure of it, Mary!" _Mary_--"Yes, indeed, there is no doubt of it, for Sophy asked me to give her a pretty little red apple, as usual, before going to school. I went immediately to the fruit-room for it, and as it was a little spoiled, I cleaned it with my silver knife, which I laid on this table, whilst I was kissing her. I am therefore quite sure of it." _John_.--(Frowning,)--"For my part, I confess, I don't like all these strangers who come about the house. For instance, that little _Jane_, who sells lilies of the valley, and strawberries, and so on--I very much distrust her sullen look; and who knows, if perhaps...?" _Lucy_--"Fie, fie, brother, to suspect that poor little modest gentle child, who supports her sick mother by her own industry! Oh! it is very wrong, John!" "What is the matter?" said their Father, who had heard this dispute from the garden, where he was reading under the shade of a tree. Mary related her story, and finished by saying,--"Well, if it be God's will, So-be-it! My beautiful knife is lost!" "Yes, my dear girl," answered her father, "What God wills, is always best. But it is His will that I should watch over, my household. I must therefore know what has become of your knife. Did you ask Elizabeth if she had taken care of it, when she cleaned the room?" Mary ran to the kitchen, and enquired of Elizabeth. "Your silver knife! Miss," said the servant, coloring. "Have you lost that beautiful knife, which was given you on your birthday?" "I ask you, if you have taken care of it," answered Mary. "I laid it this morning upon the table in the dining-room, near the window." _Elizabeth_.--(with astonishment,)--"Near the window! Oh!--I know where it is, now. About half an hour ago, when I went into the dining-room, to ... put ... down ... some plates, I saw the great magpie, which builds its nest up in the large elm-tree, at the end of the garden, sitting on the window-ledge. It flew away as soon as it saw me; but it had something white and shining in its beak. Oh! yes, I remember now! it was the silver knife!" "The magpie," exclaimed Mary, "with my knife in its beak!" "Oh! Miss," replied Elizabeth, "there is no thief like a magpie. When I was at home, one of their nests was once pulled down, and nine pieces of silver were found in it, and a whole necklace of pearls! Oh! magpies are terrible birds, and you may be sure that your knife is in their nest." Mary returned to her father in the garden, and related to him all that Elizabeth had said, but added, "For my part, I don't believe a word of it!" "And why not?" exclaimed John, sharply, "Elizabeth is quite right! Nothing steals like a magpie. Everybody says so. Come! let us to work! A ladder, a cord, and a long stick! Down with the nest!--Papa, will you allow me to climb the tree!" _Lucy._--(Holding John by the arm.)--"Brother, how _can_ you think of it? The elm is more than eighty feet high! Papa, I beg of you, not to allow it." _Father_.--(Calmly.)--"No one shall get up the tree and risk his life, for a thing which certainly is not there." "There is no thief like a magpie," repeated John, looking at the nest, which might be seen through the higher branches of the tree; "but I confess it would not be easy to reach it. These branches are very long and very slender!" William, who had said nothing as yet, but had been walking backwards and forwards, with his head down, and his hands in his pockets, turned suddenly round to Mary, and said, "I have been thinking we can soon know if your knife is in the nest. We only want a polemoscope for that. Hurrah! long live optics!" "A lemoscope!" said Lucy, "What is that? Is it a long hook?" _William_.--(Smiling rather contemptuously.) "Poor sister! What ignorance!" _Father_--"William, speak kindly--tell your sister what this instrument is, and what you want to do with it." _William._--(Scientifically.)--"In war, when a besieged garrison wishes to know all the movements of the enemy, without being seen, they erect behind the walls, or the ramparts, a mirror, placed at the end of a long pole, and inclining towards the country. You understand, then, that everything that takes place outside, is reflected in the mirror, and can be seen from within, or in another mirror placed at the bottom of the pole, and sloping inwards. This, Lucy, is what is called a polemoscope--that is to say, an instrument for observations in war." "Thank you, William," said Lucy, "but what are you going to do with it?" _William._--"The thing is quite plain. I am going to fasten a small mirror on a light pitchfork, inclining it downwards. This pitchfork I shall fasten firmly to pole; then some one will climb, dear papa, without any danger, as far as the strong branches reach; from thence he can draw up the pole and its mirror, with a long string, and by raising the mirror above the nest, he will enable us to see, with the aid of your telescope, all that the nest contains. This is my plan, and I think it is not so bad!" _Father_.--(Smiling.)--"Dear William. It is a great pity, however, that you are so blind. There are two things you have not considered. One is, that the branches which cover the nest, are very thick and tufted. Therefore, your mirror, even if it reached their summit, would only reflect the leaves, and consequently neither the nest nor the knife; and the other thing which you do not observe, is this, that the magpies, by an admirable instinct, which God has given them, build their nests, not like a basin, as you supposed, but in the form of a ball; so that the nest is covered with a vaulted roof, formed of sticks closely interwoven, which shelters the bird and its brood from bad weather, and above all, from the cruel claw of the kite or hawk." "I am much obliged to you, dear papa," said William. "What a pity," he added, with a sigh; "for my plan would otherwise have been infallible." "Let us seek a better one," said their father. "Mary, go and see if you have not left your knife in the fruit-room. Perhaps it was yesterday, that you peeled the apple for Sophy." "I will do so," said Mary, and she went into the house for the key of the fruit-room. She soon returned, exclaiming, "The key is not in its place, and I put it there this morning." "Miss Mary is mistaken," said Elizabeth, coming out of the kitchen; "I see the key in the door." "Papa," said Mary, "I recollect, when I put the key in the cupboard, this very morning, Sophy looked at it, and said, 'It is certainly the prettiest key on the bunch.'" "Let us go to the fruit-room," said the father, directing his steps thither. "I fear this will prove a sad affair." "What is this, too," cried Mary, examining the shelves, "the big key of the cellar here Where did it come from? And this key covered with cheese, from one end to the other!" "Let us go to the cellar!" said the father. "I believe we shall find out more there than we can here." They opened the door, and found the brilliant silver knife, not in the magpie's nest, but sticking in a cheese, from which a large portion appeared to have been detached. The children were amazed, and their Father much grieved. "Here is your knife, Mary," said John, who first saw it. "Certainly, there is no need of a looking-glass to find it." "You must not joke, my children," said the Father; "this is a very sad business. I am thankful it has taken place in the absence of your dear Mother, and I forbid you writing her anything about it. This must concern me, and me alone." _William_.--(Indignantly.)--"It amounts to a theft, a falsehood!" _Lucy_.--"But who has done it, William? Did not Mary leave her knife here?" _William_.--"Who saw the Magpie carrying it off in his beak?" _Mary_.--(To Lucy.)--"Do you not understand that it was poor Elizabeth, who came here with my knife, which she took off the table where I left it, and who, after having cut a piece of cheese with it, went to the fruit-room, no doubt to steal some apples also." _John_.--(Angrily.)--"Papa, Elizabeth has acted deceitfully--will you allow her to remain with you? One of the Psalms, the 101st, I think, says, 'He that worketh deceit shall not dwell within my house.'" _The Father_.--(Gravely.) "It is said also in Holy Scriptures, my son, that 'mercy rejoiceth against judgment,' and perhaps, John, if any of us, had been brought up like poor Elizabeth, we might have done even worse than this." "I am quite vexed," said Mary, "Oh! why did I not take more care of that wretched knife!" _William._--"But, Mary, it was not your knife left upon the table, which tempted her to take two keys secretly out of the cupboard, and which made them the instruments of this theft. For Papa," continued he, "it _is_ a theft, and a shameful one too! These stolen keys are no small matter!" _The Father_.--(Calmly.)--"I know it my children, and it grieves my heart, that one of my servants, who daily hears the word of God read and explained, should so far have forgotten the fear of the Lord! This is what saddens me, and wounds me deeply." _Lucy_.--"Elizabeth has not long been our cook, and probably she never heard the word of God before she came here. Poor girl I she is perhaps very unhappy now,--and I am sure, she will repent and turn to God." _The Father_.-"That is right, my dear child, I rejoice to hear you plead the cause of the unhappy, and even of the guilty, for as I said before, 'mercy rejoiceth against judgment.'" "I was therefore wrong," said John, "and I confess it ... for certainly I scarcely pitied her.... I did wrong I and now I think as Lucy does." "And I also," said William, "'Clemency governs courage,' says a Grecian historian, and ..." _The Father._--(Very seriously.)--"But, my dear William, what have the pagans of old and their morals to do here? My son, you know it is the word of God which rules our conduct, and which commands us to suffer and to forgive." _Lucy._--"Papa, will you allow me to repeat a passage, which I learnt by heart last Sunday?" _The Father._--"Repeat it, Lucy, and may God bless it to us all!" _Lucy._--"'Execute true judgment, and show mercy and compassion every man to his brother.' It is in the seventh chapter of Zechariah." "I too, was wrong then," said William, "very wrong! for it is the wisdom of God alone, that enlightens us." "True, my son," said his Father, "may God always remind you of this. I am going to speak to Elizabeth," he added, "as for you, my children, do not say a word about it, and above all, bless the Lord, for having made known to you his grace and holy law. Pray to him together, that my words may have their due effect upon the mind of this poor guilty creature." The Father went out to look for Elizabeth, and the children repaired to William's room, who, having knelt down with them, prayed to the Lord to take pity upon her, and to touch her heart, and he ended the prayer in the following words:--"In thy great wisdom, O Most Gracious God, and in thine infinite compassion, through Jesus Christ, grant unto each of us true repentance, and a sincere change of heart, and may this affliction be turned to the glory of our Saviour Jesus." The children then returned to their several occupations, and not one of them ever thought of judging Elizabeth, or even speaking harshly of her. We may add, that the exhortation of her charitable master, produced sincere penitence in Elizabeth, and that the poor girl was not sent out of the house; for "mercy pleaded against judgment." It is thus that God deals with us! Oh! which of us can tell how often he has received pardon from the Lord! III. The Modern Dorcas "The night cometh when no man can work."--JOHN, ix. Oh! my sister! my sister! What a lesson may we learn from the death of our dear Amelia! She was but sixteen years old like myself, and only two years older than you are, but how much had she done for the Lord. I saw and heard her, when Jesus came to call her to himself; I was in the churchyard when they placed her body in the grave! Oh! what a solemn warning! and now I feel humbled before God, and I pray Him to pour into my heart the same Spirit which He bestowed so abundantly upon our friend, as well as that lively faith, which although Amelia 'is dead, yet speaketh,' as it is said of Abel, and which shall speak through her for many years to come! I wrote to you less than a fortnight ago, that Amelia was unwell; but how little I then thought it was her last illness! Oh! how uncertain our life is, dear Esther, and how much wiser we should be if we would only believe so! On the seventh day of her illness, her mother said to me, "Anna, your friend is going to leave us; the danger of her disorder increases every hour, and we must give her up to God!" I wept much and bitterly, and could not at first believe it; but when I was alone with Amelia, the next day, she said to me, with that calm peacefulness which never left her, "I am going away from this world, Anna; yes, dear Anna, I am going to depart; I feel it, and ... I am preparing myself for it!" I tried to turn away her thoughts from this subject; I told her that she was mistaken, and that God would certainly restore her; but she stopped me with firmness of manner, and said, "Do you envy my happiness, Anna? Do you wish to prevent me from going to my Heavenly home, to my Saviour, unto his light and glory?" The entrance of her father and the Doctor prevented my reply, and I left the room in tears. "You must not cry," said her mother to me. "We must pray, and above all, seek profit from the occasion. The time is short! Her end is at hand! But," added this servant of Christ, "_that_ end is the beginning of a life which shall have no end!" Three more days passed away. On the fourth, we had some faint hope, but the following day, all had vanished, and towards evening, Amelia declared, that the Lord was about to take her. "Yes, my dear parents, my excellent father and mother," she said, with a beam of heavenly joy on her countenance, "I am about to leave you; but I do not leave my God, for I am going to see Him, 'face to face.'" "My dear parents," she continued, affectionately, "rejoice at my departure; I am going to Heaven a little before you, it is true, but it is _only before you_, and you know it; and the Apostle says, that, 'to be with Christ is far better.'" I was present, Esther, and was crying. "Why do you cry, Anna?" she said, "Are you sorry to see me go to my Father's house?" "But, Amelia, _I_ lose you; we all lose you; and ..." "I do not like to hear you say that, Anna; do not repeat it, and do not think of it. Our Saviour says that, 'He who believes on Him shall not see death;' and I am certain, that my soul is about to join those of His saints who have already departed this life, for His grace has also justified _me._" "Ah!" said her aunt, who had not left her bedside for two days, "you have always done the will of God, dear Amelia; you are therefore sure of going to Him." "Dear aunt," she replied, with sorrow on her countenance, "I assure you that you grieve me. I have been during the whole of my life, but a poor sinner, and have by no means done what you say; but.... God Himself has pardoned me, and it is only, my dear aunt, because the blood of Jesus has washed away my sins, that I shall see God." It was thus, my sister, that Amelia spoke at intervals almost the whole night. Her voice at length became weaker; and towards morning, after a slight drowsiness, she said to her father, "Papa, embrace your child once more." She then turned to her mother, and said, "My dear mamma, embrace me also, and ... may Jesus comfort you all!" A few minutes after, our darling friend fell gradually asleep, and her last breath died away like the expiring flame of a candle. She experienced nothing of the agony of death. Truly, dear Esther, Amelia knew not what death was! But oh! how I have myself suffered! and how difficult it is to tear one's self thus forever here below, from such a friend as she was! Nevertheless, my sister, God knows we have not dared to murmur. I wish you had heard the prayer that Amelia's father offered up, when his daughter had ceased to breathe! Oh! it was the spirit of consolation itself which spoke! And since that solemn hour, what piety, what strength and peace of mind, Amelia's mother his displayed! I am sure you would have said, that the Lord was present, and that He was telling us with His own voice: "Amelia triumphs--she is in _My_ glory!" I wished to be in the churchyard when our friend, or rather, when her body of dust, was committed to the grave. There were many persons present, but especially poor people; some old men, and several children, came to take their last leave of her. A grey-headed and feeble old man was standing near the grave, leaning with his two hands on a staff, and with his head depressed. He wept aloud, when the clergyman mentioned Amelia's name, as he prayed, and gave thanks to God. He then stooped down, and taking a little earth in his hand, said, as he scattered it over the coffin: "Sleep, sweet messenger of consolation! Sleep, until He whom thy lips first proclaimed to me, calls thee to arise!" And with this, he burst into tears, as they filled the grave. When all was finished, and the funeral procession had departed, the poor people who were present approached the grave, sobbing, and repeating, "Sweet messenger of goodness! Our kind friend, our _true_ mother!" And two or three of the children placed upon her grave nosegays of box and white flowers. "Alas," said a young girl, "she will never hear me read the Bible again, nor instruct me how to live!" Another cried loudly, "Who will now come to visit my sick mother, and read the Bible to her, and bring her comfort and assistance." And there was a father, a poor workman, with two little boys, who, holding his children by the hand, came and placed himself near the spot where the head of Amelia was laid, saying to them, "Here, my poor children, under this sod, rests that sweet countenance which used to smile upon you, as if she had been your mother! Her lips have often told you, that you were not orphans, and that God was better to you than a parent.... Well, my dear children, let us remember what she used to say: 'God has not forgotten us, and He will sustain us!'" I was with my brother, who himself wept with all his heart, to see the sincere grief of these poor people. He whispered to me, "I have a great mind to speak to them, and ask them what Amelia used to do for them." I had the same wish; so we approached a group which surrounded the grave, and asked them when they had become acquainted with Amelia. "For my part," answered the old man, already spoken of, "this messenger of peace visited me two years ago, for the first time. I lived near a family to whom she had brought some worsted stockings, for winter was just setting in, and so my neighbor mentioned me to her, as a poor infirm old man. She desired to see me, and had she been my own daughter, she could never have shown me more respect and kindness! She procured me a warm quilt that same evening, and on the morrow, towards the middle of the day, she came with her excellent mother to pay me a long visit. "You must know, sir," continued the old man, to my brother, "I was then very ignorant, or rather my heart was hard and proud towards God. I had no Bible, and did not care about one. Well, this dear young lady not only brought me one, with her own hands, but came to read and explain it to me, with great patience, at least three times a week, during the first twelve months. "God took pity on me," added the old man, in a low voice, "and last year I began better to understand the full pardon which is in Christ Jesus, and was even able to pray with Miss Amelia. "She used sometimes to call me, 'My old father,' but it was I who ought to have called _her_ the _mother_, the true mother of my soul. "Just one month ago, she came to me for the last time; she gave me with a sweet smile, these worsted gloves, which she had knitted herself, and then recommended me with much respect and kindness to thank our Lord, who sent them me! This was the last of that sweet lady's charities to me!"... Upon this, the old man turned away weeping, and as he walked slowly on, he frequently looked back upon the newly-covered grave. "The same thing happened to me," said the workman. "The mother of these two little children died ten months ago; we were in want of everything, then, and I knew not even how to dress these children. Believe me, Miss," he added, addressing me with feeling, "when the mother is gone, all is gone!... but our gracious God did not forsake us, for He sent us his angel; I say His angel, although she is at present much more than an angel!... Is she not indeed a child of God in heaven? ... but, in short, she clothed these two little ones, and I am sure she did not spare herself in working for them; the clothes they now wear were made chiefly by that dear young lady's hands. Then she used to come and visit us; she often made my two children go to her house, and always gave them good advice. She also sent them to school, and although it was certainly her mother who paid for them, yet it was Miss Amelia who taught them to read at home, and who, almost every Sunday, made them repeat their Bible lessons. "Ah, Miss," he continued, "all that that dear young lady did for us, for our souls as well as for our bodies, will only be known in heaven, and at the last day. For my part, and I say it here over her grave, and in the presence of God, I am certain, that when the Lord Jesus shall raise us all up again, the works of Miss Amelia will follow her, and we shall then see that while upon earth she served God with all her heart. "No," he added, as he wiped away the tears from his children's eyes, "I would not wish her to return from the glory which she now enjoys, at the same time I cannot conceal from you, that my heart mourns for her, and that I know we have lost our consolation, our benefactress, our faithful friend!" "Who has not lost one?" exclaimed a poor woman, at whose side stood the little girls who had planted the flowers; "I know very well that Miss Amelia's mother will take her place, she is so good and kind! but it was no little joy to receive a visit from that sweet and amiable young lady, so good, so pious, and so full of joy. Oh! what should I have done with my husband, so long confined to his bed, if this messenger of goodness had not procured work for me, and recommended me to the ladies who now employ me. And then again, what were we, until Miss Amelia spoke to us? How much she had to put up with when I refused to read the Holy Scriptures! and yet she was never weary of me. Oh! no; she came day after day, to exhort and to teach me, and blessed be God, we begin now to know something of what the Saviour has done for us. "And," added she, drawing the little girl towards her, "I shall go on with my dear children, reading and learning that word of God, which was Miss Amelia's greatest joy. "Come, come, my friends," she said, in a persuasive tone, "_we_ must also die, and be put each in his turn, under this ground; but as our benefactress is not dead ... (no, she is not dead, for the Lord has said it!)--so also shall not we die, if we follow in her steps." The poor woman then wished us good day, and moved away with her children. We all walked on together, still speaking of Amelia. My brother took the names and addresses of many of the poor people, with whom he had just been conversing, and spoke a few words to them of comfort and encouragement. As soon as we were alone, he showed me the list of names, at the head of which was that of the old man, and he said, "Here is a blessed inheritance which Amelia has left us. She has done as Dorcas did: her hands have clothed the poor, and her lips have spoken comfort to them. Dear Anna, Amelia was not older than we are; let us remember this, for we know not when the Lord shall call us." How wise and pious this dear brother is! We have already been able to pay together, two of Amelia's visits. Her mother, to whom we related all we had heard, gave us further particulars of what the pious and indefatigable Amelia used to do. Ah Esther, her religion was not mere "lip-service." The Spirit of the Lord Jesus Christ assisted her, and she might have said with truth, I show "my faith by my works." Let us take courage, then, my dear and kind sister! we lament our loss in Amelia's death, but on her own account I lament her not. I can only contemplate her in the presence of God, and of her Saviour, and I rejoice to think of her delight when she entered the region of heaven. How beautiful it must be, Esther, to behold the glory of that heaven! to hear the voices of saints and angels, and to know that God loves us, and will make us happy forever. Think, sister, of the meaning of--_forever!_ Amelia's father, whom I saw a few hours ago with her excellent and pious mother, said to me, in speaking of their darling child, "For my own joy and comfort I should have wished to have kept her with us; but, my dear Anna, even if I could have done so, what would have been all our happiness, compared with that which she now possesses in the presence of her God." But do not suppose, my sister, that Amelia, with all her piety, was less prudent with regard to the things of this world, than faithful regarding those of heaven. Her mother has shown me her books, and her different arrangements, all of which indicate that discretion spoken of in Scripture, carried out in the most minute particulars. First, as respects order and cleanliness in everything belonging to her: it would be impossible to imagine a more proper arrangement than the one she made of each article, both in her wardrobe, her writing-table, her work-box, and her account-book. She had not much money to devote to her works of charity, but her industry made up for her limited means; for instance, in opening the Bible which she generally made use of, I found in it, four or five pages written with a great deal of care; and her journal informed her mother, who read it, of the reason of this circumstance. It runs thus: "As old Margaret has but one Bible, some of the leaves of which have been lost, I have given her mine, which is quite complete, and have taken hers, adding to it some sheets of paper, upon which I have written the passages which were deficient. Thus I have saved the expense of a new Bible; and it is the same thing to me." Amelia's diary is very remarkable; her mother has allowed me to read many portions of it, and to copy out what relates to her usual manner of employing each day. I send it to you, dear Esther, and you will find, as I have done, that the Spirit of God always teaches those who trust in Him, how precious _time_ is here below. The following is what our dear friend wrote upon this subject. "_January 1st_, 1844--Nearly eighteen centuries, and a half have passed away, since our Saviour took upon himself the form of human flesh for our salvation. Those years seemed long as they succeeded each other, but now that they are gone, they appear as nothing. "Families, and nations, and the mighty generations of mankind, which, in times gone by, peopled the earth, have all passed away. Nothing remains of them here below! "But such is not the case in heaven,--I should rather say,--in eternity. There, all these nations still exist, no man can be absent, but must appear before the Sovereign Judge, to answer for the use which he has made of his time. "How short that time is! Where are the years that David lived, and where are those which Methuselah passed in this world? their whole duration seems, at this distance, in the words of St. James, 'Even as a vapor that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.' "It will therefore be the same with me. I know not how long I shall live here below, perhaps I shall see but a portion of this year, and shall enter into glory before it is concluded; or perhaps I shall yet see many more years. This the Lord knows, and I ought not to consider that such knowledge would be of any importance to me, since that which constitutes my _life_, is not its length or duration, but the use which is made of it. "It is to Jesus, then, that all my life must be devoted, without him I can do nothing. 'My life is hid with Christ in God.' He has 'bought me with a price,' I ought, therefore, 'to glorify God in my body, and in my spirit, which are God's.' "Truly to live is to know, that my thoughts and actions are all directed to the glory of Jesus, whether upon earth by faith and hope, or in heaven by the sight and by the glory of God. "But here below, I have only time at my disposal; that is to say, days composed of hours or rather, I have in reality but a single day to make use of. Yesterday is no longer mine, and to-morrow, where is it? I have it not yet, and perhaps shall never see it. "Lo my earthly life is 'to-day.' What must I do then with 'to-day,' that God may be honored and glorified in it? for after all, if I have the happiness of counting the year 1844, as dating from a Christian era, and not from that of a false prophet with the Mahomedans, nor yet of a false God, with the poor Indians, it must be to Jesus Christ, from whose birth I count my years, that those years should be dedicated. "Here I am, therefore, in the presence of my Saviour, of whom I implore the Spirit of wisdom and prudence to guide me in the employment of this my day, since in reality I have but one, and that is, 'To-day.' "But I cannot do better than walk in the footsteps of my Redeemer, and in his conduct and conversation whilst on earth, I observe these three things: Temperance, piety, and charity, to all of which he wholly devoted himself, and has thus left me an example to follow. "I will therefore imitate him first in his temperance. He rose early in the morning--he eat frugally--he worked diligently--he wearied himself in well-doing: in a word, he exerted the whole strength of his mind and body in the cause of truth, but never in the cause of evil. "These, therefore, must be settled rules, moderate sleep, moderate repasts, moderate care and attention to the body; active employment, always to a useful purpose, profitable to my neighbor, and never interfering with my duties at home. "In the next place, I must imitate Jesus in His _piety_. His Father's will was as His daily food. What a thought! To live wholly to God, and as He himself teaches us in His Holy Word. To do this, I must know His Word; I must study it, meditate upon it, and learn it by heart. Besides reading, I must pray, for prayer is the life both of my heart and soul with God. What glory is thus permitted to me, a poor sinner, that I _ought_, and that I _can_, live to Him, love Him, and devote myself to Him! It is heaven already begun on earth; for in heaven my soul will enjoy no other happiness than that of knowing God, and living to His glory. This thought fills me with joy, and I am encouraged by it to consecrate myself wholly to Him, as did my Lord and Saviour. "Lastly, I will, by the grace of God, imitate Jesus in his _charity_. How many souls there are about me to love, to comfort, to enlighten and to assist. But I can only do it in the measure which God himself has assigned to me. At my age, and but a girl, subject to the wishes of my parents, I ought only to desire to do good in proportion to the means with which the Lord has furnished me. But I must, in so doing, endeavor to overcome selfishness, idleness, the love of ease, avarice, hardness of heart, pride, and indifference, and I must love my neighbor as myself. Oh! what an important undertaking, and how many excuses and deceits this kind of charity will encounter and overcome. "But I will look to Jesus, and pray to him; I will implore the secret guidance of his Spirit; and since he is faithful, he will not leave me alone, but will lead me, and enable me to walk day by day, I mean 'to-day,' in his sight, and in communion with him, who is so full of love and gentleness." This, my dear Esther, is what I have copied from Amelia's journal. You see the light in which our friend regarded her life on earth, and how much importance she attached to one _day_--a single day. As I read what she had written, I felt my soul humbled before God, and I trembled to think of the useless way in which I had hitherto spent my time. You see in particular what Amelia felt on the subject of piety; what love her soul had for God! and this is what produced in her that active, sincere, and constant charity. You cannot form the least idea of the work, of kindness and benevolence which she was enabled to accomplish. That passage, "The memory of the just is blessed," is truly applicable to her. Amelia was justified in her Saviour, for she trusted in him, and thus was she also justified before God, by her faith in Jesus. The spirit of Jesus led her in "all her way," and in whatever family she appeared, her actions and words manifested a heavenly mind. Her name is remembered with blessing in the hearts of all who knew her; her counsels, her instructions, her example, and her acts of benevolence, are continually spoken of by those who witnessed them, and it is thus that she left behind a sweet savor of holiness, like a ray of heavenly light. Dear Esther, here is an example placed before us; it has been the will of God that we should know her, that we might be charmed with her excellence, and that the happiness both of her life and death, might tempt us to imitate her. No, no, my sister, she is not dead; she is rather, as the poor workman said, at her grave, "a child of God in heaven." As _she_ followed Jesus, let us also follow her, and let her memory be thus a blessing to us both. God be with you, my dear sister. I long to see you, that we may pray the Lord together, to make us like his faithful, holy servant, the dear and pious Amelia. Yours, &c., ANNA. IV. The Tract found by the Way-Side. "Take away the dross from the silver, and there shall come forth a vessel for the finer." --Prov. XXV. 4. Every one knows in these days what is meant by a _religious tract_. It is a little printed pamphlet, which is sold at a very low price, or is still oftener given away, or dropped in the streets and lanes, that those who either purchase, or accept, or find them, may read the truths of the Gospel, and the good advice which they contain. This is an old-fashioned way of imparting instruction, both to high and low. It was in use, for instance, as early as the first days of the Reformation, when some faithful Christians of Picardy, in France, assembled together to read the Holy Scriptures, on which account they were exposed to persecution, death, and above all, to be burnt alive. These true disciples of the Lord Jesus composed and distributed, with considerable difficulty, some little pamphlets, in which were taught the doctrines of salvation by Christ alone, and in a form which enabled the poor and ignorant to read and understand; for it was impossible for them at that time to procure a Bible, which was not only a scarce book, but cost a large sum of money: indeed, almost as much as a thousand Bibles would cost in the present day, and which, besides, they could not carry home and read quietly to themselves, as they were able to do with a simple tract. At a later period, and chiefly for the last fifty years, this method has been adopted in almost all countries where true Christian churches and societies have been established; and even now, millions of these tracts, adapted to all ages and conditions of men, are published and distributed every year. It is, however, but too true, that many tracts thus distributed are not _religious tracts_; that is to say, the substance of them is not in conformity with the truth of scripture. Many are published for the purpose of upholding false religion and wicked principles, and which, consequently, do great mischief to those who read them. And if it be asked, "How can a good tract be distinguished from a bad one?" we thus reply to this very natural question. A _good tract_ is that which leads us to the Bible; which speaks of the love of God in Christ; and which encourages the reader to be holy from a motive of love to God. A _bad tract_ is therefore that which does not speak of the Bible; which tells us that salvation may be obtained by human merit, and which consequently would persuade us to be religious from interested motives: that is to say, to obtain pardon by means of our own good works. Those tracts, too, which speak of man's happiness as if it came from man alone, and not from God, and which consequently deny the truth of God's word: these must also be called _bad tracts_, and must therefore be carefully avoided. The good that is done by the distribution of good tracts, can scarcely be believed. There are many families, even in prosperity, who never tasted real happiness until some of these evangelical writings found their way amongst them. The following anecdote is an interesting proof of this: The family of a vinedresser, in the Canton of Vaud, in Switzerland, was, unhappily, as well known in the village in which he lived, for his bad conduct, as for his impiety. The father, whose name we will not mention, was a proud and hard-hearted man, both intemperate and dissolute; and his wife, who thought as little of the fear of God as her husband did, was what might be called a _noisy babbler_. The pastor of the village had often, but vainly, endeavored to lead these unhappy people to a sense of religion, but he was always received by them with scoffing and ridicule. The family was composed of the vinedresser's three children. The eldest, Mark, was as haughty as his father, and although he was only fourteen years of age, he was already able to join in the disorders of his drunken and gaming companions. He was entirely devoid of any sense of religion. His sister, Josephine, who was rather more than twelve years old, possessed a more amiable disposition. The pastor's wife took much interest in this child, who could not help seeing that her parents were not guided by the Spirit of God. Peter, the youngest, was but ten years of age, but his brother's wicked example counteracted all the good which he might have received from that of his more amiable sister. About the end of May, there was to be, in a village not far distant, a match at rifle-shooting. It was a public fete, at which all the people in the neighborhood assembled. On the morning of this day, Mark had answered his father with great insolence, at which he was so much enraged, that he punished him severely, and forbad him, besides, to go to the fete. The father went thither himself, and Mark, after a moment's indecision, determined not to heed the command he had received, but to follow him to the shooting-match. He therefore took advantage of his mother's absence, who, according to her usual custom, was gone to gossip with some of her neighbors, and notwithstanding the remonstrances of Josephine, he hastened over fields and hedges, to the scene of the match. "What is this?" cried he, picking up a little pamphlet, with a cover of colored paper, which was lying on the path near the opening in the hedge. "Oh! it is one of those tracts they leave about everywhere; it will do very well to load my gun;" and so saying, he put the tract into his pocket, and ran on as before. But when he approached the village where they were shooting, dancing, playing, and making a great noise, he suddenly stopped, for he recollected that if he should meet with his father, who was there, he would certainly beat him, and send him home again, in presence of all the people who might be assembled; besides, his brother Peter was there also, and he might see him, and tell his father. He therefore kept at a distance, behind a hedge, not daring to advance any farther. "Supposing I read this book!" said he, at last, after having vainly racked his brain to find out how he could be at the fete without being discovered. "There is nothing in it but nonsense, I know beforehand; however, it will occupy me for a while." This tract was called "The Happy Family," and Mark became so much interested in it, that he not only read the whole, but many parts of it twice over. "How odd it is," said he, when he had finished reading; "I should never have thought it could be thus; this Andrew and Julia, after all, were much happier than we are, and than I am, in particular. Ah!" added he, as he walked on by the hedge-side, looking on the ground, "possibly Josephine may have spoken the truth, and that, after all, the right way is the one which this lady points out." As he thought over the little story he had been reading, he retraced his steps towards his own village, at first rather slowly, but soon at a quicker pace, and he entered his father's house very quietly, and without either whistling or making a noise, as he generally did. "You have not then been to the fete," said Josephine. _Mark_.--(A little ashamed.)--"I dared not go, I was afraid my father would beat me." _Josephine_.--"It would have been better, Mark, if you had been equally afraid of offending God." Mark was on the point of ridiculing her, as he always did, but he recollected Andrew and Julia, and was silent. _Josephine_.--(Kindly.)--"But is it not true, Mark? would it not be better to fear God, than to be always offending him?" _Mark_.--(Knitting his brow.)--"Yes, as Andrew and Julia did! would it not?" _Josephine_.--(surprised.)--"Of whom do you speak, Mark? Is it of "The Happy Family," in which an Andrew and a Julia are mentioned. Have you ever read that beautiful story?" "Here it is," said Mark, drawing the tract from his pocket, and giving it to his sister. _Josephine_.--"Yes, this is it, exactly! But brother, where did you get it, for it is quite new; did you buy it of a _Scripture Reader_." "Did I _buy_ it?" said Mark, sullenly. "Do you suppose I should spend my money in such nonsense as _that?_" _Josephine_.--"Then how did you get it? Did any one give it you?" _Mark_.--(Slyly.)--"Ah! they have often tried to give me some, but I tore them to pieces, and threw them away, before their faces!" _Josephine_.--"So much the worse, Mark! for the truth of God is written in them, and it is very sinful to tear the truth of God in pieces." _Mark_.--(Rudely.)--"But you see I have not torn this, for it is quite whole! And as you are so anxious to know how I came by it, I found it on the ground, near the road, and just beyond the brushwood." _Josephine_.--"Ah! then I know where it came from. The Pastor's son, and the two sons of the schoolmaster, have got up a Religious Tract Society, who distribute them in all directions." _Mark_.--(Reproachfully.)--"And pray why do they scatter them about in this way? Can't they leave people alone, without cramming every body's head with their own fancies. Let them keep their religion to themselves, and leave other people to do the same." _Josephine_.--"Do you think, Mark, that Andrew and Julia did wrong to listen to their father and grandmamma, and to follow the precepts of the Bible in preference to the ridicule of scoffers." _Mark_.--(Softened.)--"I did not say _that_.... I think Andrew and Julia were right; but ... come give me back the Tract; I want to look at something in it again." Mark then went away, carrying the Tract with him; and shortly after, Josephine saw him sitting in the garden, behind a hedge of sweet-briar, reading it attentively. "Where's that good-for-nothing Mark?" demanded the vinedresser, when he returned home at night half tipsy. "Did he dare to venture to the shooting-match? I was told that he was seen sneaking about the outskirts of the village! where is he now?" "He went to bed more than an hour ago," answered his mother, "and was no more at the shooting-match than I was, for I saw him reading in the garden." "Mark, _reading_!" replied his father. "What could he be reading? It would be a miracle to see him with a book in his hand. An idle fellow like him, who never did learn any thing, and never will!" The vinedresser's wife was silent, and after putting poor little Peter to bed, who was quite tired and weary, she managed to get the father to bed also, and peace reigned for a season in this miserable abode. Mark, however, who was not asleep when his father returned, had heard himself called a good-for-nothing idle fellow, and he trembled from head to foot, when he found he had been seen in the neighborhood of the village. "What a good thing it was," said he to himself, "that I did not go on! It was certainly God who prevented me!" added he, half ashamed of the thought because it was so new to him; but he determined no longer to resist it. On the morrow, to the great surprise of his father and mother, Mark got up in good humor; he answered his father without grumbling, and when he was desired to go and work in the field, Mark hastened to take his hoe and spade, and set off, singing merrily. "What has happened to him?" asked the father. "One would scarcely believe it was he! Wife, what did you say to him yesterday, to make him so good-humored this morning?" "I never even spoke to him," said his wife, dryly. "You know how whimsical he is." "I wish he may remain in his present mind!" said the vinedresser; and thereupon he went off to the ale-house, to talk with his neighbors of the best shots of the preceding day. Josephine related the history of the little tract to the good pastor's wife, who advised her to meet Mark on his return from the field, and to speak to him again of what he had read. "Is it _you_, sister?" said Mark, in a happy tone of voice, as soon as he saw her. "It is very good of you to meet me." Josephine, who never received such a welcome from him before, was quite delighted, and going up to him, she said, affectionately, "I want very much to talk with you again about Andrew and Julia." _Mark_.--(Seriously.)--"And so do I. I should like very much to resemble them." _Josephine_.--(Quickly.)--"Do you mean what you say, Mark? Have you thought of it again since yesterday?" _Mark_.--(Still serious.)--"I have thought so much about it, that I am determined to change my habits. Yes, Josephine, I think you are right, and that, after all, religion is better than ridicule." The conversation continued as it had commenced, and when Mark returned home, he went up and kissed his mother, who was just laying the table for dinner. "What's the matter?" said she, with some surprise; "you seem in very good spirits, today." "Nothing is the matter, good mother, but that I wish to alter my conduct," replied Mark, seriously. "To alter your conduct," cried little Peter, as he looked up in his brother's face, and began to titter. "And you, too, little Peter," said Mark, "you must become good, also." "What a funny idea," cried the child, laughing. "_What_ has made you turn schoolmaster, all at once? and, pray, when am I to begin?" "We shall see by-and-bye," said Mark, kindly. "In the meantime, come and help me to tend the cow." "There is something behind all this!" said the mother and she blushed to think that this change had not been occasioned by anything she had said or done to him, herself. When the father returned from the ale-house, they all sat down to dinner, and as usual, without saying "_grace_." Josephine said hers to herself, and Mark, who recollected Andrew and Julia, blushed when he took his spoon to eat his soup. After dinner, when they were out of the house, Josephine said to Mark, "What a pity it is, brother, that papa does not pray before each meal." "All _that_ will come in time, Josephine," said Mark; "I never prayed myself, and yet ... I must now begin directly. But what shall I do? Papa will be very angry if he sees me religious." "I do not think he will," said Josephine, "for I heard him say to mumma, this morning, that he should be very glad if your conduct improved." Mark blushed, but did not reply. He returned to his work without being desired to do so, and his father, who was quite astonished, said to his wife, "There is something very extraordinary about Mark. I wish it may last." "You wish it may last!" said his wife; "how can you wish that, when you do not care to improve yourself." "And you, my poor wife," said the vinedresser, "do you care to change any more than I do? I think as to that matter, we cannot say much against each other." "Well, at all events," said his wife, "I am not a drunkard." "Nor am I a tattler," replied the husband. "And for this reason let us each think of our own fault, and if Mark is disposed to reform, do not let us prevent him; for, my poor wife, _our_ example is not a very good one for him." Josephine, who was working at her needle, in the adjoining room, could not help overhearing this confession of her father, and she felt the more encouraged to uphold Mark in his good intention. She therefore went again to meet him, and repeated to him all she had heard. "I think," added she, "you will do well to relate what has happened to our father and mother, and read them the little tract." "Not yet," said Mark, "for my principles are not sufficiently strong. It is but an hour since the ale-house keeper's son laughed at me, because I told him I would not play at nine-pins with him, during working hours. He asked me if I was becoming a Methodist, and I did not know what answer to make. However, I trust I am already improving, and I have read the little tract again for the third time." "Oh!" said Josephine, "we ought to read the Bible, and we do not possess one." "True," said Mark, somewhat surprised. "I never thought of _that_. We have really no Bible in the house! Indeed, this must not be," he added, looking on the ground, and striking it with his spade. "What shall we do, then?" said Josephine, "for it would be very nice to have one." Mark became thoughtful, but said nothing. From that day his conduct was always regular, and his habits industrious, so much so, that his father, who was never in the habit of showing him much kindness, said to him, at the dinner table, and before all the rest of the family, "Well, my good Mark, tell us what has happened to you; for it is very pleasant to us to see how well you now behave. Tell us, my boy, what has been the cause of this improvement." "It was from this book," said Mark, drawing it out of his pocket, where he always kept it. "What book is it?" said his mother, scornfully. "Is it not some of that horrid trash, that"... "Be silent," cried the father. "If this book has done good, how can it be horrid trash? Do sour grapes produce good wine?" "But," replied the mother, bitterly, "I will not have any of those books and tracts in this house." "Well, for my part," said the vinedresser, "I will encourage all that teach my children to do what is right. Mark has worked well for the last eight days; he has not occasioned me a moment's vexation during the whole of that time, and as he says that this book has been the means of his improvement, I shall also immediately read it myself. Come, Mark, let us hear it. You can read fluently; come, we will all listen. Wife, do you be quiet, and you too, Peter; as for Josephine she is quite ready." Mark began to read, but he could not proceed far; his father got up and went out, without saying a word, and his mother began to remove the dinner-things. But as soon as the family re-assembled in the evening, the father said to Mark, "Go on with your reading, Mark, I want to hear the end, for I like the story." Mark read, and when he came to that part of the tract, in which the Bible is mentioned, the vinedresser looked up to a high shelf on the wall, where were some old books, and said, "wife, had we not once a Bible?" "Fifteen years ago," she answered, "you exchanged it for a pistol." The vinedresser blushed, and listened with out farther interruption until Mark had done reading. When the tract was finished, he remained silent, his head leaning on his hands, and his elbows on his knees. Josephine thought this was the time to speak about the Bible, which she had so long wished to possess, and she went up to her father, and stood for some time by his side without speaking. Her father perceived her, and raising his head, he said to her, "What do you want, Josephine, tell me, my child, what do you want to ask me?" "Dear papa," said the child, "I have long desired to read the Bible, would you be so kind as to buy me one?" "A Bible," cried her mother, "what can _you_ want with a Bible, at _your_ age?" "Oh! wife, wife," said the vinedresser, much vexed, "when will you help me to do what is right?" "Yes, my child," he added, kissing Josephine's cheek, "I will buy you one to-morrow. Do you think there are any to be had at the pastor's house?" "Oh! yes, plenty," cried Josephine, "and very large ones too!" "Very well then," said the father, as he got up, and went out of the house, "you shall have a very large one." "But," said his wife, calling after him, "you don't know how much it will cost." "It will not cost so much as the wine I mean no longer to drink!" replied the father, firmly. He kept his word. The Bible was purchased on the morrow, and the same evening the father desired Mark to read him a whole chapter. The ale-house saw him no more the whole of that week, and still less the following Sunday. His friends laughed at him, and wanted to get him back. He was at first tempted and almost overcome, but the thought of the Bible restrained him, and he determined to refuse. "Are you gone mad, then?" said they. "No," replied he, "but I read the Bible now, and as it says, that drunkards shall not 'inherit the kingdom of God,' I listen to what it says, and I desire to cease to be a drunkard." "You see," said Josephine to Mark, as they accompanied each other to church, "how good God has been to us. We have now a Bible, and it is read by all at home." _Mark_.--"Have you been able to tell the pastor's son how much good his tract has done us?" _Josephine_.--"I told his mother." _Mark_.--"And what did she say?" _Josephine_.--"She said, 'God is wonderful in all his ways,' and that, 'He which hath begun the good work in us, will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.'" _Mark_.--(Feelingly.)--"Who could have thought that when I went as a rebel to that Fete, that God was there waiting to draw me to himself. But, dear Josephine, there is yet much to be done." "But," said Josephine, "where God has promised he is also able to perform. He has told us to pray in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Let us do so, and you will see that God will renew our hearts, and make us wise and good." 
21270	----	FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS, OR, JACOB MARLOWE'S SECRET. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "THE ERIE TRAIN BOY," "FROM FARM BOY TO SENATOR," "THE YOUNG ACROBAT," ETC. NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS * * * * * CHAPTER I. A NEW ARRIVAL IN LAKEVILLE. Slowly through the village street walked an elderly man, with bronzed features and thin gray hair, supporting his somewhat uncertain steps by a stout cane. He was apparently tired, for, seeing a slight natural elevation under a branching elm tree, he sat down, and looked thoughtfully about him. "Well," he said, "Lakeville hasn't changed much since I left it, twenty years since. Has there been any change among those who are near to me? I don't know, but I shall soon find out. Shall I receive a welcome or not? There ought to be two families to greet me, but----" Here a boy appeared on the scene, a boy of fifteen, with a sturdy figure and a pleasant face, whose coarse suit indicated narrow means, if not poverty. Seeing the old man, with instinctive politeness he doffed his hat and with a pleasant smile bade him good-morning. "Good-morning," returned the traveller, won by the boy's pleasant face and manner. "If you are not in a hurry won't you sit down by me and answer a few questions?" "With pleasure, sir; my business isn't driving." "This is Lakeville, isn't it?" "Yes, sir." "I used to know the place--a good many years since. It hasn't grown much." "No, sir; it's rather quiet." "Chiefly a farming region, isn't it?" "Yes, sir; but there is a large shoe manufactory here, employing a hundred hands." "Who is the owner?" "Squire Marlowe." "Ha!" ejaculated the old man, evidently interested. "Albert Marlowe, isn't it?" "Yes, sir; do you know him?" "I haven't met him for twenty years, but we are acquainted. I suppose he is prosperous." "He is considered a rich man, sir. He is a relation of mine." "Indeed! What then is your name?" asked the old man, eagerly. "Herbert Barton--most people call me Bert Barton." Bert was surprised at the keen scrutiny which he received from the traveller. "Was your mother Mary Marlowe?" the latter asked. "Yes, sir," returned Bert. "Did you know her, too?" "I ought to; she is my niece, as the man you call Squire Marlowe is my nephew." "Then you must be Uncle Jacob, who has lived so many years in California?" said Bert, excitedly. "The same." "Mother will be very glad to see you," added Bert, cordially. "Thank you, my boy. Your kind welcome does me good. I hope your mother is well and happy." "She is a widow," answered Bert soberly. "When did your father die?" "Two years ago." "I hope he left your mother in comfortable circumstances." Bert shook his head. "He only left the small house we live in, and that is mortgaged for half its value." "Then how do you live?" "Mother covers base-balls for a firm in the next town, and I am working in the big shoe shop." "Doesn't Squire Marlowe do anything for your mother?" "He gave me a place in the shop--that is all." "Yet he is rich," said the old man, thoughtfully. "Yes, he lives in a fine house. You can see it down the street on the other side that large one with a broad piazza. He keeps two horses and two handsome carriages, and I am sure he must have plenty of money." "I am glad to hear it. I have been a long time among strangers. It will be pleasant to come to anchor at the house of a rich relation. Where does your mother live?" "In a small cottage at the other end of the street. Won't you come home with me, Uncle Jacob? Mother will be glad to see you." "I must call at Albert Marlowe's first. What family has he?" "He has one boy about my own age." "I suppose you are very intimate--being cousins." Bert laughed. "He wouldn't thank you for calling us cousins," he answered. "Percy Marlowe is a boy who thinks a good deal of himself. He puts on no end of airs." "Like his father before him. Is he a smart boy?" "Do you mean in his studies?" "Yes." "I don't know what he could do if he tried, but he doesn't exert himself much. He says it isn't necessary for him, as his father is a rich man." "How is it with you?" "I only wish I had his chance," said Bert, warmly. "I am fond of study, but I am poor, and must work for a living." "You have the right idea, and he has not," said the old man, sententiously. At this moment a light buggy was driven swiftly by. Seated in it was a boy about the age of Bert, apparently, but of slighter figure. The horse, suddenly spying the old man, shied, and in a trice the buggy was upset, and the young dude went sprawling on the ground. Bert grasped the situation, and sprang to the rescue. He seized the terrified horse, while the old man helped reverse the carriage, which fortunately had not met with any material damage. The same may be said of the young driver who, with mortified face, struggled to his feet, and surveyed ruefully the muddy stains on his handsome suit. "I hope you're not hurt, Percy," said Bert, with solicitude. "I've spoiled my suit, that's all," returned Percy, shortly. "What made you scare my horse?" "I didn't," answered Bert, with spirit. "What right have you to charge me with such a thing?" "Then if it wasn't you, it was that old tramp you were talking with," persisted Percy, sullenly. "Hush, Percy!" said Bert, apprehensive lest the old man's feelings might be hurt. "You don't know who this gentleman is." "I never met the gentleman before," rejoined Percy, with ironical deference. "Then let me introduce him as your uncle, Jacob Marlowe, from California!" Percy's face betrayed much more surprise than pleasure as he stammered, "Is that true?" "Yes," answered the old man, smiling calmly; "I have the honor to be related to you, young gentleman." "Does father know you are here?" "No; I am going to call upon him." Percy hardly knew what to think. He had heard his father speak of "Uncle Jacob" and indulge in the hope that he had accumulated a fortune in California. His shabby attire did not suggest wealth, certainly, but Percy was wise enough to know that appearances are not always to be relied upon. If this old man were wealthy, he would be worth propitiating. At any rate, till he knew to the contrary he had better be polite. "Will you ride to the house with me, sir?" he asked, considerably to Bert's surprise. "No, thank you. There might be another upset. Jump into the buggy, and I'll walk along after you." Percy was relieved by this decision, for he had no wish to be seen with such a companion. "All right, sir," he said. "I'll see you at the house." Without a word of acknowledgment to Bert, Percy sprang into the buggy and drove rapidly away. "Shall I go with you, Uncle Jacob?" asked Bert. "No, thank you. I can find the way. Tell your mother that I will call on her very soon." CHAPTER II. UNCLE JACOB'S RECEPTION. Percy found his father at home, and quickly acquainted him with the arrival in town of Uncle Jacob. His news was received with interest by Squire Marlowe. "Why didn't you invite him to ride home with you?" asked the squire. "I did; but he preferred to walk." "What does he look like?" "Like an old tramp," answered Percy. Squire Marlowe was taken aback; for, without having received any definite intelligence from the long absent relative, he had somehow persuaded himself that Uncle Jacob had accumulated a fortune at the mines. "Then he is shabbily dressed?" said the squire, inquiringly. "I should say so. I say, father, I thought he was rich. You always said so." "And I still think so." "Then why don't he dress better?" "He is rather eccentric, Percy; and these California miners don't care much for dress as a rule. I shouldn't wonder if he were worth half a million. You'd better treat him with attention, for we are his natural heirs, and there's no telling what may happen." "Enough said, father. I don't care how he dresses if he's got the cash." "I must go and speak to your mother, or she will treat him coldly. You know how particular she is." Squire Marlowe managed to drop a hint to his wife, who was as worldly wise as himself, and saw the advantage of being attentive to a wealthy relative. By this time Uncle Jacob had reached the door. Squire Marlowe himself answered the bell, as a mark of special attention, and gazed with curiosity at the old man. Jacob Marlowe, though coarsely clad, was scrupulously neat and clean, and there was a pleasant smile on his bronzed face as he recognized his nephew. "I believe you are Uncle Jacob," said the squire, affably. "Yes, Albert, and I'm mighty glad to see a relation. It's twenty-five years since I have seen one that was kin to me." "Welcome to Lakeville, Uncle Jacob. I am glad to see you. Percy told me he met you on the road: Why didn't you ride up with him?" "It wasn't worth gettin' in to ride a quarter of a mile. I am used to exercise in California." "To be sure. Come into the house, and lay your valise down anywhere. Here is my wife, Mrs. Marlowe. Julia, this is Uncle Jacob, of whom you have heard me speak so often." "I am glad to see you, Mr. Marlowe," said the lady, formally, just touching the old man's hand. "Where are you going to put Uncle Jacob, Julia?" asked the squire. "You may take him to the blue room," said Mrs. Marlowe, in a tone of hesitation. This blue room was the handsomest chamber in the house, and was assigned to those whom it was considered politic to honor. "Come right upstairs, Uncle Jacob. I'll show you your room myself," said Albert Marlowe. "I ain't used to such luxury, Albert," said the old man, as he gazed around the comfortably appointed apartment. "You ought to see my cabin at Murphy's diggings. I reckon your servant would turn up her nose at it." "I know you don't care much for style in California, uncle." "No, we don't, though we've got as handsome houses in 'Frisco as anywhere else. Why, Albert, this room is fine enough for a prince." "Then you can think yourself a prince," said the squire, genially. "Now, if you want to wash your face and hands, and arrange your toilet, you will have abundant time before dinner. Come down when you have finished." Albert Marlowe returned to his wife. "Mr. Marlowe," said she, "are you very sure that old man is rich?" "I have no doubt of it, Julia." "But what an old fright he is! Why, he looks dreadfully common, and his clothes are wretchedly shabby." "True, Julia; but you must remember miners are not very particular about their dress." "I should think not, if he is a fair specimen. It makes me shudder to think of his occupying the blue-room. The hall bedroom on the third floor would have been good enough for him." "Remember, my dear, he is in all probability very wealthy, and we are his heirs. I am not so well off as people imagine, and it will be a great thing for us to have a fortune of a quarter or half a million drop in by and by." "There's something in that, to be sure," the lady admitted. "But can't you induce him to wear better clothes?" "I will suggest it very soon. We mustn't be too precipitate, for fear he should take offense. You know these rich uncles expect to be treated with a good deal of consideration." "Do you think he will expect to live with us? I shall really give up if I have got to have such a looking old tramp as a permanent member of the family." "But, Julia, if he is really very rich, it is important for us to keep him strictly in view. You know there will be plenty of designing persons, who will be laying snares to entrap him, and get possession of his money." "How old is he? Is he likely to live long?" "I think he must be about sixty-five." "And he looks alarmingly healthy," said Mrs. Marlowe, with a sigh. "His father died at sixty-seven." Mrs. Marlowe brightened up. "That is encouraging," she said, hopefully. "I don't think he looks so _very_ healthy," added the squire. "He has a good color." "His father was the picture of health till within a few weeks of his death." "What did he die of?" "Apoplexy." "To be sure. The old man looks as if he might go off that way." "In that case we should only need to be troubled with him a couple of years, and for that we should be richly repaid." "They will seem like two eternities," groaned the lady, "and the chief burden will come on me." "You shall be repaid, my dear! Only treat him well!" "Will you give me half what money he leaves to us?" "Say one-third, Julia. That will repay you richly for all your trouble." "Very well! Let it be a third. But, Mr. Marlowe, don't let there be any mistake! I depend upon you to find out as soon as possible how much money the old man has." "Trust to me, Julia. I am just as anxious to know as you are." In twenty minutes Uncle Jacob came down stairs. He had done what he could to improve his appearance, or "slick himself up," as he expressed it, and wore a blue coat and vest, each provided with brass buttons. But from close packing in his valise both were creased up in such a manner that Squire Marlowe and his wife shuddered, and Percy's face wore an amused and supercilious smile. "I declare I feel better to be dressed up," said the old man. "How long do you think I've had this coat and vest, Albert?" "I really couldn't guess." "I had it made for me ten years ago in Sacramento. It looks pretty well, but then I've only worn it for best." Percy had to stuff his handkerchief in his mouth to repress a laugh. Uncle Jacob regarded him with a benevolent smile, and seemed himself to be amused about something. "Now, Uncle Jacob, we'll sit down to dinner. You must be hungry." "Well, I have got a fairish appetite. What a nice eatin' room you've got, Albert. I ain't used to such style." "I presume not," said Mrs. Marlowe, dryly. CHAPTER III. A VISIT TO THE FACTORY. During dinner the old man chatted away in the frankest manner, but not a word did he let drop as to his worldly circumstances. He appeared to enjoy his dinner, and showed himself entirely at his ease. "I'm glad to see you so well fixed, Albert," he said. "You've got a fine home." "It will do very well," returned the squire, modestly. "I suppose he never was in such a good house before," thought Mrs. Marlowe. "By the way, just before I fell in with you here," went on Jacob, "I ran across Mary's boy." "Herbert Barton?" suggested the squire, with a slight frown. "Yes; he said that was his name." "They live in the village," said his nephew, shortly. "They're poor, ain't they?" "Yes; Barton was not a forehanded man. He didn't know how to accumulate money." "I suppose he left very little to his widow." "Very little. However, I have given the boy a place in my factory, and I believe his mother earns a trifle by covering base-balls. They don't want for anything--that is, anything in reason. "Bert Barton seems a likely boy." "Oh, he's as good as the average of boys in his position." "I suppose he and Percy are quite intimate, being cousins." "Indeed we are not!" returned Percy, tossing his head. "His position is very different from mine." Uncle Jacob surveyed Percy in innocent wonder. "Still, he's kin to you," he observed. "That doesn't always count," said Percy. "He has his friends, and I have mine. I don't believe in mixing classes." "I expect things _have_ changed since I was a boy," said Uncle Jacob, mildly. "Then, all the boys were friendly and sociable, no matter whether they were rich or poor." "I agree with Percy," broke in Mrs. Marlowe, stiffly. "His position in life will be very different from that of the boy you refer to. Any early intimacy, even if we encouraged it, could not well be kept up in after-life." "Perhaps you are right," said the old man. "I've been away so long at the mines that I haven't kept up with the age or the fashions." Percy smiled, as his glance rested on his uncle's creased suit, and he felt quite ready to agree with what he said. "I was thinkin' how pleasant it would be if you would invite Mary and her boy to tea--we are all related, you know. We could talk over old times and scenes, and have a real social time." Mrs. Marlowe seemed horror-struck at the suggestion. "I don't think it would be convenient," she said, coldly. "It would be better for you to see Mrs. Barton at her own house," put in the squire, hastily. "Well, perhaps it would." "By the way, Uncle Jacob, I hope your experiences of California are pleasant," insinuated Squire Marlowe. "They're mixed, Albert. I've had my ups and downs." "I have heard of large fortunes being made there," pursued the squire. "I suppose there's some truth in what we hear?" "To be sure! Why, ten years from the time I went to the mines I had a hundred thousand dollars deposited to my credit in a Sacramento bank." Squire Marlowe's eyes sparkled with pleasure. It was just what he had been hoping to find out. So Uncle Jacob was rich, after all! The squire's manner became even more gracious, and he pressed upon his relative another plate of ice cream. "No, thank you, Albert," said the old man. "I'm used to plain livin'. It isn't often I sit down to a meal like this. Do you know, there's nothing suits me better than a dinner of corned beef and cabbage." "How vulgar the old man is!" thought Mrs. Marlowe. "He may have money, but his tastes are _very_ common." "We never have corned beef and cabbage here," she said, with a slight shudder. "Very likely Bert Barton's mother has it very often," suggested Percy. "My dear," said the squire, urbanely, "if Uncle Jacob really enjoys those dishes so much, you might provide them for his special use." "I will think of it," replied Mrs. Marlowe, shortly. Now that Uncle Jacob had hinted at the possession of wealth, Squire Marlowe beheld him as one transfigured. He was no longer a common, shabby old man, but a worthy old gentleman of eccentric ideas in the matter of wardrobe and manners. "I wonder if Uncle Jacob wouldn't advance me twenty-five thousand dollars," was the thought that was passing through his mind as he gazed genially at his countrified guest. "It would help me amazingly in my business, and enable me to do double as much. I will mention it to him in good time." "I've a great mind to come upon the old man for a handsome birthday present," thought Percy. "Fifty dollars wouldn't be much for him to give. I shan't get more than a fiver from the governor." "Uncle Jacob," said the squire, as they rose from the table, "suppose you walk over to the factory with me; I should like you to see it." "Nothing would please me better," said Jacob Marlowe, briskly. "Will you come along, Percy?" asked his father. "No, papa," answered Percy, with a grimace. "You know I don't like the smell of leather." "_I_ ought not to dislike it," said the squire, with a smile, "for it gives me a very handsome income." "Oh, it's different with you," returned Percy. "Just give me the profits of the factory and I'll go there every day." "He's a sharp one!" said the squire, with a smile. "I am afraid he is too sharp to suit me," thought Uncle Jacob. "It seems to me the boy's mind runs upon money, and his own interests." The shoe factory was a large building of two stories, and within it was a hive of industry. As the squire led the way he explained the various workings to the old man, who was really curious and interested. It was on a larger scale than was common at the time he left for California, and the use of machinery had to a greater extent supplemented and superseded the work of the hands. Finally they came to a room where several boys were pegging shoes, for this work was still done in the old-fashioned way. Uncle Jacob's eyes lighted up when in one of them he recognized Bert Barton. He hurried forward, and put his hand on Bert's shoulder. "So this is your business," he said. "Yes," answered Bert, with a smile. "Do you find it hard work?" "Oh, no! That is, I am used to it. It used to tire me at first." "Did you tell your mother I was in town?" "Yes," answered Bert, "and she says she hopes you will call." "To be sure I will. I may call this evening." "He's a likely boy, Albert," said Uncle Jacob, rejoining the squire, who stood aloof with a look of annoyance on his face. "He works very well, I believe," was the cold reply. "Shall we move on?" "Albert doesn't seem to feel much interest in his poor relations," thought Uncle Jacob. "Well, it's human nature, I suppose." "You seem to be doing a large business, Albert," he said aloud. "Yes; but with a little more capital I could very much increase it," rejoined the squire. "With twenty-five thousand dollars now, I would enlarge the factory to double its present size, and do twice the business I am now doing." "I am afraid you want to get rich too fast, Albert." "It would gratify my spirit of enterprise, Uncle Jacob. I feel that I have the ability to make a big business success." "Very likely, Albert. I've seen enough to convince me of that." "He'll lend me the money if I work things right," Squire Marlowe said to himself. "He'll be like wax in my hands." CHAPTER IV. UNCLE JACOB'S STARTLING REVELATION. "Uncle Jacob was at the factory this afternoon," said Bert to his mother, when he went home. "He says he may call here this evening." "I hope he will. He was my poor mother's favorite brother--always kind and good-hearted. How is he looking, Bert?" "He seems in good health for an old man. His face is browned up, as if he had been out in the open air a good deal." "I hope he has. It is twenty-five years since he went to California. Does he look as if he had prospered?" "I am afraid he is poor, mother, for although his clothing is neat and clean, it is plain and the cloth is faded?" "I am sorry to hear that, but I will welcome him none the less warmly. It will indeed seem like old times to have Uncle Jacob in my house." Meanwhile Bert had been bringing in wood and doing chores for his mother. "Did Uncle Jacob tell you how long he intended to stay in Lakeville?" "No, mother; I only had a short time to talk with him when Percy rode by, and then he started to call on the squire. Do you know, mother, I am rather surprised that he should have been so well received, poor as he looks." "I think better of Albert for it. It shows that he is not so worldly as I feared. Certainly Uncle Jacob ought to be well received by Albert Marlowe, for when Albert's father was in trouble Jacob lent him five hundred dollars--all in money he had--and I feel sure the money has not been repaid to him to this day." "I don't think Percy will be very cordial. You know what high notions he has." "He gets them principally from his mother, who is extremely aristocratic in her ideas." "Was she of a high family?" Mrs. Barton smiled. "Her father was a fisherman," she replied, "and when a girl she used to run barefoot on the sand. Later on she sewed straw for a living. She is no worse for that, certainly, but it doesn't give her any claims to aristocracy." "Do you think Percy knows about his mother's early life?" "I presume she has kept it secret from him." "I shall think of it when Percy gets into one of his patronizing moods." "Remember, Bert, that neither he nor his mother is any the worse for her humble birth." "I understand that, I hope, mother, just as I don't feel ashamed of our being poor." "As long as we can make an honorable living, we have no right to complain." "That reminds me, mother, that I heard bad news at the shop to-day." "What is that?" "That the shop is likely to be shut down all next month." "Why is that?" asked Mrs. Barton, an anxious look coming over her face. "I believe the market is over-supplied with shoes, and it is thought best to suspend temporarily. It'll be rather hard on me." "Yes, it will," said his mother, gravely. "I earn so little at sewing balls." "Don't you think I could get a job at that, mother?" "No, you could not do the work satisfactorily. Besides there are hands enough for all that is required. Well, we must hope for the best." "I think I can manage to earn something, mother," said Bert, hopefully. "I'll try hard, anyway." "We won't worry till the time comes, Bert." An hour later there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Barton answered it in person. "Why, Uncle Jacob, is it really you?" she exclaimed, joyfully. "I'm delighted to see you, Mary," said the old man, his face lighting up. "I've been waiting twenty-five years for this meeting." "Come right in, Uncle Jacob. I can hardly believe it is really you. Now tell me why you have not written these many years." "I've no good excuse, Mary, but perhaps I shall think of one bimeby. Now tell me how you are getting along?" "I am not rich, as you can see, Uncle Jacob; but as long as Bert and I have our health, and work to do, I shall be contented." "Do you know, Mary," said Jacob Marlowe, looking about the plain little sitting-room, "I like your house better than Albert's?" "I don't think you will find many to agree with you." "Perhaps not, but this seems like home, and that doesn't." "Albert's house is finely furnished." "True, and he lives in fine style; but I don't think I should ever be contented to live with him." "Has he invited you?" "Yes," answered Jacob; "but," he added, with a smile, "I don't think the invitation will hold good after to-morrow." "Why not?" "The fact is, Albert and the whole family think I am rich." "I shouldn't think they would judge that from your appearance." "Oh, they think I am eccentric and plain in my tastes, and that I've got my pile safe somewhere." "I wish you had, Uncle Jacob." "Happiness doesn't depend on money, Mary, as you realize in your own case. I am an old man, to be sure, but I am well and strong, and able to work for a living." "But at your age, Uncle Jacob, it would be comfortable to feel that you could rest." "Come, Mary, don't make me out a patriarch. I'm only sixty-five, and I can tackle a pretty good day's work yet." "You might be sick, Uncle Jacob." "Don't let us imagine unpleasant things, Mary. I don't mean to be sick." "And at any rate you can come and stay with us. You will always find a home here, though an humble one." "Do you really mean that, Mary?" said Uncle Jacob, earnestly. "Would you really be willing to take in the old man, and provide for his comforts?" "Of course I would, Uncle Jacob," answered Mrs. Barton, heartily. "I hope you didn't think so poorly of me as to doubt it." "No, I was sure you hadn't changed so much since you were a girl. Well, Mary, I may some time remind you of your promise." "You won't need to remind me, Uncle Jacob. I was afraid Albert would take you wholly away from us." "So he might if I were as rich as he thinks I am; but now let us talk about other things. Remember, I haven't heard any family news for many years, and I have a great many questions to ask." The rest of the evening was spent in such conversation as Uncle Jacob suggested, and when he had occasion to look at his watch, he started in surprise. "Bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "It is nearly ten o'clock. I ought to be getting back to Albert's." "Then Bert shall accompany you as far as the house. It will be lonely to go alone." Uncle Jacob reached Squire Marlowe's house as the church clock struck ten, and he bade Bert good-night. Shortly after his return, Uncle Jacob was shown to his room, and being fatigued he soon fell asleep, not waking till seven in the morning. After breakfast, Squire Marlowe said graciously: "Have you any plans, Uncle Jacob, in which I can assist you? If you would like to consult me about any investments, I can perhaps be of service to you." "Now for it!" thought the old man. "I was thinkin', Albert," he said, "of askin' your advice. I'm gettin' on in years, and can't work as well as I could once. Do you think it would pay me to open here in Lakeville a cigar and candy store, and----" "What!" exclaimed Squire Marlowe, with an expression of horror and disgust on his face. "You see I've got about five hundred dollars, which I think would be enough to stock it comfortably and----" "But I thought you were a rich man," gasped Squire Marlowe. "Didn't you tell me you had a hundred thousand dollars in a Sacramento bank?" "Yes, many years ago; but I bought mining stocks, and after a while they went down to nothing, and----" "Then you are a pauper!" said the squire, harshly. "No. I have five hundred dollars, and I hope with that to get started, so as to earn an honest living." Words cannot describe the scorn and disgust that appeared on the faces of Percy and his mother at the old man's confession of poverty. "Albert," said the wife, "may I speak with you outside a moment?" "Certainly, my dear." "Get rid of the old man as soon as you can!" she said, imperiously. "He doesn't eat another meal in my house!" "Be easy, my dear," said the squire. "I'll manage it." CHAPTER V. UNCLE JACOB RECEIVES HIS WALKING PAPERS. Squire Marlowe returned to the breakfast room, wearing rather an embarrassed expression. Percy had followed his mother, and the old man found himself for a short time alone. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, which vanished on the reappearance of his nephew. "I am sorry to have left you alone, Uncle Jacob," said the squire, civilly. "Oh, don't treat me with any ceremony, Albert. Being as we are such near relations, we ought to be free and easy like." "I am glad to hear you say so, for I shall be obliged to treat you unceremoniously." "Eh?" said Uncle Jacob, inquiringly. "I regret to say that my wife, who is of a _very_ delicate organization, is taken suddenly ill, and I am afraid I shall have to ask you to cut your visit short, and come again some other time." "I'm surprised to hear that, Albert. I thought Mrs. Marlowe looked in excellent health." "You can't always tell by outward appearances. She is subject to severe headaches, and in that condition can't bear the least noise or excitement. That is why I can't invite you to stay any longer." "I understand," said Uncle Jacob, with--it might have been--a little significance in his tone. "I have no doubt," went on the squire, "that Mrs. Barton will be glad to have you pay her a short visit. I will get Percy to drive you down there." "Thank you," answered the old man, dryly, "but it's only a little way, and I don't mind walking." "Just as you prefer," said the squire, relieved by Uncle Jacob's declination of his offer, for he knew that Percy would not enjoy the trip. "I'll get ready to go at once, Albert. Oh, about my plan of opening a cigar store in Lakeville?" "I cannot advise you to do it," rejoined the squire, hastily. "You wouldn't make enough to pay your rent, or not much more." "Don't the men in your factory smoke? There's a good many of them. If I could get their trade----" "They smoke pipes for the most part," said the squire, hurriedly. "They'd find cigars too expensive." "I meant to combine candy with cigars. That would be a help." "They keep candy at the grocery store, Uncle Jacob." "I see there isn't much show for me. Now if I only understood your business, you could give me something to do in the factory, Albert." "But you don't, and, in fact, Uncle Jacob, it's too hard work for a man of your age." "Then what would you advise me to do, Albert?" asked the old man, earnestly. Squire Marlowe assumed a thoughtful look. In fact, he was puzzled to decide how best to get rid of the troublesome old man. To have him remain in Lakeville was not to be thought of. He would gladly have got rid of Mrs. Barton and her son, whose relationship to his family was unfortunately known, but there seemed to be no way clear to that without the expenditure of money. To have Uncle Jacob for a neighbor, in addition, would be a source of mortification, not only to himself, but even more to his wife and Percy, whose aristocratic ideas he well knew. "I think you told me you had five hundred dollars," he said, after a pause. "About that." "Then I really think it would be the best thing you could do to go back to California, where you are known, and where you can doubtless obtain some humble employment which will supply your moderate wants. It won't cost you much for dress----" "No, Albert; this coat and vest will do me for best five years longer." "Just so! That is fortunate. So you see you've only got your board to pay." "I might get sick," suggested Uncle Jacob, doubtfully. "You look pretty healthy. Besides, you'll have part of your five hundred dollars left, you know." "That's so! What a good calculator you are, Albert! Besides, if things came to the worst, there's that five hundred dollars I lent your father twenty-seven years ago. No doubt you'd pay me back, and----" "I don't know what you refer to," said Squire Marlowe, coldly. "Surely you haven't forgot the time when your father was so driven for money, when you were a lad of fifteen, and I let him have all I had except about fifty dollars that I kept for a rainy day." "This is news to me, Uncle Jacob," said the squire, with a chilling frown. "You must excuse me for saying that I think you labor under a delusion." Uncle Jacob surveyed his neighbor intently, with a gaze which disconcerted him in spite of his assurance. "Fortunately, I am able to prove what I say," he rejoined, after a slight pause. He drew from his pocket a wallet which bore the signs of long wear, and, opening it, deliberately drew out a folded sheet of note paper, grown yellow with age and brittle with much handling. Then, adjusting his spectacles, he added: "Here's something I'd like to read to you, Albert. It's written by your father: MY DEAR JACOB: I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for lending me the five hundred dollars I so urgently need. I know it is very nearly, if not quite, all you possess in the world, and that you can ill spare it. It will save me from failure, and sometime I hope to repay it to you. If I cannot, I will ask my son Albert to do so when he is able. I don't want you to lose by your kindness to me. Your affectionate brother, CHARLES MARLOWE. "You can see the signature, Albert. You know your father's handwriting, don't you?" Squire Marlowe reluctantly took the paper and glanced at it. "It may be my father's writing," he said. "May be!" repeated the old man, indignantly. "What do you mean by that?" "I dare say it is. In fact, I remember his mentioning the matter to me before he died." "What did he say?" "That it was quite a favor to him, the loan, but that he repaid it within three years from the time he received it." "What!" exclaimed Uncle Jacob, pushing his spectacles up, in his amazement. "Your father said that?" "Yes, he did," answered Albert Marlowe, with unabashed effrontery. "That he paid back the five hundred dollars I lent him?" "That's what I said," repeated the squire, impatiently. "Then it's a lie--not of my brother's, but of--somebody's. That money remains unpaid to this day." Squire Marlowe shrugged his shoulders. "No doubt you think so," he said, "but you are growing old, and old people are forgetful. That is the most charitable view to take of your statement." "I wouldn't have believed this, Albert," said the old man, sorrowfully. "And you a rich man, too! I don't mind the money. I can get along without it. But to be told that I am claiming what has already been repaid!" "I don't lay it up against you," went on the squire, smoothly. "I've no doubt you have forgotten the payment of the debt, and----" "I don't forget so easily, though I am sixty-five. Don't fear that I shall ask for it again--indeed, I haven't asked for it at all--but I shall not forget how you have treated my claim. Of course it amounts to nothing in law--it's outlawed long ago--but I only wish my poor brother were alive to disprove your words." Even Albert Marlowe was shamed by the old man's sorrowful dignity. "We can't agree about that, Uncle Jacob," he said; "but if ever you get very hard up, let me know, and I'll see if I can't help you--in a small way." "You are very kind," answered the old man, "but I don't think that time will come. As you say, my wants are few, and I am still able to work. I'll go up to my room and get my valise, and then I'll go over to Mary Barton's." "Thank Heaven! I've got rid of him," mused the squire, as from the doorway he saw Uncle Jacob walking slowly down the street. "I was afraid he'd mention that money he lent father. With twenty-seven years' interest it would amount to a good deal of money--more than I could well spare. I don't think I shall hear from it again." "Has he gone, Albert?" asked Mrs. Marlowe, returning to the breakfast-room. "Yes; I told him you were indisposed, and couldn't stand excitement." "No matter what you told him, as long as we are rid of him." CHAPTER VI SQUIRE MARLOWE IS SURPRISED. Mrs. Barton was washing the breakfast dishes, and was alone, Bert having gone to his daily work at the shoe shop, when the outer door opened and Uncle Jacob entered the cottage, valise in hand. "I've accepted your offer sooner than you expected, Mary," he said. "You are heartily welcome, Uncle Jacob," responded his niece, with evident sincerity. "If you can put up with our poor accommodations after being entertained in Albert's luxurious home----" "Don't trouble yourself about that, Mary," interrupted the old man. "Albert doesn't want me. He civilly asked me to find another stopping place." "You don't mean it!" exclaimed Mrs. Barton indignantly. "You see," explained Uncle Jacob, with a quiet smile, "his wife was taken suddenly indisposed--after she found I wasn't as rich as she expected." "I hope you won't take it too much to heart, Uncle Jacob," observed Mary Barton, in a tone of solicitude. Uncle Jacob's amused laugh reassured her. "It is just what I expected, Mary," he said, "and I shan't grieve over it much. You ought to have seen how they all looked when I asked Albert's advice about opening a small cigar and candy store in the village. You can imagine what a mortification it would be to my high-toned nephew to have my sign out, JACOB MARLOWE, Candy and Cigars. over a small seven by nine store, when our relationship was known." "I hope that won't prevent your carrying out the plan, Uncle Jacob. If your gains are small, you can make your home with us and pay what you can afford." "Thank you, Mary, you are a true friend, and I shan't forget your kind offer. But I never had the slightest idea of opening such a store. I only mentioned it to test Albert." "But you will have to do something, Uncle Jacob," said Mary Barton, perplexed; "and that would be as easy as anything. Bert could go in the evening and help you if you found it too confining." "I have something else in view in the city," returned Jacob. "I don't need to earn much you know. I don't set up to be a dude," he added, with a comical glance at his rustic attire, "and I don't mean to board at the Fifth Avenue Hotel." "I am sorry you can't stay in Lakeville," said Mrs. Barton regretfully. "I will stay here a week, Mary, to get acquainted with you and your boy. I have taken a fancy to him. He is a fine, manly youth, worth a dozen of such fellows as Percy Marlowe." "Indeed, he is a good boy," said his mother proudly. "I don't see what I could do without him." "So, Mary, if you'll show me where you are going to accommodate me, I'll go up and take possession." "Will you mind my putting you in with Bert? I have but two chambers." "Not a bit. It will be all the better. If I were going to stay here permanently I would build an extension to the house for you." "But that would be expensive, Uncle Jacob." "So it would. I'm always forgetting that I am not a rich man. You see I was rich once. As I told Albert, I have seen the time when I had a hundred thousand dollars to my credit in a bank of Sacramento." "Oh, Uncle Jacob! Why didn't you invest it in government bonds, and you would have been independent for life?" "Because I was not so prudent as my niece, I suppose. However, it's no use crying over spilt milk, and I've got a matter of five hundred dollars left." "But that won't last long, Uncle Jacob." "Not unless I work. But I'm pretty rugged yet, and I guess I can manage to scrape along." When Bert came home to dinner, he was surprised and pleased to find Uncle Jacob installed and evidently feeling quite at home. "I wish I could stay at home this afternoon to keep you company," he said; "but I have only an hour for dinner." "Business first, my boy!" said the old man. "For pleasure we'll wait till this evening. Is there a livery stable in the village?" "Yes, sir; Houghton's." "Then after supper we'll hire a buggy, and you and your mother and I will take a ride." "But, Uncle Jacob, you forget that it will cost a dollar, or perhaps two." "No, I don't, Mary; but I'm having a vacation, and I want to enjoy myself a little before pitching into hard work again. I am sure you will be the better for a ride." "Yes, I shall. I haven't had one for months, and it will be a real treat." "Then we will cast prudence to the winds for once, and have a good time. I suppose you can drive, Bert." "Oh yes, sir; I like it. I worked for a few weeks in the grocery store, and drove every day. I like a horse." "So do I; but I don't care much about handling the reins myself. You'll promise not to upset the carriage, as Percy did the other day?" "Not unless we meet two tramps, as he did," said Bert, laughing. "I declare, Mary, there is your boy calling his old uncle a tramp." "And myself, too, uncle." "That makes it seem a little better. Are you going back to the shop?" "Yes, uncle; my time is up." "I'll walk along with you." As the two walked together, Uncle Jacob took a five dollar bill from his pocket, and handed it to Bert. "There, Bert," he said, "I want you to give that to your mother toward buying groceries and meat this week, as her expenses will be increased by my being in the house." "But, Uncle Jacob, we don't want you to pay board." "I am able to do it, and prefer it, Bert. So say no more about it." In truth, this donation was a relief to Bert and his mother, for they were compelled to economize closely, and yet wanted to live well while Uncle Jacob was visiting them. About seven o'clock Bert drove round to the house in a handsome top buggy, drawn by a spirited black horse, the best in Houghton's stable. "I'll let you have it, Bert," said Mr. Houghton, "because I know you're a careful driver. There are few persons I would trust with Prince." "You may depend on me, Mr. Houghton." "I know I can, Bert;" and with a few directions the stable keeper resigned the turnout to Bert. "You have got a stylish rig, Bert," said Uncle Jacob. "I think we shall have to drive by Albert Marlowe's." "Just what I would like," remarked Bert, with a smile. Bert had his share of human nature, and rather enjoyed being seen by his aristocratic relatives in such a stylish turnout. Supper was over at Squire Marlowe's and the family were sitting on the piazza, the evening being warm, when Percy espied the buggy approaching. "I wonder who's driving Houghton's best team?" he said. "By gracious, if it isn't Bert Barton and his mother and Uncle Jacob!" he exclaimed, a minute later. The squire adjusted his eyeglasses, and looked at the carriage now nearly opposite. "You are right, Percy," he said. "What can it mean, Albert?" asked his wife, in bewilderment, as Uncle Jacob bowed from the buggy. "It means that a fool and his money are soon parted," answered the squire. "I thought your uncle was poor." "So he is, and he will soon be poorer from all appearances. Uncle Jacob never was a good financial manager. He was always too liberal, or he wouldn't be as poor as he is now. Why with five hundred dollars he probably feels as rich as a nabob." "No doubt Bert Barton will help him spend it," said Percy. "It won't last long at any rate, if he drives out every evening." "When his money is all gone he will probably throw himself on you for support, father." "I wash my hands of him," said Squire Marlowe, in a hard tone. "If he squanders his money, he must take the consequences." "I am glad to hear you speak in that way, Albert," commented his wife, approvingly. Uncle Jacob enjoyed his drive and paid two dollars at the stable without letting the thought of his extravagance worry him. "I hope you enjoyed it, Mary," he said. "I don't know when I have enjoyed myself so much, Uncle Jacob." "Nor I," put in Bert. "Then I think the money well spent. It makes me feel young again, Mary. I think I made a mistake in staying away so long." CHAPTER VII. UNCLE JACOB LEAVES LAKEVILLE. On his way home to dinner the next day, Bert fell in with Percy Marlowe. "I saw you out driving last evening," remarked Percy. "Yes," answered Bert composedly. "You had Houghton's best team?" "Yes." "How much did you have to pay?" "I believe Uncle Jacob paid two dollars." "He must be crazy to pay two dollars for a ride. Why, he's almost a pauper." "I think that is _his_ business, Percy. As to being a pauper, I don't believe he will ever be that." "Don't be too sure of it. Why, he told father he had only five hundred dollars. How long do you think that's going to last him if he throws away his money on carriage rides?" "It's only for once, and, as I said, that isn't our business." "I don't know about that, either. When he has spent all his money he'll be coming upon father to support him." "I don't believe he will," said Bert, to whom it was disagreeable to hear the kind old man spoken of slightingly. "You see if he doesn't. But it won't do any good. Father says as he makes his bed he must lie on it. And I say, Bert Barton, it isn't very creditable to you and your mother to help the old man squander his money." "I don't thank you for your advice, Percy Marlowe," retorted Bert, with spirit. "If ever Uncle Jacob does come to want, I'll work for him, and help him all I can." "You! why you're as poor as poverty itself!" exclaimed Percy, with a mocking laugh. "Good morning!" said Bert shortly, provoked, but not caring to prolong the discussion. When he reached home, he gave Uncle Jacob an account of his conversation with Percy. The old man laughed. "So Albert says that as I make my bed I must lie upon it?" he repeated. "Yes, sir; but I hope you won't be troubled at that. You will always be welcome here." Uncle Jacob's eyes grew moist, and he regarded Bert with affection. "You are a good boy and a true friend, Bert," he said, "and I shall not forget it." "I don't know but Percy was right, Uncle Jacob. It does seem extravagant paying such a price for a ride." "It's only for once in a way, Bert. You mustn't grudge the old man a little enjoyment in his vacation. I shall be going to work next week." "You will? Where?" asked Bert eagerly. "In New York. An old California friend of mine, who is in charge of a mine that has been put on the New York market, will give me a clerkship and a small salary which will support me in comfort. So you see I am all right." "I am very glad to hear it, Uncle Jacob," said Bert joyfully. "I was afraid you wouldn't find anything to do, and would have to spend all your money on living." "Come, Bert, that isn't much of a compliment to my ability. If I _am_ sixty-five, I am able to earn a living yet, and though twelve dollars a week isn't much----" "If I could earn twelve dollars a week I should feel rich, Uncle Jacob." "True, but you are only fifteen." "Almost sixteen." "I forgot that," said Uncle Jacob, smiling. "Well, even at sixteen, a boy can hardly expect to earn as much as twelve dollars a week. By the way, how much does Albert pay you?" "Four dollars a week." "Is that about the usual price for boys employed as you are?" "Most shoe bosses pay more. The squire pays low wages all round." "Then why don't the men go elsewhere?" "Because they live here, and it is better to work cheaper here than to move. Some have gone away." "Well, keep up your courage, Bert, and the time will come when you will be earning twelve dollars a week like your rich old uncle. If the office were only in Lakeville, so that I could board with your mother----" "I wish it was, Uncle Jacob." "Well, Mary, I shan't have to open a cigar store in Lakeville," remarked Uncle Jacob, as his niece entered the room. Mrs. Barton looked an inquiry, and Bert exclaimed: "Uncle Jacob has secured a clerkship in New York at twelve dollars a week." "I am _really_ glad!" said Mrs. Barton, with beaming face. "Come, Mary, did you too think, like Bert here, that I was headed for the poorhouse?" "I felt a little anxious for you, Uncle Jacob, I admit." "You see that your fears were idle." "Will you have to work very hard?" asked Mrs. Barton. "No; my employer is an intimate friend." "When do you commence work?" "Next Monday, so that I must leave you on Saturday." "Bert and I will both miss you; but as it is for your good, we won't complain. Now, Uncle Jacob, I hope you won't take it amiss if I urge you not to be too free with your money, but to try to save up some of your salary so that you can add to your little fund." "Thank you, Mary. I suppose you are afraid I will be driving fast horses in Central Park, eh?" "I am more afraid you will be too generous with your money, and give away more than you can afford." "Well thought of, Mary! So far from that, I am going to turn miser and hoard up every cent I can." "I don't think there is much danger of that." "Oh, you have no idea how mean I can be if I try. However, as I shall be acting according to your advice, you can't find fault with me." "I see you don't mean to follow my advice, Uncle Jacob." "Still I am glad you gave it. It shows that you feel a real interest in your shabby old uncle. Some time--I can't promise how soon--I shall invite you and Bert to come and spend the day in New York. I will get a day off from the office, and we'll have a nice excursion somewhere." On Friday, Uncle Jacob called on Squire Marlowe; not at the house, however, but at the factory. "I've come to bid you good-by, Albert," he said. "Are you going back to California?" asked the Squire. "No, I am going to New York." "It is expensive living in New York." "I have obtained a situation there." "Ah, indeed! That is different. What sort of a position?" "I shall be a clerk in a mining office." "What pay will you get?" "Twelve dollars a week." "Very fair! I congratulate you. You ought to live on that and save money besides." "That's what Mary Barton says." "Then she gives you very sensible advice. It will be a great deal better than opening a cigar store in Lakeville." "I wouldn't do that after what you said on the subject," returned Uncle Jacob in a deferential tone, though there was a twinkle in his eye. "I am glad you recognize the fact that I counseled you for your good," said the Squire pompously. "As an experienced business man, my judgment is worth something, I apprehend." "Quite so, Albert; quite so! Is your wife feeling better?" (Uncle Jacob had seen Mrs. Marlowe riding out the day before, apparently in full health.) "She is somewhat improved, but still delicate," said Squire Marlowe guardedly. "I am sorry I cannot invite you to dine with us again before you go to the city." "I should hardly be able to do so, as I go away to-morrow." "Just so! I will say good-by for you, and that will do just as well." "That's a load off my mind!" soliloquized the squire, after Uncle Jacob had left him. "I was afraid the old man would squander all his money, and then come upon me for that old loan. I hope he'll keep away from Lakeville in the future." The next day Uncle Jacob left town. As he quitted the house, he put a sealed envelope into Mary Barton's hand. "If you are ever in trouble, and cannot communicate with me," he said, "open this envelope. Take good care of it!" "I will, Uncle Jacob. I will put it away in my trunk." "Well, good-by, Mary, and God bless you!" A minute later and Uncle Jacob was gone. Mrs. Barton went back to covering balls and Bert to his place in the shoe shop. Their united earnings enabled them to live comfortably, and they were content, though they had nothing to spare. But trouble was close at hand, though they did not suspect it. What that trouble was will be disclosed in the next chapter. CHAPTER VIII. DISCHARGED. Three days later, while on his way to the factory, Bert overtook Luke Crandall, who was employed like himself in pegging shoes. "Have you heard the news, Bert?" asked his friend. "No; what is it?" "All the peggers are to be discharged; you and I, and the two other boys." "Is that true?" asked Bert, stopping short, and surveying his friend with a look of dismay. "Yes; I wish it wasn't." "What is the reason?" "The squire has bought a pegging machine, and he has hired a man from out of town to run it. So he will have no need of us." "How soon is he going to put it in?" asked Bert, with a sinking heart. "Next Monday. At the end of this week we shall be discharged." "What are you going to do?" Bert inquired, after a pause. "I shall be all right. I have an uncle who keeps a store in Bradford, and I am going there to tend in the store, and shall board in the family. What shall you do?" "I don't know," answered Bert soberly. "This has come on me so suddenly, that I haven't had time to think." "There's precious little chance for a boy in Lakeville, unless he goes to work on a farm." "I don't even know if there is a chance to do that. All the farmers are supplied with help. Besides, they generally pay a boy in his board and clothes, and I need money to help support my mother." "Isn't old Marlowe your uncle?" "No, but he is my mother's cousin." "Then he ought to do something for you out of relationship." "I don't expect it," answered Bert. "He appears to feel very little interest in us." They had reached the factory, and entering, were soon at work. Before noon the bad news was confirmed, and the boys were informed that their services would not be required after Saturday night. At dinner Bert informed his mother, and she too was dismayed. It was a calamity she had never dreamed of. She supposed Bert was sure of continued employment in pegging till he was old enough to be employed in some other part of the business. "I don't see what we shall do, Bert," she said. "There is no other shop in Lakeville. If there were, you might get a chance there." "There is no business of any kind here outside of Marlowe's shop." "True. What are the other boys going to do?" "Luke Crandall is going into his uncle's shop at Bradford, and the other two boys talk of leaving town." "I do think Albert Marlowe might find some place for you. We are near relations, and he knows how I depend on your earnings." "He isn't a man to consider that, mother." Mrs. Barton was silent, but she determined to make an application to her cousin in Bert's behalf. Accordingly, in the evening, she said to him. "Bert, I am going out to make a call. I would like to have you look after the house while I am gone." "Yes, mother." Mrs. Barton did not venture to let Bert know of her intention, for he would have done his best to prevent her applying to the squire for a special favor. Perhaps he was too proud, but it was an honorable pride. Besides, he knew very well that the appeal was likely to prove ineffectual. With a faltering step Mrs. Barton advanced and rang the bell of her cousin's handsome house. It was a call from which she shrank, but she was spurred by necessity. "Is Mr. Marlowe in?" she inquired. "I will see, ma'am." Squire Marlowe was at home, and she was ushered into his presence. Albert Marlowe was not, on the whole, surprised to see his cousin. He guessed the errand that brought her, and he frowned slightly as she entered the room. "Good evening," he said, in a distant tone. "I hope you are well." "Well in health, but anxious in mind, Albert," she said. "Bert tells me that he has been discharged from the shop." "Yes, but he is not the only one. There are three other boys." "It has come upon us like a thunderbolt. I had no idea that he was in any danger of losing his place." "I have nothing against your son, Mrs. Barton. It is a business necessity that compels me to dispense with his services." "Why a business necessity?" "You may have heard that I intend to introduce a pegging machine. It will do the work cheaper and more effectually than under the present system." "Oh, why couldn't you have let matters remain as they were? You may gain something, but you are depriving the boys of their livelihood." "You don't regard the matter in a business light, Mrs. Barton. I must keep up with the times. Other manufacturers are making the change, and I should stand in my own light if I adhered to the old-fashioned system." "I don't pretend to know about business, Albert, but I do know that in dismissing Bert you deprive us of more than half our income, and Heaven knows we need it all." "Your son can find something else to do." "What is there for him to do in Lakeville? I shall be grateful if you will suggest anything." "No doubt he can get a chance to work on a farm." "I know of no farmer who needs his services, and even if there were one he would not get money for his services, and that is what we want." "Of course farming isn't the only thing," said the squire vaguely. "If he looks round sharp he will come across something----" Mrs. Barton shook her head. "You know how little business there is in Lakeville," she answered. "Isn't there some other department in the factory in which you can employ him?" Squire Marlowe shook his head. "He is too young for any other work," he said. "Then what are we to do?" "Oh, you'll think of something," said the squire indefinitely. "He is to be in the shop the rest of the week, and that will give you time to think the matter over." "Then you can't hold out any hope!" said Mrs. Barton mournfully. "No, but you mustn't be despondent. Something will turn up." Mrs. Barton was silent, and her sad face made the squire vaguely uncomfortable. He wished she would go. "Mrs. Marlowe is not feeling well this evening," he said awkwardly, "or I would invite you to meet her. Some other evening----" "I am not in the mood to meet any one to-night, Albert," she said. "I will be going," and she rose from her chair and moved toward the door. "Good-evening, then. I am glad to have seen you." Mrs. Barton did not reply to the compliment. Her heart was too full of sorrow to respond to what she knew to be insincere and unmeaning. She understood very well that Albert Marlowe was glad to be rid of her. "How unreasonable women are!" muttered Squire Marlowe, impatiently, as he closed the door upon his unwelcome guest. "Mary Barton would have had me postpone all improvements in my shop for the sake of keeping that boy of hers in his place. Business considerations are as nothing to women. They are so unpractical." Mrs. Barton walked homeward slowly, musing bitterly on her cousin's want of feeling. "How cold-hearted he is!" she murmured. "He evidently cares nothing for our needs, or the prospect of our hardships. He lives in a fine house, and rears his family in luxury, while Bert and I are likely to want even the necessaries of life." Perhaps Mrs. Barton was a little too despondent. Perhaps she ought to have had more trust in Providence; but there had been sorrows in her life which had robbed her of her natural hopefulness, and she was no longer as courageous in the face of threatening misfortune as she had once been. She had nearly reached home when, from out of the darkness, a man's figure advanced from the roadside and laid his hand upon her arm. "Who are you!" she asked faintly, suppressing a scream. "Don't be frightened, Mary," was the reply, "I am your husband, Simeon Barton." CHAPTER IX. MRS. BARTON'S SECRET. Mrs. Barton staggered, and would have fallen, had not the other held her up. "You here," she exclaimed, in amazement, "after being absent so many years?" "Yes; it has been a cruel exile. We have been very unfortunate." "Where have you been these last ten years, Simeon?" "For the last eight years in Canada." "And you did not write me?" "No; I feared it would set officers on my track. I have heard from you now and then, indirectly. Have you suffered much?" "It has been a weary time. It would have been easier to bear if I had heard from you." "A letter from Canada would have been sure to attract attention and invite comment. Besides, I had no money to send you. Misfortune has pursued me, and I have only been able to support myself. When I think of the probable author of my misfortunes, I own it has made me feel revengeful." "To whom do you refer, Simeon?" "To Albert Marlowe." "What do you mean? How is he responsible for your--misfortune?" "I will tell you. I believe that it was he who stole the bonds, the loss of which was imputed to me." "Is it possible that you have any proof of this?" asked Mary Barton eagerly. "The bond that was found in your possession----" "Was placed in my overcoat pocket for the express purpose of throwing suspicion upon me. You remember that it was a bond for five hundred dollars, while the amount stolen was six thousand." "Yes." "Albert and I were both at work in the same establishment. We were on a level, so far as means are concerned." "Yes." "Now he is a rich man," added Simeon Barton significantly. "Yes; he is considered worth thirty thousand dollars." "It was the stolen money that gave him his start, I verily believe." "He did not start in business for himself for more than a year after--the trouble." "No; for he thought it would invite suspicion. I have reason to think that he disposed of the bonds in Canada, and with the proceeds started in as a manufacturer. How otherwise could he have done so? He was only earning two dollars a day when we were working together, and it cost him all of that to support his family." "I have often wondered where he obtained money to go into business." "I don't think there is any mystery about it." "And you have been compelled to bear the consequences of his wrong-doing while he has been living in luxury?" said Mary Barton bitterly. "Yes; but mine is not a solitary case. Wickedness often flourishes in this world. We must look to the future for compensation." "Do you think you will ever be able to prove your innocence, Simeon?" "It is all that I live for. If I can do that, we can live together again. But tell me, before I go any further, how are you and the boy getting along?" "We are comfortable," answered Mary Barton briefly. She did not care to add to her husband's anxieties by speaking of Bert's discharge. "I wish I had some money to give you, but I only had enough to bring me here and return." "You had an object in coming?" "Yes; there was a man who was employed by Weeks Brothers at the time of the loss of the bonds. I learned some months since--it is not necessary to explain how--that he could throw light on the long unsolved mystery--that he knew the real thief. I am in search of him. Some time I hope to find him, and make clear my innocence by the aid of his testimony." "Oh, Simeon, if you only could!" exclaimed Mrs. Barton, clasping her hands. "I shall try, at all events." "I wonder if it would not be well to consult Uncle Jacob?" "Uncle Jacob!" repeated Simeon Barton in surprise. "Yes; I have not told you. He has returned from California, and is now in New York." "Have you seen him?" "Yes; he spent a week at our house." Mrs. Barton went on to give the particulars of Uncle Jacob's visit. "He is a poor man," she concluded. "As I understand, he brought home but five hundred dollars, but he is lucky enough to be employed in an office in New York at a salary of twelve dollars a week." "If I were earning that, and could hold up my head an honest man, without a stain--an undeserved stain--upon my name, I should be happy." "Can you tell me Uncle Jacob's address?" he asked, after a pause. "I don't think I shall venture to call upon him, for I am subject to arrest on the old charge, as you know, and the New York detectives are sharp, but I might write to him and ask his advice. But stay! he thinks me dead, does he not?" "Yes." "And Bert--is that what you still call him?--he still thinks that he has no father living?" "You wished it so, Simeon." "Yes; but the time may come when the secret can be revealed to him. I may disclose myself to Uncle Jacob. I don't remember him very well, but----" "He is the best and kindest of men. I wish, he could have found employment here." "Did he visit Albert?" "Yes; he remained at his house one night." "Was he well received?" "At first; for, coming from California, Albert supposed him rich. When he found he had but five hundred dollars, he lost no time in turning him out of the house." "Poor Uncle Jacob! It must have hurt the old man's feelings." "I feared it would, but he only seemed amused--not at all offended." "He has seen so much of the world that he probably expected it. The old man seemed in good spirits, then?" "Yes; he declared that he was well able to earn his own living still, though he is sixty-five, and was as gay and cheerful as a young man. He insisted on paying his board while he was with us." "There is nothing mean about Uncle Jacob." "No; and it is a mystery to me why such men as he, who would make so good use of riches, should almost always be poor." "And men like Albert Marlowe are rich." "Yes." "There are a good many things that are difficult to make out. Where are you going to stay to-night, Simeon?" she asked, after a pause. "I--don't know." "I wish I could invite you to the house where you have the best right to be." "I wish so, too." "Bert doesn't know that you are alive. Perhaps I might introduce you as an old friend of his father." "If you think it would do. He would not speak of your having a visitor?" "Not if I told him not to do so." "You have tempted me strongly, Mary. I should like to see our boy, to see with my own eyes how he is looking at fifteen. And it would be a comfort to rest once more beneath the same roof as the wife from whom I have been so long separated." "I think we can risk it, Simeon. I must introduce you under another name." "Call me Robinson. That is the name I have borne for some years past." "Mother!" was heard from a little distance. "Bert has come out in search of me, being alarmed by my long absence. Now, be on your guard." "Is that you, mother? Where have you been so long? I got quite anxious about you." "I met an old friend of your father, Bert, and in talking with him I forgot how time was passing. Mr. Robinson, this is my son Herbert." Bert greeted the stranger politely. As his hand rested for a moment in the hand of Mr. Robinson, he felt the latter tremble. "Do you remember your father, Herbert?" asked the supposed stranger. "Not very well. He died when I was quite a young boy." "True! It was indeed a long time since," murmured Robinson, with a sigh. "Bert, I have invited Mr. Robinson to stay with us to-night. It is long since I have seen him and we may not meet again for some time. He will share your room." "Certainly, mother." They went together to the cottage. Mrs. Barton prepared some tea, and they sat down to a slight meal. "Oh, if it could only continue thus!" thought Simeon Barton, as he looked wistfully at the wife and son from whom he had been so long separated. "It is like a sight of the promised land." "Do you know my mother's cousin, Albert Marlowe?" asked Bert, during the evening. "I used to know him some years ago." "Shall you call upon him? He is a rich man now." "I think not I never--liked--him much." Bert laughed. "Ditto for me!" he said. "He is a cold, selfish man. He is not popular with his workmen." "By the way, Bert," said his mother, "you need not mention Mr. Robinson's visit. His business requires secrecy." "All right, mother! I'll bear it in mind." CHAPTER X. STOLEN MONEY. Saturday afternoon arrived, and with it came Bert's discharge from the shoe shop. He put the four dollars in his pocket, and with a sober face went home. "There are my week's wages, mother," he said. "I don't know when I shall have any more money to hand you." "We won't borrow trouble to-night, Bert," responded Mrs. Barton, concealing her solicitude under a cheerful exterior. "To-morrow is Sunday, and we will defer all worldly anxieties till it is over." "You are right, mother," said Bert, readily chiming in with her cheerful humor. "I am young and strong, and there is plenty of work to be done in the world." "Keep up your courage, Bert, and you will be more likely to win success." When Sunday was over, however, Bert felt that he must begin to look about him. But the more he looked the more downhearted he became. He went to the village store, having heard that the boy employed there was about to leave. After buying a pound of sugar for his mother, he ventured to say, "Mr. Jones, don't you want to hire a boy?" "Why should I want to hire a boy?" asked the store-keeper, in a tone of surprise. "I thought that Herman was going to leave you." "So he was, but he has changed his mind." "Oh!" ejaculated Bert, disappointed. "Are you asking for yourself?" inquired the merchant. "Yes, sir." "I thought you were at work in the shoe shop." "So I was, but I have lost my place." "Ha!" exclaimed the store-keeper suspiciously. "If Squire Marlowe has discharged you, I don't want to hire you." "You are mistaken, Mr. Jones, about the cause of my discharge. He had no fault to find with me." "So _you_ say," returned Jones, in evident skepticism. "Boys don't get discharged for nothing." Bert felt inclined to be angry, but he controlled his temper. "I am a pegger, and the squire has introduced a pegging machine, so he has discharged all the peggers." "Oh, that's different. Well, I'm sorry for you, but I have no vacancy." "If Herman should change his mind again, will you think of me?" "Yes, I will. I think you are a good boy, and you look strong for your size." Bert felt a little encouraged by this promise, though it was very doubtful if it would ever amount to anything. Day after day passed, and no employment offered. But one morning a bright idea came to Bert. Blueberries were just coming into the market, and he knew of a large pasture a little over a mile away. "Mother," he said, "if you'll give me a large tin pail, I'll go after some berries. I may be able to sell them at the hotel." "If you can't, we can use them ourselves," rejoined Mrs. Barton. "It will be better to sell them, for I hear they are bringing fifteen cents a quart. They won't stay long at that figure, so we will put off having them ourselves till they are cheaper." It was with a light heart that Bert set out for the berry pasture. He had become tired of having nothing to do. Any sort of employment seemed desirable. Besides, they were very much in want of money, and here seemed a chance of earning some. Bert spent five hours in the pasture. Berries were high, because they were scarce, and it took fully twice as long to gather a quart as it would two weeks later. But he kept steadily at his task, and at length the pail--which held four quarts--was full. He was tired enough and his back ached, but still he felt happy as he left the field and trudged toward the Lake House, which was the name of the village hotel. There were a few summer boarders there from New York and Philadelphia, who were glad to exchange the brick walls and crowded city streets for the verdure and pure breezes of the country. Fortunately Bert found the landlord on the piazza, and to him he preferred his request. "Would you like to buy some blueberries?" "Go round to the side door, Bert," said Mr. Holbrook, the good-natured landlord. "I leave all such matters to Mrs. Holbrook." "Blueberries?" exclaimed the landlady. "Why, it's just what I wanted. Mrs. Casewell, from Philadelphia, has been teasing me for some blueberry pudding. What do you ask?" "Fifteen cents a quart," answered Bert. "You know they have just come into the market." "That's true. Well, I will pay you your price," said Mrs. Holbrook, who received a good income from her boarders, and was willing to be liberal to others. "How many have you got?" "I think there are four quarts, but you can measure them." There proved to be four quarts, and Bert was made happy by receiving sixty cents in silver. "It is almost as much as I made in the shop," he reflected complacently. "And perhaps I can sell some more to-morrow." Bert continued to pick berries, but the price fell rapidly until it touched six cents, and it was not so easy to sell the berries at all, for many others engaged in picking them, and the market was overstocked. Bert occasionally fell in with Percy Marlowe, but the manufacturer's son usually took very little notice of him. This did not trouble Bert, however, who felt independent, and cared little for the opinion or notice of his wealthy cousin. In one respect, however, Percy resembled Bert. He was always short of money. His father allowed him two dollars a week for spending money, more than any other boy in Lakeville received, but Percy felt that it was too little. He had formed an intimacy with Reginald Ward, a young man from New York, who was boarding at the hotel, and with him he used to play pool, which he found rather an expensive game; and still worse, he played poker with him in his own room, locking the door carefully, as this game was not looked upon with favor in Lakeville. The young man from the city was much sharper than the country boy, and steadily won his money till Percy found himself in debt to him in the sum of ten dollars. For this Percy gave his note, but no one knew better than Reginald Ward that it was not valid in law, and he resolved to secure the money, if possible. "Percy, you owe me ten dollars," he said one afternoon. "I know it," admitted Percy, rather ruefully. "When are you going to pay me?" "I don't know," answered Percy. "But that won't do, don't you know," returned Reginald frowning. "I may go away next week, and I want my money." "I would pay it to you if I had it," said Percy; "but you know I have only my allowance of two dollars a week." "Stuff and nonsense! Do you think you are going to put me off that way?" demanded Reginald angrily. "I must have my money." "Then I don't see how you're going to get it," said Percy doggedly. "I can't pay what I haven't got." "Go to your father and ask for it." "As if he would give it to me! You don't know him." "Doesn't he ever leave money lying round?" asked Reginald significantly. "What do you mean?" asked Percy, reddening. "I see you understand. I was only suggesting a way to get the money." "I am not a thief." "Who said you were? I see I shall have to take the matter into my own hands." "How? What do you mean?" asked Percy nervously. "I will go to your father, show him this I O U of yours, and ask him for the money." "You wouldn't do that, Reginald? He would be awful mad with me, and you wouldn't get your money, either." "I must do something. I can't afford to lose the money." "Just wait a day or two. I'll see what I can do." "Mind you do something, then." Percy regretted that he had ever made the acquaintance of Reginald Ward, or consented to play poker with him, but the regret came too late. The mischief was done, and he saw from Ward's determined look that he must do something. He was just in that frame of mind when temptations have the most power. In the evening he went to the village store to purchase a fishing-line, for he had made an arrangement to go out fishing with Reginald Ward the next day. He made the purchase, and was about to go when his eye caught sight of a twenty-dollar bill lying on the desk. Mr. Jones had gone to the other end of the store, and no one was looking. On the impulse of the moment he seized the bill, and with his heart beating quickly, he left the store. As he passed through the door Bert Barton entered with a kerosene can in his hand, and walked up to the counter, taking his stand near the desk. CHAPTER XI. THE TWENTY-DOLLAR BILL. In order to understand what followed, it is necessary to explain that the evening previous Bert and his mother found themselves out of money. About a dollar was due the latter for covering balls, but it would not be paid for three days, and meanwhile they were in an embarrassing condition. "What shall we do?" asked Mrs. Barton, with a troubled look. "If Uncle Jacob were only here, I would ask his advice." "He left a note to be opened if we got into trouble," said Bert, brightening up. "So he did. Do you think the time has come, Bert?" "I have no doubt of it. Where is it, mother?" "I put it in a bureau drawer in my room." "Shall I go up and get it?" "No; I will do so, as I know exactly where it is." She went upstairs, and returned almost immediately with the letter in her hand. Bert produced his knife and cut open the envelope at one end. Then, drawing out the contents, he found them to be a half sheet of note paper and a bank bill. "It's a twenty-dollar bill, mother!" he exclaimed joyfully. "Shall I read the note?" "Yes, read it, Bert." Bert read as follows: MY DEAR NIECE: As I know your income is small, and you are liable, in case of sickness or loss of employment to need help, I put a twenty-dollar bill into this envelope, which I wish you to use freely. Do not fear that it will inconvenience me to give it. My health is good, and I hope to earn my living for years to come. Your affectionate uncle, JACOB MARLOWE. "Dear Uncle Jacob," said the widow gratefully, "how good and kind he is. With his small savings I don't feel that he can afford to be so generous." "I will pay him back some time, mother." "You think then that we are justified in using it, Bert?" "Uncle Jacob meant us to do so. Before it is gone I shall probably find something to do, and then I may gradually be able to pay back the money." "In that case, Bert, I am afraid we must break into it to-morrow. Probably Mr. Jones can change it for us." So it happened the next evening that Bert, with the kerosene can in his hand, went to the store, entering, as already described, just as Percy left it with the bill which he had purloined on the impulse of the moment. "I would like two quarts of kerosene, Mr. Jones," said Bert, handing over the can. The proprietor went to one corner of the store to fill the can, and brought it back. "Please take your pay out of this," said Bert, handing him the twenty-dollar bill. Mr. Jones started in surprise, and his face darkened ominously. He scanned the desk on which he remembered placing his own twenty-dollar bill, and it was nowhere to be seen. "Why, you audacious young thief!" he exclaimed in a fury. "What do you mean?" demanded Bert angrily. "What do I mean?" gasped Jones. "You know what I mean well enough. I never knew such audacity." "Please explain yourself, Mr. Jones," said Bert with spirit. "I didn't come here to be insulted." "You are a hardened young reprobate! Do you mean to say you didn't steal this twenty-dollar bill from my desk, where I laid it five minutes since?" "I don't know anything about any twenty-dollar bill of yours, Mr. Jones. This money is mine, or rather my mother's, and I brought it with me from home." "Do you expect me to believe this bold falsehood, Bert Barton?" the store-keeper exploded wrathfully. "I don't expect you to believe any falsehood at all, Mr. Jones. Will you either change that bill or give it back to me?" "I will do neither." "Then, sir, it is you who are the thief." "You impudent young rascal, now I won't have any mercy on you. For your mother's sake, I might have done so, but as you persist in brazening out your guilt, I will see that you have a chance to repent. Here is the constable come in just at the right moment. Mr. Drake, please come here." A tall, pleasant-looking officer, who had just entered the store, approached the desk. "What can I do for you, Mr. Jones?" he asked. "Arrest this boy!" said Jones, pointing with flushed face at his young customer. "Arrest Bert Barton!" exclaimed Constable Drake, in amazement. "What on earth has he done?" "Stolen a twenty-dollar bill from my desk, and then presented it to me in payment for some kerosene." "The charge is false!" said Bert, his eyes glowing with indignation. "Hear him deny it!" said Jones, looking at the circle that had gathered around them. "I find it hard to credit your charge, Mr. Jones," replied the constable. "We all know Bert Barton, and I don't believe he would be guilty of theft." "I require you to arrest the boy!" persisted the store-keeper, stamping his foot in excitement. "Wait a moment! Did you see him take the bill?" "No," answered Jones reluctantly. "Then why do you accuse him? Please state the circumstances." "A few minutes since I was paid twenty dollars by Mr. Holbrook of the hotel, in settlement of his weekly bill for groceries, and being somewhat hurried I laid it down on the desk while I was filling an order." "Go on!" "Five minutes since Bert Barton came in and took up his position where he is now standing. He asked me for two quarts of kerosene. I filled his can for him, and he gave me a twenty-dollar bill from which to take payment. I was naturally surprised, and looked for the bill I had left on the desk. _It was gone!_" Mr. Jones gazed about the circle triumphantly. "What do you say to that?" he asked. Sympathetic eyes were turned upon Bert. Things certainly looked black for him. "I don't think I need say any more," added the store-keeper. "I want you to arrest that boy." Bert looked at the faces that encircled him. He saw that they believed him guilty, and a feeling of hot indignation possessed him. "Bert, my boy," said Officer Drake, "what have you to say to this?" "That the twenty-dollar bill I handed to Mr. Jones belongs to my mother. I know nothing of the bill he says he laid on his desk." "That's a likely story!" put in Mr. Jones, in a tone of sarcasm. "How many more twenty-dollar bills have you got at your house? I wasn't aware that your mother was so wealthy." Again opinion was unfavorable to poor Bert. His mother's straitened circumstances were well known, and it certainly did seem improbable upon the face of it that she should have a twenty-dollar bill in her possession. "This was the only twenty-dollar bill that my mother had," replied Bert. "Oh, indeed! I thought as much," said Mr. Jones significantly. "Mr. Drake, do you intend to arrest that boy?" he added angrily. "I have no warrant," returned the officer. "If you will swear that you saw him take the bill, I will assume the responsibility." "I didn't see him take it," the store-keeper again admitted reluctantly; "but it stands to reason that it is mine." Here a young man in the outer circle stepped forward. He was a summer boarder at the hotel, and Bert knew him slightly. "I am a lawyer," he said, "and if Bert will place his interests in my hands I will see what I can do to throw light upon this mystery." "I shall be very glad to do so, Mr. Conway," answered Bert. "No lawyer is needed," sputtered Jones. "The case is as plain as can be. I have no more doubt that the boy took my bill than if I had seen him do it." "That isn't legal proof; it is only an assumption," said the young lawyer. "Squire Marlowe is, I believe, your magistrate here, and I agree in behalf of my client to have the matter brought before him to-morrow morning. Meanwhile, Mr. Jones, will you hand the twenty-dollar bill in dispute to officer Drake?" "Why should I? The bill is mine," said the merchant sullenly. "That remains to be proved. Do I understand that you refuse to give up the bill?" "I do?" answered Jones doggedly. "Then I will apply at once for a warrant for your arrest for holding property belonging to my young client," said Mr. Conway. CHAPTER XII. MR. JONES IS EXCITED. The astonishment and wrath of Mr. Jones were almost ludicrous as he stared at the lawyer, who, cool and composed, reiterated his threat. "I never heard of such a thing!" he gasped. "You take my own money from me?" "It remains to be proved whether it is your own money. The boy says it is his." "The boy lies." "Really, Mr. Jones, I cannot allow you to make such charges against my client, unless you are ready to substantiate them by proof." "It stands to reason," began Mr. Jones, but the young lawyer interrupted him. "Nothing stands to reason that you can't prove," he said. "We will give you an opportunity to prove your ownership of the bill to-morrow in court. Now hand the bill to officer Drake." Very much against his will, Mr. Jones felt compelled to do this. "Isn't the boy going to be arrested?" he demanded, with an ugly look at Bert. "It is unnecessary. You can bring a formal charge against him before Squire Marlowe to-morrow." "The boy may escape during the night. I won't trust him." There was a murmur of disapproval among those present. All liked Bert, and Mr. Jones, from his quick temper and ugly disposition, was by no means a favorite. The store-keeper saw that it would not be good policy to insist upon Bert's arrest, and he said, sullenly, "I will hold you responsible for his presence at the trial." Mr. Conway smiled. "If he is not present, I will myself see that you do not suffer in consequence. Besides, flight would be tantamount to confession, and the case would go against him by default." "And should I in that case get the twenty-dollar bill?" "I will take it upon me to offer no opposition," said the lawyer. "Now, can I go?" asked Bert. "Yes; I will accompany you home for consultation." Bert took the can of kerosene and was about to leave the store, when the store-keeper said harshly: "Put down that kerosene! you haven't paid for it!" Bert flushed and looked embarrassed. It was true that he had not paid for it, nor did he have the money to pay, outside of the twenty-dollar bill which had been taken from him. "I have no money," he said. "I will leave it till to-morrow." "How much is it, Mr. Jones?" asked Conway. "Twenty-five cents." "I will advance the money. Bert, take your can." "You are very kind, Mr. Conway," said the boy gratefully. "We will settle hereafter. Now let us be going." In explanation of the price mentioned, I may say that kerosene is now much cheaper than at the date of my story. "Now, Bert," said Mr. Conway, "as your legal adviser I shall have to ask you to tell me just where you obtained the bill you offered in payment to Mr. Jones for the kerosene. I have no doubt of your innocence, but we must make it plain to all who may attend the trial." "I should like to have you come home with me, Mr. Conway. Mother will confirm what I say." "I shall be glad to do so. Will your mother be alarmed?" "Yes, I think she will; but you can make things clear to her." Mrs. Barton was indeed startled when she learned that Bert had been charged with theft, but after a free talk with Mr. Conway she felt much relieved. "Your defence is perfect, I think," said the young lawyer. "Of course Mr. Jones or his lawyer may claim that you wrote the letter yourself." "Will it be necessary to send to Uncle Jacob and get him to testify?" "I don't think so. I think your defence will be complete without it. There is another point of considerable importance which I shall look up to-night. If things turn out as I suspect they will, we shall not need to disturb your Uncle Jacob." At nine o'clock Mr. Conway took his leave and returned to the hotel. He had a short conference with the landlord, which was evidently satisfactory. "I think we shall prove too many for Mr. Jones," he murmured softly, as he went up to bed. CHAPTER XIII. PERCY GETS RID OF THE BILL. When Percy Marlowe left the grocery store with the stolen bill in his hand, he was tremulous with excitement and agitation. He felt that he had committed a crime, and he was almost tempted to go back and replace the money. But it was possible that its loss had already been discovered, and he might be connected with it. He felt that it would be safe to get as far away as possible from the store. "Nobody will suspect me," he said to himself, plucking up courage. Then there was the pleasant thought that he could pay up his debt to Reginald Ward, and have ten dollars left over. It would be very comfortable to have ten dollars to spend, and Percy, whose conscience was not sensitive, began to consider what would be the pleasantest way of disposing of it. He soon came to a decision on this point, having, like most boys, rather a talent for spending money. "I'll go round by the hotel," he said to himself, "and if I find Reg there I'll pay him what I owe him and get it off my mind." Percy walked around to the Lake House, and found Reginald Ward in the billiard room. Ward treated him rather coldly. "Good-morning, Percy," he said. "Good-morning, Reg." "I hope you have come prepared to pay me what you owe me. I may have to go back to New York to-morrow." "I wish he would," thought Percy. "Then, if there's any trouble about this money, he will be well out of the way, and nobody can find out about it." "I can pay you to-night," said Percy. "You can? You're a trump!" said Reginald, in gratified surprise. "Suppose we go up to your room," went on Percy nervously, "and don't talk about it here. I don't want anybody to know that I am owing you any money." "I understand. The governor wouldn't like it, hey?" "No, he'd be awful mad." "Follow me, then, Percy," and Ward led the way up to his room. "Lock the door," said Percy. "Seems to me we are mighty mysterious," commented Ward, laughing. "Oh, well; anything to accommodate. Now, where are the spondulicks?" "Can you change a twenty-dollar bill?" asked Percy. "Whew! you are wealthy," said Ward, in surprise. "Let me see!" and he opened his pocket book. "Much as ever," he replied, after investigating the contents. "Here is a five, a two, a silver dollar, and I think I can make up two dollars in small change. It'll take up about all I've got." "Then perhaps you'd rather wait till I have a chance to get the bill changed," suggested Percy. "Not much," returned Reginald, with a crafty smile. "'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,' as somebody says. I am willing to be inconvenienced for the sake of getting the debt paid." "Oh, well; just as you say," rejoined Percy, secretly glad to get the tell-tale bill out of his possession, and to replace it in his pocket with the smaller bills and silver which Ward proposed to give him. When the transfer was made, Ward asked, "Where did you raise the twenty, Percy?" Now it was that Percy looked embarrassed. "It is some money I had given to me a long while ago," he answered with hesitation. "Oh!" exclaimed Ward, evidently incredulous. "I promised not to use it, but to keep it saved up," continued Percy, "and I meant to; but you wanted me to pay what I owed you, and so----" "You acted like an honest young man," said Ward, finishing his sentence for him. "Yes." There was a peculiar smile on Reginald Ward's face, but he did not think it best to question Percy's statement. His money had been paid him, and that was all he cared for. "Percy's found it in his father's desk, I reckon," he said to himself, "but that doesn't concern me. I've got my money and that's more than I expected." "By the way, Reg," said Percy hurriedly, "don't mention to any one my paying you this money." "Why not?" "It would be found out that I had been playing cards for money, and there'd be no end of a row. Besides, then it would come out that I had parted with this bill." "All right, Percy. I'll keep mum. Won't you go down and have a game of billiards?" "Not to-night. I'm rather tired." "That boy's got something on his mind," thought Reginald Ward. CHAPTER XIV. BERT STANDS TRIAL. Percy went to bed early, and heard nothing of Bert's arrest for the theft which he had himself committed till at the breakfast table the next morning his father said: "Well, young Barton has got into a bad scrape." "What is it, father?" asked Percy, pricking up his ears. "He is charged with stealing a twenty-dollar bill from Mr. Jones, the store-keeper." This was certainly amazing, and Percy, in his agitation, nearly choked with some coffee that went the wrong way. "Be more careful, Percy!" said his mother sharply. "I was so surprised, mother, at what father told me," apologized Percy. "I don't know why you need be surprised," said Mrs. Marlowe. "I never had a very good opinion of the boy." "How did it happen?" asked Percy, curious to know how suspicion could have fallen upon Bert. "It appears that Mr. Jones laid a twenty-dollar bill on his desk--a very careless proceeding, by the way--while he was waiting upon a customer in another part of the store. About five minutes afterward the Barton boy called upon him to fill a small can with kerosene, and actually had the hardihood to offer his own twenty-dollar bill in payment." "Bert Barton offered Mr. Jones a twenty-dollar bill?" asked Percy, in great surprise. "Yes; no wonder you are surprised at his boldness." "Perhaps it wasn't the same bill," Percy was constrained to suggest. "You must be a fool, Percy. Where else could he have got so large a bill as that? We all know how poor the Bartons are. Besides, the bill on the desk had disappeared." Percy was silent for a moment. He felt bewildered, and could not understand it at all. He knew very well that it was not the same bill. But where did the other bill come from? How happened a poor boy like Bert Barton to have such a large bill in his possession? That was certainly mysterious. "Was--was Bert arrested?" he asked, in a hesitating tone. "He would have been but for the interference of a meddlesome young lawyer, who, it appears, is staying at the hotel." "Mr. Conway?" "I believe that is his name. He offered to defend the Barton boy, and would not permit him to be arrested." Percy was glad to hear this. He was mean and selfish, but he was not mean enough to wish Bert to suffer for a crime of which he knew him to be innocent. "What was done, then?" he asked, after a pause. "The boy was allowed to go home, but his trial is to take place before me this morning at ten o'clock. You can be present, if you desire." "I--don't--know as I do," said Percy. His father looked surprised. "I thought you would be eager to be there," he said. "I may come in," said Percy; "but I am sorry for Bert, and I should not like to see him under arrest." "You are too good-hearted, Percy," said his mother. "I am sure I hope the boy did not do what is charged, though I don't think there is the slightest doubt of it; but if he is guilty I want him punished. That is the only way to protect the community from further thefts." "What would mother say if she knew I did it?" thought Percy, shivering. "I wish I hadn't done it." But it was too late to wish that. He had appropriated the money, and it had been paid away. Suppose Reginald Ward should betray him? Percy earnestly hoped that he would leave town before he had a chance to hear of the stolen money, for he felt certain that sharp young man would suspect him of having had something to do with it. As the time drew near, Percy decided that he had better not attend the trial. He was afraid that some one would call to mind that he too had been standing near the desk just before the bill disappeared. He felt nervous and excited. He wished it was all over, and Bert was acquitted. Suppose he were found guilty and sentenced to imprisonment? It would be terrible, Percy admitted to himself; but what could he do? He couldn't confess, and incur the same punishment himself. The very thought made him shudder. He walked about the streets in a very uncomfortable frame of mind till about a quarter of ten. Then he suddenly encountered Bert, who, in company with his lawyer, was on his way to a room in the town hall where the trial was to take place. Bert held his head erect, but his face was flushed with shame at the unpleasant predicament in which he found himself. When he saw Percy approaching he said to himself bitterly: "There is one who will rejoice at my misfortune." What was his surprise, then, when Percy came up with a pleasant smile, and said, "Good-morning, Bert." Bert looked at him sharply, to see if there was anything triumphant in his smile, but Percy's manner was cordial and friendly. "Have you heard of my trouble, Percy?" asked Bert abruptly. "Yes, Bert, and I am very sorry for it." "Do you believe me guilty?" "No, I don't," returned Percy, and he offered his hand. "Thank you, Percy," said Bert, moved in spite of himself. "I misjudged you. If _you_ don't believe me guilty, I hope others won't. Are you going to the trial?" "I wasn't thinking of doing so, but I will walk with you as far as the town hall." There was quite a crowd gathered near the entrance to the building, for it was generally known that Bert was to be tried for the theft that morning. Some of those composing it--in fact most--were Bert's friends; but there were a few who delighted in scandal and looked forward with eagerness to hearing the details, and did not care much how Bert might be affected by it. The surprise was general when Bert approached, apparently in friendly converse with Percy Marlowe, a boy whose want of cordial feeling toward him was generally known. The occasion was a trial for Bert, but Percy's unexpected friendliness sustained him, though he had not got over his surprise at it. All parties entered the court-room, and presently Squire Marlowe himself appeared. He walked with dignity to the platform, and took his seat behind the desk over which justice was dispensed. "Who is the complainant in this case?" he asked. "I am, squire," said Mr. Jones, advancing eagerly. "State your case." "I charge this boy--Bert Barton--with stealing a twenty-dollar bill from my desk last evening." "Have you counsel?" "No, squire. The case is plain, and I can manage it myself." "I represent the defendant," said the young lawyer Conway. "You are a lawyer, are you?" asked Squire Marlowe, frowning. "Yes, sir." "Have you any evidence or certificate to show this?" "I can prove it, if necessary; but I will venture to suggest that your doubts on the subject are very singular, and that, lawyer or no lawyer, I am at liberty to appear for the defendant if he desires it." Squire Marlowe coughed and looked displeased at this remark. "State your case, Mr. Jones," he said, after the latter had been sworn. The grocer told the story as it happened, making it bear as heavily against Bert as possible. "Do you wish to ask the witness any questions, Mr. Conway," inquired the judge. "Yes, sir. Mr. Jones, what makes you think my client took your twenty-dollar bill?" "It stands to reason--" commenced the grocer. "Never mind about that! Please stick to facts." "Well, the bill disappeared." "Admitted. Go on." "The Barton boy was standing near the desk." "Did you see him take it?" "No; how could I? My back was turned." "This is important. Then, so far as your knowledge goes, any other person may have taken the bill." "Didn't I tell you that the boy was brazen enough to offer me the same bill in payment for some kerosene which I got for him?" "You are very sure it was the same bill, are you, Mr. Jones?" asked Conway carelessly. "Why, of course it was." "That won't do! How can you prove it was?" "Because," said the grocer triumphantly, "the bill I lost was a twenty-dollar bill, and the bill the boy offered me was a twenty-dollar bill," and Mr. Jones looked around the court-room with a complacent and triumphant smile. Squire Marlowe, judge though he was, gave a little nod, as if to show that he, too, thought the argument was unanswerable. Even Bert's friends in the court-room glanced at each other gravely. It certainly looked bad for our hero. CHAPTER XV. BERT'S TRIUMPHANT VINDICATION. "You have not answered my question, Mr. Jones," persisted the young lawyer. "I rather think I have," said the grocer, looking around him triumphantly. "But not satisfactorily. I ask you again, how do you know that the twenty-dollar bill tendered you by my client was the same bill which you left on the desk?" "It stands to reason----" "Stop there! That is no answer." "It seems to me you're mighty particular," retorted the grocer sharply. "My young client's interests require it. Now for your answer." "Well, there wasn't any other twenty-dollar bill around." "How do you know! Young Barton says he brought the bill from home." "He says so!" repeated Mr. Jones, with a suggestive sneer. "Upon that point I propose to call a witness who will corroborate his statement. Mrs. Barton!" The widow Barton came forward, pale and anxious, and was sworn. She was regarded with sympathy by all present except the grocer and the acting judge. After one or two unimportant questions, Mr. Conway asked: "When your son went to the grocery store, did he take any money with him?" "Yes, sir." "How much?" "Twenty dollars." "Was it in the form of one bill, or several?" "It was a single twenty-dollar bill." Mr. Jones, who had now taken his seat, looked insultingly incredulous. "Can I ask a question?" he said, turning to Squire Marlowe. "You can." "I should like to ask Mrs. Barton where the prisoner obtained the twenty-dollar bill?" And the grocer looked around the court-room again, triumphantly. "It came from my uncle, Jacob Marlowe," answered Mrs. Barton. "Ah, that's it! Is Mr. Jacob Marlowe in town?" "No, sir." "When was he in town?" "Three or four weeks since." "When did he give you the money?" "He left a sealed envelope containing it, which we were not to open unless in case of need." "When did you first open it?" "Last evening." "Can you produce the envelope?" asked Jones, with an ironical smile. "Here it is." The envelope was taken and examined by the grocer. "There is nothing to show that this could not have been prepared by the defendant, without the knowledge of this convenient uncle," he said. "There was a note accompanying it," Mrs. Barton added. "Let me see it." "I will read it," said Mr. Conway, taking it in his hand. This note has already been quoted in Chapter XI. Mr. Jones looked somewhat nonplussed. "I am free to confess," he said, after a pause, "that I doubt the genuineness of this note. Nothing could be easier than to prepare it." "I appeal to the court to protect the witness from insult," interposed Mr. Conway. "I do not consider that she has been insulted," said Squire Marlowe coldly. "The credibility of testimony is always a matter to be considered." Mr. Jones eyed the young lawyer with a triumphant smile. "Have you any further questions to put, Mr. Jones?" added Conway. "No, sir, I am satisfied." "Then the witness may step down. I call upon Mr. Jones to take the witness stand again." "I have no objection, I am sure!" said the grocer jauntily. He saw that the judge was with him, and he confidently anticipated Bert's conviction. "From whom did you obtain the twenty-dollar bill which you charge my client with taking?" asked Mr. Conway. "From Mr. Holbrook, the landlord of the hotel." "You are sure of this?" demanded Conway sternly. "Of course I am." "And you will swear that this is the case?" "Certainly!" answered Mr. Jones aggressively, thinking it very important that he should substantiate this fact. "That will do, Mr. Jones." The grocer took his seat, feeling that he had scored a victory and foiled the lawyer. It was not long before he had occasion to change his opinion. "Mr. Holbrook," called Conway. The landlord of the Lakeville Hotel took the stand. He was a pleasant-looking, good-hearted man, and he glanced sympathetically at Bert and his mother. "Mr. Holbrook," said Conway, "do you remember paying Mr. Jones, the complainant, a twenty-dollar bill?" "Yes, sir." The grocer smiled again. Everything seemed to favor his side of the case. "For what was the payment made?" "For groceries furnished by Mr. Jones." "Would you recognize the bill you paid if you should see it again?" "Yes, sir." "Is this the bill?" asked the lawyer, exhibiting the note taken from the grocer, and now in the custody of the court. Mr. Holbrook took the bill in his hand, and, turning it over, looked at the reverse side. All eyes were upon him, and there was a hush of expectation, for it was felt that the whole case hinged upon the answer to this question. "This is not the same bill," answered the landlord composedly. Bert's friends looked joyful, and Mr. Jones looked dismayed. "He is mistaken!" ejaculated the grocer, much perturbed. "Of course," continued the young lawyer, "you have some means of identification. Please state to the court how you know that this is not the same bill." "The bill which I paid to Mr. Jones," answered the landlord, "had the letters I. W. written in red ink on the back. This note has no such mark." Conway looked triumphant. It was his turn now. He took the bank-note, and holding it up in sight of all, called the attention of the court and those present to the fact attested by the witness. "It is clear," he said, "that nothing was ever written on the back of this note in red ink." "It might have been effaced," suggested the grocer querulously. "The bill, since it was taken from the complainant, has been in charge of the court," said Conway. "I hardly think the complainant will dare to assert that it has been tampered with. And now, your honor," turning to the presiding judge, "I submit that the charge has been completely answered. We have shown that the bill tendered by my client was not the bill lost by Mr. Jones. I claim his discharge." Squire Marlowe hesitated, but he could think of no pretext for holding Bert, since the case against him had so signally failed. "The prisoner is discharged!" he said briefly, and rose from his seat. Bert's friends surrounded him, and he began to fear that in their enthusiasm they would shake his hand off. It was almost as serious as being a Presidential candidate. It is needless to say, however, that Mr. Jones was not one of the friends who congratulated him. He, on the other hand, looked decidedly grumpy, and as if he had lost his best friend. He pushed his way through the crowd up to the young lawyer. "This is all very fine, Mr. Lawyer," he said, "but will you tell me how I am to get my money back?" "What money, Mr. Jones?" "The twenty-dollar bill taken from my desk, of course." "I wish I could, Mr. Jones, but I know no more than the man in the moon." "Is that all the satisfaction I am going to get?" demanded Jones angrily. "From me--yes. You will have to find the person who actually took the money." "I don't see how I am to do it. I would have sworn that it was Bert Barton, and I am not sure now----" "Stop there, Mr. Jones! If after my client's full vindication you insinuate any charge of dishonesty, I shall advise him to sue you for defamation of character." The grocer looked startled, and Conway continued: "But I will volunteer the suggestion that as you can now identify the bill, you can advertise that a note so marked has been stolen from you, and call upon any one into whose hands it may come to help you trace it back to the thief. There is a chance that you may recover it." CHAPTER XVI. WHAT BECAME OF THE STOLEN NOTE. Among the attentive listeners at Bert's trial was a tall young man with light hair and pallid complexion, upon whose thin face there played a shrewd smile. He seemed unusually interested, as was indeed the case, for he strongly suspected that he knew who was the actual purloiner of the stolen twenty-dollar bill. It is hardly necessary to say that the young man was Percy's friend, Reginald Ward. When the landlord gave his testimony, he was no longer in doubt, for he had himself noticed the letters I. W. on the back of the bank-bill. As he left the court-room, he saw Percy lingering near the door. "Come with me, Percy," he said, linking his arm with that of the boy. "I have something to say to you." "I have an engagement," pleaded Percy, trying to release himself. "I will call round this afternoon." "I can't wait till afternoon," said Reginald decidedly. "I must speak to you now on a matter of importance." "How did the trial come out?" "The boy was acquitted." "I thought he would be." "Why?" asked Reginald Ward, eyeing Percy curiously. "Because I don't think he would steal." "Is he a friend of yours?" "No; he is only a working boy." "Still you think he is honest?" "Oh, yes." "How then do you account for the bill's being stolen?" Percy shrugged his shoulders. "I don't feel sure that any bill was stolen," he said. "I don't think much of old Jones. I dare say he made up the story." "That is hardly likely. What object could he have?" "He wanted to get hold of Bert Barton's bill. Where did Bert get it from? Did he say?" "He said it was left in an envelope by some old uncle of his." "Uncle Jacob?" "Yes; I think that was the name." "I didn't think the old man had so much money to spare." "You seem to know him then?" "I have heard of him." By this time they had reached the hotel, and Reginald asked Percy to come up to his room. "What was it you wanted to speak to me about?" asked Percy, as he took a seat at the window. "I wanted to tell you that the stolen bill came from Mr. Holbrook. Mr. Jones testified to this effect, and Mr. Holbrook also." "Well, what of that?" "Mr. Holbrook described the bill and stated that the letters I. W. were written in red ink on the reverse side." Percy began to see the point, and waited anxiously for Reginald to continue. Ward drew from his pocket the twenty-dollar bill, and held it up to open view. "This is the bill you paid me last evening," he said. "You will observe the letters I. W. as described by the landlord. Now, where did you get this bill?" he asked searchingly. Drops of perspiration stood on Percy's forehead, and he hesitated to reply. Finally an inspiration came to him, and he said, "I picked it up in the street, near the grocery store. The thief must have dropped it." "You didn't tell me that when you paid it to me." "No, I didn't think it necessary. I was anxious to get out of debt to you." "Percy Marlowe, that statement of yours won't pass muster. Weren't you in the grocery store last evening?" "No--yes," stammered Percy. "And you saw this bill on Mr. Jones's desk--yes or no?" "I don't see what right you have to question me," said Percy sullenly. "Because you have paid me stolen money, and if I keep it I am likely to get into trouble. Indeed, I came very near it this morning. I was on the point of paying it to Mr. Holbrook for my board. You can imagine that he would have recognized it at once." "I don't see as you are to blame." "No, I am not; but if the bill were known to be in my possession, the only thing I could do would be to state from whom I received it." "You wouldn't do that!" said Percy, in alarm. "I should have to. But I don't mean to run the risk. I will give you back the bill, and you must return me the ten dollars I gave you in change." "But what can I do with the bill?" "That is your lookout. Of course you will still owe me ten dollars." Reluctantly Percy drew out the ten dollars he had received in change, not having yet spent any of it, and Reginald Ward gave him back the unlucky bill. Percy thrust it quickly into his vest pocket. "Now, Percy," said Reginald, "let me advise you as a friend to get that bill out of your possession as soon as possible. If it is traced to you, you will get into hot water." "I can't pass it here." "You have no right to pass it anywhere." "You could pass it in New York." Reginald Ward considered a moment, but shook his head. "No, it would be too dangerous," he said. "It might be traced to me, and it would be known that I have been in Lakeville. I should have to expose you to screen myself." "Then what would you advise me to do?" "Get it back to Mr. Jones in some way. Here, take an envelope, inclose the bill, and mark the grocer's name on it. Then drop it somewhere, and the thing will be done; Jones will be happy and you will be safe." "All right!" Percy followed Reginald's advice, and then put the letter in his pocket. "When are you going back to New York?" he asked. "To-morrow. I will leave you my address, and hope you will have the honesty to pay me what you owe me as soon as possible." "Yes, I will, but I am afraid that won't be soon." "You ought to make an effort to pay me." "It isn't as if I really owed it to you. It is money I have lost at cards." "If you are a boy of honor," said Reginald impressively, "you will feel that such debts ought to be paid above all others." "Why should they?" asked Percy, and there will be many others who will be disposed to echo the question. "Why should gambling debts take precedence of honest obligations?" It is not necessary to repeat Reginald's explanation, as it was shallow and sophistical. Two hours later Sam Doyle, a young Irish boy, espied, under a bush by the roadside, what seemed to be a letter. He picked it up, and, though his education was by no means extensive, he made out the name of Mr. Jones. "Shure Mr. Jones must have dropped it out of his pocket," he said. "I'll carry it to him." He entered the store, and attracted the attention of the grocer, who was behind the counter, and in a bad humor, smarting still from his loss of twenty dollars. "Clear out, you Sam Doyle!" he said, "unless you want to buy something. I don't want any boys loafing round my store." "Is this your envelope, Mr. Jones?" asked Sam, producing the envelope. "Give it to me." Mr. Jones read his name on the envelope in some wonder and tore it open. What was his amazement and delight when he saw the lost bill! "Where did you get this, Sam?" he asked. "I found it under a bush by the side of the road, near the blacksmith's shop." "When?" "Shure it wasn't more'n five minutes." "Do you know what was in the envelope?" "No." "You are sure no one gave you the letter to hand to me?" said the grocer, with a searching glance. "Shure, I found it." "Well, I'm glad to get it. You are a good boy to bring it to me. Here's ten cents." Sam took the money, as much surprised as pleased, for the grocer was considered, and justly, a very mean man. "Thank you, Mr. Jones," he said. "You are sure that Bert Barton didn't give you the letter?" "Yes, sir. I haven't seen Bert since mornin'." "Did you see any other boy near?" "Yes, sir, I saw Percy Marlowe." "Did he speak to you?" "Yes, sir; he asked me what I'd got in my hand." "What did you say?" "I showed him the letter." "Did he say anything to you then?" "He told me it was for you, and he said I'd better take it right over to your store." "He gave you good advice. Wait a minute, and I'll do up a pound of sugar and send it to your mother as a present." "What's come to the old man?" thought Sam. "Shure he's gettin' generous in his old age!" "I wish I knew who took that bill," thought the grocer meditatively. "However I've got it back, and that's the main thing." When Percy dropped the envelope, he remained near at hand, and seeing Sam pick it up, instructed him to carry it to the grocer. He then breathed a sigh of relief, and felt that he was lucky to get out of a bad scrape so safely. CHAPTER XVII. AFTER THE TRIAL. "Mr. Conway," said Bert, as they walked home together from the trial, "I am very grateful to you for getting me out of my trouble. If you will let me know your fee, I will pay it." "My dear boy," rejoined the young lawyer, "this is my vacation, and I only took up your case to keep my hand in." "You are very kind, and I shall always remember it." "Lawyers are not always mercenary, though they have that reputation with some. I should like, by the way, to find out who did steal the bill." "So should I. I have no idea for my part." "If you ever find out, let me know. I go back to New York to-morrow, and am glad to leave the memory of a professional triumph behind me." "What is your address, Mr. Conway?" "No. 111 Nassau Street, Room 15. Here is my card. When you come to New York, call and see me." "I shall do so, though it may be some time in the future. Do you think I could get anything to do in New York?" "Yes; but perhaps not enough to pay your expenses." "I find the same trouble here." "You have been at work in the shoe factory, I believe." "Yes; but I have been discharged. My place has been taken by a machine." "That is unfortunate. Is there no other opening in Lakeville?" "I have not found any yet." "I will keep your case in mind, and if I hear of anything I will let you know." When Squire Marlowe returned home from the trial, his wife inquired with interest, "How did the case come out?" "The boy was acquitted," answered her husband shortly. "Acquitted! Why, you thought it was a close case." "So I did, but it came out on the trial that there were two twenty-dollar bills, and the one which the Barton boy presented was left for him by Uncle Jacob." "By that old man? Why, I thought he was poor." "So he is--worth only five hundred dollars, and he is making ducks and drakes of that as fast as he can." "And then he will fall back on you?" "I suppose so." "Then I hope you will let him go to the poor house," said Mrs. Marlowe with energy. "I shall. I have no pity for a man who throws away his money." Percy came home to dinner in lively spirits. He was free from anxiety, and felt that he had been remarkably fortunate. "Were you at the trial, Percy?" asked his mother. "No, ma." "I thought you would be interested in seeing that boy on trial." "I was sorry for him, and didn't want to be present." "Sorry for him?" "Yes; I felt sure he had not taken the money." "Seems to me this is a new streak, Percy," said the squire. "I thought you didn't like Bert Barton." "I am not intimate with him, for he is only a working boy; but all the same I don't want him convicted when he is innocent." "It is a mystery to me who could have taken the other twenty-dollar bill," said the squire. "Can you think of anybody?" "No; how should I?" returned Percy, nearly swallowing a spoonful of soup the wrong way. "There are so few people in the village, that it must be some one we know." "Perhaps old Jones didn't lose any money, after all." "There is no doubt on that point. The stolen bill has been returned to him in an envelope by Sam Doyle." "Is that so?" exclaimed Percy, counterfeiting surprise. "Why, it must be the same envelope Sam showed me." "He showed you the envelope?" "Yes; he picked it up by the roadside. It was directed in pencil to Mr. Jones. So that contained the stolen bill?" "Yes." "Then perhaps it was taken in joke." "A poor joke! No; the thief got alarmed, and took that way of returning it. I suggested to Jones that the handwriting on the envelope might furnish a clew to the thief." "What did he say?" asked Percy, alarmed. "He said he should do nothing about it, now that he had the money back." "I guess he's right," said Percy, relieved. In the afternoon Bert met Percy in the street. He advanced cordially. "Well, Percy, I got free, after all." "Yes, I am glad of it." "I feel grateful to you for believing in my innocence." "It's all right," said Percy, in a patronizing tone. "Even if you are a working boy, I was sure you wouldn't steal." Bert's feelings cooled a little. Somehow Percy's manner kept him aloof. "Yes, I am a working boy," he replied, "or at any rate I would like to be, but I don't find it easy to get work." "Just so! If I hear of anything I will let you know. Good-morning!" "I don't know what to make of Percy," thought Bert, perplexed. "He was as kind as he could be this morning, and now he is offish. At any rate, he didn't believe me guilty, and I won't forget that in a hurry." Two more weeks passed, and Bert still found himself unable to find employment. Berries had become so plenty that he was unable to sell any, and only picked some for consumption at home. The sum of money which had been received from Uncle Jacob gradually dwindled, and Bert became alarmed. What would they do when it was all gone? He had no doubt that Uncle Jacob would give them further assistance, if appealed to, but both he and his mother felt that it would be an imposition on the old man, with his limited fund of money, to ask anything more of him. "I don't want any more of Uncle Jacob's money, mother," said Bert; "but I should like to ask him if he could find me a place in New York." "I couldn't bear to have you leave me, Bert." "But I must take work wherever I can find it." So Bert with his mother's permission, wrote to Uncle Jacob, informing him of his discharge from the factory, and his desire to obtain work elsewhere. This letter reached Jacob Marlowe, and led to his writing as follows to the squire: NEPHEW ALBERT: I hear by a letter from Lakeville that you have discharged Bert Barton from your employment, and that he cannot secure any other kind of work. I am surprised that you should treat Mary's boy in this manner, considering the relationship that exists between you. I appeal to your better nature to reinstate him in his old place. I can assure you that you will have no cause to regret it. I have steady work here, and am quite well satisfied with my position and prospects. JACOB MARLOWE. "The stupid old meddler!" ejaculated the squire, throwing the letter from him in impatience. "I suppose the Barton boy has been writing to him. He evidently considers it my duty to support all my poor relations, himself included. I will undeceive him on that point." He drew writing materials toward him and wrote as follows: UNCLE JACOB: I have received your letter asking me to reinstate the Barton boy in his old place. This is a business matter, and I don't permit any interference with my business. I may add that, even if he is a poor relation, I do not feel called upon to support all my needy relations. I am glad you have obtained a situation in which you can make an honest living. I hope you will keep it, and won't squander the small sum of money you have in reserve. Yours, etc., ALBERT MARLOWE. When Uncle Jacob read this letter, he smiled. "It is what I expected," he said to himself. "Albert Marlowe is thoroughly selfish, and so, I think, are his wife and son. I must find some other way of helping Bert." The day succeeding the receipt of Uncle Jacob's letter, the squire met Bert in the post-office. "Have you been writing to Jacob Marlowe?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "I suppose you asked him to urge me to take you back into the factory?" "No, sir." "At any rate, he has done so; but I allow no one to interfere in my business affairs. You hear, do you?" "Yes, sir." "Then remember it!" and Squire Marlowe turned his back rudely upon Bert. "Here is a letter for you, Bert!" said the postmaster. Bert opened the letter in some surprise, and read it with interest and excitement. CHAPTER XVIII. BERT OBTAINS WORK. To begin with, the letter, which Bert so unexpectedly received, contained a ten-dollar bill. "It must be from Uncle Jacob!" he thought. He turned to the next page, and looked for the signature. It was, as he anticipated, Jacob Marlowe. It was brief, as will be seen from the copy given below: MY DEAR NEPHEW: I am sorry to hear that you have lost your place in the factory. I think Albert Marlowe might at any rate have retained _you_, knowing how much you and your mother needed your weekly wages. I have written to him, asking him to take you back into the shop, but I do not suppose he will. It is more to test him than anything else that I have made the request. But, at any rate, we will give him a chance to deal considerately. Next week, Thursday, if you should not have found work, come up to the city and seek me at the office where I am employed, No. 111 Nassau Street, Room 19, and I may have it in my power to employ you in an important matter. Bring all your clothes with you, but take only money enough to get to the city, leaving the balance with your mother. Give my love to her, and tell her to keep up good courage. Your affectionate uncle, JACOB MARLOWE. "I am to go to New York!" thought Bert joyfully. "Perhaps Uncle Jacob will find me a place there. I shall enjoy that ever so much. Let me see, I am to go next week, Thursday, and it is now Saturday. I wish the time had come!" Of course, Bert carried the letter home and showed it to his mother. "How kind Uncle Jacob is!" she murmured. "But I am afraid he is too generous. He is a poor man. He cannot afford to be giving us money all the time." "He is earning a good salary, you know, mother." "Only twelve dollars a week, Bert." "But that is a good deal. If I were earning twelve dollars a week I should feel rich." "It doesn't go very far in a large and expensive city like New York." "I could save half of it, if I had it. Would you mind much, mother, if I should take a place in New York?" "It would be terribly lonely for me, Bert," sighed Mrs. Barton. "But you would not oppose it?" "Not if your Uncle Jacob thought it best. He seems to be our only friend just now." "Yes; I don't know what we should have done without him." On Monday morning, considerably to his surprise, Bert received an offer of employment. About a mile from his mother's cottage lived Silas Wilson, an old farmer about sixty years of age, who had the reputation of being one of the meanest men in Lakeville. Even his horses and cows had a hungry look, and it was easy to see that they were not pampered or injured by over-feeding. This was the man who stopped his farm wagon in front of Mrs. Barton's dwelling, and spoke to Bert, who was just coming out of the front door. "Here, you, Bert Barton!" "Good-morning, Mr. Wilson," replied Bert. "Squire Marlowe tells me you are out of a job." "Yes, sir." "And I've been thinkin' I could give you work on my farm." Bert was not overjoyed at this announcement, but he felt that he ought to take into consideration any offer that might be made to him. "Would you expect me to board at your house?" he asked. "Sartin! All my boys board with me." "How much wages would you be willing to pay?" "Fifty cents a week and board. I calculate that would be about right." "Fifty cents a week and board?" repeated Bert, by no means dazzled by the tempting offer. "Yes. What do you say?" "I shouldn't be willing to work for that." "You wouldn't, hey? What did you get in the shoe shop?" "Four dollars a week." "Board's worth that, so I give you what's equal to four dollars and a half." Bert had heard something of the kind of board supplied by the farmer, and he was hardly prepared to rate it so high. "It wouldn't be worth that to me," he said. "I would rather work for three dollars and a half in cash, and board at home." "I've got to have my boy in the house," said Silas Wilson decidedly. "Come, now, what do you say?" He regarded Bert with some anxiety, for he had been suddenly left in the lurch by a hired man who had received a better offer elsewhere, and hardly knew where to turn for assistance. "I'll tell you what I'll do," said Bert. "I've got to go to New York on Thursday on business, but I'll come and work for you till Wednesday night for half a dollar and my board." "I'll give you thirty-five cents," replied the farmer cautiously. Bert shook his head. "Forty, then, and that's high pay for a half grown boy." "I'm more than half grown," returned Bert. "It's no use, Mr. Wilson, I won't take less than fifty cents." "Then jump on the wagon. It's a big price to pay, but I'm in a hole, and won't stop to dicker." "I will go and tell my mother first." "Well, hurry up, for part of the day is gone already." "I don't believe you'll like it, Bert," said Mrs. Barton. "Nor I, but I made up my mind to accept the first offer I got, and I shall feel better satisfied if I keep my word. I'll come round this evening, after work, and tell you how I like it as far as I've got." Bert seated himself in the wagon next to the farmer. "Be you the boy that Jones charged with stealin'?" asked Silas. "Yes, sir." "You didn't do it?" asked Silas, in some apprehension. "No, of course not!" answered Bert, indignantly. "Didn't you know I was acquitted, and that it was shown that there were two twenty-dollar bills?" "It's wicked to steal," observed the farmer, apparently a little anxious still. "Of course it is." "One of the boys that worked for me stole some money from a chest-of-drawers in my chamber. You see Mis' Wilson and me sleep in a bedroom on the first floor openin' out of the settin' room." "Did the boy take much?" asked Bert, in some curiosity. "Yes; he took a twenty-five cent piece," answered Silas Wilson, soberly. Bert wanted to laugh, but controlled his facial muscles, though he eyed his companion with a queer look. "That was a good deal of money," he said, soberly. "Yes, it was." "How did you find him out--the boy, I mean?" "He spent the money at Jones's store." "What did he buy with it?" "He bought some doughnuts." "Did he board with you?" asked Bert significantly. "Yes, he did." "Then," thought Bert, "I don't wonder much that he was tempted." "I've got fifty cents in my pocket," he said aloud, producing the coin. "I show it to you, so that if you hear of my spending money you needn't think I took it from you." Silas Wilson eyed the half-dollar with a covetous look, which the sight of money always brought to his face. "Hadn't you better give it to me to keep for you?" "No, thank you; I am very careful. I shall not lose it." "Boys ginerally are keerless. They are apt to lose money." "I don't believe you ever lose money, Mr. Wilson." "Not since I was a boy. I lost two cents once, but it was a lesson to me, and I've never lost a copper since." By this time they had reached the farm-house. The farmer drove into the barn and put up the horse. "Now we'll go to work," he said. The work which awaited Bert was in the cornfield. He was set to hoeing, and kept it up for three hours, along with the farmer in the adjoining row. Noon came, and Silas, pausing in his work, said: "I calculate Mis' Wilson will have dinner ready. We'll go to the house." CHAPTER XIX. BERT'S EXPERIENCE AS A FARMER'S BOY. Bert followed the farmer into the kitchen, in the center of which a table was set. A bony and angular woman was just placing on it a large pitcher of water. "Mis' Wilson," said the farmer, "this is Bert Barton, who is helping me about the farm work." Bert was no stranger to Mrs. Wilson, whose pew in church was near the one he occupied. "How's your ma?" she inquired jerkily. "Pretty well, thank you, Mrs. Wilson." "I'm glad to hear it. She looks like a friend of mine, Mrs. Dusenberry, who died of heart disease." "I don't think her heart is affected," said Bert, not without anxiety. "Maybe not, but you can't tell. Folks lives along for years with their hearts out of kilter, who never find it out till some day they drop dead." Mrs. Wilson decidedly was not a cheerful converser. She prided herself on detecting signs of unsuspected diseases. "Mebbe you've got heart disease yourself, Sophia," remarked the farmer jocosely. "Just as likely as not," answered Mrs. Wilson calmly. "I'm sure my liver's affected, for I feel it squirm sometimes." "Mebbe I'd better look out for a second Mis' Wilson," suggested the farmer smiling. "You ain't over healthy yourself, Silas," responded his better half, surveying her husband in a business-like manner. "It looks to me as if your kidneys was out of order, and you're the very image of Jed Pettibone, who died of apoplexy. He lived next door to my mother. One day he was alive and well, and to-morrow he was as the grass of the field." The farmer's face wore a very uncomfortable look, and he was evidently by no means pleased with his wife's prognostications. "Nonsense!" he said testily. "I'm as well as any man of my age in Lakeville." "'Boast not thyself of to-morrow'!" quoted Mrs. Wilson solemnly. "Come, Bert, let us set down to dinner," said Silas hastily. "What have you got for us, Sophia?" "I've warmed over them beans we had yesterday," answered his helpmeet, "and there's two sausages besides. I don't want any. You'd ought to make a dinner off of that." "Why, to be sure! Beans and sausages is hearty, and will stand by us in the field. The laborer is worthy of his meat." "Where's the meat," thought Bert. Silas Wilson put a moderate portion of beans on a large plate, flanking it with a thin, consumptive-looking sausage. "Help yourself to potatoes," he said, as he handed the plate to Bert. Bert availed himself of the invitation, and helped himself to a potato in that condition known as soggy. He tried to eat it, but, though fond of potatoes, he left it almost entire on his plate. This, however, was not all. There was a plate of rye-bread on the table, from which Bert helped himself to a slice. It was apparently two or three days old, and needed something to make it palatable. "Please give me some butter," asked Bert, not having observed that this was a prohibited article on the Wilsons' dinner table. "There ain't none," answered Mrs. Wilson promptly. "I beg pardon. I hadn't noticed," said Bert, blushing. "We never have butter at dinner," explained Silas Wilson. "It's apt to lead to humors, particularly in boys, isn't it, Mis' Wilson?" "So I've always heard, Silas. Besides, as we have it at breakfast and supper, that's enough. It goes fast enough, even then. Why, we used most a pound last week." "And butter twenty-seven cents a pound!" chimed in the farmer. "Why, it's extravagant!" "Do you know, Silas, how much butter is used in Squire Marlowe's family?" "No," answered the farmer, with interest. "Hannah--Mrs. Marlowe's girl--told me they used six pounds and a half last week, and there's only four of them, including the girl. What do you think of that?" "What do I think? I think it's sinful--positively sinful! Six pounds and a half at twenty-seven cents----" "They pay thirty-two, and get the best in the market," amended his wife. "Worse and worse! That comes to what--Bert?" "Two dollars and eight cents," answered Bert promptly. "Sho! Did you ever?" "Well, I s'pose the squire can stand it. No doubt they live on the fat of the land. I just wish they'd invite me to tea, so I could judge for myself. I could tell within five cents how much the supper cost." It must be confessed that Bert did not enjoy his dinner. The sausage was far from rich or juicy, and the beans were almost cold. The potatoes and bread have already been referred to. However, there was to be a second course, and to that Bert looked forward anxiously, for he had by no means satisfied his appetite. It was a plain rice pudding, and partially satisfactory, for it takes very little skill to boil rice, and there is little variety in the quality. By way of sauce Mrs. Wilson provided cheap grade of molasses. Still Bert enjoyed it better than any other article on the table. "There's nothing like a good dinner to strengthen us for the labors of the field," said Silas Wilson complacently, as he rose from the table. "Come, Bert, now let us get to work to make up for lost time." "So Mr. Wilson considers the time spent in eating as lost time," thought Bert. "I'd rather have one of mother's dinners than half a dozen like this. Ugh! how nasty those potatoes were." Bert returned to the field, and resumed his work. He found it hard to keep up with Silas Wilson, whose energies seemed to be quickened by his midday meal. About four o'clock a man came along who wanted to see Silas on business, and he went back to the house, leaving Bert to continue his work alone. "This is about the longest day I ever passed," thought Bert, pausing to wipe his moistened forehead. "I am afraid I shall never want to be a farmer. I mustn't forget, though, that I am to receive sixteen cents and a little over per day, besides board--and such board! Yet this is the way Silas Wilson has lived all his life, and he must be sixty-five at least. How much more enjoyment Uncle Jacob has out of life, though he is a poor man compared to the farmer." At this moment he heard wheels passing on the road hard by, and looking up he recognized Percy Marlowe, neat and trim in his attire, driving a light buggy. "Hallo!" called out Percy, checking his horse. "Hallo, Percy!" "Are you working for Silas Wilson?" "Yes, for a few days." "I guess you'll make a fortune in that time?" said Percy laughing. "It seems like it," responded Bert. "How much does he pay you?" "Fifty cents for three days and board." Percy laughed. "I should want fifty cents an hour, and then I wouldn't do it." "I'd work all the year round at that price," said Bert. "I never expect to work--with my hands," went on Percy. "Have you decided what to do?" asked Bert curiously. "My father wants me to be a manufacturer, but I think I shall be a lawyer." "I am afraid I shan't have much choice. I must take what I can get." "You might stay with Mr. Wilson and be a farmer." "I don't think that will suit me at any rate, unless I can work for a different man." "Perhaps father can take you back into the shop when you are older." "I wish he would take me back now. I like it a great deal better than working out in the field here." "You mustn't get too high notions into your head, Bert. You know you are a working boy and mustn't expect to have things all your own way." "I am not likely to forget that I am a working boy, especially with kind friends to remind me of it. But we live in the best country in the world, and there is many a working boy who grows up to be a distinguished man." Percy laughed ironically. "I wouldn't get such silly ideas into your head," he said. "Why are they silly?" "You talk as if you expected to be a distinguished man. Ha, ha!" "I hope to be a successful man," answered Bert stoutly. Percy laughed again and drove on. Five minutes later Bert saw the farmer running from the house in a state of great apparent excitement. "Have you seen anything of my wallet?" he gasped, as he came within hearing distance. CHAPTER XX. BERT IS PLACED IN AN EMBARRASSING POSITION. Bert regarded his employer with surprise. "Your wallet?" he repeated. "Yes," answered Silas Wilson impatiently. "I had it in my pocket when I was at work here. I didn't think about it till just now, after Mr. Dexter had left me. Then I found that my pocket was empty." "I haven't seen it, but you may have dropped it somewhere." "Just help me look for it. Has anybody been here?" "No; at least not in the field. Percy Marlowe passed in his buggy, and----" "Never mind about that. Help me look for the wallet." The rows of corn were of considerable length, and there were a good many of them. At least ten minutes elapsed before anything was seen of the missing article, and dark suspicions of his young assistant entered the mind of Mr. Wilson. But at last Bert's sharp eyes espied a faded leather wallet between two hills in one of the rows which the farmer had hoed. "Is this it?" he asked, holding it up in his hand. "Yes!" exclaimed Silas delighted. "Where did you find it?" "Just here." Mr. Wilson opened it, anxious to see whether the contents were intact. "It's all safe," he said, with a sigh of relief. "Was there much money in it?" asked Bert. "Yes; two dollars and sixty-seven cents. It's a narrow escape! Suppose a dishonest person had found it?" "It would have been terrible!" said Bert, successfully checking his disposition to laugh. "I'm much obliged to you, Bert, for findin' it. I suppose you don't want any reward?" "Oh, no! I am working for you, you know, and it wasn't my own time I was using." "That's true! Still, I am willin' to give you two cents to encourage you to be honest." "Thank you, Mr. Wilson; but I don't need any reward for that." "You're a good boy, and if you stay with me I'll make a man of you." "Thank you." Bert was privately of opinion that if he remained till the age of twenty-one in Silas Wilson's employ, boarding at his table, he would grow into a very thin, under-sized man indeed. Supper was a less substantial meal than dinner in the Wilson household, consisting of bread and butter and tea, with the addition of a plate of doughnuts, which were so tough and hard that it occurred to Bert that they would make very good base-balls if they had been of the right shape. After supper he went home for an hour. "Don't you feel very tired, Bert?" asked his mother. "Yes, mother, but I feel still more hungry. If you've got anything left from supper I think I can dispose of it." "Certainly, Bert; but didn't you eat supper at Mr. Wilson's?" "Mother, they don't know what good living is there. I'd rather have one of your suppers than a dozen of Mr. Wilson's. I begin to think that the board part won't be worth over fifty cents for three days. I am sure it won't cost them any more." "I wish you were going to sleep here, Bert. I shall feel lonely." "So do I, but I shall only be away two nights. Silas Wilson promises to make a man of me if I'll stay, but I'd rather grow to manhood somewhere else." Bert returned to the farm-house, and about half-past eight went to bed. He knew he must be early astir, and he felt fatigued by his day of labor in the field. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson went to bed at this hour. The farmer was not fond of reading, nor indeed was there anything in the house to read, for neither he nor his wife had a literary taste. Once he took an agricultural paper for a year at a cost of two dollars, but whenever the paper arrived he groaned in spirit over the cost, and deplored his extravagance in subscribing for it. The room assigned to Bert was over the kitchen, which was in the ell part. The roof was sloping, and, toward the eaves, very low. There was one window near the bed which he occupied. Bert went to sleep in ten minutes, and slept soundly for three or four hours. Then something roused him, and he opened his eyes. What he saw startled him. By the bright moonlight he perceived a man climbing in at the window. To say that Bert was perfectly calm would not be true. He was very much startled, as I think almost any boy, or man either, would have been under the circumstances. "It is a burglar!" thought Bert in excitement. "What can I do?" Some one evidently had heard of Silas Wilson's miserly disposition, and judged that there would be a good chance to secure booty in the farm house. Bert, though he did not admire Mr. Wilson, felt that it was his duty to protect him from being plundered, if possible. He knew that he was in some personal peril, but he was naturally a brave boy, and his spirit rose to the occasion. He waited until the supposed burglar was in the room, and then, sitting up in bed, asked stoutly: "Who are you? What brings you here?" The man turned swiftly toward the bed, and fixed his eyes on Bert, but did not immediately speak. "If you are a burglar," continued Bert, emboldened by the man's hesitation, "you had better get out of the window again, or I shall call Mr. Wilson." "No, don't call him, at least not yet," said the intruder, sinking into a chair a few feet from the bed. "Are you working here?" "Yes." "Who are you?" This seemed a singular question. What could his name matter to a burglar? However, Bert answered mechanically, "My name is Bert Barton." "The widow Barton's boy?" "Yes; how do you know that?" demanded Bert, in bewilderment. "Don't you know me?" was the unexpected rejoinder. He drew nearer to the bed, and Bert gazed at him earnestly, but no light dawned upon him. "No, I don't know you," he said, shaking his head. "I am Silas Wilson's son," said the stranger. "Phineas Wilson?" Now Bert remembered that eight years before, the farmer's son, a man grown, had left Lakeville, and, so far as he knew, had not been heard of since. He had contracted a habit of drinking and had tired of farm work. Moreover, when he left, he had taken fifty dollars of his father's money with him, which had led to bitter feelings on the part of the farmer, who appeared to mourn the loss of his money more than that of his son. And this was the young man who had crept into his father's house like a thief in the night. "Why did you get into my window?" asked Bert. "Why didn't you come to the door?" "I--didn't know if I would be welcome. I wanted to ask. Do you know how my father feels toward me?" "No; I have only been here one day. He ought to be glad to see his son." "I took some money with me when I went away," said Phineas hesitating. "Father's very fond of money." "Yes," assented Bert. "And he would find it hard to forget that." "Why didn't you come back before?" "I didn't dare to come till I could bring the money. I have got it with me, but not a dollar more. If you want to know what brings me back, look in my face and see for yourself." The moon came out from behind a cloud, and by its light Bert saw that the young man's face was thin and ghastly. "I am sick," he said; "irregular hours and whiskey have done their work. I am afraid I have got to pass in my checks." "What does that mean--die?" "Yes." "Don't give up!" said Bert, feeling his sympathies go out toward this prodigal son. "You are young. It takes a good deal to kill a young man." "You're a good fellow, Bert. That's your name, isn't it? Will you do me a favor?" "To be sure I will." "I am famished. I haven't had anything to eat for twenty-four hours. Can you slip downstairs and fetch me something to eat--no matter what--and a glass of milk?" Bert hesitated. He could get what was required in the pantry, but suppose the farmer or his wife should wake up! It would make his position a very awkward one. "Hadn't you better go down yourself?" he asked. "I can hardly stand, I am so tired. Besides, I don't know where mother keeps things." "I will try," said Bert; and he slipped on his pantaloons, and went softly downstairs. CHAPTER XXI. THE MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE PANTRY. "Suppose Mrs. Wilson sees me?" thought Bert uncomfortably. "She will take me for a thief." He was actuated by the kindest motives, but he heartily wished his errand were done. As he stepped into the kitchen he heard the deep breathing of Mrs. Wilson and the noisy snore of her husband, and rightly judged that it would not be easy to rouse either of them. He opened the pantry door, and by the light of the moon was able to inspect the shelves. There was a half loaf of bread on one shelf, half a dozen doughnuts on a plate on the shelf below, and a few cold beans close beside them. Then there was a small pitcher half-full of milk. "I don't think the beans or doughnuts will set well on an empty stomach," Bert reflected. "I'd better take the milk and two or three slices of bread." Here the cat, who had been asleep on the hearth, roused herself, perhaps at the sight of the milk pitcher, and, mewing loudly, rubbed herself against Bert's legs. "Scat!" cried Bert, in a low voice, anxiously looking toward the door of the bed chamber in which the farmer and his wife lay asleep. The cat got between his legs and nearly tripped him up, but he managed to get out of the room and upstairs. Phineas looked at him eagerly. "I have some bread and milk here," said Bert. "I couldn't find any butter. There were some cold beans and doughnuts, but--" "The bread and milk are better. Give them to me. I am almost famished." The bread was dry and stale, but Phineas was not in the mood to be particular. He ate like one famished, and drained the pitcher to the last drop. "I feel better," he said then, with a sigh of relief. "I suppose I had better take the pitcher back to the kitchen. It will be missed," reflected Bert, and he started downstairs again in his bare feet. He paused at the kitchen door, and heard the farmer talking in his sleep. This alarmed him. He decided that it would not do to replace the pitcher in the pantry, as he would be likely to be heard. He waited where he was for five minutes, and then ventured into the kitchen. This time he was successful, and with mind relieved returned to his chamber. Phineas was dozing in his chair. "You had better get into the bed, Mr. Wilson," said Bert, filled with compassion for the weary wayfarer. "I'll lie on the floor." "If you don't mind. I am fagged out." Bert made a pillow of his coat and trousers, and stretched himself on the floor. He found that there was an inside bolt, with which he fastened the door, to guard against any unexpected visit from Mr. or Mrs. Wilson. He fell asleep again, and was only roused by a loud voice at the foot of the back stairs. "Time to get up!" called the farmer. "All right!" responded Bert in a loud tone. Fortunately Silas Wilson did not think it necessary to come up. Had he done so it would have been embarrassing, for Phineas was sound asleep on the bed. Bert thought it best to rouse him before he went down stairs. "Are you not afraid some one will come upstairs and find you here?" he asked. "No; mother never comes up till after she has got breakfast out of the way and the dishes washed." "I suppose you know best," said Bert doubtfully. "If necessary I shall tell her who I am." Bert went below, and sat down at the breakfast table. It was clear from the expression on Mrs. Wilson's face that she had something on her mind. "Silas," she said solemnly, "something mysterious has happened during the night." "What is it?" asked the farmer in a tone of surprise. "We have been robbed!" "What of?" he asked, turning pale. "Do you miss any of the spoons?" "No." "Or--or money?" and he pulled out his wallet hurriedly. "No, no, it isn't that." "What is it, then?" "I left that pitcher half full of milk when I went to bed last night. This morning there wasn't a drop in it, and the pantry door was open." "Cats are fond of milk," suggested Silas, with a glance at Tabby, who was lying near the fire-place. "It wasn't the cat. She couldn't get her head inside the pitcher. Besides, there are three slices of bread missing." "Won't cats eat bread?" "It was a two-legged cat!" replied Mrs. Wilson significantly. Bert reddened in spite of himself, and tried to look unconscious. He saw that Mrs. Wilson was on the point of making a discovery, and that suspicion was likely to fall upon him. This he could clear up, but it would be at the expense of the poor fellow who was asleep upstairs. "But how could anybody get into the house?" asked Silas. "The doors were locked, weren't they?" "Yes, Silas. In forty years I have never failed to lock the door before I went to bed." "Then I don't see----" "Nor I--yet!" said Mrs. Wilson significantly, and Bert thought--but he may have been mistaken--that her eyes turned for a moment in his direction. "At any rate it isn't much of a loss. Was there anything else in the closet?" "There were some doughnuts and beans." "Were any of them taken?" "No, not that I can see." "Cats don't care for them." "Don't be a fool, Silas! That poor cat had no more to do with the robbery than I have." "Mebbe you're right; but cats have been known to steal. I like dogs better myself." "I don't!" cried Mrs. Wilson with emphasis. "I'm not going to have any dog trapesing over my floors with his muddy feet." "Just as you like, Sophia. You'd better lock the pantry door in future." "I'm not sure that that will answer, unless I hide the key." "Do you seriously think a human being took the things?" "Yes, I do--in the middle of the night." "By gracious! that's serious, He might have come into our room and taken my wallet and watch." "And maybe murdered us in our beds!" added Mrs. Wilson grimly. "Did you hear anybody walking round the house last night, Bert?" asked the farmer, who was by this time worked up into a state of agitation. "No," answered Bert. "I am glad he did not ask me whether I _saw_ anybody," thought he. "I don't want to tell a lie." "I usually sleep pretty sound," he added, a little ashamed of his duplicity, yet not knowing how else to avert suspicions. "So we all do!" said the farmer's wife. "We might be all murdered in our beds without knowing anything about it." "I shouldn't want to know anything about it if that was going to happen," observed Silas, not without reason. "I don't think it could have been a very desperate ruffian, if he contented himself with taking bread and milk." "He may come again to-night," suggested Mrs. Wilson. "I hope not," said Silas fervently. "I--I couldn't sleep if I thought so." "We must get to the bottom of this," went on his wife resolutely. "I am not willing to have such goings on in my house." "How are you going to do it, Sophia? Probably the thief's miles off by this time." "He may be, or he may not be!" said Mrs. Wilson in an oracular tone. "I've heard of folks walking in their sleep," she added, after a pause. "You don't mean me?" asked Silas. "No; if you did it I'd have had a chance to find out in forty years. Do you ever walk in your sleep?" she asked, turning suddenly to Bert. The question was so unexpected that he could not help changing color, and this served to increase Mrs. Wilson's dawning suspicions. "Not that I ever heard of," Bert answered, after a pause. "I knew a boy once that did--it was a second cousin of my brother's first wife." "I am sure I never get up in my sleep." The door leading into the entry from which the back-stairs ascended was open, and through this, just at this moment, was heard a sound that startled all three who were sitting at the breakfast table. It was a loud, unmistakeable sneeze, and it came from the chamber which Bert had occupied. The farmer and his wife started as if the house had been shaken by an exploding bombshell. Both turned as pale as death, looked fearfully at each other, and clutched tightly at the edges of the table. "Silas!" said Mrs. Wilson, in a hollow voice, "the burglar is upstairs!" CHAPTER XXII. A PANIC AT FARMER WILSON'S. Silas Wilson was not a brave man, and at his wife's suggestion he turned pale, and looked panic-stricken. "Do--you--think so?" he asked feebly. "Do I think so? I know so," returned Mrs. Wilson energetically. "How could he get up there?" Mrs. Wilson walked to the window, and her lynx eyes detected the ladder by which Phineas had climbed to the window of Bert's room. "Do you see that?" she asked. It is rather surprising that she did not suspect Bert of knowing something about the matter, but she had not yet had time to put two and two together. "It's terrible!" murmured Silas, mopping the cold perspiration from his forehead. "What can we do?" "What can we do? Go and get your gun, Silas, and go up and confront the villain. That's what we can do." Somehow the suggestion did not seem to find favor with Mr. Wilson. "He would shoot me," he said. "He's probably waitin' for me with a loaded weepun upon the landin'." "Silas Wilson, I am ashamed of you. Are you going to let a villainous burglar rampage round upstairs, stealin' whatever he can lay his hands on? Come now!" "I believe you care more for the few things upstairs than for your husband's life," said Silas reproachfully. "Do you want _me_ to go, Silas? What'll the folks in the village say when they hear of it?" "I don't know as I know where the gun is," said Silas nervously. "It's out in the woodshed behind the door." "I don't know as it's loaded. Besides I wouldn't want to be took up for murder." "Not much danger, Silas Wilson! Such men as you don't get into such scrapes as that." Mrs. Wilson went out into the woodshed, and returned, holding the gun in such a way that it pointed directly at her husband. "Don't you know no better than to p'int that gun at me, Sophia?" exclaimed Silas in no little terror. "Beats all what fools women are about firearms." "They may be fools, but they ain't cowards," returned Mrs. Wilson. "Come, are you going up or not?" "Hadn't I better go to the foot of the stairs and fire up?" asked Silas with a bright idea. "And then he'd come down on you, when your gun was discharged, and run his bayonet into you," said Mrs. Wilson, who knew that at the battle of Bunker Hill the muskets had bayonets attached. "I'll give him warnin'!" continued Silas. "It'll only be fair. He'll probably be frightened and climb down the ladder." "I never did see such a 'fraid cat in my life!" quoth Mrs. Wilson contemptuously. "Mebbe you're braver'n I be. If you are, go up yourself!" said Silas Wilson angrily. "You want to put your wife in danger, do you?" returned Mrs. Wilson, who was as averse to facing the burglar as her husband, though she talked more courageously. "And you want to expose your husband to danger," retorted Silas, "so it's an even thing, so far as I can see." It is hardly necessary to say that Bert enjoyed the dispute between the husband and wife, though he maintained an outward gravity which helped him to conceal his secret amusement. By this time he thought it time for him to take part. "I'll go up," he said. "You will?" exclaimed Silas in surprise and relief. "Yes, I am not afraid." "To be sure! The burglar wouldn't do you no harm. You're only a boy. Do you know how to fire a gun?" "Yes, but I shan't need the gun. I am sure the burglar wouldn't harm me." "You're a brave boy, Bert," said the farmer. "You're doing just what I would have done at your age." "You _never_ would have done it, Silas! I should be ashamed anyway to own up I was more of a coward as a grown man than as a boy." "Sophia, you don't know much about burglars and their ways. Don't be afraid, Bert; I'll back you up; I'll stand at the door of the kitchen with the gun in my hand, and help you if you need it." Bert smiled, for he knew just how valuable Silas Wilson's assistance would be, but he made no comment, and started on his perilous enterprise. "I hope he won't come to no harm," said Mrs. Wilson. "I don't know but I'd better go with him." "It would be safer for you, Sophia, for burglars don't shoot women." "Much you know about it, Silas." The two moved toward the kitchen door, Silas handling the gun as if he were afraid of it. They listened with painful attention, and presently heard the sound of voices, though they could not make out what was being said. "The boy's speakin' to him!" said Silas, awe-struck. "I never see such a terrible time. I wish I'd told Bert to tell the burglar to go back the same way he came, and we wouldn't fire at him. I don't want to be too hard on the transgressor. Mebbe he's driven to his evil ways by destitution." Mrs. Wilson paid very little attention to what her husband was saying, being more intent on what was passing upstairs. After a short interval Bert came down. "Well?" said Silas eagerly. "Did you see the burglar?" "Yes." "Where is he?" "In my room." "What is he doin' there?" "He is lying on the bed." "Well, if I ever saw such impudence!" ejaculated Mrs. Wilson. "Has he got a gun with him? Did he offer to shoot you?" "No," answered Bert gravely. "The poor fellow is sick." "Poor fellow, indeed!" sniffed Mrs. Wilson. "What does he mean by getting into a respectable house through a window? He'll end up his days in jail." "Does--does he look desperate?" inquired Silas Wilson. "Would he be likely to hurt me or Mis' Wilson?" "No; he says he would like to have you come up." "Well, of all things!" ejaculated Sophia. "I've got something to tell you," went on Bert, turning from one to the other. "He wants me to tell you before you go up. It is some one whom you both know, though you haven't seen him for a good many years." Silas did not understand, but a mother's instincts were quicker. "Is it our son--Phineas?" she asked. "Yes," answered Bert; "it is your son." "Who stole fifty dollars from his father, and crept away like a thief in the night!" exclaimed the farmer indignantly. "He has suffered, and is very weak," rejoined Bert. "He hadn't had anything to eat for twenty-four hours, and I may as well tell you that it was I who came downstairs in the night and took up the bread and milk to him." "You did quite right," said Mrs. Wilson, who was half-way upstairs by this time. He was her own son in spite of all, and though she was not an emotional woman, she yearned to see the face of her only child, with a mother's feelings all aroused within her. "He took fifty dollars!" repeated Silas Wilson, still harping on a wrong which he had never forgotten nor forgiven. Bert was rather disgusted at the farmer's meanness, but he relieved his anxiety. "He's brought you back the money!" he said shortly. "He has!" exclaimed Silas in a tone of gladness. "Did he tell you so?" "Yes; it is all the money he had, and he went without food rather than spend any of it." "Come, that's encouragin'," said the farmer. "He's turnin' from his evil ways." When they reached Bert's chamber they saw Mrs. Wilson kneeling beside the bed, her harsh features softened by the light of an affection which had been absent from them for years. She looked contented and happy, now that her boy was restored to her. "Got back again, Phineas, hey?" said Silas Wilson. "You're lookin' kinder peaked." "Yes, father, I've been sick, but now----" "I'll soon get him well!" interposed Mrs. Wilson. "I'll go right down and bring up some breakfast." "I can eat it, mother. I have had nothing except the bread and milk Bert brought me." On Wednesday evening Bert closed his engagement with the farmer, and declined to continue it, though urged strongly to do so. He went home in a whirl of excitement, for Phineas Wilson had told him something which overwhelmed him with astonishment. CHAPTER XXIII. BERT FORMS A RESOLUTION. "Mother," said Bert abruptly, as he entered the cottage at the close of his engagement with the farmer, "when did father die?" Mrs. Barton sank into a chair, and looked searchingly in her son's face. "Why--do--you--ask?" she said slowly. "I have been told to-day that he was living only a year since." "Who told you?" "Phineas Wilson, the farmer's son." "Did he see him a year ago?" "Yes, in some town in Canada--near Toronto, I believe. But, mother, you don't seem surprised." "No, Bert, for I knew your father was living." "Then why don't he come home. Why don't he live with us? Is there some mystery?" "Yes, Bert, and a painful one for your unfortunate father. It is the fear of a prison that has kept him away from home." "Surely, mother," said Bert, painfully shocked, "my father was not a criminal?" "No, but circumstances made him appear such." "Tell me the story." "It is time that you heard it. Ten years ago your father and Albert Marlowe were employed by Weeks Brothers, large shoe manufacturers in a Massachusetts town. Both were skilled workmen----" "Did Squire Marlowe work at the bench?" "Yes, his position was precisely the same as your father's, no worse and no better. Both received the same pay--two dollars a day." "Does Percy know this?" "Probably not. Albert Marlowe is not fond of speaking of his early days when he was a common workman. At that time our families were intimate and associated on equal terms. Our circumstances and ways of living were the same. We lived in a double house, Albert occupying one tenement, we the other." "Were you and Mrs. Marlowe friendly then?" "Yes; she had not yet become a fine lady, but did her own work, dispensing with a servant. We lived plainly, and, if anything, your father was the more prosperous of the two, as we managed to save from fifty to seventy-five dollars a year, while I don't believe Albert saved anything. But one day a terrible thing happened. Mr. Weeks, the senior partner, was a trustee and guardian for some minor children. A part of their property was invested in United States bonds, 5-20's as they are called. He kept them in his safe in the factory. One morning when he opened the safe they were missing. You can imagine the dismay of the guardian and his indignation against the unknown thief. The loss was publicly proclaimed, and a reward of one hundred dollars was offered to any one who could and would give any information that would lead to the discovery of the thief. Some one--a young man named Harding--entered the office of the firm and informed them that he had seen your father thrusting a paper, looking like a government bond, into the inside pocket of his overcoat--it was in the middle of winter. The workmen kept their coats in a small room near the entrance of the factory. Of course the room was visited, your father's coat was examined, and in one of the pockets was found one of the missing bonds, one for five hundred dollars. Your father was summoned, charged with the theft, and required to tell what he had done with the remaining bonds. He was thunder-struck at the accusation, and denied in the most positive terms any knowledge of the stolen property. His statement was not credited. He was arrested, tried for the offense, and sentenced to a term of imprisonment." "Bert's face flushed with indignation, and he clinched his fist almost unconsciously. "Did he go to prison?" he asked hoarsely. "No; some of his friends, who believed in his innocence, helped him to escape, and supplied him with funds to get out of the country. Now you know why he has remained absent all these years." "But why was I never told of this, mother? Why did I not know at the time?" "You were only six years of age, and were sent away during the excitement to the house of a friend living at some distance. I moved away from the town in which my misfortunes were known, and eventually came here, learning that Albert Marlowe had established himself in business here. You readily believed that your father was dead." "I understand now, mother. But is it not terrible that the happiness of a family should be broken up in this way?" "Yes, Bert. Providence permits it for some wise purpose, no doubt, though it is hard for us to understand why it should be." "One thing I don't understand, mother. You say that Squire Marlowe was a common workman, like my father, and a poor man?" "Yes, Bert." "How is it that he is now a rich manufacturer? Where did he get the necessary capital?" "Nobody knew. He took all his friends by surprise when he went into business for himself on a large scale. Whatever the amount of his capital, he has never been financially embarrassed, and has gone on prospering." "Till now he is a rich man, living in luxury, while we are living from hand to mouth, and poor father is an exile somewhere." "Yes, Bert." "Don't you receive letters from father?" "If I should, it would draw attention to him, and might imperil his safety." "I might meet him sometime, and not know him." "Have you no recollection of him?" "Not the least? Haven't you any picture of him, mother?" "Yes, I have a daguerreotype upstairs--an old-style picture." "Why have you never shown it to me?" "Because it would have led you to ask questions which would have been embarrassing for me to answer. You might have mentioned the existence of the picture before some visitor, and compelled me to produce it. Suppose this had been the case, and it had been recognized, it might have got your father into trouble." "Now that I know all the circumstances, won't you show me the picture, mother?" "Yes, Bert; the only objection I had is now removed." Mrs. Barton went upstairs, and soon returned with one of those old-fashioned pictures of which many of my readers may have specimens in their homes--a daguerreotype. Bert scanned it attentively, and he first looked bewildered, then surprised. "I have seen a face like that," he said after a pause. "Where, Bert?" "I don't remember. Is it possible that I can remember so far back?" "It may be an accidental resemblance." "No, the face is like in every respect. Can't you explain it to me, mother?" "Think a little, Bert. Perhaps you will recall where you saw a face like this." "I have it now," said Bert, his face brightening up. "It is like Mr. Robinson--the friend of father, who called here a few weeks since." "Bert," said his mother slowly, "Mr. Robinson was not your father's friend. It was your father himself." Bert looked the picture of astonishment. "Why did you not tell me, mother?" "How could I? You did not even know that he was alive. Ever since then I have been seeking an opportunity to tell you the truth." "I am glad to know. What did father have to say?" "He thinks he has found out--at any rate he has strong suspicions--who was the real thief for whom he suffered." "Who is it, mother? Is it any one I ever knew?" "Yes, Bert." "Tell me quick." "Then you must promise to keep it secret till we are in a condition to prove the truth of our suspicions. It was Albert Marlowe." "The squire?" "Yes." "That must explain his being able to go into business for himself." "Yes. Your father is on the track of a man who was his accomplice, or rather his tool, in the matter--the young man named Harding, on whose information your father was arrested. Of course he is placed under a disadvantage in making these inquiries, being under the ban of the law." "Mother," said Bert solemnly, "I am going to solve the mystery, if possible, make my father's evidence clear, and expose the real criminal. I am only a boy, and I don't know how I shall accomplish it, but I won't rest till I have done it." "May Heaven grant you success, my dear boy!" responded Mrs. Barton fervently. CHAPTER XXIV. THE OFFICE OF THE MAGNET MINE. Bert took the morning train to New York, and arrived about half-past seven o'clock. He met with no adventures on the way, and as soon as he reached the Grand Central Depot took a Fourth Avenue car down, as instructed by Uncle Jacob. In a large building of many stories on Nassau Street, on the sixth floor, was an office on the door of which Bert read MAGNET MINING CO. This, as he understood, was the office where Jacob Marlowe was employed. Bert was considering whether he ought to knock or not, when a brisk-looking gentleman stepped up, and, opening the door, entered. Bert followed him in. "Whom did you wish to see?" asked the brisk-looking man. "Mr. Jacob Marlowe. Is this the office where he is employed?" "Yes," answered the man, with a smile. Bert hardly needed this assurance, however, as he had already discovered Uncle Jacob sitting in an inner room, at a desk, conversing on business, apparently, with an elderly man of dignified appearance. "He will soon be at leisure," said the one who had just entered, and seated himself at another desk in the outer room. "That must be Uncle Jacob's employer," thought Bert. "What news do you hear of the mine?" he heard the elderly man ask. "Excellent," answered Uncle Jacob. "It has gone up five points within two weeks. The output is steadily increasing." "Do you know anything of it from your own knowledge?" "Certainly; I ought to, for I was myself its discoverer." This rather surprised Bert. "It was a rich find," continued Uncle Jacob, "and I have no hesitation in putting it on the New York market." "There are so many wild-cat mines, you know, that a man needs to be very cautious." "Quite true. In such mines it is only the men who capitalize them who make money. I would not lend myself to any such scheme of deception. I have a reputation to sustain, and I value that more than money. Our mine has found favor with some of the most conservative investors in the city." Here Uncle Jacob mentioned several names, so prominent that they were familiar to Bert, country boy though he was. "You may put me down for five hundred shares," said the elderly man, apparently convinced. "I will send you round a check to-morrow. To whom shall I make it payable?" "To me." "Very well." The old gentleman rose, drew on his gloves, and went out, Uncle Jacob accompanying him to the door. This brought him face to face with Bert. "So you have come, Bert," he said with a pleasant smile. "How did you leave your mother?" "Very well, uncle." "At what time did you breakfast?" "At half-past six." "Then you must be hungry. It is rather early for my lunch, but I will go out with you now. Mr. Bascom, I shall be back within an hour. If any one calls to see me, try to keep him." "Yes, sir," answered Bascom deferentially. "He can't be Uncle Jacob's employer," thought Bert. "He is too respectful. I had no idea uncle was such a man of business. He doesn't appear to be afraid of anybody." They descended in the elevator, rather to Bert's surprise, who had climbed up by the staircase. Crossing the street they entered a dairy restaurant, which in spite of the name supplied the usual variety of dishes. They found a table at which no others were seated, and Uncle Jacob ordered a substantial meal of roast beef and vegetables. "Did you find me easily, Bert?" he inquired. "Oh, yes, uncle. I had to inquire the way once only. Do you like your place?" "Very well, indeed, Bert." "Is it a good man you work for?" Uncle Jacob smiled. "I have no fault to find with him," he answered. "I thought perhaps that man with black hair and whiskers might be the boss." "No, he is a clerk." "Like you?" "Yes," answered Jacob, with another smile. "Does the boss often come in?" "He doesn't interfere much. You see he has a good deal of confidence in Mr. Bascom and myself." "So I thought." "What made you think so?" "You seem to talk and act as if you were independent." "It's a way I have, Bert. As I understand the business thoroughly, more than anybody else, there is no reason why I shouldn't, is there?" "Oh, no!" "That is why I enjoy my position so well." "Do you get paid your wages every Saturday night?" "Oftener, if I please," answered Jacob Marlowe, seeming amused. "If I happen to get short in the middle of the week, I can draw in advance." "You seem to have a very good position, Uncle Jacob. It is a great deal better than opening a cigar store in Lakeville." "Yes, I think so myself--Albert Marlowe was right in advising me against it. Have you seen him lately?" "I see him about every day, but not to speak to." "It was mean in him to discharge you from the factory." "So I thought, Uncle Jacob." "I wrote asking him to take you back." "What did he say?" asked Bert, with interest. "He in effect told me to mind my own business. I hope you and your mother have not suffered for want of money?" "No, thanks to you, Uncle Jacob. Mother thought you ought not to have sent so much." "I don't think I shall miss it, Bert," said Uncle Jacob. "I am glad that it helped you." "The twenty-dollar bill got me into trouble." "How was that?" Bert told the story of his arrest on the charge of robbing Mr. Jones, and gave an account of his trial. "And you were tried before Albert Marlowe?" "Yes." "I suppose Percy rejoiced in your humiliation?" "No, he didn't. He behaved like a brick. He walked to the court-room with me, and told me he was sure I was not guilty." "I am certainly surprised, but I am pleased also. That is a point in Percy's favor, an unexpected one. He shan't lose by it." "I am afraid I shouldn't have got off if it hadn't been for a young lawyer from New York, named Conway, who volunteered to defend me." "Go on. Give me an account of it. Can you give me the address of Mr. Conway?" "Yes, uncle. I have it here." "I may be able to throw a little business in his way. One good turn deserves another." "I wish you would, Uncle Jacob. Mr. Conway refused to accept a fee, knowing that I could not afford to pay him." Uncle Jacob asked other questions as the dinner proceeded. Finally Bert brought out his most important piece of news. "I have just found out that my father is still alive," he said. "Yes, I knew that," returned Uncle Jacob calmly. "You knew it?" "Yes, he has been to see me." "He has! When?" "Last week." "You don't think him guilty of the charge which was brought against him?" "No; I think him a badly-used man." "I wish I could be the means of proving his innocence." "I mean that you shall be." Bert surveyed his uncle in surprise. "In fact, it is for that reason I have sent for you. Your father has put his case into my hands, and I propose to see him righted. This evening, when I am free from business cares, I will speak further with you on this subject." Uncle Jacob called for his check, paid it, and they returned to the office. CHAPTER XXV. AN ADVERTISEMENT AND WHAT CAME OF IT. Uncle Jacob left the office at five o'clock, and Bert, who had been exploring the lower part of New York, went uptown with him on the Sixth Avenue road. They got out at Twenty-third Street, and Jacob Marlowe led the way to a large, roomy house near Seventh Avenue. He took out a night-key, and opening the outer door proceeded to a large, handsomely furnished apartment on the second floor, with a bedroom attached. "This is where I live, Bert," he remarked, as he took off his hat and hung it up in a closet. Bert looked around him. To him the room looked quite luxurious, being furnished in a style which would compare favorably even with Squire Marlowe's, the best house in Lakeville. Bert knew nothing of room rents in New York; but, inexperienced as he was, he was surprised that his uncle, on a salary of twelve dollars a week, should be able to live so well. He would have been even more amazed had he known that the weekly rent of the room he was in was twelve dollars. "You've got a splendid room, Uncle Jacob," he said. "I shouldn't think you could afford to live in such style." "Some of my friends think I am extravagant," observed Jacob Marlowe with a smile. "Perhaps they are right." "I am afraid you can't save anything," went on Bert gravely. "What if you should get sick?" "I see, Bert, you are more prudent than I am. However I have invested some of my money in the Magnet Mine, and it is likely to double. So I feel justified in making myself comfortable." "I am glad to hear that, Uncle Jacob. You deserve to succeed, you are so kind to others." "I am glad you think so, Bert. I want to do some good while I live. It gives a man something to live for." After supper, which was taken at a restaurant near by, Uncle Jacob said: "Now let us come to business. I promised your father that I would do what I could to prove him innocent of the charge made against him ten years since." "Where is my father? Is he in the city?" "No; it is not safe for him to stay here, as he is subject to arrest, and might be recognized. He has gone back to Canada. Do you know the particulars of his story?" "Yes; mother told me all about it last night." "You know, then, that a young man named Ralph Harding informed against him, and that it was his testimony that led to your father's arrest." "Yes." "Your father is under the impression that this Harding was in league with Albert Marlowe, and was employed by him to throw suspicion upon your father. The weak point of the prosecution was that your father could only be connected with the five-hundred dollar bond found in his overcoat pocket, while a large balance was wholly unaccounted for. That made it seem like a cunning conspiracy, as undoubtedly it was." "Were the other bonds never traced?" "I understand not. No list of the numbers had been kept, and, not being registered, they could easily be sold. Your father thinks that upon these the present prosperity of Albert Marlowe was built up." "How are we to prove that?" "It will be difficult. One thing is absolutely essential. We must find this Ralph Harding, and persuade him, if we can, to exonerate your father and place the guilt where it properly belongs." "Does father know where to find Harding?" "No; if he did, the greatest difficulty in our way would be removed." "Then I don't see that we can do anything," said Bert, disappointed. "The task is difficult, but not impossible. All we know is, that only two months after the robbery Harding disappeared. It was reported that he went to the West, but this was by no means certain. From that day to this, nothing is positively known as to his whereabouts." "Then I don't see what can be done," repeated Bert. "There is one thing to guide us," continued Uncle Jacob; "the man's occupation. There is a fair probability that he is working in some shoe town, that is, if he is still alive." "There are a good many shoe towns," objected Bert. "True; the clew is only a faint one, yet sometimes a faint clew leads to important discoveries." "Have you taken any steps yet, Uncle Jacob?" "Yes; your father remembered that Harding was a Pennsylvanian by birth, and this made it possible, at least, that he had gone back to his native State. Accordingly, last week, I inserted an advertisement in two daily papers printed in Philadelphia, calling for information touching the man of whom we are in search. I will show you a copy of it." Uncle Jacob took from his wallet a newspaper clipping and showed it to Bert. It ran thus: WANTED.--Information as to the present residence of Ralph Harding, who in the year 1873 was employed in the shoe manufactory of Weeks Brothers, in Lynn, Mass. He will hear something to his advantage. "Have you had any answer to this advertisement?" asked Bert. "Not till this morning, when I received a letter from Harrisburg, written in a feminine hand. Here it is." He placed in Bert's hands the following letter: DEAR SIR: I have read in the Philadelphia _Ledger_ your advertisement for a man named Ralph Harding. A man by that name boarded with me two months ago. He was working in a shoe shop in this city, so he may be the one you are after. You say you know of something to his advantage. If there is any money coming to him I want you to see that I am paid a just debt. Mr. Harding was owing me eight weeks' board when he left the house, at four dollars a week, and dirt cheap that is; for, if I do say it myself, there are not many boarding-houses in Harrisburg where so good a table is kept for four dollars as I give. I inclose my bill, and will be very glad if you will send me the money by return of mail, taking it out of any money that is to come to Mr. Harding. I work hard for my money, and I can't afford to lose thirty-two dollars, and it isn't right that I should. Hoping to hear from you very soon, I remain, Yours respectfully, AMELIA STUBBS. P. S. You can send me a check, as I can get it cashed by my grocer. "Mrs. Stubbs means business," remarked Bert with a smile. "Have you sent her the money?" "Not yet. I don't hold myself liable for Ralph Harding's debts, even if this is the man I am after. However, I am willing to pay Mrs. Stubbs for information, if she can furnish any that will help us." "Have you written to her?" "I am going to send a letter to her by you." "Am I to go to Harrisburg?" exclaimed Bert, pleasantly surprised. "Yes; I shall send you there to-morrow." "I should like to go. What am I to do when I get there?" "First of all you must call on Mrs. Stubbs. It may be well for you to engage board at her house for a week, paying in advance, as that will put you in her good graces. You will, of course, learn all you can from her, but it will be necessary also to seek information outside. I shall have to leave a good deal to your discretion." "I hope your confidence in me won't prove to be misplaced, Uncle Jacob." "I know you will do your best, Bert, but it is quite possible you may fail. As the poet says: ''Tis not in mortals to _command_ success.' I am sure you will deserve it." "Isn't it going to cost considerable to make this journey, Uncle Jacob?" "I think we can find money enough for it." "I am afraid your money will soon melt away, uncle. Think how much you have spent for us already." "You remember what I told you as to my lucky investment in the Magnet Mine. At any rate it will be worth something to vindicate your father, who, for ten long and tedious years, has been compelled to pass his life in exile under the ban of a crime which he never committed." "Yes, Uncle Jacob, but it ought not to come out of you." "Make yourself easy, Bert. The money we spend for worthy purposes is well invested, and we are often repaid tenfold. And now, as you are unacquainted with New York, I will take you out for a walk and show you how it looks by gaslight." Nothing could have pleased Bert better than this proposal. They returned at nine o'clock, and both he and Uncle Jacob retired at an early hour. CHAPTER XXVI. BERT SECURES BOARD IN HARRISBURG. Bert arrived in Harrisburg about four o'clock in the afternoon. He had in his hand a gripsack purchased for him by Uncle Jacob, who also provided him with a fuller supply of shirts, socks, and underclothing than he had brought with him. "You may be gone some time," he said. Just as Bert got into the cars, Uncle Jacob handed him a wallet. "This contains a sum of money for your immediate needs," he explained. "When you are out, send to me." After the cars started, Bert opened the wallet, and to his surprise found that he had fifty dollars in his possession. "Uncle Jacob's money won't last long at this rate," he said to himself. "I must be very careful and economical. I should like to take back to him a part of this sum." Of course Bert enjoyed his trip. The sun shone brightly, the air was cool and invigorating, and the scenes through which he was rapidly speeding were new to him. In spite of the sense of responsibility which rested upon him, he felt cheerful and exhilarated. "If I can only succeed in my mission!" he thought. "If I can only find Ralph Harding, and induce him to vindicate my father's reputation, I shall feel happy!" It so happened that he had seated himself in the smoking car, the car behind, which he first entered, being full. A tall, thin man, wearing a white hat, sat down beside him. "Have a cigar, young man?" he asked, as he produced two of rather poor quality, one of which he lighted and proceeded to smoke. "No, thank you, sir." "Better accept a good offer," urged the stranger. "Thank you, but I don't smoke." "Indeed! How old are you?" "I am sixteen," replied Bert. "Then you are a _rara avis_--that means a rare bird. Most boys of your age smoke." "They'd be better off without it." "Perhaps so. I see you are a prudent young man. How far are you going?" "To Harrisburg." "So am I. Queer coincidence, isn't it?" "I don't know," answered Bert, smiling. "I presume there are other passengers on board who are also bound for that city." "Very possibly. Ever been there before?" "No, sir." "I have often, and the long ride is rather tedious. What do you say to a little game of cards to fill up the time?" "Thank you, but I would rather look out of the window." The stranger seemed disappointed, but a man in the seat just behind, leaning over, said: "If you want a game, I'm your man." "All right!" said Bert's companion, brightening up. "What game do you play?" "Anything." "Poker?" "All right." The two took seats opposite, between which was a small table, and the game began. Bert looked over now and then, and saw that they were playing for money. He was startled, for he had been taught to regard gambling with horror. It seemed evident after awhile that his late seat-mate was losing. He became more and more excited and nervous, and his face was overspread with gloom. At length he came over to Bert, and said, eagerly: "My young friend, will you do me a favor?" "What is it, sir?" "Lend me five dollars." This seemed to Bert an extraordinary request from a perfect stranger. "You must excuse me, sir," he answered. "Haven't you got as much about you? Say two dollars, then." "The money I have with me is not my own," said Bert. "I cannot lend anything." "But, let me assure you, I will give it back to you before the train reaches Harrisburg. I have had a streak of bad luck, and that man over there has won all my money. But I've got on to his game, and I will soon have it all back, if I get a start. You'll be doing me a great favor, and there will be no risk." "He must take me for a fool," thought Bert. "You had better apply to some one else," he said coldly. "I can't possibly help you." "So young and so hard-hearted!" murmured the other, eying Bert reproachfully. "'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour. I was born under an unlucky star. Sir, I am afraid I must withdraw from our pleasant game unless you will kindly lend me a dollar to continue." His late antagonist shrugged his shoulders. "I don't see how that would benefit me," he said. "We'll wait till another time when you are in funds. Then I shall be happy to accommodate you." "Did you lose much?" asked Bert, as his companion resumed a seat at his side. "Fifteen dollars! 'Tis not much, but 'twas my all. If you would oblige me with a dollar, I can win it all back." Bert shook his head. "I have no money of my own," he said. "Never mind! Twenty times I have been on the threshold of fortune, and failed to secure it by my funds giving out. Be it so! I will no longer resist, but float downward to oblivion over the rapids of disappointment." "You are an actor, are you not?" said Bert. "Yes; at least, so I sometimes flatter myself, though the critics do not all concede it. If you are going to remain in Harrisburg long enough, come and see me act." He gave Bert his card, and then closing his eyes, passed the remainder of the journey in dozing. Arrived in Harrisburg, Bert found himself besieged by hackmen, representing different hotels. But he did not think it right to waste Uncle Jacob's money in unnecessary expense. He picked out a bootblack, and showing him the address of Mrs. Stubbs, asked: "Is that near by?" "'Bout quarter of a mile," answered the street boy. "What'll you ask for showing me the way?" "A dime." "Go ahead, then!" In five minutes Bert found himself standing in front of a rather shabby three-story house, in a decent, but not fashionable, street. The name Stubbs was on the door. Bert rang the bell, and inquired for Mrs. Stubbs. He was ushered into a small reception room on one side of the front door, furnished in cheap, boarding-house style, and took a seat on a stiff-backed cane chair. Presently a thin lady, with cork-screw curls, and a pale, washed-out complexion, entered the room. "Did you wish to see me, sir?" she said. "Yes," answered Bert. "You answered an advertisement about Ralph Harding. I come from New York." "Have you brought my money?" asked Mrs. Stubbs, with animation. "What money do you refer to?" "Mr. Harding's board bill. I sent it in the letter." "We don't feel called upon to pay Mr. Harding's debts," returned Bert, who had been instructed by Uncle Jacob to say this. "Must I lose thirty-two dollars, then?" said the lady tragically. "It's a shame." "No doubt it is, but we don't even know Mr. Harding." "Then why did you advertise for him?" "Because we want his testimony in a law case." "The advertisement said that it would be for Mr. Harding's advantage to report to you." "So it will, if we can find him. He will receive money enough to settle your bill, and more, too. We will see that he does, if you help us find him." "I am sure I am willing to do all I can," said Mrs. Stubbs, considerably mollified. "Have you got a small room vacant?" asked Bert. "I may be detained in Harrisburg for a while." "Yes; you can have the one Mr. Harding used to occupy. If you occupy it alone, it will be five dollars a week with board." "I will take it," said Bert promptly. "Can I have possession at once?" "Yes. Let me show you the way." The room was on the third floor. It was a small one, but would answer the purpose. Bert took out his clothes, and laid them away in the pine bureau near the window. "Well," he said, as he waited for the bell to summon him to supper, "I have taken the first step toward finding Ralph Harding. I am occupying the room which was once his. What shall be the next step?" He little anticipated the singular experience that same evening had in store for him. CHAPTER XXVII. A BOARDING-HOUSE IN HARRISBURG. At the supper table Bert made acquaintance with his fellow-boarders. There were eight in all. Three of them worked in the shoe factory where Ralph Harding had been employed, two young ladies were saleswomen in a dry-goods store, Professor Silvio and wife taught a dancing school, and the eighth was the landlady's daughter, a young woman of twenty-five, who resembled Mrs. Stubbs closely. Bert learned afterward that she was employed in a millinery store. "Gentlemen and ladies," said Mrs. Stubbs, as Bert took the vacant chair that had been assigned to him, "let me introduce a new boarder, Mr. Barton." Eight pairs of curious eyes were fixed upon Bert, and he blushed a little, not being accustomed to the scrutiny of strangers. "He is a friend of a former boarder, Mr. Harding, whom some of you will remember." "Have you heard from Mr. Harding lately, Mr. Barton?" asked Angelica Stubbs, who sat next to our hero. "No," answered Bert. "He left quite suddenly, owing me eight weeks' board." "So I heard." "Do you think he will ever pay it up?" "If I succeed in finding him I think there is some chance of it." "Mr. Harding and I were very good friends," continued Miss Stubbs. "He--in fact--showed quite a fondness for my society," she added, casting down her eyes modestly. "No wonder!" said Bert, smiling. "Oh, you sad flatterer!" said Miss Angelica, appearing pleased at what she regarded as a compliment. "Didn't he tell _you_ where he was going?" asked Bert. "No; I think he was called away by bad news." "What sort of a looking man was he?" Bert inquired. "You ask me that?" said Angelica, in surprise. "I thought you were a friend of his." "I never saw him in my life." "That's funny. Why then did ma introduce you as a friend of his?" "She thought me so. I am interested in finding him, that is all." "You are not a horrid detective, I hope? Has poor Mr. Harding committed a crime? Oh, tell me quick. You actually make me creep all over." "I don't mean any harm, but his testimony is wanted in a law case. You haven't told me about his appearance yet." "I've got his photograph, and will show it to you after supper." "Oh, thank you!" said Bert, much pleased. "That is, if you are sure it won't do him any harm. He used to talk to me very confidentially, and I can't help liking him, even if he did get in debt to ma." "Perhaps he was unfortunate and couldn't pay." "That's what I tell ma, but ma's rather severe on boarders that go away without paying her." "Did he take all his baggage with him, Miss Stubbs?" "He left behind a box of books and papers. They weren't of much account--some old letters and such." "Did your mother preserve them?" asked Bert eagerly. "Yes, I believe so; but she would have preferred to have him leave his trunk. That might have been sold for a part of his board bill." "Do you think I could look over the books and papers?" asked Bert. "What for?" inquired Angelica, her face expressing curiosity. "You know I want to find him, and some of the papers might throw light on his movements." "I don't know but you could," answered Angelica indifferently. "I'll be willing to pay your mother one week's board for the box and its contents." "Then I am sure she will let you have them. They are worth nothing to her. I only wonder she hasn't used them to kindle the fire with before now." "I hope she hasn't," returned Bert anxiously. "No; I know she hasn't, for I saw them in the attic only last week. I'll look them up for you some day when I am at leisure." "Thank you." "I wonder Mr. Harding hasn't written to you," he said, a little later. "Oh, go along! You don't suppose there was anything between me and him?" said Angelica, who liked nothing better than to be teased about the attentions of members of the other sex. Bert was sharp enough to see this, and thought he might make it available in promoting the object he had in view. "I thought, perhaps, he had gone away because you didn't smile upon his suit." Miss Angelica laughed and tossed her head in great delight. "As if I would tell you," she said. "I only hope he hasn't committed suicide." "Oh, Mr. Barton, how can you? Really, I shall have to complain to ma." All this was very amusing to Bert, who had a natural love of fun, and quite understood Angelica by this time, though, truth to tell, she was not difficult to read. When supper was over, Miss Stubbs said graciously: "Mr. Barton, if you are not pressed for time, will you linger a while? I play a little on the piano, and if you are fond of music, I will play for you. Usually I have to be in the store, but this is my evening off." "I shall be glad to stay, Miss Stubbs. I am fond of music." "Mr. Harding often lingered with me in the evening hours. He liked to hear me play." "As I no doubt shall." "Do you sing, Mr. Barton?" "No; I wish I did." Miss Angelica's piano was probably twenty-five years old, and was very much out of tune. But even if it had been a Chickering Grand, her playing would hardly have captivated a musical ear. She had little taste, and the lessons she had taken had only given her the ability to play a few easy tunes. Bert found half an hour of Miss Angelica's music and society all he cared to enjoy at one time. He therefore excused himself, and taking his hat, went out for a walk. As he was a stranger in Harrisburg, he was not particular in what direction he strolled, but naturally bent his steps toward what appeared to be the central part of the city. As he sauntered along, his attention was attracted to a flaring poster on a dead wall, setting forth the attractive features of THE STREETS OF GOTHAM. _A Realistic Play of New York Life._ As given by a Star Combination of world-renowned Actors. For one week only. Reserved seats, 50 cents. Balcony, 25 cents. Now Bert had seldom enjoyed an opportunity of attending a dramatic performance, and felt strongly tempted to avail himself of the one that now offered. He wished to be as economical as possible, and decided to content himself with a seat in the balcony. "Where is the theatre?" he asked of a boy who was studying the bill at the same time with himself. "Just round the corner. I'll show you," was the reply. "Thank you." "Are you goin' to see de play?" asked the boy with interest. "I think I shall." "I'd go myself if I had another nickel," said the young guide. "I've got ten cents." "But I thought twenty-five cents was the lowest price." "I can go to de gallery for fifteen cents. De gallery is good enough for me." "If a nickel will help you, here is one." "Thank you," said the boy. "It's a boss play, dey tell me." "I hope it is, as I am going myself." The theatre was near at hand, and the two boys soon stood before it. It was rather early, being only a quarter past seven, but a small crowd of boys was already waiting for a chance to obtain admission to the gallery. There seemed to be no hurry about buying a ticket, and Bert took a standing position near the box office, surveying with interest the passers by. All at once he felt a hand on his shoulder, and these words fell upon his ear: "We meet again, my dear boy. Shake!" Bert immediately recognized his travelling friend who had lost his money on the train. "Are you one of the dramatic company?" he asked. "Yes; I play the leading villain--and am acting stage manager. My name is Orville--Jack Orville. You have heard of me." "I have always lived in the country," said Bert apologetically, "and so have little acquaintance with actors." Orville looked disappointed. He liked to be known and recognized. "That accounts for it," he said. "I am surprised to hear that you are from the country. You have the city air." Bert was pleased to hear it, though perhaps that might be a mark of weakness. At the moment another man came up hurriedly, and spoke to Orville. "Here's a pretty kettle of fish, Orville," he said. "Bob Hazleton is sick and insists upon going back to New York. Where shall we find a boy to take his place?" Orville had an inspiration. He clapped his hand on Bert's shoulder, exclaiming: "Here he stands!" CHAPTER XXVIII. BERT'S FIRST APPEARANCE ON ANY STAGE. Bert eyed the actor with amazement, rather disposed to doubt his sanity. "Do you mean me?" he said. "Certainly." "Has he ever acted?" asked Pearson, the second actor, doubtfully. "No, but he can act. I'll undertake to train him." "There isn't much time. Hazleton can't appear to-night." "Don't worry! I'll see that he is not missed." As Pearson went away, Orville said: "You'll help us out, won't you, my boy?" "What do you want me to do?" asked Bert, his heart beating with excitement. "Take the part of a newsboy. You've seen and heard them in the streets of New York, haven't you?" "Yes; but it seems sudden. I should have to learn the part." "All told there are not more than twenty lines, and you won't come on till the second act. You've spoken pieces, haven't you?" "Yes, and I like it." "I was sure of it. Then you accept?" "If you think I can do it, and will tell me exactly what to do." "Come round at once to the stage entrance. I will give you your lines and tell you the business. We'll speak about terms later." As Bert followed Orville round to the stage door he asked himself whether he was not acting foolishly in accepting, at such short notice, a position to which he was entirely unaccustomed. If he had not liked declamation, and felt moderately self-possessed before an audience, he would have promptly refused. As it was, the prospect, while it somewhat daunted, also pleased him. Besides, he saw that, though he might not be able to fill the place of Bob Hazleton, it was imperatively necessary that the part should be taken by some one, and there was no time to lose in hunting up another boy. If he did poorly, he could limit his engagement to one evening. He was not at home behind the scenes, and at the outset came near tumbling through a trap door. He followed Orville to the general dressing-room, where the manager assisted him to attire himself in the costume provided for the newsboy. It is needless to say that it was not of a costly description, and would have been dear at a dollar and a half. "I'll dress you first, and give you the lines afterward." In five minutes Bert surveyed himself in a cracked mirror, and wondered if he were the same boy. Orville ruffled up his hair, taught him the free and easy walk of the typical newsboy, briefly instructed him in the "business" of the part, and then gave him his lines to commit. "Read them to me," he said. "I want to see if you've caught the spirit of the part." Of course Bert needed a little coaching, but "caught on," as Orville expressed it, with remarkable quickness. After a few minutes' rehearsal, his teacher said: "You'll do; that is, if you don't get rattled." "What's that?" "Get an attack of stage fright, and forget your lines." "I won't do that," said Bert confidently. "Then you'll have no trouble. Now, stay here till you get a summons from the call boy. I must make up for my part, though I don't appear, either, till the second act. Remember that we rely upon you." "I'll get through," said Bert confidently. By this time our hero looked forward eagerly to the moment when he would appear on the stage. He felt excited, and yearned to distinguish himself. He wanted to justify the stage manager's hasty, and, it must be confessed, rather imprudent, choice. He waited in the wings till he heard the call boy's summons, and then made his entrance as instructed by Orville. He glanced at the audience, but only got a confused impression of hundreds of faces. He did not allow himself to think of them, but addressed himself to the business of his part. A part of this was to rescue a little girl from the abuse of a tyrannical old woman. He recited his lines with spirit; and so enlisted the sympathies of those present by his manly bearing that he received a tribute of applause. The scene came just at the close of the second act, and when the curtain fell there was prolonged hand-clapping. Bert did not know what it meant, but Orville came up to him, and said; "Go before the curtain, leading Maud by the hand. Bow to the audience." Bert was a little bewildered, but followed directions. The corner of the curtain was moved aside, and Bert walked across the stage, leading little Maud (who was a daughter of the leading actress) by the hand. Children are always well received, and there was plenty of applause. When Bert reappeared behind the scenes, Orville said, "Barton, you did yourself proud! Keep it up when you appear again in the fourth act, and you may consider yourself an actor." In the fourth and last act Bert went on the stage in his street dress. His circumstances and his social position were supposed to have improved. At the close of the performance Orville introduced Bert to the different members of the company. "Do you mean to say you have never acted before?" asked Mr. Pearson. "This is my first appearance on any stage," said Bert with a smile. "Then you have done yourself great credit. I was myself trained at Wallack's Theatre, but had been a year on the boards before I could acquit myself as well as you." "Thank you. I have done better than I expected." "You more than filled Hazleton's place." "Has he been long with you?" "A year." Bert felt this was indeed praise, that on his first appearance he should have equaled a boy with a year's experience. "Of course you will play with us the balance of the week?" said Pearson. "If you wish me to do so." "What salary will you expect?" Bert smiled. "I hardly know what will be a fair price to ask." "We will give you the same salary that Hazleton received, fifteen dollars a week, and you pay your own board. Is that satisfactory?" Bert opened his eyes. Fifteen dollars a week seemed to him a large sum, for evening work. He found afterward that he was expected to appear at rehearsal; but even with this additional duty, the post appeared to him an easy one. "I accept the terms," he said. "All right; where are you boarding?" He gave the address. "Please be at the theatre to-morrow at ten, and Mr. Pearson will hear you rehearse and give you a few points." Unknown to Bert there were two persons present at the theatre that night who recognized him. One of the male boarders, prompted by a rather significant hint from Miss Angelica, had invited that young lady to accompany him to the performance. They sat in the sixth row from the stage, though Bert, who attended only to his duties, did not see them. When he first came on as a newsboy, Miss Stubbs said: "How much that newsboy looks like Mr. Barton, ma's new boarder." "He does look some like him." "But of course it isn't he. I wonder if he is here this evening." "I don't see him anywhere," said the escort. When Bert appeared in his own clothes in the fourth act, Angelica exclaimed: "Why, it is Mr. Barton, after all! Is it possible that I know a live actor? Why, I was talking to him at supper, and he was really quite attentive to me." "He is put down on the bill as Bob Hazleton," said the young man, consulting the programme. "That must be his stage name. I will get him to tell me all about acting to-morrow. Do you know, Mr. Cutting, I should like to go on the stage myself? I should so like to play Juliet." "If you do, will you let me be Romeo?" "Yes, if you desire it," said Angelica, tapping her escort coquettishly with her fan. It's safe to say that Mr. Cutting, who was barely five feet in height, and Miss Angelica, who was tall, thin, and angular, would have made a very remarkable Romeo and Juliet. As Bert left the stage door, a boy touched his arm. Looking round he saw that it was the one who had guided him to the theatre. The boy's face wore a respectful look as he said: "Say, you didn't tell me you was one of de actors." "I didn't know it myself," answered Bert. "It was you that took off de newsboy," continued the boy. "Yes, but I'm not the regular actor. He's sick and I took his place." "It was tiptop. Are you goin' to act to-morrow night?" "I shall act all this week." "I'd like to see de play again. It's a boss play." Bert felt in a liberal mood. "Here is fifteen cents," he said. "Tell your friends to come." "I'll bring 'em. I'll tell 'em I know one of de actors." It may be remarked that Tom Roach, for this was the boy's name, gave such glowing accounts of the play to his intimate friends that no less than ten of them accompanied him to the theatre the next evening, and were especially enthusiastic when Bert was on the stage. Their liberal applause raised Bert in the good opinion of the management, who felt that they had secured a prize in the new actor. CHAPTER XXIX. BERT SECURES A BOX OF MR. HARDING'S PAPERS. When our hero went down to breakfast next morning, he found himself the observed of all observers. Miss Angelica Stubbs and her escort had already made known that he was a member of the dramatic company, and as none of the boarders had ever before met "a live actor," all felt great curiosity and a desire to become acquainted with so distinguished a public character. As he took his seat beside Miss Stubbs, she said: "I saw you on the stage last evening, Mr. Barton." "Did you? I was not aware that you were in the house." "Why didn't you tell me that you were an actor? I've got a bone to pick with you." "I didn't know it myself, Miss Stubbs." "You mean to say you didn't play the newsboy? Oh, Mr. Barton!" "Yes; but when I left the house I had no idea of playing. It so happened that the young actor who usually takes the part--Bob Hazleton--was sick, and I was applied to by the manager to take his place." "Then he knew you were an actor?" "No; I only fell in with him on the train from New York." "Why you acted just as if you were used to it." "I am glad you think so. I hardly dared to accept the part." "Will you play the rest of the week?" "I have agreed to do so. Hazleton goes home to-day." "How nice! I must go again." "I take that as a compliment." "Can't you actors take your friends in free?" asked Angelica, whose rule was to make all she could out of her acquaintances. "I haven't been an actor long enough to find out." "I should consider it _such_ a favor. I would get all my friends to go." "On the same terms?" asked Bert with a smile. "No. They can pay." Bert did secure a complimentary ticket for Miss Stubbs, who boasted everywhere that she was intimately acquainted with one of the leading actors in "The Streets of Gotham," and that he was really very attentive to her. "What would my friends at Lakeville say if they knew my new business?" thought Bert. "I should be glad if Percy Marlowe could see me on the stage." He determined, however, not to say anything in his letters about this new engagement, for, though he had been successful thus far, his success and popularity might not last. "Did you see the notice of your play in the morning paper, Mr. Barton?" asked Miss Angelica. "No; I haven't seen the paper yet." "It speaks of one of the actors. I won't say who," continued Miss Stubbs, nodding playfully. "Do you mean me?" asked Bert in excitement. "Yes, here it is." Bert ran his eye hastily over the notice, which occupied a quarter of a column. This is the portion that most interested him: "The part of the newsboy was effectively taken by Mr. Bert Barton, who was engaged at the last moment to fill the place of Mr. Hazleton. His acting was spirited, and the fact that it was liked was shown by the hearty call before the curtain at the end of the second act. The management are fortunate in securing so good a substitute for Bob Hazleton." Bert's face showed his gratification. It almost seemed a dream to him that he had really appeared on the stage, and he was glad that he had given satisfaction. At ten o'clock he reported at the stage entrance, where he was met by Mr. Pearson, who was associate manager. He went through a rehearsal which enabled him to look forward with more confidence to a repetition of the part. The afternoon he had to himself, and a part of this he spent in trying to find out what he could about Ralph Harding. He learned that Harding had been employed in the shoe factory of Benedict & Co. Two of Mrs. Stubbs's boarders worked at the same place, but neither had been intimate with Harding. Bert learned that he was looked upon as "a rolling stone," never content to remain long in one place. He had been employed less than six months at the Benedict shop, when, without assigning any reason, he gave notice that he wanted to leave. "What sort of a man is he?" asked Bert. "He is restless and at times gloomy," answered Blanchard, to whom he had put the question. "I worked next to him, but he seldom made any conversation with me." "Was he a good workman?" "Excellent, but he evidently did not like the business. He often lamented that he had not the means of getting out of it." "Have you any idea where he went when he left Harrisburg?" "From what I have heard him say, I think it probable that he went to some Western town or city." "You have not heard from him since he left Harrisburg?" "No; he was not likely to correspond with me. I doubt if he was intimate enough with any one here to do so, except possibly with Miss Stubbs," added Blanchard, with a smile. "She tells me Mr. Harding paid her a good deal of attention." "It is more probable that Miss Stubbs paid him a good deal of attention. At present you are her favorite." "I don't want to interfere with you, Mr. Blanchard," said Bert, much amused. "I can't undertake to compete with an actor, Mr. Barton." "I can't get over my surprise at being called an actor. However, as long as it pays me better than anything else, I don't object." The next day Mrs. Stubbs intercepted Bert as he was leaving the house. "My daughter tells me," she said, "that you are willing to pay four dollars for the papers which Mr. Harding left behind him?" "Yes," answered Bert eagerly. "I don't see why I shouldn't sell them. I can't afford to lose eight weeks' board." "Quite true, Mrs. Stubbs. I don't see why they won't be just as safe in my hands as in yours." "You don't want to do Mr. Harding any harm; though I don't know why I should think of that, after the way he has served me!" "Instead of that, Mrs. Stubbs, I can assure you that it will be money in his pocket, if, through his papers, I am able to find him." "And in that case you will try to get him to pay his honest debts?" "I will, Mrs. Stubbs." "Then, Mr. Barton, if you will come up to the attic I will hand you the papers." Bert gladly followed Mrs. Stubbs upstairs, and was shown on the attic floor a wooden box about half full of old letters and other papers. The box certainly did not look very valuable, and Bert said so. "I wouldn't have kept it," said the landlady, "if I could have got hold of his trunk. But he got the start of me, and it was in the hands of an expressman before I knew that he was going to move. I was downstairs in the basement when Mr. Harding took the expressman upstairs, and the trunk was brought down and put in his wagon before I knew what was going on. Mr. Harding didn't even say good-by, and I haven't seen or heard of him from that day to this." "Well, Mrs. Stubbs, here are your four dollars, and I hope you will some day get the balance of the debt." Bert carried the box downstairs and into his room, where he proceeded to examine the contents, among which he was destined to come across a document of considerable interest to him. CHAPTER XXX. BERT OBTAINS AN IMPORTANT CLEW. Mr. Harding was not a literary man, and his papers would hardly have been of any value to a publisher. They consisted principally of letters, some of them ten years old. It seemed to have been a habit of Ralph Harding to keep his letters, though he probably set no great value upon them. Bert opened fifteen or twenty, and glanced over them, only to find that they related to matters in which he felt no interest whatever. He began to doubt whether they were even worth the small sum he had paid for them, when all at once he made a discovery. He found a letter dated Lakeville. "Who can have written him from Lakeville?" he asked himself, and naturally turned the page to read the signature. His heart beat quickly when he read the name of the writer--Albert Marlowe. It was dated about two years previous, and ran as follows: DEAR SIR: I have received your letter, and am surprised that you should have the boldness to write to me for money. I am sorry to hear that you have been in bad luck, but I presume it is your own fault. You are able to earn good wages, and ought to pay your own way without depending on anybody. Look at me! I was once a common workman like you, but, thanks to my energy and enterprise, I am now the owner of a large factory, and able to live in comparative luxury. I don't know why you should expect me to support you. I have a family of my own to care for, and my first duty is to them. You intimate that you are in possession of a secret which, if made known, will injure me. I suppose I know what you mean. I don't think, however, that you will find any one to believe what you may say to my disadvantage, and I warn you to be careful what you do, or I may testify that you yourself took the missing bonds. Don't trouble yourself to write to me again, for it will be time thrown away. ALBERT MARLOWE. Underneath the signature were a few lines, evidently written by Ralph Harding: Who would believe that the writer of this letter is a thief, and that the capital on which he started in business was stolen? I bitterly repent that I was induced to join in the plot against poor Barton. He--poor fellow--is in exile, afraid to return to his own country, while the man who committed the crime which has shadowed his life, is rich and prosperous, and holds up his head in society. And I--miserable tool that I was--by my testimony helped him to fasten the crime on an innocent man. I don't know whether it will do any good to write again. I am a poor man, and Albert Marlowe is rich. He will defy me, and perhaps swear that I was implicated in the robbery myself. So I was, alas! for I accepted a bribe of two hundred dollars for my part in the matter. I wish I could see poor Barton righted! Bert read this letter with flushed face and beating heart. Here was proof positive that his father was innocent; and Albert Marlowe, the rich manufacturer, the magnate of Lakeville, was guilty not only of robbery, but, what was even more contemptible, had schemed successfully to throw the guilt upon an innocent man, the husband of his cousin. Through him John Barton had suffered a ten-years' exile, and had been deprived for that time of his good name and the society of his family. "I wouldn't take a thousand dollars for this letter," said Bert to himself in exultation. "I don't know what it amounts to in the eyes of the law, but I am sure it is valuable. Now, if I could only find Ralph Harding himself." Bert continued his search among the letters, and finally found one postmarked Peoria, Illinois, which appeared to have been received by Ralph Harding about a week before he left Harrisburg. This is an extract therefrom: It is five years since I have seen you. This is a long separation considering that we two are the only ones left of the family. If you are in your old business as I infer from your letter, why can't you get work just as well here in Peoria as in Harrisburg? There is a large shop here, where I think you would not have any difficulty in securing employment. I presume as good wages are paid here as at the East. We have a small room which you could occupy, and it would be pleasant for a brother and sister who have been so long separated to find themselves under the same roof. My husband is a carpenter, as you know. His earnings are not large, and he doesn't always have work, but we have a little sum saved up which we can fall back upon in time of need. I can't lend you any money, and indeed you ought not to expect it, as you are a single man, and have no one to take care of but yourself. I am afraid you are not a very good manager. Come to Peoria, and I will see if I can't help you save money. Consider what a position you would be in if you should fall sick. Your affectionate sister, HELEN CLIFTON. Underneath, in Ralph Harding's handwriting, was this brief indorsement: All true, every word of it! Helen was always prudent and a good manager. It is true, as she says, that there are but two of us. Why shouldn't I go to Peoria, and see her? There was no more; but as Ralph Harding a week later left Harrisburg, it seemed fair to infer that he had adopted his own half-expressed intention, and gone to Peoria, to see his sister, especially as there seemed a good chance of his obtaining work there in his own line. "Peoria!" repeated Bert thoughtfully. "The chances are that Ralph Harding went there from Harrisburg, and it is very probable that he is there now. I wish I could find some one that could tell me about the place." "Mr. Pearson," he said, when he met the associate manager at rehearsal, "can you tell me anything about Peoria?" "Yes," answered the actor. "What do you want to know about it?" "How large a place is it?" "About the size of Harrisburg. I don't believe there is a thousand difference in the population." "Is it far from here?" "A matter of six or seven hundred miles, I should think, perhaps a little more. It is southeast of Chicago. Why do you want to know?" "I want to find a man who, I have reason to think, is now living there. I may have to leave the company, as it is very important for me to find this man." "There will be no occasion for you to leave the company. When we leave Harrisburg, we jump to Chicago, and probably three weeks from now we shall be playing in Peoria. It is on our list of places, and is a very good city for a short engagement. Will that be soon enough?" Bert hesitated. If he remained with the company, his expenses would be paid out to Peoria, and he would be earning fifteen dollars a week besides. "Come, now, don't hesitate!" said Mr. Pearson. "We shouldn't know how to get along without you." Naturally this pleased Bert, and helped to fix his resolution. "I don't know but I can wait two or three weeks," he said slowly, "if you are sure we shall play at Peoria." "I am certain of it. The route was made up this morning. We are having some new bills printed in which your name is substituted for that of Bob Hazleton. So you see, my boy, you will be getting a reputation under your own colors." This had its effect, for Bert felt that he should like to have a bill of the play in which his own name appeared. Otherwise he might find his friends incredulous as to his having actually been upon the stage. Later in the day he gave his promise that he would go with the company when they left Harrisburg, but would not sign an engagement for any definite time, as he did not wish to put any obstacle in the way of his following any clew that might lead to the discovery of Harding. "Well, Mr. Barton," said Mrs. Stubbs after supper, "did you find anything of value in that box of papers?" "Yes; I obtained some information that will probably be of value. Besides it gave me a clew to his present residence." "Indeed," said Angelica, who was present, "where is he?" "In Peoria, Illinois. He has a married sister living there." "Shall you go out West to find him?" "I expect to go with the company. They will play an engagement in Peoria." "If you see Mr. Harding, please remember me to him. Say--that is, you may hint that I still think of him with interest, and--and hope he will some day return to us." "That message ought to bring him, Miss Angelica." "Of course I only think of him as a friend, but we were very congenial, and it is not often that one meets a congenial spirit." "Why not send a letter to Mr. Harding by me?" "I--that is; mamma, do you think it would be proper?" asked Angelica with bashful hesitation. "I don't know why not," answered Mrs. Stubbs promptly. "You might ask in the letter when it will be convenient for him to pay his board bill." "Oh, ma, how unromantic!" "It may not be romantic, Angelica, but it's business," said the practical mother. Miss Stubbs did write the letter, but it is certain she did not mention the board bill in it. CHAPTER XXXI. SQUIRE MARLOWE IS SURPRISED. It may be well to return to Lakeville, as something has occurred there which deserves to be recorded. It is needless to say that Mrs. Barton missed Bert, whose bright and cheerful presence had filled the little house with comfort and gladdened his mother's heart. Still she knew that he was well, and heard from him every week, though Bert only detailed his experiences in general terms, not caring to raise expectations which perhaps might prove illusive. Bert's absence from Lakeville excited some surprise and speculation. Squire Marlowe, to whom it had been mentioned by Percy, stopped Mrs. Barton in the street one day, and said: "Percy tells me that your son is away." "Yes." "Where is he?" "He went to New York." "Is he at work there?" "No, he is travelling." "Travelling? What do you mean?" "Uncle Jacob has sent him off on some mission. He is at Harrisburg, I believe." "That is very strange!" remarked the squire, arching his eyebrows. "What possible mission can Jacob have for the boy?" "He doesn't write particulars; but his expenses are paid." "I don't see how Jacob Marlowe, with his paltry twelve dollars a week, can make such arrangements." "Nor I; but probably Uncle Jacob has interested his employer in Bert." "It may be so, but I think it very unwise to send off a boy by himself. What judgment has he, or what can he do?" "I don't very well know. He seems to enjoy the trip." "Of course; but it will spoil him for solid work. He had better have stayed at home." "What encouragement was there for him to stay in Lakeville? If you had not discharged him, he would be here now. If you will take him back into the factory, I will write him to that effect, and perhaps it will induce him to return." "Ahem! I will think of it. Does he send you any money?" "Not yet." "Then how do you live?" "Without calling upon you, Albert," said Mrs. Barton, with a little tinge of bitterness. "I hardly think you feel enough interest in me to care how I live." Albert Marlowe was somewhat embarrassed, and regretted that he had asked the question. Mrs. Barton might take it into her head that he was willing to contribute to her support, and this was far from being the case. "Women look at things from a peculiar point of view," he said. "Of course I wish you well, and for that reason regret that you are so injudicious in your management of Bert." "I have no fear but that Bert will turn out well," rejoined Mrs. Barton proudly. "Ahem! I hope so, though that twenty-dollar affair led me to fear that he had inherited loose ideas about honesty." "What do you mean?" demanded Mrs. Barton, her cheeks aflame with indignation. "I shouldn't think you would need to ask. Of course we both know why Mr. Barton is an exile, unable to return home." "Yes, Albert Marlowe, we do know! He is an innocent man, suffering for the crime of another." "That is what he says, is it?" sneered the squire. "That might be expected." "Because it is true; but, Albert Marlowe, I have good hopes that his innocence may be vindicated, and the real criminal brought to light." Her intense gaze made the squire uncomfortable. "Did she mean anything?" he asked himself. "It is natural for you to take the most favorable view of the matter," he said; "but your hope is hardly likely to be realized. Good-morning." Mrs. Barton looked after him, and her spirit rose in revolt against the inequalities of fortune. Here was the real criminal, as she fully believed--rich, prosperous, enjoying a high social position, while her poor husband, the scapegoat for another's offense, was an exile from home. The next day Squire Marlowe went to New York on business. He occasionally visited Wall Street, and now and then made an investment. He looked the embodiment of dignity and respectability, with his ample figure, fine broadcloth suit, and gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and might readily have been taken for a prosperous and wealthy city banker. About one o'clock he entered an expensive restaurant, a stone's throw from Broadway, and taking up the bill of fare made a selection of dishes for his dinner. As he did so, he said to himself, with a comfortable smile: "When I was a common workman in a shoe shop, how little did I think that I should ever be able to sit down in a restaurant like this, and pay a dollar and a half for my dinner. Why, I didn't earn much more than that by a day's labor. Here I am surrounded by brokers, bankers, and wealthy merchants, and quite as good as they." The thought led Squire Marlowe to look around him. What he saw almost paralyzed him with surprise. There--at a neighboring table--sat Uncle Jacob, enjoying a luxurious dinner, the cost of which the squire, with the bill of fare before him, estimated must come to a high figure. "Can that be Uncle Jacob?" Albert Marlowe asked himself in amazement. "How on earth can a clerk on twelve dollars a week salary afford to dine at a restaurant like this?" As he had not yet given his order, he moved over to the table occupied by Uncle Jacob, and took a seat opposite him. "Albert Marlowe!" exclaimed the old man, recognizing him with surprise. "Yes, Uncle Jacob, it is I. But what on earth brings you here?" "I should think it was pretty evident," said Jacob Marlowe with a smile, "I came in for my dinner." "Yes, but do you usually come here?" "Not always--perhaps half the time. I make my heartiest meal of the day at this time--unlike most New Yorkers--and like it to be a good one." "Of course, but--how can you afford to eat here? Didn't you say that your salary was twelve dollars a week?" "I think I said so." "You are spending at that rate for your dinners alone. I don't understand how you can do it." "I am an old man, Albert. I can't live many years, and I think it sensible to get as much comfort out of life as possible for my few remaining years." "Still----" "I had a little money, you know, five hundred dollars, and I have managed to turn it to good account, so that I don't feel quite so cramped as when I was at Lakeville." "The old man's been speculating!" thought Albert Marlowe, "and he has had a stroke of luck; but he's a fool to think he can live like a banker on the strength of that. Very likely his next venture will sweep away his small amount of capital. Well, if he comes to grief, he needn't apply to me. Henceforth I wash my hands of him and his affairs altogether." "Of course it's your own lookout," he said, "but to me you seem recklessly extravagant." "Because I come in here? Well, perhaps so. When I find I can't afford it, I'll go to a cheaper place. Have you seen Mary Barton lately?" "Yes; she is well. By the way, what have you done with her boy?" "He is traveling." "So I heard. It seems to me a very foolish proceeding. Who is paying his expenses?" "Himself." "Is he working, then?" asked the squire in surprise. "Yes; he is a member of the 'Streets of Gotham' company, and is earning his living as an actor." "What does he know about acting?" asked the squire in amazement. "It appears that he is giving satisfaction. He sent me a paper containing a highly commendatory notice of his first appearance." "It won't last," said Albert Marlowe, his wish being father to the thought. When he returned to Lakeville that evening, he carried with him two pieces of news--first, that Uncle Jacob was living in luxury, and secondly, that Bert Barton was on the stage. "If he can act, I can," said Percy jealously. "They must have been hard up for an actor when they took Bert Barton. A boy brought up in a country town. Never been to a theatre in his life before. Pooh! I dare say he appeared for one night only. The idea of Mary Barton's son acting before a regular audience, a boy who has hoed corn for farmer Wilson!" CHAPTER XXXII. HIRAM FRENCH, OF CHICAGO. From Harrisburg the dramatic company with which Bert was connected went directly to Chicago. "We don't like to make such long jumps," said Mr. Pearson, with whom Bert had become quite friendly, "but we could secure Hooley's Theatre this week, and no other. Were you ever in Chicago?" "No," answered Bert. "I have never traveled much. I suppose you have." "Yes; I went out to San Francisco last year with the 'Silver King.' You will find Chicago a pleasant city." "Are the hotels dear?" "No; only moderate in price. The theatrical people get a discount, you know." "I think I should rather live in a boarding house." "That will be cheaper. I don't mind going with you to keep you company." "Do you know of any good house?" "I know a very comfortable boarding-house on Monroe Street, kept by Mrs. Shelby, a widow lady. My sister once boarded there, when visiting Chicago." "That will suit me, I think. Would you mind going 'round with me?" "I'll take you there, with pleasure." The two, on arriving in Chicago, went at once to Monroe Street, and called at the boarding-house. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Pearson," said the widow cordially. "Is your sister with you?" "Not this time." "Are you going to play here?" "Yes; I shall appear at Hooley's Theatre all next week." "Is that young gentleman your brother?" "No, he is one of our actors, Mr. Bert Barton." "He looks young for an actor," said the landlady, surprised. "I appeared on the stage when I was only twelve. But we have come on business, Mrs. Shelby. Have you a vacant room?" "Yes; I had one vacated yesterday." "Suppose Mr. Barton and myself take it for a week?" "I shall be glad to have you. I can't afford to have my rooms remain vacant." "What will be your terms?" "Six dollars each, including board." "Is that satisfactory, Bert?" asked Pearson. "Quite so, Mr. Pearson." "Then we will take possession. I hope it is almost time for a meal, Mrs. Shelby. I am almost famished." "You will only have to wait an hour. I will show you to your rooms, and then I must be excused, as my presence is required downstairs." The room shown by the landlady was of fair size and neatly furnished. Bert looked about him in satisfaction. "I would rather be here than at a hotel," he said. "So would I, as long as I have a companion," returned Mr. Pearson. "Besides, I shall be saving from four to five dollars a week. I ought to pay more than half of it, as I am receiving a considerably higher salary than you." "No, Mr. Pearson, I prefer to pay my share. But for you I should be paying more at a hotel." Bert felt a little diffidence in appearing before a Chicago audience. He had, to be sure, been favorably received in Harrisburg, but he had an idea that in a larger city it would be more difficult to achieve success. The first night undeceived him. He received a liberal share of applause, and was called before the curtain. "I congratulate you, Bert," said Mr. Pearson. "You seem to have made yourself solid with the audience." "I am glad that I give satisfaction," returned Bert. "It will encourage me to do better." "You had better adopt the profession of an actor," continued his friend. Bert shook his head. "I prefer to enter a business of some kind," he said. "Though I have succeeded in one part, I am not sure that I should succeed in others." Bert was about leaving the theatre that night when the call boy brought him a card. "There is a gentleman at the door would like to see you," he said. Bert glanced at the card, and found it bore the name of HIRAM FRENCH. It was a name he had never before heard, and when he reached the door he looked inquiringly at the middle-aged gentleman who stood before him. "You are young Barton?" said the visitor. "Yes; that is my name." "Are you the son of John Barton, who once worked in the shoe factory of Weeks Brothers?" "Yes, sir," answered Bert, coloring, for he knew that the stranger must be aware that his father was resting under a criminal charge. "I thought I could not be mistaken. You look as your father did at your age." "Then you knew my father as a boy?" said Bert, eagerly. "I was a schoolmate of his. Later on I was employed in the same factory with him--that of Weeks Brothers." "Did you know under what circumstances he left the factory?" asked Bert, with some embarrassment. "Yes, I knew all about it. But I want you to come home and pass the night at my house, and we will talk over that and other matters." "Thank you, sir. I will give notice to a friend who rooms with me." Bert found Mr. Pearson, and informed him that he would absent himself for one night from Mrs. Shelby's boarding-house. Then he returned to Mr. French. "I live on Indiana Avenue," explained the latter. "We shall find a car at the corner of State and Madison Streets." As they walked to the car, Bert's new friend asked: "How long have you been on the stage, Mr. Barton?" "Only two weeks." "You don't mean that that comprises your whole experience." "Yes. I stepped in at Harrisburg to supply the place of a young actor who was taken sick." "You act as if you had been trained to it. But how came you to be at Harrisburg? That is not your home?" "No. As you were my father's friend, I will tell you what brought me out there." Bert briefly related the story that is already known to the reader. Hiram French listened with great attention. "I remember Ralph Harding," he said. "He was not popular among his shopmates, especially after his agency in throwing suspicion upon your father." "Was it generally thought that my father was guilty?" asked Bert. "No; while circumstances were strong against him, no one could believe that a man whose reputation for integrity was as high as your father's would be guilty of stealing. But the good will of his associates could not help him." "Did you know Mr. Marlowe?" "Albert Marlowe? Yes." "Was he well liked?" "Not by me. He was far from being as highly respected as your father." "Yet he has prospered. He is the owner of a factory in Lakeville, and is considered worth thirty thousand dollars." "I am surprised to hear it. When I knew him he was always in debt." "If he really took the bonds charged upon my father, that would account for his start in business." "Exactly so. Now that I think of it, two or three days after the theft, I saw him and Ralph Harding walking together, apparently engaged in earnest conversation. They evidently had a good understanding with each other. I believe you are on the right track, and I heartily hope you will succeed in making your father's innocence evident to the world. John Barton was my favorite friend, and I hope some day to see him in Chicago." "Are you in business here, Mr. French?" "Yes; I am in the old line. Like Albert Marlowe, I am the owner of a large shoe factory, and I am worth, I should say, considerably more money." Hiram French occupied a handsome house on Indiana Avenue, furnished with taste, and was, as his style of living showed, in easy circumstances. He introduced Bert to his wife and daughter, who seemed at once drawn to the young actor. When he left the house the next morning after breakfast he was urgently invited to call again during his stay, and partially promised to do so. But he was in haste to reach Peoria, for there it was he hoped to find a witness that would vindicate his father's name and fame. CHAPTER XXXIII. A LATE ARRIVAL AT MRS. BARTON'S COTTAGE. One evening, about eight o'clock, Mrs. Barton was sewing in her little sitting-room when an unusual feeling of loneliness overcame her. Circumstances had separated her from her husband, and her only son was hundreds of miles away. "Why," she asked herself, "can I not fare as well as other wives and mothers? I am a wife, yet I cannot enjoy my husband's society. Fortunately I am not likely long to be separated from Bert. If he only succeeds in his mission, and comes home able to vindicate the fame of his father, and restore him to me, I shall be perfectly happy." She felt unusually restless, and found it difficult to keep on with her work. "I feel as if something were going to happen. I hope no misfortune is impending over me." She had hardly spoken when the door bell rang. "It is some neighbor come to make a call," she thought. "I am glad of it, for I am not in the mood for work." She rose and opened the door. She started back in surprise when in her visitors she recognized Uncle Jacob, and leaning upon his arm the husband of whom she had just been thinking. "May we come in?" asked Uncle Jacob, cheerily. "Surely, but--has anything happened?" "Only this; that your husband is sick and has come here to be nursed back to health by my advice." "But--is it safe?" "I think so. The fact is, Bert has made an important discovery, and is likely to make more. We are in a fair way to prove your husband's innocence, and put the guilt where it belongs." "And where does it belong?" "The man who stole the bonds, we have every reason to believe, is Albert Marlowe." "I do not wish to get him into trouble, but if it is necessary in order to vindicate my husband's reputation, I will not object." "Albert Marlowe has been a cruel enemy to you and your family," said Jacob Marlowe, sternly. "He is entitled to no consideration. The past ten years cannot be recalled; but I think that we shall be able to provide a brighter future for yourself and Mr. Barton. The first thing to do is to get him well." "What is the matter with you, John?" asked Mrs. Barton, now for the first time noting with alarm her husband's pale face. "The doctor says my system is run down, and that I need time to recuperate. I was living in a boarding-house in Montreal, and the prospect of being sick there was too much for me. I wanted my wife to take care of me, and, taking the first train to New York, I consulted Uncle Jacob as to whether it would be safe. In the light of Bert's discoveries he told me to take the risk. So here I am. May I stay?" "Do you need to ask that?" said Mrs. Barton, with an affectionate glance at her husband. "There is no place where you have a better right to be." Then, as she thought of her scanty means, a momentary look of anxiety overspread her face lest she should not be able to provide him with the medicines and nourishing food that he required. Uncle Jacob, who was a keen observer, read her thoughts, and reassured her by saying: "Mr. Barton is provided with what money may be required for at least a month, and after that time I think some more can be found." "But, Uncle Jacob, I cannot consent to impose upon your liberality any further. You have but a small sum of money yourself. What would happen to you if you should fall sick?" "I think I should follow your husband's example, and come here to be nursed back to health," replied Uncle Jacob. "What am I to say to the neighbors, for they will be sure to inquire?" "Say that you are taking care of a sick gentleman from New York." "It will not do to give his real name?" "No; call me Mr. Robinson, as you did on my former visit," said Mr. Barton. "Now that this matter is arranged, can you take care of us both to-night?" asked Uncle Jacob. "Yes, there is Bert's room." "Then I will trespass upon your hospitality for one night." "Can't you stay longer, Uncle Jacob?" "No, I must get back to business. I must not run any risk of losing my situation, you know." "To be sure not," said Mrs. Barton, earnestly. "Do you like your employer, Uncle Jacob?" "I have no reason to complain of him," answered the old man, with a smile. "He lets me do about as I please." "You were very lucky in getting in with him." "As you say, I am in good luck. But I think I ought to get higher pay." "It seems to me twelve dollars a week is a very good salary," said Mrs. Barton, soberly. "You could save something out of that if you were not so generous." "I must think seriously of that, Mary. If I get mean and close-fisted, you mustn't be surprised. It will be only because I follow your advice." "You can never become mean or close-fisted, Uncle Jacob. It isn't in your nature to be either. But I hope you will be reasonably economical, and not give away so much money to others." "You are a good little woman, Mary," said Uncle Jacob, feelingly. "If you are ever blessed with means, you will do just as you advise me not to do. Don't be worried about me, Mary. God loves a cheerful giver, you know, and whatever I give to you is cheerfully given." An hour was spent in conversation, and then, as Mr. Barton showed fatigue, he and Uncle Jacob retired to bed, and Mrs. Barton mixed some flour so as to be able to give her guests warm biscuits in the morning, for she remembered that her husband had been very fond of them in former years. The next morning after breakfast Uncle Jacob took his departure. "I leave you in good hands, John," he said to Mr. Barton. "Now, get well as fast as you can." "There is one thing that will make me well," said Barton, "and that is, vindication from the false charge that has darkened my life and destroyed my happiness during the last ten years." "That is coming, and coming soon," said Uncle Jacob. "Only be patient a little while. Bert has already made a discovery that makes it clear who is the real criminal." "I hope he will never suffer as I have done," said the sick man. "You have a more Christian spirit than I, John. I think it only right that he should suffer for the wrong he has done you. Well, good-by. Let me hear from you, and if Bert makes any further progress in his mission, I will apprise you and Mary." Uncle Jacob left the village without being seen by Albert Marlowe or Percy, who alone were likely to recognize him. But it leaked out that Mrs. Barton had a boarder, Percy being the first to hear of it. "What do you think, papa?" he said one day. "Bert Barton's mother has taken a boarder from the city." "A boarder from the city?" repeated Squire Marlowe, surprised. "Yes." "What brought him to Lakeville?" "I don't know. I can tell you who brought him here." "Who, then?" "Uncle Jacob." "Has he been here, then?" "Yes; he came in the evening and went back the next morning." "I wonder he did not call upon us," said the squire thoughtfully. "It's no great loss if he didn't," returned Percy, pertly. "He would probably want to borrow money." "No; he appears to be doing very well in the city; that is, for him. But what could induce a gentleman from the city to come here to Lakeville to board in a humble cottage?" "I hear he is in poor health," said Percy. "Have you seen him? Do you know what his appearance is?" "Yes. I saw him sitting at Mrs. Barton's window. He is of dark complexion, and has dark hair. Then he seemed to have a high forehead." Squire Marlowe started in surprise. "Dark complexion, dark hair, a high forehead! Is it possible that it can be----" "Who, father?" asked Percy, curiously. "Never mind, my son. Some one whom I used to know answers to that description." As Percy went out, Albert Marlowe said to himself: "If it should be he, what shall I do about it? It is not for my interest that he should remain in Lakeville. I might denounce him to the authorities, but I would warn him first. Then, if he still lingers, he must take the consequences." CHAPTER XXXIV. BERT INTERVIEWS HARDING'S SISTER. The next week Bert found himself in Peoria. His heart beat with excitement, for here he hoped he would attain the object he had in view. The first day he was occupied in obtaining a boarding place, and in matters connected with the play. He understood his duty to his employers, and, eager as he was to seek out Ralph Harding, he waited till he could do so without intrenching upon their time. After considerable inquiry he found himself standing in front of a neat-looking frame house of two stories in a quiet street. The plate on the front door bore the name CLIFTON. Bert rang the bell. The door was opened by a girl about twelve years of age. "Is Mrs. Clifton at home?" asked Bert. "Yes, sir. Won't you walk in?" She led the way into a tiny parlor, so small that the owner would have found it difficult to give a fashionable party, or indeed any party at all. "Sit down here," said the young girl, pointing to a rocking-chair, "and I will call ma." Bert took a seat, and was startled a minute later by a hoarse voice saying, with much energy, "Get out, you tramp!" He looked around the room in angry amazement, but could see no one. Directly afterward he heard a discordant laugh, and, guided by the sound, looked up to see that it proceeded from a green parrot in a cage above his head. Bert smiled. It was impossible for him to be angry with a parrot, however impolite the bird might be. Just then a lady entered the room--a lady of middle size and middle age, plain in feature, but not unpleasant to look upon. "Did you wish to see me, sir?" she asked. "Are you the sister of Ralph Harding?" asked Bert. The woman's face changed instantly. "Yes," she answered eagerly. "Do you bring me any news of him? He is not in trouble, is he?" It was Bert's turn to be surprised. "I thought he was staying with you," he said. "Not now." "But he has been here. He came here from Harrisburg, didn't he?" "Yes, and he was here till three weeks ago. Then he came home from the shop where he was at work and told me he was going away." "Did he tell you where he was going?" asked Bert, eagerly. "He said he should go to Chicago first, but I have not heard from him since he went away." Ralph Harding then was in Chicago. If Bert had only known that, he would have remained there and prosecuted the search in the Lake City. Yet what chance would he have of finding a man whom he had never seen and would not know by sight in so large and populous a place? His face showed the keenness of his disappointment, and Mrs. Clifton was led to inquire: "Did you wish to see my brother on business of importance?" "Of importance to me, yes." "Is it," she asked with hesitation, "likely to get Ralph into trouble?" "No, madam. On the contrary, if I find him it will be of advantage to him." "Then I hope you may find him. But I am afraid it will be difficult. Ralph is very restless. We tried all we could to keep him here, but it was of no use. He had a good place, and, though I say it myself, a good home, where he enjoyed every comfort, but all that didn't prevent him leaving us to go among strangers," she concluded, with a sigh. "I only just came from Chicago. I wish I had known that he was there." "Did you come to Peoria expressly to see my brother?" asked Mrs. Clifton, showing some curiosity. "Not entirely. I am connected with the theatrical company. We play the 'Streets of Gotham.'" "Are you an actor, and so young," asked Mrs. Clifton, in surprise. "I take a small part in the play," answered Bert, modestly. "Allow me to place two admission tickets at your disposal." "Oh ma, can I go with you?" asked the young girl who had opened the front door. "Perhaps so, Belle." "Have you any picture of your brother which you could show me?" asked Bert, returning to the object of his visit. "Fortunately, Ralph had some photographs taken while he was here. But for me he would not have done so, but I insisted, and paid for them myself. Belle, go and get one of the pictures of your Uncle Ralph." The little girl left the room, and soon returned with a photograph. "You can have that, if you like," said Mrs. Clifton. "I got a dozen, and Ralph did not feel enough interest to keep one for himself, so I have plenty. I suppose it isn't anything extra, but it look like Ralph." Bert was eagerly scanning the picture which Ralph Harding's sister had given him. The face was long, the nose aquiline, the cheeks hollow, and the expression was that of a man who was dissatisfied with life. There were side whiskers of scanty growth, and there was a scrubby mustache of yellowish hue. It was a front view, and both ears were visible. They were of extraordinary size and stood out prominently from the head. "I think I shall know Ralph Harding if I see him," thought Bert. "I am very much obliged to you for the picture," said Bert. "With it to help me I hope I may find your brother." "If you do," returned Mrs. Clifton, "will you write to me and let me know, Mr.----?" "Barton. You will see my name on the playbill--Bert Barton. Yes, I will write to you in that case." "There is one question I would like to ask you, Mr. Barton. You say you have never met my brother?" "No." "Then how did you learn that he had a sister in Peoria, and how did you know that that sister was myself." "I was staying at his old boarding-house in Harrisburg. He left behind a box of papers, and among those papers was a letter from you, urging him to come to Peoria." "I remember that letter." "It was that letter--excuse my reading it--that led me to come to Peoria in search of Mr. Harding." "I am glad you came, for I have some hope through you of inducing Ralph to return. You see, Mr. Barton, there are only two of us. I had not seen him for five years, and now that he has left us, five years more may roll by before we meet again. I think Ralph would be better with us. He is not a cheerful man. Sometimes I think he is burdened with a secret which is preying upon him. I am sure he would be better off with us than among strangers." "I agree with you, Mrs. Clifton. You may rest assured that, should I be fortunate enough to find your brother, I will do all I can to induce him to return to you when our business is concluded. This may require him to go East, but afterward he will be free to go where he pleases. The secret you refer to may relate to the business upon which I wished to see him." As Bert rose to go Mrs. Clifton took his hand, and said, earnestly: "I wish you success, I am sure. I feel better for your visit." The information which Bert had received made him desirous of going back to Chicago as soon as possible and making every effort to find Ralph Harding. But there was one embarrassment. He did not like to leave the company till they were able to find a substitute. In New York this would have been easy, but here in Peoria there would be a great difficulty. But he was unexpectedly relieved from this perplexity. On Friday morning Mr. Pearson, who had just come from the manager's room, said to him, "I have news for you, Bert." "What is it, Mr. Pearson?" "Bob Hazleton has just arrived, and wants to take his old place. But, of course, that would not be fair to you." "Tell the manager to take him back," said Bert eagerly. "I have some important business calling me to Chicago, and I shall be glad to resign." "You are sure you won't be disappointed?" "Very sure. I have been wondering how I could resign without embarrassing the company." "We shall be very sorry to lose you, but if that is the way you feel, Bob is in luck." Bert played that evening in the presence of his predecessor in the role, and on Saturday took the morning train for Chicago. CHAPTER XXXV. SUCCESS COMES STRANGELY. On his return to Chicago, Bert went back to Mrs. Shelby's boarding-house, and was cordially received. His board bill was but six dollars a week, and he took care not to spend any money unnecessarily for outside expenses. About the middle of the week he received a letter from Uncle Jacob, to whom he had telegraphed his movements. This is an extract therefrom: "You will be surprised to learn that your father is sick at Lakeville, under your mother's care. I don't think his trouble is physical so much as mental. If, by your help, his reputation is vindicated, and he is relieved from suspicion, I am sure he will soon be himself again. "There is some risk, no doubt, in the step he has taken. He might be denounced and arrested, if information were given to the authorities. But a long time has elapsed since the charge was made, and no one in Lakeville was cognizant of the circumstances except Albert Marlowe, and, though he may learn that the city boarder at your house is your father, I cannot believe he would be so base as to give a hint to the authorities. If he should, the letter of Ralph Harding's which you forwarded will throw suspicion upon him. I am anxious, however, to have you find the man himself, as his oral testimony will avail more than any letters. You may assure him, if found, that he will be liberally dealt with, if he helps clear your father. "I don't know how you may be situated as to money, and I therefore send you an order for fifty dollars. Present it to Clement Green, of No. 13-1/2 La Salle Street, and he will cash it. He is not a banker, but an insurance agent, with whom I am well acquainted. I am glad to hear that you have left the stage, as it will permit you to devote your entire time to hunting up Ralph Harding." On account of the income from his dramatic engagement, Bert had spent but little of his uncle's money for the last three weeks. However, he thought it best to cash the order at once, as he might have unforeseen expenses. He accordingly made his way to the office on La Salle Street to which he had been directed, and presented his order to Mr. Green in person. "How is my old friend Mr. Marlowe?" asked that gentleman, courteously. "He was very well when I left New York," answered Bert. "I knew him in California. In fact, we both worked together in the same mine. Try to persuade him to come out to Chicago. I should be delighted to entertain him. Are you a relative of his?" "Yes, sir; he is my great uncle." "Shall you stay long in Chicago?" "I am not sure. It will depend on my business." "You are young to be intrusted with a business matter." "Yes, sir; but there was no one else to undertake it." "How will you have the money?" "In tens and fives." "Very well. Let me advise you to divide your money and not carry it all in your pocket-book. You know, of course, that in a city like this there are pickpockets and designing persons who would be glad to rob you." "Thank you for the suggestion. I will follow your advice." Bert borrowed an envelope, and put all his money, except about ten dollars in small bills, in the inside pocket of his vest. This was wise, for he had fifty dollars besides the sum which he had just been paid. It proved to be a prudent precaution. Outside the office a young man of rather flashy appearance had noticed Bert, and, following him in on some pretext that would avert suspicion, had seen that Mr. Green was paying him money. He went out quickly, and waited till Bert emerged into the street. He then quickened his steps, and overtook him. "Good-morning, young man," he said. "Good-morning," returned Bert, eyeing the stranger with some curiosity. "You must excuse the liberty I have taken in addressing you, but if you will favor me with a few minutes' conversation, I think I can make it worth your while." "Very well. I am ready to hear what you have to say." "By the way, are you staying at a hotel?" "No; I am boarding on Monroe Street." "Is it a good boarding-house?" "Excellent." "I am looking for one, and if you will allow me, I will walk round with you, and see what it is like." Bert knew that Mrs. Shelby had a room which she was anxious to let, and he readily agreed to introduce the stranger. "I am staying at a hotel just now," explained his companion, "but I prefer a boarding-house as more home-like. Are you a stranger in the city?" "Yes, sir." "Where from?" "From New York." "I am from San Francisco. I have only been here a week." They conversed upon indifferent topics till they reached Mrs. Shelby's. "I will go up and take a look at your room first, if you don't mind. That will give me an idea of the accommodations." "Very well, sir." Bert led the way to his own room, and both entered. "Very neat, on my word!" said the stranger. "Now I will allude to the little matter of business--and then you can introduce me to your landlady." "Just as you please, sir." "It is briefly this: Do you see this watch?" He took out a showy gold watch, and held it up before Bert. "I find myself unexpectedly short of funds, owing to the failure of a remittance to come to hand, and I am going to offer you this watch at a bargain. You have none, I see." "No, and I have no money to spare to buy one." "Wait till I offer you an inducement. This watch cost me a hundred dollars. I have had it only six months. I offer it to you for twenty-five." "I presume that is a good offer; but I have no money of my own that I can use for the purpose of buying a watch." "My young friend, it will pay you to borrow, for you can double your money on the watch. Any one will give you fifty for it." "Then why do you offer it to me for twenty-five?" asked Bert shrewdly. "Because I can't wait to hunt up a customer." "I cannot buy it." "Then I will make you another offer. Lend me ten dollars on it, and I will redeem it in three days, and give you five dollars for the accommodation." Bert hesitated. It seemed an easy way of earning five dollars. "If I don't redeem it, you have the watch itself for security for a ridiculously small sum. Of course I shan't give you the chance, if I can help it. I expect funds from San Francisco to-morrow." "I think I shall have to decline," Bert said, after a pause; "but your offer seems a good one, and I have no doubt you will easily get accommodated elsewhere." Bert was not prepared for the next movement. The stranger rose from his seat, drew a sponge from his pocket, and quickly applied it to Bert's nostrils. He felt his head swimming and consciousness departing. "Aha," thought the stranger. "My prudent young friend will advance money this time without security." He hastily thrust his hand into Bert's pocket, drew out his pocket-book, and, without stopping to open it or examine its contents, sprang to the door, with the intention of making his escape. But another boarder chanced to be passing through the entry at the moment. A quick glance revealed to him Bert unconscious on a chair, and the pocket-book in the hand of the man who was leaving the room. He took in the situation at once. "Give me that pocket-book," he said sternly. The other looked undecided. "Give it to me, or I will hold you and summon help. If you surrender it, I will let you go scot free." The thief muttered an execration, but did not dare to refuse. The boarder entered the room and set himself to reviving Bert. "Where am I?" asked Bert, languidly. "You are all right now," was the reply. Bert looked up in the face of his visitor, and started in great excitement. "Tell me, quick," he said, "are you not Ralph Harding?" "Yes," answered the other in great surprise. "Who are you that recognizes me?" CHAPTER XXXVI. RALPH HARDING IS FOUND. Bert was still partly under the influence of chloroform; but the sight of Ralph Harding, whom he recognized from the photograph which had been given him, roused him from his stupefaction. Harding repeated his question. "Who are you?" he asked, "and how do you know me?" "I am Bert Barton." "What? not the son of John Barton?" exclaimed Harding, drawing back with a troubled look. "Yes," answered Bert, gravely; "I am the son of John Barton, and I have been in search of you for several weeks." "You have been in search of me? Why did you want to see me?" "I want you to clear my father of the false charge which was brought against him ten years ago," answered Bert, firmly. "I don't understand what you mean," stammered Harding, who had sunk back into a chair and was eyeing Bert with a troubled look. "Oh, yes, you do, Mr. Harding. It was you who gave the information that one of the stolen bonds was in my father's overcoat pocket." "It was true," said Harding doggedly. "Where were the rest?" asked Bert, pointedly. "How should I know? Your father had them secreted somewhere, I suppose." "You know better than that. My father was innocent. He knew nothing of the bonds. An enemy plotted to get him into trouble." "Do you charge me with being that enemy?" demanded Harding. "You had something to do with it, but you were the instrument of another." "How do you know that?" admitted Harding, incautiously. "Shall I tell you the name of that other?" "Yes." "It is Albert Marlowe." Ralph Harding started in surprise. "Does he admit it?" he asked, after a pause. "No; he does not know that it is suspected. I want you to back me up in the demand that he clear my father from suspicion." "He will never do it. How could he, without criminating himself?" "Whatever be the result, my father's character must be cleared." "Tell me, is your father still living?" asked Ralph Harding, earnestly. "Yes, he is." "Have you seen him?" "Yes. Poor father, he has suffered much. He has been separated from my mother and myself these many years, and has not dared to show himself at his old home, or among his old friends, because he was liable to be arrested on the old charge." Ralph was looking down upon the floor, and his features were working convulsively. Bert guessed what was passing through his mind, and paused to give him time. He looked up after a while, and asked: "What would you have me do?" "Testify to what you know. It will clear my father, and he can come home once more." "But it will condemn Albert Marlowe." "Why not let it? He is the guilty man. Have you so much reason to like Albert Marlowe that you will not do this act of justice?" "No!" Ralph Harding burst out, and his face wore an expression of resentment. "He has used me like a dog. It was through me that he became a rich man, and in return he has treated me with contempt and indifference. If I dared----" "You would expose him?" "Yes, I would. It is of no use to deny what you have said. Your father is an innocent man. The bonds were stolen by Albert Marlowe." Bert looked triumphant. He had wrung the truth from the accomplice of Squire Marlowe. "How did you find me?" asked Harding, abruptly. "How did you know I was in Chicago?" "I was told so by your sister." "Have you been in Peoria, then?" asked Harding, in great surprise. "Yes; I was there last week." "But how did you find out that I had a sister?" "At Harrisburg. You left a letter from your sister at your boarding-house there, which gave me the clew I wanted." "And how did you trace me to Harrisburg?" Bert explained. "And you defrayed your own expenses? I thought you and your mother were left in poverty." "So we were; but an uncle of my mother's recently returned from California, and it is he who has supplied me with the funds needed for my journey." "Then he is wealthy?" "I don't think so. He is employed in New York on a small salary, but he is liberal with the little he has. He has set his heart on clearing my father's reputation. It is he who sent me on my present mission." "Does your father think that Albert Marlowe is the real thief?" "He does. In fact, he is firmly convinced of it. Now, Mr. Harding, I have told you why I wanted to find you. You have as much as told me I am right in my suspicion. You are partly responsible for my poor father's undeserved sufferings. But for you he would never have been charged with the crime. Is it not so?" "I admit it," Ralph Harding answered, slowly. "Will you tell me who put the bond into my father's pocket?" "I did." "And who prompted you to do it?" "It was the man you suspected--Albert Marlowe." "It was the proceeds of his theft that enabled him to start in business, was it not?" "You are right." "I have one more question to ask. Will you accompany me to New York and testify to this, if needful?" "But what will happen to me?" asked Harding, troubled. "My uncle bade me promise you that we will do our utmost to prevent your coming to harm. As to Albert Marlowe, we shall demand a confession from him, or we shall have him arrested, and the whole matter investigated." Ralph Harding paused for a brief space, and then said: "What are your plans if I agree to help you?" "To start for New York to-night," answered Bert, promptly. "In New York I will take you to Uncle Jacob's office, and we will decide what to do next." Harding hesitated a moment, then said: "I believe you will keep your promise, and I will put myself in your hands. I always liked your father better than Albert Marlowe, who is a very selfish man, and he has not kept his promise to me. I have reproached myself more than once for consenting to help Marlowe in his plot. It has never been out of my mind. I have been restless, unable to settle down anywhere, and have suffered punishment myself, though not as severe as has fallen upon your father. When I have made reparation, as I now have a chance to do, I shall be more contented in mind." "Can you be ready to take the evening train with me?" "Yes." "Where are you living?" "In this house." "Then we can remain together. I have not thanked you yet for coming to my help, and saving my money." "I am glad to have helped the son. It will help offset the injury I have done the father." Bert, accompanied by Ralph Harding, took the evening train for New York. Their arrival was timely, for reasons which will be shown in a later chapter. CHAPTER XXXVII. ALBERT MARLOWE MEETS HIS VICTIM. Like most wrong-doers, Albert Marlowe had never ceased to entertain an apprehension that his connections with the bond theft would some time be made public. Yet, as the years rolled by, and he became rich and prosperous, his fears abated somewhat, and he felt no qualms of conscience, though he knew that an innocent man was suffering exile for his sake. When he thought of John Barton it was with dislike. For nothing is truer than the saying that we dislike those whom we have injured. He did not know whether Barton was alive or dead, but hoped that he was dead, as this would make him absolutely safe. When he learned from Percy that Mrs. Barton had a male boarder, his fears instantly suggested that it might be John Barton. The description given by Percy tallied with his recollections of the victim of his wicked plot. His fears and suspicions were instantly aroused. Why was John Barton here? He was under the ban of the law, liable to be re-arrested, yet he ran that risk. What object had he in view? That he sought the care of his wife because he was ill did not seem a sufficient motive. Evidently it behooved him to find out, first, whether Mrs. Barton's boarder was really her husband; and, secondly, if such should be the case, to warn him to leave Lakeville. It gave the squire an uncomfortable feeling to have his victim so near at hand. First, to find out who the boarder was. Albert Marlowe got into the habit of walking two or three times a day past the cottage of Mrs. Barton, in the hope of seeing the mysterious stranger. He did this for several days, but did not succeed in his object. The reason was that Mr. Barton was confined by weakness first to the bed, and then to the lounge in the little sitting-room. But on the fifth day Squire Marlowe was in luck. The mysterious boarder was walking to and fro in the front yard attached to the cottage. When he saw Albert Marlowe he turned away, and was about to re-enter the house. The squire did not need this corroboration of his suspicion, for he had already recognized Barton, though the two had not met for ten years. He set his face firmly; his expression became hard and dogged. "That man must leave Lakeville!" he said to himself. Without hesitation he opened the gate and entered the yard. Meanwhile John Barton, seeing that he was recognized, came to a halt, and, turning around, faced the man who had been his bitter enemy. He showed no signs of fear, for what had happened was only what he had anticipated. Squire Marlowe came up and stood at his side. "You are John Barton," he said. "Do not attempt to deny it!" "I do not propose to deny it to you--Albert Marlowe," answered Barton, calmly. "You are here under an assumed name. I was told that Mrs. Barton's boarder was named Robinson." "I am passing under that name. You know why." "Yes, I do know why. You are under the ban of the law. You are afraid of being arrested and brought to trial a second time." "I know there is danger of it, and of course I shrink from it." "Then why do you come here? Are you mad?" "After ten years I wished to see my wife once more. I am a sick man. I came to her to be nursed back to health." "Take care, or when you leave here it will be for a less desirable boarding-place!" said the squire, in a menacing tone. "You mean the prison?" "Yes; that is what I mean." "No one in Lakeville knows who I am. Why should I fear?" "I know." "Surely you would not betray me--you, the man who worked for years at my side?" "I cannot compromise with crime. It is my duty as a good, law-abiding citizen, to denounce you to the authorities." "You--a good, law-abiding citizen!" repeated John Barton, with scornful emphasis. Squire Marlowe started back in astonishment. The worm had turned. "Do you mean to question it?" he demanded, sharply. "Yes, I do." "On what grounds?" "Albert Marlowe," said John Barton, sternly, "one of us two is a thief, but I am not the one." "Do you mean to insult me?" exclaimed the squire, white with anger, not unmingled with uneasy fear. "Come in! I have something to say to you. It is better said in-doors, where no passer-by can hear it." Mechanically Squire Marlowe followed John Barton into the little sitting-room. Mrs. Barton looked up from her rocking-chair in surprise and apprehension, and half rose. "Stay where you are, Mary," said her husband. "I wish you to hear what I am about to say to Albert Marlowe." CHAPTER XXXVIII. MR. BARTON DEFIES THE SQUIRE. Squire Marlowe sat down, while John Barton, instead of quailing in his presence, eyed him with cool indifference. "What is the meaning of this tomfoolery?" asked Albert Marlowe, uneasily. "You may call it what you like, but the time has come for an explanation. Albert Marlowe, you have done me a cruel wrong. It is through you that I have had my name blackened and have been forced to fly from my country." "So you went to Canada, did you?" sneered the squire. "It's a popular resort for gentlemen of your class." "Your words do not trouble me, for I never committed the crime with which I was charged." "Of course not. It is wonderful how innocent you all are. But you say that I am responsible for the consequences of your crime. What do you mean by that?" "I mean," answered Barton, with a penetrating glance, "that the bonds were stolen by you, and that you schemed to throw the blame upon me. Is this plain?" "Are you mad?" said the squire, angrily, "do you expect the world to believe this, or are you in a conspiracy to blackmail me?" "The last question you can ask when I demand money from you as the price of my silence." "Take care, John Barton! Your silly tale is the last desperate expedient of a criminal. You ought to see the folly of attacking a man in my position. For years I have been the most prominent man in Lakeville, owner of the large shoe factory that gives employment to fifty hands. It is no idle boast--and your wife will confirm my words--that I am the most influential and respected citizen of this town." "And on what are your position and prosperity based, Albert Marlowe? Where did you obtain the capital that enabled you to start in business?" Squire Marlowe looked confused for a moment, but his audacity did not desert him. "I started," he answered, "on borrowed money." "Of whom did you borrow?" "That is my affair," returned Marlowe, doggedly. "You would find it hard to answer. Let me answer for you." The squire did not speak, but waited, not without uneasiness, for Barton to answer his own question. He didn't have long to wait. "You started your factory on the money realized from the stolen bonds." "You will have to prove this," said Marlowe, furiously. "Do you wish me to do so?" asked John Barton, significantly. "This is all a scheme to clear yourself from the charge," exclaimed the squire. "Don't think I am so dull that I don't see through it. How happens it that you have waited ten years before it occurred to you to implicate me?" "It did not immediately occur to me; but when you started in business on a large scale, though you were no better off than myself at the time of the theft, it set me to thinking." "I have already told you that I used borrowed money." "You won't tell me where you borrowed it." "Because it is my private business. John Barton, I warn you that you are making a powerful enemy. If you keep quiet and let me alone, I will not call attention to your presence in Lakeville, and for safety's sake I will not appear to know anything about you. Do you make that promise?" "Albert Marlowe, I am an innocent man, but I am under a ban. I want to prove my innocence, and regain the right to live with my family, and hold up my head before my fellow-men. If, in doing this, attention should be drawn to you as the real criminal I cannot help it." "So you defy me, do you?" demanded the squire. "If what I have said is a defiance, then I defy you," answered John Barton, calmly. Squire Marlowe rose from his seat, his face flushed with anger. "Be it so," he said. "You will hear from me again." "Oh, John," exclaimed Mrs. Barton as the squire left the room, "I am afraid Albert will do you some harm." "Then, Mary, to relieve you, let me say that I have heard through Uncle Jacob that Bert has found the missing witness, Ralph Harding, and that both are probably in New York at this moment." On his return Squire Marlowe telegraphed from a neighboring town as follows: "To Robert Manning, No. 71 1-2 Fulton St., Brooklyn: "John Barton, who ten years since stole your bonds, and escaped trial, is at Lakeville, at his wife's house. "ALBERT MARLOWE." The last act in the drama was about to be played, and Squire Marlowe went about with a gleam in his eye as he anticipated the final downfall of the man who had dared to defy him. CHAPTER XXXIX. CONCLUSION. Bert arrived in New York in due time, accompanied by Ralph Harding. They received a cordial welcome from Uncle Jacob. "You shall not regret your testimony in behalf of John Barton," he said to Harding. "I will see that you are protected." "Uncle Jacob," said Bert, "I have twenty dollars left of the amount you gave me for expenses. Here it is." "Keep it, Bert. You will need it." "But, Uncle Jacob, I have already put you to too great expense. If you were a rich man----" Jacob Marlowe smiled. "I can spare the money," he said. "Don't trouble yourself on that score. You have done yourself great credit, Bert, and shown great shrewdness in your expedition in search of Mr. Harding. I am not sure that you would not make a good detective." "I have no ambition in that direction, Uncle Jacob. I hope to get a little better education, and then to devote myself to business." "I think you will have an opportunity to do both, Bert." "Do you think you can get me a place of some kind in New York? I know, of course, that I must work before I can afford to study." "We will speak of that later. Now I have to propose that we all go down to Lakeville to meet your father and mother, and incidentally to have an interview with Albert Marlowe." "Do you wish me to go, too?" asked Ralph Harding. "By all means! You are the most important member of the party." Toward noon of the next day the three reached Lakeville. Uncle Jacob and Ralph Harding secured rooms at the hotel, and then repaired to the little cottage. We will precede them. It was in the spirit of revenge that the squire had telegraphed to Brooklyn, and after he had done so he half regretted it. If John Barton were re-arrested, he would undoubtedly try to incriminate the squire himself, and the mere accusation would do him harm. It would be best if Barton could be frightened into making his escape, and this very act would seem like a confession of guilt. "Yes, that will be best," thought the squire. "Barton will never dare to come back, and we shall be spared the scandal of a trial." He took his hat and cane, and set out for the Barton cottage. Mrs. Barton opened the door. "Is your husband in?" asked the squire. "Yes." "I would like to see him on very important business." "I will see you," said John Barton, who had overheard the squire's words. "Well?" he said, as Marlowe entered the sitting-room. "I have come to urge you to leave Lakeville," began the squire, abruptly. "There is no time to be lost." "Why should I leave Lakeville?" "You don't want to be arrested, I take it?" "Is there any danger of it?" "Yes; I telegraphed yesterday to Robert Manning that you were here. Officers of the law may arrive at any time." "Why did you betray me?" asked Barton, quietly. "Because I thought it my duty. I had no right to shield a criminal." "Then why have you put me on my guard?" "For your wife's sake." "I am surprised at your consideration. You showed very little when you discharged my boy from your factory." "That was a matter of business. But there is no time to waste in discussion. I advise you to go to the station at once. A train will leave for New York in half an hour, and you may be able to escape before the arrival of the officers." "But I don't want to escape." "Are you mad?" demanded the squire, impatiently. "Do you want to spend a term of years in prison?" "Heaven forbid!" "Then profit by my warning, and escape while there is time." "No. If I am arrested I will stand trial." "Have you taken leave of your senses?" "No; I wish to prove my innocence." "What chance have you of that?" "The testimony of Ralph Harding----" "What!" exclaimed Squire Marlowe, rising in great agitation. "Where is Ralph Harding?" "Here!" was the unexpected reply, and Uncle Jacob entered the room, accompanied by Bert and Mr. Harding. Albert Marlowe turned his gaze from one to another in ill-concealed dismay. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked, hoarsely. "Have you been hatching up a plot against me?" "No," answered Uncle Jacob with dignity. "It is our object to relieve John Barton from the stigma upon his fair name. In doing so it may be necessary to fasten the crime upon the guilty party. Who that is, you know as well as I do." "No one will credit the testimony of that man!" said the squire, pointing scornfully at Ralph Harding. "Don't be too sure of that! His story is plain and straightforward, and I think it will impress the court that way." "Albert has been urging me to escape," said John Barton. "He has set the officers on my track." "Has he done this?" asked Uncle Jacob, sharply. "So he says." At this moment a knock was heard at the door, and there was a new and unexpected arrival, which produced a sensation. It was Robert Manning, of Brooklyn. "You telegraphed to me, Mr. Marlowe," he said. "This man, I believe, is John Barton." "You are right, sir," responded Barton, calmly. "I might have brought with me an officer and an order of arrest, but I have chosen instead to offer to drop all action against you if you will restore the bonds or their equivalent. I have no wish to be revenged, but I want reparation." "As I never took your bonds, I am not the person to apply to," replied Barton. "Then perhaps you will have the kindness to tell me who did take the bonds," said Manning, incredulously. "I will do that," responded Ralph Harding, coming forward. "There he stands!" "It is a lie!" interposed the squire, hoarsely. "It is true. You hired me to put a five-hundred dollar bond into John Barton's pocket while you appropriated the remainder. It was this that enabled you to go into business for yourself in Lakeville. It was in this way that you got together your wealth." Albert Marlowe was overwhelmed, and did not immediately reply. "I think I remember you," said Robert Manning. "It was your testimony that weighed so heavily against Mr. Barton." "And it has weighed heavily upon my conscience ever since. I have at last determined to tell the truth." "What have you to say to this, Mr. Marlowe?" asked Manning pointedly. "It is a lie," answered the squire, feebly. "You are willing to have the matter go to trial?" "Albert," put in Uncle Jacob, "it appears to me that you are in a bad box. Ralph Harding's testimony is sure to convict you. Will you take my advice?" "What is it?" asked the squire, sullenly. "Accept the offer made to John Barton under a misapprehension. Repay to Mr. Manning the value of the stolen bonds----" "With interest attached," interposed Manning. "And he will drop the matter. Am I right, Mr. Manning?" "Yes, sir." "It will amount to about double the original sum--say twelve thousand dollars." "I can't raise so large an amount in cash." "You are worth more?" "Yes; but not in ready money." "I will advance it to you, and take a bill of sale of the factory and your house," said Uncle Jacob. All eyes were turned upon the old man in amazement. "But where will you get the money?" gasped the squire. "I can raise ten times that sum, if necessary." "But I thought you were a poor man?" "I never told you so. I said I had five hundred dollars; but I didn't add that I am worth at least two hundred thousand dollars more. That was my secret!" "You said that you invested all your money in some mining shares that depreciated to nothing." "I foresaw the decline, and sold out at a small loss." "Why did you deceive us?" asked the squire, irritably. "I wanted to test you all. When you thought me poor, you gave me my walking ticket; but Mary here," and Uncle Jacob glanced affectionately at Mrs. Barton, "gave me a warm welcome, though she thought me nearly as poor as herself. I shall not forget it. Bert also did not look down upon his old uncle, even though he had little to expect from him." "But, Uncle Jacob," said Bert, "why, if you are so rich, do you work for twelve dollars a week?" "It was a harmless deception, Bert," he replied. "I am at the head of the office where you think me employed, and president of one of the richest mines on the Pacific Coast." "Mr. Marlowe," said the squire, not venturing upon the familiar name of Uncle Jacob, "instead of advancing money on my house, factory, and stock, are you willing to buy them outright?" "At what sum do you value them?" "Fifteen thousand dollars." "It is a bargain," said Uncle Jacob promptly. "You may feel disposed to run the business yourself." "It is out of my line. I shall make a free gift of the whole to John Barton, who, I suppose, is quite capable of taking your place." "How can I thank you?" said Mr. Barton, much moved. "By making Mary happy. Now, Mr. Manning, if you and Albert Marlowe will call to-morrow at my office in New York we will complete the business. John, I shall not need you; but Bert will go with me and bring you back the deeds of the property I propose to transfer to you." That evening was a happy one in the Barton cottage, but there was vain regret and dissatisfaction at the home of Albert Marlowe. Too late they all regretted that they had received Uncle Jacob so coldly, and so forfeited, in all probability, their chances of sharing his wealth. Percy's great regret was that that Barton boy should be lifted above him. A month later, and the changes had taken place. The Bartons moved to Squire Marlowe's handsome house, and John Barton was installed as owner and head of the shoe factory. Bert was placed at an academy, where he will remain till he has acquired a good education, and then will enter Uncle Jacob's office in the city. He bids fair to redeem the promise of his boyhood, and become an upright and manly man. Ralph Harding has been made superintendent of the factory, and enjoys the confidence of John Barton, who is happy in the society of his wife, of which he was deprived for so many years. Albert Marlowe, with the remainder of his money, went to Illinois, and has established a small shoe factory out there. He is a discontented and unhappy man, and his wife is peevish and discontented also. They can no longer afford the expensive establishment they maintained in Lakeville. Percy has not lost all hopes of being remembered in the will of his wealthy relative, but whether he will or not is Jacob Marlowe's Secret. THE END. * * * * * ALGER SERIES FOR BOYS. UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. Adrift in New York. A Cousin's Conspiracy. Andy Gordon. Andy Grant's Pluck. Bob Burton. Bound to Rise. Brave and Bold. Cash Boy. Chester Rand. Do and Dare. Driven from Home. Erie Train Boy. Facing the World. Five Hundred Dollars. Frank's Campaign. Grit. Hector's Inheritance. Helping Himself. Herbert Carter's Legacy. In a New World. Jack's Ward. Jed, the Poor House Boy. Joe's Luck. Julius, the Street Boy. Luke Walton. Making His Way. Mark Mason. Only an Irish Boy. Paul, the Peddler. Phil, the Fiddler. Ralph Raymond's Heir. Risen from the Ranks. Sam's Chance. Shifting for Himself. Sink or Swim. Slow and Sure. Store Boy. Strive and Succeed. Strong and Steady. Struggling Upward. Tin Box. Tom, the Bootblack. Tony, the Tramp. Try and Trust. Wait and Hope. Walter Sherwood's Probation. Young Acrobat. Young Adventurer. Young Outlaw. Young Salesman. _Price, Post-Paid, 35c. each, or any three books for $1.00._ HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. 
43599	----	images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) A PICTURE-BOOK OF MERRY TALES. [Illustration: _The Dwarfs' Capers._] [Illustration: Title Page] A Picture-Book OF Merry Tales. _London: Bosworth and Harrison, 215, Regent Street._ CONTENTS. Page I. The Birth of Owlglass, and how he was thrice baptized 1 II. How all the People of the Village, both Men and Women, made complaints of young Owlglass; and how, whilst on horseback with his Father, without his knowledge, he made game of them all 5 III. How Owlglass crept into a Beehive; and how, when two Thieves came in the night to steal it, he managed to set them quarrelling, so that they came to blows and left the Hive behind them 10 IV. How Owlglass ate a roasted Fowl off the spit, and did only half Work 15 V. How Owlglass was forbidden the Duchy of Luneburgh, and bought himself Land of his own 19 VI. Of the manner in which Owlglass paints a Picture for the Count of Hessen, and how he persuades him that those of base birth could not see the Painting 23 VII. How, at Erfurt, Owlglass taught a Donkey to read 29 VIII. How Owlglass brought it about that the Watch of Nurenberg fell into the Water 33 IX. How Owlglass appears as Dentist and Doctor 37 X. How Owlglass sells his Horse to a Jew, and on what Terms 41 XI. How Owlglass sells an Old Hat for more than its Weight in Gold 45 XII. How Owlglass, by means of a false Confession, cheated the Priest of Riesenburgh out of his Horse; and how he steals another Priest's Snuff-box 48 XIII. How a Bootmaker of Brunswick larded Owlglass's Boots; and how he was paid for doing so 56 XIV. How Owlglass hires himself to a Tailor; and how well he executes his Master's Orders 60 XV. How Owlglass caused Three Tailors to fall from their Work-board, and persuaded the People that the Wind had blown them down 63 XVI. How Owlglass tells a Truth to a Smith, to his Wife, his Assistant, and his Maidservant, for which he gets his Horse shod 66 XVII. How Owlglass hired himself to a Merchant as Cook and Coachman 70 XVIII. How Owlglass cheated a Horse-dealer at Wismar, and afterwards cheated the Public 78 XIX. How Owlglass sowed Rogues 82 XX. How Owlglass hired himself to a Barber, and entered his House through the Window 85 XXI. How Owlglass frightened an Innkeeper at Eisleben with a dead Wolf 90 XXII. The Grateful Animals 95 XXIII. Tim Jarvis 106 XXIV. The Shoemaker and the Dwarfs 115 XXV. The Countryman and the Jew 121 XXVI. My Watch 130 XXVII. Fittletetot 140 XXVIII. The wee Bannock 148 XXIX. Jock and his Mother 154 XXX. The Irish Highwayman 161 XXXI. Fiddling Jackey 169 XXXII. Teeny-Tiny 199 XXXIII. The Cannibal Cow 203 XXXIV. The Three Men of Gotham on Nottingham Bridge 224 XXXV. The Man of Gotham and his Cheeses 231 XXXVI. Twelve Men of Gotham go out Fishing together 236 XXXVII. The Cobbler's Wager 243 XXXVIII. The Miller and his Donkey 256 XXXIX. Dr. Dobbs, and his Horse Nobbs 263 XL. The Brownie 268 [Decoration] I. _The Birth of Owlglass, and how he was thrice baptized._ In the Duchy of Brunswick is a forest called Seib, and in this lies the village of Kneitlingen, where the good child Owlglass was born. The life of this child does not confirm the old saying, "like father like son," for his father, by name Elaus Owlglass, was a quiet respectable man, and his mother, Anna, was the very model of a woman, for she was meek and a woman of few words. No particular circumstance attending the birth of our hero is handed down to us, and it therefore was, probably, not very different to other births; but it is recorded that he enjoyed the benefit of three distinct Baptisms. There does not seem to have been any Church in the village where he was born, for when the time came for him to be christened he was sent by his parents to the village of Amptlen, where he received the name of Tyll Owlglass. The place is still remembered as the scene of this ceremony; but also because close by there stood once a castle of the same name, destroyed, as a nest of robbers, by the good people of Magdeburgh, with the help of their neighbours. At the time we are speaking of it was the custom of the land that the godfathers and godmothers, together with the nurse and child, should adjourn, immediately after the christening, to an alehouse, there to enjoy themselves; and that part of the ceremony was not forgotten or neglected on this occasion. Now it was a long way from the Church to the ale-house, and the day was very hot, so that the party indulged rather freely in the refreshing beverage, delaying their homeward journey as long as possible. At length, however, they had to get on their way; and the nurse, whose head was rather giddy and legs not over-steady, had very unpleasant visions of a narrow footpath with ground sloping down into a muddy ditch, and she had serious forebodings of how that part of the journey would be accomplished. The nearer she drew to the dreaded spot the more her nervousness increased, and young Tyll, whether that she clutched him more firmly to her, or whether he too had forebodings of danger, began to kick and struggle in her arms, so that her stopping on the brink of danger, to gather steadiness and courage, was of no manner of use, for just as one foot rested on a loose stone a violent plunge of the child threw her fairly off her legs, and threw himself over her head into the ditch below. But weeds are not easily extirpated; so no harm happened to the child excepting that he was covered with mud and slime. Then he was taken home and washed. [Illustration: _Owlglass's Second Baptism._] Thus Owlglass was, on one and the same day, thrice baptized. First, in all proper order and due form, then in the muddy ditch, and lastly, in warm water to cleanse him from the dirt. This was symbolic of the many mishaps of his future life, for evil is sure to fall back upon its perpetrator. II. _How all the People of the Village, both Men and Women, made complaints of young Owlglass; and how, whilst on horseback with his Father, without his knowledge, he made game of them all._ Our young acquaintance, Tyll, began at an early age to show signs of a decidedly marked character. He was full of life and spirits, as the other children of the village found out to their cost, for no sooner could he crawl amongst them than he played all manner of tricks. In truth he was more like a monkey than the child of respectable Christian parents, and when he had reached the age of four years he became daily more mischievous. He played his companions as many tricks daily as he was inches high, and, as "ill weeds grow apace," he soon became almost unbearable; but yet they could not do without him, so quick was his invention at all games, which, however, he so contrived that they were sure to end in a quarrel, taking care to get out of it himself before the blows came; and he would afterwards mock and laugh at those who had got hurt. He was even more dangerous away than with them, for he was then most certainly planning mischief. He would find out holes in the ground, which he carefully covered with sticks and grass, and then foremost in the race to a mark he had set up a little beyond the hole, he would stop short, in time to watch the others tumble one over the other into the trap he had set them. Neither were the girls spared. Unknown to them he would fasten their petticoats together with thorns, as they sat on the ground, and then frighten them, so as to make them jump up suddenly, when he did not fail to point out the rents in their dresses, and laugh at them for the scolding and beating they would get at home. A hundred different tricks he played them, so that every day some were sure to be sent home crying and complaining. True, he got many a thrashing from boys bigger and stronger than himself; but so sure was he to repay them tenfold, in one way or another, that both big and small were afraid of him. Nor were the parents spared when he could safely do mischief to man or woman, so that constant complaints were made to his father, to whom, however, he knew how to defend and excuse himself so artfully that the good simple man thought his dear child shamefully ill-used. [Illustration: _Young Owlglass mocking the Villagers._] Tired, at length, of these daily complaints, his father determined to take him out with him when he knew the street would be full, in order to show the people how well and soberly his boy could behave; so, taking him behind him on his horse, having first impressed upon him that he must be very good, they started off together. Now what did this obedient child do? He put his finger up to his nose, and by various other insulting gestures mocked the people as they passed, till there was a general outcry against the mischievous little imp. His father was sorely puzzled; and Tyll, pretending to cry, said to him, "You hear, dear Father, what the people say. You know that I am sitting here quietly, without saying a single word, and yet all complain of me." His father hereupon places his dear child before him. Young hopeful, now seated before his father, could do nothing but make faces and put out his tongue at the people, who again were loud in their complaints. The poor man, who could see no fault in his darling, said, "Do not fret, my own dear Boy. We will go and live somewhere else, and get away from these evil-minded people." He did, indeed, move to a distance, and not many years after died, leaving wife and child in great poverty. Now young Tyll, though sixteen years old, had learnt no business, nor anything useful or good, but with years had increased in all malice and mischief. [Decoration] III. _How Owlglass crept into a Beehive; and how, when two Thieves came in the night to steal it, he managed to set them quarrelling, so that they came to blows and left the Hive behind them._ We pass over a few years of Owlglass's life during which he continued to thrive in body, but we are sorry to say gave no signs of moral improvement. However, in the adventure we are about to relate, he was not so much to blame, the sufferers being scarcely better than himself, and in no way deserving of our sympathy. He went one day, with his mother, to a feast in a neighbouring village, where, having eaten and drunk as much as he could bear for the time, he looked about him for a convenient place to sleep. He found some beehives, four of which were empty, and creeping into one of these he thought he would have an hour's quiet rest, but slept from mid-day to mid-night, so that his mother thought he had gone back home. Now in that night two thieves came to steal one of the beehives, and having heard that the heaviest was always the best, they tried the weight of each; and finding that one the heaviest in which Owlglass was, they settled between them that that was the one they would take, and walked off with it. The night was as dark as pitch, so that there was no seeing at all; but Owlglass was awake, and had heard them consulting with each other. The motion was not unpleasant as they carried him along; but yet he thought he could do better than sleep, and after short consideration he stretched out one hand, and with his finger first slightly touched the neck of the man before him, then he touched his nose, chin, cheeks, and forehead. At each touch of the finger the thief thought one of the bees had settled on him, till he fancied his face covered with them, and dreaded every moment to feel their sting. He dared not speak nor move a muscle of his face, but trembled with fear till the perspiration streamed down him. At length, however, scarcely moving his jaws, he ventured to mutter to his companion, "I say, Jack," he said, "have you anything on your face?" "Yes," growled his companion, who was not in the best of humours, for he began to find the hive heavy, "I have a nose on my face, and pray what have you to say against it?" "It is not that I mean," said the first speaker; "but have you ever heard that bees swarm in the dark, for I am covered with them?" "You are a fool," was Jack's only reply. After a minute Owlglass again put out his hand; and this time gave the front man a sharp tug by the hair, who, thinking his companion had done it, began to complain and swear. The other cried, "How is it possible I could pull your hair? Do I not want both my hands to carry this abominable hive? You must be mad or drunk; but let us have no more of your nonsense, or it will be the worse for you." Owlglass laughed in his sleeve, enjoying this fine sport; and, after they had gone on a little further, he caught hold of the fellow's hair at the back, giving his head such a pull forward that he scraped his nose against the hive. The fellow's rage now knew no bounds. "You scoundrel," he cried, "first you say I pull your hair and now you pull mine; but wait, you shall catch it." Whereupon he let go of the hive, and the other doing the like, they fell upon each other, and a furious fight began. At length they both came to the ground, and, rolling one over the other down a steep bank, they became separated, and in the great darkness neither knew where to find the other nor the beehive. [Illustration: _Owlglass in the Beehive._] Owlglass, seeing it was still dark, went to sleep again in the hive; and the next morning, not knowing where he was, went on his way whither chance might lead him. [Decoration] IV. _How Owlglass ate a roasted Fowl off the spit, and did only half Work._ The first village Owlglass came to he went straight to the Priest's house. Here he was hired, the Priest telling him that he should live as well as he and his cook, and do only half the work. Owlglass agreed, promising himself to the very letter to act up to what had been said. The cook, who had but one eye, put two chickens to the fire to roast, bidding him turn the spit. This he readily did, thinking all the while of the Priest's words, that he should live as well as he and his cook; and, when the chickens were well roasted, took one of them off the spit, and ate it then and there. When dinner-time had come the cook went to the fire to baste the chickens, and seeing only one, said to Owlglass, "What has become of the other fowl?" To this he answered, "Open your other eye, my good Woman, and you will see the two." She flew into a passion at having her defect of the loss of one eye thus thrown in her teeth, and straightway went to her master, to whom she complained of the insult offered to her, and how that his new servant understood cooking so well that two chickens dwindled down into one. The Priest thereupon went into the kitchen, and said, "Why is it, Owlglass, that you have mocked my servant? I see that there is only one fowl on the spit, whereas there were two; what has become of the other?" Owlglass answered, "Open both your eyes, and you will see that the other fowl is on the spit. I only said the same to your cook, when she grew angry." The Priest laughed, and said, "My cook cannot open both eyes since she has only one." Owlglass replied, "That you say, I do not say so." The Priest continued, "With all this, there is but one fowl." Owlglass said, "The other I have eaten, for you said I should live as well as you and your cook, and therefore one chicken was for me, and the other for you two. I should have been grieved that what you said were not true, and thus I took my share beforehand." "Well, well, my good Fellow," his master said, "it matters little about the eaten fowl, only you do in future what my cook tells you." Owlglass said, "Yes, my dear Master, as you told me so will I do." Now, at the hiring, the Priest had said Owlglass should do half the work which the cook would tell him, so that he only did the half of what she told him to do. [Illustration: _Owlglass eats the Priest's Fowl._] When told to fetch a pail full of water, he brought it only half full, and when he was to put two logs of wood on the fire, he only put one on. The cook saw well enough that all this was done to vex her, and said to her master that if he kept such a perverse fellow in his house she would leave it. Owlglass defended himself, saying, it was quite natural that having only one eye she should see the work only half done. At this the Priest laughed; but to appease his cook was obliged to dismiss his man, promising, however, that he would be a friend to him. [Decoration] V. _How Owlglass was forbidden the Duchy of Luneburgh, and bought himself Land of his own._ Owlglass had played so many pranks in the Duchy of Luneburgh that he was forbidden the land, the Duke giving orders that if found there he should be hanged. Nevertheless, he continued to pass through the Duchy whenever his road led that way; but one day, as he was riding along devoid of care, he saw the Duke himself coming with several followers. Then he said to himself, "If I fly I shall be pursued and cut down, and, if I remain as I am, the Duke will come up in great anger and have me hanged on the nearest tree;" and most provokingly one stood close by. There was not much time for consideration, and none to be lost, so, jumping off his horse, he killed the animal, and, ripping it open, took his stand in its inside. Now when the Duke came up to him he was astonished at his impudence, and still more so at his extraordinary position. "Did I not promise you," he said, "that, if found in my territory, you should be surely hanged? What have you to say for yourself?" Owlglass answered, "I put my trust in your Grace's goodness, and that you will not carry your threat into execution, seeing that I have not done anything to deserve hanging." "Well," said the Duke, "let me hear what you have to say in your defence, or rather, tell me why you are standing inside your horse?" Owlglass answered, "I sorely feared your Grace's displeasure, and thought I had better be found in my own property, where I ought to be safe." The Duke laughed, and said, "As long as you remain where you are you shall be safe," and then rode away. Owlglass made the best of his way over the frontier; but it was not long before he had occasion again to be in the Duchy of Luneburgh, and hearing that the Duke was coming to the neighbourhood where he was, he straightway got a cart and horse, and going up to a peasant, whom he saw digging in a field, he asked whose land it was. The peasant said it was his own, for he had lately inherited it. Hereupon Owlglass asked for how much he would sell him his cart full of earth. They agreed for a shilling; and Owlglass paying the money, filled his cart with earth, in which he buried himself up to his arm-pits, and drove leisurely on his way. [Illustration: _Owlglass Rides on his own Land._] It was not long before he met the Duke, who, seeing him sitting thus in the cart, stopped, and, with difficulty restraining his laughter, said, "Owlglass, have I not forbidden you my land on pain of death?" To this Owlglass answered, "I am not in your Grace's land, but sitting in my own, which I purchased from a peasant whose inheritance it was." The Duke replied, "Though sitting in your own land, your cart and horse are on mine; but this once more I will let you go in safety; beware, however, that you do not come again, for then nothing shall save you." Owlglass then immediately sprang upon his horse and rode off, leaving the cart behind. VI. _Of the Manner in which Owlglass paints a Picture for the Count of Hessen, and how he persuades him that those of base birth could not see the Painting._ After Owlglass had wandered all over Saxony, and was so well known that his trickery and scheming were no longer of any avail, he went to Hessen to the Count's court. The Count asked him what he could do, to which he answered, "Noble Sir, I am a painter such as is not to be found far and wide, for my work far surpasses all other." The Count then said, "Let me see some of your work." Whereupon Owlglass produced some curiously painted cloth which he had bought in Flanders. The Count was well pleased, and said, "What must I pay you to paint the walls of the grand saloon, representing the origin of the Counts of Hessen, and how they have held on in friendship and enmity with the kings of Hungary, and other princes up to the present time?" Owlglass said for that he must have two hundred pounds; which the Count agreed to pay if he did the work well. Owlglass stipulated for one hundred pounds to be paid in advance, that he might buy colours and hire assistants, and also that no one but his assistants should enter the saloon during the progress of the work, so that he might not be hindered. All being agreed to, he hired three assistants, with whom he settled that they were not to do any work; but he nevertheless paid them their wages, and they employed themselves mostly playing at cards and dice. A month passed by, and then the Count desired to know what progress had been made with the work, and also to be allowed to enter the saloon. Owlglass now said, "Noble Sir, there is one thing I must tell you, namely, that the base born cannot see my work." [Illustration: _Owlglass shows his Picture to the Count._] The Count was rejoiced on hearing this, thinking how he could prove the birth of all by whom he was surrounded, for he was mightily proud. They then entered the saloon; and Owlglass partly drawing back a cloth, which he had stretched across the side of the room he was supposed to be painting, said, pointing at the same time with his mahlstick, which he held in his hand, "Here you behold the first Count of Hessen, in whose noble bearing I trust you recognize the great founder of your noble house; by his side you see his wife, daughter of Justinian, afterwards Emperor of Bavaria: they had issue Adolphus, from whom descended, in a direct line, William the Brave, Lewis the Good, and so on up to your own noble self. You will not fail to appreciate how skilfully I have brought into my composition each worthy personage, occupied in a manner best suited to his character. The drawing I know is faultless, and I hope you admire the richness of the colours." Now the Count said nothing to all this, and he said to himself, "Can it be possible that I am base born, for I see nothing but the white wall?" However, for the sake of his own honour, he expressed himself well pleased, adding that his want of knowledge of art prevented his doing full justice to the great talent displayed; whereupon he left the room. As soon as the Countess saw him she anxiously inquired how he liked the painting, for she had her doubts of Owlglass, who appeared to her a rogue. The Count said he was well satisfied; and on her expressing a wish to see it, said she might, with the painter's permission. She immediately sent for Owlglass, and requested permission to see his work. Owlglass answered that he should be most happy to have her opinion of what he considered his masterpiece, telling her, as he had told the Count, the peculiarity about his work, that it was invisible to the base born. The Countess went to the saloon with eight attendants, one of whom, a distant relation of her own, was rather weak-minded. Owlglass drew back the cloth, as he had done before, and explained his painting in the same words as to the Count. The Countess stared at the wall and then at him, and at the wall again, but did not make one single observation. The attendants were equally mute, excepting the weak-minded one, who looked at the wall and her companions in astonishment, and then exclaimed, that base born or not, she could see nothing but a white wall, and was convinced there was no more painting on it than on the back of her hand. The Countess went straight to her husband, and told him that she was as well satisfied as he had been; but that her weak-minded relative maintained that there was no painting whatever on the wall, and that Owlglass was an impostor who was making fools of the whole Court. The Count was vexed at this, and scarcely knew what to think; but determined to see whether any one else would make similar observations, he sent word to Owlglass to have everything ready on the following day to receive a visit from himself and his whole Court. On receiving this message Owlglass immediately dismissed his assistants, and went to the treasurer and begged to be paid the hundred pounds that were still due to him. He got the money without difficulty, and the following day was no longer at the Court, nor anywhere in Hessen. [Decoration] VII. _How, at Erfurt, Owlglass taught a Donkey to read._ Having had such signal success in the arts, Owlglass determined to try science and letters; and therefore, when he came to Prague, in Bohemia, he had notices stuck up, on the church and college doors, stating that he could solve the most difficult questions. His answers, here, puzzled the learned more than they had puzzled him with their questions; and thus made bolder in impudence, he went to Erfurt, where he gave out that he could teach any animal to read and write. Now, at Erfurt there was a celebrated university, and all the learned doctors met together and discussed what they should propose to Owlglass, so that they might disgrace him, and come off with greater honor, themselves, than their brethren of Prague. As soon as they had come to a satisfactory conclusion, they had Owlglass called before them, and the head of the university said that they had determined to put a donkey to school with him, if he would undertake to teach it to read. Owlglass agreed to do this without hesitation, adding that, as a donkey was naturally a dull animal, they must allow him a reasonable time and a sufficient sum for the support of his scholar during the course of his instruction. After conferring among themselves, the learned doctors proposed that twenty years should be allowed for the accomplishment of the task, together with a sum of money which Owlglass thought sufficient; and having received part of the money in advance, he led his scholar off to a stall he had constructed on purpose for him. He felt no difficulty in his position, for he would be freed from all responsibility by the death of his pupil, which, at any time, could be brought about, but for the time being determined to have some sport. He took an old book, which he laid in the donkey's crib, having strewed some oats between the leaves, and when the animal found this out, it turned the leaves over with its tongue to get at the oats. Now, when it no longer found any it cried out, "E-aw! E-aw!" which Owlglass noticing, at once went to the head of the university and said, "Learned Doctor, would you not like to see how my pupil is getting on?" "Does he improve?" the Doctor asked; to which Owlglass replied, "He is naturally uncouth and difficult to be taught, but by great care and perseverance I have brought him on so far that he pronounces some letters." Several of the dignitaries of the university assembled at the donkey's stable, and as soon as Owlglass placed a book before the poor creature, which had been kept fasting all day, it eagerly turned over the leaves, looking for the oats, and not finding any, cried with a loud voice, "E-aw! E-aw!" "You hear, my worthy Sirs," Owlglass said, "that he already pronounces a vowel and a diphthong pretty distinctly, and I have every hope that his progress will now be more rapid." After this exhibition, Owlglass one night fastened a notice up at the college door to the effect that the donkey, his scholar, was now fully competent to be at the head of the university, and to instruct the other donkeys of Erfurt, whom he therefore left to his charge. Owlglass that night disappeared from the town, not forgetting to take with him the money he had so deservedly earned. [Illustration: _Owlglass's learned Donkey._] VIII. _How Owlglass brought it about that the Watch of Nurenberg fell into the Water._ After leaving Erfurt, Owlglass dressed himself as a priest, and, travelling about different parts, levied contributions wherever he found ignorance and credulity, of which there was no lack. He carried a death's head about with him, which he pretended was the skull of Saint Brandonis, possessing miraculous virtue for the cure of all manner of illnesses. He also pretended that he was collecting subscriptions for building a church in honour of Saint Brandonis, and that all who brought an offering would, by the intercession of the Saint, find it restored to them a hundredfold before the year was over. When he arrived at any town or village he sought to find out any prevailing vice or sin, and would then give out that, from persons addicted to this particular vice or sin, he could not accept any offering for the Saint. By these means the offerings flowed in more abundantly than had ever been collected, for those who felt themselves most guilty were most eager, by their offerings, to prove their innocence. Thus Owlglass got his pockets well filled and went to Nurenberg, where he determined to rest for a time from his labours, and enjoy himself as long as his money would last. After being there some time, and knowing all the in's and out's of the place, he grew tired of idleness, and nothing could satisfy him but a piece of mischief. During his wanderings he had noticed that, in the evening, the town watchmen assembled together in a cellar under the town-hall, and that to get from the town-hall to the pig-market a small wooden bridge had to be passed, which crossed the river called the Pegnetz. Bearing all this in mind, he waited one night till the whole town was quiet, then, after breaking three planks of the bridge, he went up to the town-hall and set up a furious bellowing and shouting, at the same time striking the paved road with an iron spiked stick till the sparks flew on all sides. This roused the watch, and as he ran away, they chased him towards the pig-market. Owlglass jumped over that part of the bridge where he had broken the planks, and stopped on the other side, shouting to his pursuers, "O! O! you pig-headed timber-toed rogues, is that the way you run? I see I must needs wait for you!" This enraged the men, and all together they rushed on the bridge, which giving way where he had broken the planks, they fell one over the other into the Pegnitz. There he left them, and turned his back upon the town of Nurenberg. [Illustration: _The Watchmen of Nurenberg._] [Decoration] IX. _How Owlglass appears as Dentist and Doctor._ Owlglass visited Schomberg, where he had notices posted that he was a celebrated dentist and doctor; that he could not only cure the toothache without extracting the tooth, but that the most inveterate disease would immediately yield to his remedies. He met with a wag who was willing to join him in cheating the good people of Schomberg, afterwards to share the plunder with him; and for this purpose his accomplice pretended to suffer intolerable pain from toothache, but immediately that Owlglass had administered a pill to him, which was nothing more than simple bread, he professed to be perfectly cured. This wonderful cure took place before all the people, whereat they were greatly astonished, and they crowded to him to be cured of every imaginable pain; but Owlglass appointed all to meet him on the following day, at a stated time, for he was in treaty to restore the patients of the hospital to health, and that before that great work was accomplished, he could not undertake any fresh case. The master of the hospital, on hearing Owlglass's announcement that he could cure all diseases, had applied to him, for he had the hospital full of patients, and was most anxious to be rid of as many as possible. He agreed to pay fifty pounds, Owlglass engaging that the next day the hospital should be free of patients. Now this is the way he set about the serious task. He went to the hospital and asked each patient separately what ailed him or her, after which he said:-- "You must now solemnly swear that you will not reveal to any living being what I am about to tell you." And having received the required promise, he continued:--"The only way in which I can cure you is by taking one of your number, and burning him to powder, give a portion to each of the others. Therefore, I shall take that one amongst you who is most seriously affected, in order that the others may be saved. Now to find out which is most hopelessly ill, I shall place the master of the hospital at the door, who will cry with a loud voice, 'Let those who are well come out;' and then the one that remains behind I shall burn to powder. Do not forget what I now tell you, for I should be sorry to have you sacrificed." [Illustration: _Owlglass administers a Pill._] The following morning he said to the master:-- "All the patients are now cured, the truth of which you will find; for if you stand at the door and cry out, 'Let all those who are well come forth,' you shall see that not one will remain behind." It happened, indeed, as he said, and the hospital was left empty, whereupon he received the promised fifty pounds, besides many thanks. After this he received all who sought relief, whatever their sufferings might be; and giving each one of his bread pills, for which he took a small sum, he promised a perfect cure in three hours' time. Before this time had elapsed, however, Owlglass left the town with his illgotten earnings. X. _How Owlglass sells his Horse to a Jew, and on what Terms._ Owlglass stopped one day at a roadside inn, for he had ridden a long way, and both he and his horse were tired. On entering the kitchen, which served as travellers' room, he found a Jew and two or three countrymen, who had watched him as he rode up, and were joking about his and his horse's appearance. As I said, he had ridden a long way, and his horse, which was none of the handsomest, jaded and covered with dust as it was, cut but a sorry appearance, his own not being much better. The countrymen thought themselves rather wags, and one said, turning to Owlglass, "That is a handsome animal of yours." "And it must be allowed," the other added, "that the gentleman sat the spirited creature well. I should not have liked my sweetheart to see him as he came along." The Jew was glad to put in his joke, too; and, when it appeared he could do so with safety, said:-- "Is the shentleman willing to part with his handsome beast? For if so I shall be happy to deal with him, as it would just suit a great nobleman, a particular friend of mine, for whom I have been looking out for a horse; but he is very particular, and up to the present I have not been able to find one good enough for him." The countrymen laughed boisterously at this sally of the Jew's, but Owlglass, appearing to take it seriously, answered:-- "My horse is, indeed, a splendid animal; but as I intend to rest myself here for some days I shall not need it, and am therefore willing to deal with you, my good Friend. I have sworn, however, not to part with it for any sum of money, however great, and I cannot break my oath; but you can have the horse for your friend, if you agree to my terms. These are, that, after I shall have given you six stripes on your bare back, the animal is yours." Miserable as the creature was the Jew was ready enough to have it without paying any money, so agreed to the proposal. [Illustration: _The Jew's Bargain._] Whilst the Jew was stripping his shoulders Owlglass said, "These two gentlemen are witnesses that the horse is not to be yours till I have given you six stripes." The countrymen, anxious for the fun, said they would be witnesses; and the Jew having bared his back, Owlglass tied his hands to a staple in the door-post, and clutching his whip firmly gave him such a cut that the poor Jew danced again. At the second stroke he fairly howled; and after giving him a third Owlglass said, "I see, my Friend, that you are not able to complete the bargain now, so I will keep my horse till some future time, when I shall have paid you the remaining three stripes." The countrymen were convulsed with laughter, and the Jew had the worst of the bargain. [Decoration] XI. _How Owlglass sells an Old Hat for more than its Weight in Gold._ Owlglass having determined to give himself a few days' rest, put up at an inn where he had noticed that the landlady was a very lively intelligent woman, for he thought that if an opportunity for a good piece of mischief occurred, she would be quite ready to second him. He remarked that amongst the daily visiters there were two particularly stupid who just on that account thought themselves superior to the rest, and gave themselves considerable airs. Owlglass could not resist the temptation to play these a trick; and, having taken the landlady into his confidence, he invited them to sup with him. He told them many curious stories and adventures; and after he had prepared their minds to take in anything, however wonderful, he took down his hat, which was hanging against the wall, and which happened to be a very old one, saying, "You will scarcely believe that this hat is worth fifty times its weight in gold; but the fact is, it has the extraordinary power of making any one to whom I owe money believe I have paid them, when I hold it in a particular manner." Fools as his guests were, this was more than they could believe; but Owlglass engaged to give them proof of it that very moment, and that they should see the landlady would say she was paid. He rang the bell, and when the landlady appeared, he asked her how much he owed her for the supper, and she said five shillings. Whereupon he continued, holding his old hat in a peculiar manner, on the tips of his fingers, "Have I not paid you for the supper?" To which she answered, "Yes;" adding that she was very much obliged to him. At this they marvelled; and when he said he was willing to sell it for fifty pounds, there was a dispute between them which should buy it, when it was at length agreed they should buy it between them. When Owlglass received the money he made his accomplice a handsome present and went on his way, leaving the purchasers to try the virtue of the hat. [Illustration: _Owlglass paying the Landlady._] XII. _How Owlglass, by means of a false Confession, cheated the Priest of Riesenburgh out of his Horse; and how he steals another Priest's Snuff-box._ After this adventure, Owlglass went to Riesenburgh, where he lodged with the Priest, whom he knew, having been there several times before. This priest had a very pretty maid-servant and a beautiful little horse, which horse the Duke of Brunswick much wished to have, and offered a considerable sum of money for its possession; but though the offer was often repeated the Priest as often refused, for he was scarcely less fond of his horse than of his maid. Owlglass having heard this, and soon after hearing that the Duke was in the town, went to him, and said, "What will your Highness give me if I get you the Priest's horse?" "If you can do that," the Duke answered, "I will give you the coat I now have on." Now this coat was of scarlet velvet, ornamented with pearls. After this Owlglass pretended to be ill; and taking to his bed, moaned and sighed so piteously that both the Priest and his maid were much grieved, and knew not what to do. As he daily seemed to grow worse, the Priest admonished him to confess, as he had many sins to answer for. Owlglass answered, that he was anxious to confess himself, for though he did not feel guilty of any grievous sin, yet there was one which weighed heavily on his mind, but that he could not confess to him, and therefore earnestly begged he would fetch him another priest. When the Priest heard this, there seemed something strange in it, and his curiosity being strongly excited, he said, "Dear Owlglass, I should have to go a long way for another confessor, and if in the meantime you should die unabsolved we should both have much to answer for, therefore speak, my Son, and your sin shall be forgiven you." "Be it so then," Owlglass said, "but my sin is not so great, as that I fear offending you, for it concerns you." This excited the Priest's curiosity still more, and he said, "Speak without hesitation, for I forgive you beforehand; besides, my anger need not matter, for I dare not divulge your confession." "Oh, my dear, good Friend," Owlglass answered, "I know I shall much anger and offend you; but since I feel that my end is near I will no longer delay. I grieve to say that I have kissed your maid more than once." The Priest inquired how often that had happened; and being told five times, he hastily absolved his penitent, and going out called his servant to him. He accused her of having allowed herself to be kissed by Owlglass; and though she denied it, he took a stick and beat her till she was black and blue. Owlglass laughed when he heard the maid cry, and thought to himself, now the business is settled; so after remaining in bed one more day and night he got up, declaring himself to be quite well. After settling with his host for his board and lodging, he said, "I am now going to Halberstadt to the Bishop, to denounce you for having divulged the secrets of the confessional." The poor Priest, who a moment before had felt quite happy at the prospect of getting rid of so dangerous a visiter, was now taken quite aback, when he saw ruin staring him in the face, and he begged most earnestly that he would not betray him, for it was in anger. He added that he would give him twenty pounds to purchase his secrecy, but Owlglass declared that he would not take fifty. Thereupon the Priest begged his maid to intercede, and ascertain what Owlglass would accept; and he, after making much difficulty, said he would not take anything but the Priest's horse. Now the Priest would rather have parted with anything than his horse; but there was no help for it, so he gave him the animal. Owlglass mounted the horse and rode off to Wolfenbuttel, where he found the Duke standing on the bridge. As he came near, the Duke took off his coat, saying, "You see, Owlglass, that as you have performed your part of the agreement I am ready to perform mine. There, take the coat I promised you." Owlglass then had to relate by what means he obtained the horse from the Priest; at which the Duke laughed heartily, and besides the coat gave him another horse. [Illustration: _Owlglass's Confession._] This was not the only priest whom Owlglass tricked, as you shall hear. * * * * * Whilst staying in the house where the adventure just told you occurred, he had become acquainted with a priest who came there several times, and there were two things he did not fail to note. Firstly, this Priest was very heavy with sleep every day after dinner, so that it seemed impossible to him to keep his eyes open; and secondly, he had a handsome silver snuff-box, which it was his habit to lay down by his side after taking a pinch from it. He lived in a town at no great distance from Riesenburgh; and thither Owlglass went to stay a day or two, the very first opportunity he had. Choosing the time when he knew the Priest had dined, he went to the confessional, and by means of a rambling story soon sent his friend asleep, his snuff-box lying by his side as usual. Owlglass then put the box in his own pocket, and having waked the Priest, said, "There is one thing weighs very heavily on my mind, for I have committed the mean crime of theft, and I must beg of you to accept the stolen article." This the Priest refused to do, advising him to restore it to its real owner; but Owlglass said, "He refuses to accept it." "Under those circumstances keep it, my Son, and I give you full absolution for having committed the great sin of stealing." Owlglass then took the box out of his pocket, saying, "This is the box, and it was from you I stole it; when urged by remorse I wished to make restoration, but you refused to accept it, giving me full absolution." After this he left the confessional, and shortly after the town. [Illustration: _Owlglass takes the Priest's Snuff-box._] XIII. _How a Bootmaker of Brunswick larded Owlglass's Boots; and how he was paid for doing so._ The weather having turned wet, Owlglass thought it well to have his boots greased, that his feet might be kept dry during his frequent wanderings; so, going to a bootmaker of the name of Christopher, in the marketplace of Brunswick, he gave him the boots, and said, "Let these be well larded, and have them ready by to-morrow morning." When he had left the shop, the bootmaker's foreman said, "Master, that is Owlglass, who plays every one some ugly trick or another, so be very careful what you do, or your turn will have come." The Master asked, "What did he tell us to do?" "He told you to lard his boots, meaning to grease them," the Foreman answered; "and if I were you I would act up to the letter of what he said; I should not grease them, but lard them as one lards meat." "Well, we will do as he bids us," the Master said; and cutting up a piece of bacon into small strips, he larded the boots as if they were a joint of meat. Owlglass called the following morning to ask whether the boots were ready; and the bootmaker, pointing to them as they hung against the wall, answered, "Yes, there they are." Owlglass, seeing his boots thus larded, burst out laughing, and said, "Now you are the sort of tradesman I like, for you have conscientiously done as I ordered; how much do I owe you?" "A shilling," was the answer. As he paid the money, Owlglass said, "You are much too moderate in your charges, but I shall not consider that with one miserable shilling I have paid you. Rest assured, my good Friend, that I will not forget you." Then taking his boots he departed, the Master and his Foreman, looking after him, said, "He is the last man to whom such a thing should have happened." And as they talked it over they chuckled that the trickster, in his turn, had been tricked. Their merriment, however, was of but short duration, for suddenly Owlglass's head and shoulders appeared through the shop window, the glass flying in all directions about the place. "Pray, my Friend," he said, "have the goodness to tell me whether my boots are larded with sow's or boar's bacon." When the bootmaker had recovered a little from his surprise, he exclaimed, "Get out of that, you scoundrel, or you will have my last at your head." "Do not be angry, my good Sir," Owlglass said, "for I only wish to know what bacon that is with which you have larded my boots; whether it is from a boar or a sow?" The bootmaker's rage increased, and he abused him in the vilest terms for breaking his window; but Owlglass said coolly, "If you will not tell me what bacon it is, I must go and ask some one else;" and drawing back his head and shoulders, contriving at the same time to break the windows still further, he disappeared. Then the bootmaker was in a rage with his man, and said, "You gave me advice before; now advise me what I am to do to make my window whole again. Pack yourself off at once, and the wages due to you I shall apply to repairing the mischief your wisdom has caused." [Illustration: _Owlglass returns with the Boots._] XIV. _How Owlglass hires himself to a Tailor; and how well he executes his Master's Orders._ When Owlglass found his pockets empty, he hired himself to a Tailor, who said to him, "Sew neatly, so that no one can see it, as a good workman should do." So Owlglass took a needle and some pieces of cloth, and having crept under the cutting board, with his face turned to the wall, he laid the work across his knees and began to sew in the dark. When the Master beheld this proceeding, he said, "What are you doing there, my man? That is a most extraordinary way of working." Owlglass answered, "Master, you told me to work so that no one could see it, and as you yourself cannot see what I am doing, so can no one else see my work, and therefore I am strictly executing your orders." The Tailor, who was a quiet, easy man, then said, "That was not what I meant; come out there, and sew in such a manner that every one may see how fine your work is." Thus they went on for a matter of three days, when, one evening, the Tailor, feeling sleepy, threw a half-finished rough peasant's coat over to Owlglass, and said, "There, make up that wolf for me, and then you can go to bed, as I am now going to do." You must know, that that particular sort of coat was called a wolf. As soon as the Tailor had left the workshop, Owlglass cut up the coat, and with the pieces first made the head, and then the body and legs of a wolf. He stood it up by means of sticks, and then went to bed. When, on the following morning, the Master went into the shop, he started back in a fright, but Owlglass just then coming in, he saw how it was, and said, "What have you been doing here?" Owlglass answered, "I have made a wolf, as you bid me." And the Tailor saying that he did not mean a wolf of that sort, but the peasant's rough coat, he continued, "My dear Master, I wish I had understood your meaning, for I would rather have made a coat than a wolf." With this the Master was satisfied, and they went on comfortably together for three or four days more, when one evening he again felt sleepy; but thinking it too early for his man to go to bed, he gave him a coat which was finished all but putting in the sleeves, and said, "Whip the sleeves to this coat, and then you can go to rest." Owlglass hung the coat up on a hook, and having laid the sleeves near it, he lighted two candles, and, with a whip he then made, whipped the sleeves all through the night. When the Tailor came in, in the morning, he exclaimed, "What tomfoolery is this?" "It is no tomfoolery," Owlglass answered, "I have done as you told me; but though I have stood here all night whipping the sleeves, I could not get them to stick to the coat. It would have been better you had let me go to bed than make me waste my time in this way." "It is not my fault," the Tailor said, "how could I know you understood it this way, when I meant you to sew the sleeves into the coat?" Owlglass answered, "I wish you would not say one thing when you mean another; but now you may do the work, for I must go to bed." This the Tailor would no way agree to, so they quarrelled; and Owlglass leaving him, went his way. XV. _How Owlglass caused Three Tailors to fall from their Work-board, and persuaded the People that the Wind had blown them down._ Owlglass took a lodging at Bamberg, near to the market-place, where he remained about a fortnight, and next door to him there lived a tailor who had three workmen. These men sat on a board, supported by four posts, outside the window, and they laughed at Owlglass, and threw pieces of rag or cloth at him whenever he passed. Owlglass bore all in silence, biding his time to pay them back with interest; and this he determined should be on a fair day, when the market-place would be full of people. The night before the day of the fair he had sawed the posts nearly through which supported the board on which the three tailors sat, and in the morning they placed the board on them as usual, seated themselves on it and began their sewing. Now, when the swineherd blew his horn all the people let out their pigs, and the tailor's pigs also came out of his house, and went, as Owlglass well knew they would, under the board, rubbing themselves against the posts, which, giving way, the three journeymen tailors were thrown into the gutter. Owlglass, who had been on the watch, now cried out, "See how light three tailors are, for a gust of wind has blown them all at once into the street, as if they were but three feathers! How easily a tailor can fly!" And this he cried so loud that he could be heard all over the marketplace. All the people came running to the spot to see the fun, and mocked and laughed at the poor tailors, who knew not what to do for very shame. They could not tell how it was their board fell; but they found out at last, and guessed that it was Owlglass who had played them that trick. They put up fresh posts, but did not again venture to make game of Owlglass. [Illustration: _Downfall of the Tailors._] XVI. _How Owlglass tells a Truth to a Smith, to his Wife, his Assistant, and his Maidservant, for which he gets his Horse shod._ Owlglass now being in funds, he rode about the country like a gentleman, and one day came to a small town, where he saw a very neat woman, with her servant maid, standing at the door of a smithy, and judged her to be the smith's wife. He put up at an inn just opposite, and during the night pulled the four shoes off his horse. On the following morning he led his horse to the smithy; and as soon as it was known that it was Owlglass, the wife and maidservant came out to see what had brought him there. Owlglass asked the Smith whether he would shoe his horse; to which he at once agreed, for he was glad of an opportunity to have some talk with a man of whom he had heard so much. After much talk on both sides, the Smith said, "If you will tell me a truth that is really true, I will put one shoe on your horse without any charge." To this Owlglass answered, "If you have iron and coals, and there is plenty of wind in the bellows, the fault will be yours if the forge does not go on well." "That is undoubtedly true," said the Smith; and he gave him the promised horseshoe. The assistant, as he was putting on the shoe, said that if he would tell him a truth that applied to him, he would put another shoe on his horse. In answer, Owlglass said, "A smith's assistant must work hard and not spare himself if he expects to please his master." "That is true enough," was the answer, and the horse had a second shoe. Then the wife and the servant wanted a truth told them, for which each promised his horse a shoe. Owlglass whispered his answer in the ear of each of these. To the mistress he said, "When a servant apes her mistress's dress, she would be mistress not only in dress alone." The Mistress marked his glances as well as his words, and said, "That is true enough;" so there was a third shoe for the horse. And to the maid he said, "When a servant is better looking than her mistress, she will find it difficult to please her in anything." The Maid said, "That I know to be true." So the horse got its fourth shoe, and Owlglass rode further on his way. [Illustration: _Owlglass in the Smithy._] [Decoration] XVII. _How Owlglass hired himself to a Merchant as Cook and Coachman._ In the town of Windsheim there lived a rich merchant, who was walking one day outside the town, when he saw Owlglass lying on the grass, and stopping, he asked him what his calling was. Owlglass answered that he was a cook; whereupon the Merchant said, "You are just the man I want, that is, if you understand your business; for my wife is not at all satisfied with her present cook, and we have some of the first people of the town to dine with us to-morrow, to whom we would like to give a good dinner." Owlglass said that he would serve him faithfully, and that he felt confident of giving satisfaction; so the merchant engaged him, stipulating that he should also serve as coachman, and took him home with him at once. As soon as the merchant's wife saw Owlglass, she said, "Who is this fellow whom you have brought home with you, for I do not like the look of him at all?" Her husband answered, "Never mind his look, my Dear, for he is a first-rate cook, and we will serve up a dinner to-morrow that shall be the envy of the whole town." Early the next morning the Merchant gave Owlglass full instructions as to the dinner, telling him what soup, meat, and vegetables to get, and how he liked everything done. "As for game," he added, "Professor Guzzle is particularly fond of roast hare, so we cannot do better than let him have his favourite puss; but, mind, let it be the finest that can be got in the whole town." Owlglass promised that all his instructions should be strictly attended to; and the Merchant, having business of importance to attend to, went out in easy confidence in his new servant. The Merchant got home only just in time to receive his guests, so that he could not visit the kitchen before dinner, and his wife was too fine a lady to attend to such matters. However, the dinner went off very well, and the hare, in particular, was declared to be the finest that had been seen that year; so that all the company were in high spirits. At dessert the conversation turned upon cats; and one of the ladies, addressing the mistress of the house, said she had heard that she had the finest one in the whole town. The Merchant's wife was very proud of her cat, and gave orders that it should be brought into the room; but it could not be found anywhere; and now the servants remembered that they had not seen it since the morning, when one of them saw Owlglass carry it from the kitchen to an outhouse. Owlglass was now sent for into the dining-room, before all the guests, and questioned as to what had become of the cat. Without being in the slightest degree disconcerted, he said his master had told him that Professor Guzzle was very fond of roast hare, and that they could not do better than let him have his favourite puss, and therefore he, Owlglass, was to be sure and get the very finest in the town; that he had searched the whole town through, but there were none to compare to the one in the house, and he was sure his master would not begrudge it his guests; therefore he had killed and roasted it, and the company had just eaten it. Horror was depicted upon most of the countenances, whilst one or two of the guests tried to joke about it; but these the very first showed symptoms of distress, and one after another of the company had to leave the room pale as death, and not one returned. The mistress insisted upon Owlglass being at once sent away; but the Merchant said, "I want him to drive me and the priest to Goslar to-morrow, and when we get back I will immediately send him about his business." That evening he told Owlglass to get the carriage ready for the morrow, and to grease it well. As soon as all had gone to bed, Owlglass took some cart grease and greased the carriage outside and in, but particularly the seats. Early the next morning the Merchant ordered the horses to be put to the carriage, and he and the priest getting in, they drove off in high spirits. They had not gone far, however, when they found they were gradually slipping off the seats; and the Priest exclaimed, "What is all this grease? I held on with my hands to check the jolting, and I am all grease." They ordered Owlglass to stop, and they found they were covered with grease; so that they had to buy a bundle of straw from a farmer and rub themselves and the carriage well. The Merchant had now lost all patience, and he cried out to Owlglass, "I find out now that you are a professed wag, and of the most mischievous class; but you are in the right road, go on, my good Friend, straight to the gallows, and there your journey will be at an end." Owlglass did as he was bid, for, turning off the road, he drove straight to a gallows which stood at no great distance, and stopping there began to take the horses out of the carriage. "What are you doing now, you rascal?" the Merchant exclaimed. Owlglass answered, "You told me to go straight to the gallows, and that there my journey would be at an end, so I naturally thought that we were to stop here." The Merchant looked out of the carriage, and seeing that they were indeed under the gallows, could not help laughing. He said, "You have delayed us so long on the road with your foolery that I am afraid we shall not reach Goslar in time for our business, so now, my good Fellow, I pray you get on as fast as you can. Do not look behind you, but mind only the road before you." Owlglass now again mounted his horse, having first loosened the pin connecting the front wheels, and set off as fast as the horses could gallop. He had not gone far when the pin fell out; but, without looking behind him, he galloped on, carrying off the pole and front wheels, and leaving the body of the carriage far behind. In vain the Priest and Merchant shouted to him to stop. On he went; so they had to jump out of the carriage, and by scrambling through hedges and running across fields they were, fortunately, able to overtake him. Complaint was useless; and as they found they could not now reach Goslar in time, even if their coachman could be trusted to take them there, they determined upon returning home. The homeward journey was accomplished without any further accident; and when the Merchant found himself safe in his own house, he called Owlglass to him and said, "It is but too evident that all the mischief you have done since you have been with me has been done purposely. What have you to say to this?" Owlglass answered, "I do everything strictly to the letter, as I am told, and if I do wrong, the fault is therefore not mine, but the fault of those who give the orders. You do not seem satisfied, so, if you pay me my wages, I would rather look for justice elsewhere." The Merchant thinking it better to avoid further, and perhaps worse, mischief by getting rid of him at once, paid him, and they parted. [Illustration: _Owlglass's "skilful" Coachmanship._] [Decoration] XVIII. _How Owlglass cheated a Horse-dealer at Wismar, and afterwards cheated the Public._ Owlglass next went to Wismar, a town much frequented by horse-dealers, and one of these had a habit of pulling the tail of any horse he thought of buying. This he did from a notion that, if the hair were firm in the tail, the horse was strong, and would live long; but if, on the contrary, the hair came out freely, that the animal would not last long, and he would therefore have nothing to do with it. Owlglass knew of this habit, and determined to make some profit of it, so he bought a horse without a tail, which he got very cheap on that account, and most artfully he fastened a beautifully flowing tail to the bare stump, by means of blood and gum. With this horse he went to Wismar, and asked so high a price that no one would bid for it, until the dealer came whose habit it was to pull the horses' tails, and him he asked a very low price. Before striking a bargain, the Horse-dealer, as usual, caught hold of the tail, and having formed a favourable opinion of the animal, gave it, perhaps, a harder tug than customary, when, lo and behold, the tail remained in his hands, and he measured his length upon the ground. A shout of laughter arose on all sides; but that was not enough for Owlglass, who cried out, at the highest pitch of his voice, "See here! the villain has ruined my horse, for, beautiful creature that it is, who would have it without a tail?" The people drew nearer and took part with Owlglass, so that the Horse-dealer had to pay him ten pounds for the damage done to his horse, and Owlglass laughed more heartily than any one, though only to himself. He rode out of Wismar in high spirits, his trick having succeeded so well; and as soon as he was outside the town he fastened the tail on again, intending to sell the horse in the next town. As he rode along, however, he thought of some other way how to make money by his horse, before finally parting with it. In pursuance of the plan he had formed, he stopped at an inn two or three miles distant from the town, where he intended to put his plan into execution. Here he remained till it had grown dark, so that he might enter the town unseen; which having done, he hired a stable, and having put up his horse, and attended to it himself, he locked the stable-door, putting the key in his pocket. The next morning he had it cried through the town that there was a horse to be shown with its tail where its head should be, stating a certain hour at which only it could be seen. Before the appointed time he made all necessary preparations in the stable, when he again locked the door and then stood before it, waiting the arrival of the curious. Now, as curiosity was pretty general in the town, there was a numerous attendance; and when Owlglass judged that all the company to be expected had arrived, he collected the admission price from each, and then threw the door open. There was a general rush, followed by laughter from some, and indignant complaints from others, as they saw the horse, no different in itself to other horses, but fastened with its tail to the manger instead of its head. [Illustration: _The Horse's Tail where his Head should be._] XIX. _How Owlglass sowed Rogues._ We next meet with Owlglass in a town where he remained so long that he knew all the secrets of the place. By turns he took up his abode in twelve different inns, so that what had escaped him in one he was sure to hear in another, and it was little good he heard in either. For a long while he puzzled his brain what he could best do to suit the good people among whom he had the honour of living, when, at length, he hit upon a novel fancy, and, going into the market-place, he began sowing, up and down, sideways and crossways, the seed being represented by small pebbles. The people came in crowds, and to their questions what he was sowing, answered that he was sowing rogues. The people cried out, "Those are not wanted here, for we have more than enough of them; and, pray, why do you not sow honest men as well?" He answered, "Those will not grow here." These words were reported to the Town Council, who had him called before them, and ordered him to pick up his seed again, and then leave the town. His seed he could not well pick up; but he left the town, and after travelling about ten miles, came to another. Here, however, the report of his wonderful seed had reached before him, so that he was not allowed to stop there, but had to pass through as quickly as possible. There was no help for it, so, escorted by the town authorities, he went down to the side of a river, which flowed through the town, and there hired a boat to carry him and his seed. He jumped into the boat, but when the boatman raised his bag to lift that in, it burst and all the seed fell out. Owlglass pushed off the boat, crying out to the astonished spectators that he left them his seed, for he was sure that in such a highly virtuous town a few rogues were required to keep up a proper balance; and when he reached the opposite side, leaving the boat to the mercy of the stream, he ran on his way. Whether the seed took root or not is not said; but to judge by the quantity of rogues in the world, it would seem it did, and that Owlglass sowed some of the same sort in other parts of the world. [Illustration: _Owlglass sowing Rogues._] XX. _How Owlglass hired himself to a Barber, and entered his House through the Window._ Once upon a time Owlglass went to the city of Hamburg, and having reached the market-place he there stood still and looked about him. Whilst he was standing there a man came up to him and asked what he was looking out for. Owlglass saw at once, by his questioner's appearance, what business he followed, answered that he was a barber and was seeking employment. "Well met then," his new acquaintance said, "for I just happen to be in want of a barber's assistant, and I dare say we shall be able to come to a satisfactory arrangement together. I live in that high house just opposite. You see those windows that reach down to the ground. Go in there, and I will follow you presently." Owlglass answered, "Yes." Then crossing the road walked straight through the window, with a terrific crash, and made a polite bow to those within the room. The barber's wife sat there spinning, and, being much frightened, cried out for help, saying, "Here is a madman come through the window." Owlglass said to her, "My good Lady, pray be not angry, for the master bid me come in here, having just hired me as his assistant." "May the foul fiend take you," the lady answered, for she was not possessed of the most even temper, "a pretty assistant you are. Was the door not wide enough for you, that you must needs come in through the window?" Owlglass answered, "My dear Madam, must not an assistant do as his master bids him?" Just then the Barber entered, and seeing all the destruction around him, exclaimed, "What does all this mean?" Owlglass addressed him thus, "You said to me, you see those windows that reach down to the ground--go in there, and I will follow you presently. Now this good lady is angry that I have broken the window, but how could I help doing so, as it was not open? It seems to me that I have the most reason to complain, for I might have cut myself to pieces in doing what I was told to do; but I hope whatever may be the danger I shall never shrink from doing my duty. Now, excuse me to the lady I beseech you, my dear Master, for you see I could not avoid causing the mischief that has happened." [Illustration: _Owlglass walks through the Barber's Window._] The poor Barber knew not what to say, so thought he might as well not say anything; besides, he wanted his assistance, and was in hopes he might be induced to accept more reasonable terms in consideration of the damage he had done. He now gave Owlglass some razors to sharpen, and as they were somewhat rusty at the backs, he said, "Brighten up the backs; indeed, make them quite like the edge." Owlglass took the razors and made the backs as sharp as the edges, so that the Barber, when he went to see what he was doing, exclaimed, "This is not right!" "How not right?" Owlglass said; "are the backs not sharp enough? But have a little patience and they shall be quite like the edges, as you told me to make them. You see they had got very blunt at the backs, but after a little more sharpening you will be satisfied with them." "Are you an idiot?" the Master cried in a rage; "or is all this mischief done intentionally? Leave the sharpening and pack yourself off back to where you came from." "Well," Owlglass said, "I see we should not be happy together for all our lives, so I may as well go at once;" and he walked out through the window as he had gone in. The Barber was still more enraged at this, and ran after him to have him seized and locked up till he paid for the broken window; but Owlglass was too quick for him, reached a ship that was just about to sail, and was off. [Decoration] XXI. _How Owlglass frightened an Innkeeper at Eisleben with a dead Wolf._ In the depth of winter Owlglass put up at an inn at Eisleben, where one evening there also arrived three merchants from Saxony on their way to Nurenberg. They related how they had been attacked by a wolf, against which they had much difficulty in defending themselves, and that this disagreeable adventure had considerably delayed them. The host, who was a bragging sarcastic sort of a person, joked them much about their adventure, declaring that it was a shame they should allow themselves to be delayed by a miserable wolf; that, for his part, if he were attacked by two wolves, he would soon drive them off, but here three were frightened by one wolf. This continued all the evening till the merchants went to bed, Owlglass in the mean time remaining silent, but turning it over in his mind how he could best play mine host some trick to pay him off for his bragging. The merchants and Owlglass shared the same bed-room; and when the former discussed among themselves how they could repay the mocking of the Innkeeper, Owlglass said he had been thinking it over, and that if they would leave it to him he would engage that they should hear no more about the wolf. The merchants readily agreed, promising a handsome reward if he paid their tormentor off well; and Owlglass then proposed that they should continue their journey, and all meet again there on their return. Early the next morning the merchants paid the reckoning for Owlglass, as well as for themselves, and rode on their way, mine host calling after them to beware lest a wolf should cross their path. Owlglass also took his departure and went on the chase after a wolf. He succeeded in killing one, which he left out in the cold till it was frozen quite stiff, and when the merchants returned he put his prize in a sack, and, taking it with him, joined them at the inn as agreed upon. The Innkeeper again teased his guests about the wolf, talking very big of how he would act. When the merchants went to their bed-room Owlglass joined them, and said, "My good Friends, keep your candle burning, and do not go to bed yet, for we will have some sport this night." Now, as soon as all the household had gone to bed, Owlglass fetched the dead wolf, which was hard frozen, and taking it to the kitchen placed it near the hearth, supporting it with sticks so that it stood upright, at the same time opening its jaws in which he put a child's shoe. Then, quietly returning to his room, he called loudly for something to drink. When the Innkeeper heard this he grumbled at being disturbed, and calling up the maid told her to get some beer for his guests. The maid went to the fire in the kitchen to light a candle, and seeing the wolf with its jaws wide open, rushed out into the yard, thinking the brute had surely devoured the children. Owlglass and the merchants continued to call for drink, and the Innkeeper, thinking the maid had gone to sleep again, called the man. He went to the fire to light a candle, and when he saw the wolf, thought it had made away with the maid, so he too ran out into the yard. The shouting for drink still continuing, the Innkeeper thought the man must be asleep as well as the maid, and, grumbling like a bear, he himself got up. As soon as he had lighted a candle he saw the wolf with the shoe in its jaws, and running to the merchant's room, trembling with terror, cried out, "Come and help me, my dear Friends, for there is a frightful monster in the kitchen, which has devoured my children, maid, and man servant." They went with him; the girl and the man came from the yard, and the wife brought the children. All were alive. Owlglass then went up to the wolf, which he turned over with his foot, and it did not stir; then turning to the Innkeeper, said, "What an arrant coward you are! It is not long ago that you said you were ready to fight two wolves, and just now you ran away, trembling and shouting, from a dead one." The Merchants made rare fun of mine host, and the next morning, after paying the bill, took their departure with Owlglass. [Illustration: _The Frightful Monster._] XXII. _The Grateful Animals._ A good many years ago some boys in a village were having rare sport with a mouse which they had quite surrounded, so that the poor little thing could nowhere escape, for to which ever side it turned, a heavy shoe, or a stick, threatened it with instant death. The poor animal thought this no sport at all, but the boys shouted with laughter as they saw it scamper and jump to avoid the blows aimed at it. Activity alone saved it from its tormentors; but this was beginning to fail, when, fortunately, a man came that way. This man had more kindness in his heart than money in his pockets; but with this he had one great fault, for he was somewhat restless and fickle-minded, which, however, on this occasion proved fortunate for the poor little mouse, and eventually so for himself. His restless disposition had driven him to travel, poor as he was, and thus he came to the village, where witnessing the little creature's distress he released it, by giving the boys a few half-pence, and it instantly took refuge in a hole close by. In his wanderings he came to another village where he saw a crowd of boys, and, I am sorry to say, there were girls as well, tormenting an inoffensive donkey, which he saved from further molestation by again parting with a little of his scanty stock of money. Further on he reached another village, where he released a bear from like persecution by giving more money. Not long after these adventures this good man himself got into trouble, and was condemned by a cruel judge to be put into a box with only a jug of water and one loaf of bread, and thus thrown into the river, though I assure you he was quite innocent. You may imagine his distress, for he was not very comfortable in his box, nor could he see where he was being carried to, when all at once he felt the box grating against the ground, and then heard a nibbling at the lock, which, after awhile, gave way, and when he raised the lid was delighted to see his three friends, the Mouse, the Ass, and the Bear, who now helped him in return for his kindness to them. [Illustration: _Friends in Grave Consultation._] They were not satisfied with merely saving his life, for they knew that he was poor, and had, moreover, spent some of his money to save them; so they were consulting together what they could do for him, when the bear espied a white stone come floating along. "Nothing could happen more fortunate," the Bear cried, "for here comes the lucky stone, and whoever has that will have all his wishes fulfilled on the instant." The man, hearing this, seized the stone as it was passing, and wished himself in a palace with every comfort and luxury, surrounded by beautiful grounds; and the next instant all was as he had wished. Now, dazzled by so much splendour, and happy beyond anything he had ever dreamt of, he forgot his friends, the Mouse, the Ass, and the Bear, though, I have no doubt, he would have thought of them sooner or later and wished them with him; but before this fault was remedied misfortune came upon him. It so happened that some merchants passed that way, and seeing a magnificent palace, where before there had only been barren land, they were seized with wonder and curiosity, so they went in and asked the owner how he had worked such a truly wonderful change. "I had only to wish for it," was the answer. They marvelled at this, as well they might; and being told that it was by means of the lucky stone his wish had been fulfilled, they offered all their merchandize for the stone. Our friend, whose head, it must be confessed, was not as good as his heart, seeing so many beautiful things, agreed to the bargain at once, without thinking that he need only wish and he could have all those and more beautiful things. He gave the merchants the stone; and it was no sooner out of his hands than he found himself in his former position, which was rendered worse when he compared all the splendour and comfort he had lost to his ugly comfortless box, with only a jug of water and one loaf. His friends, however, did not desert him in his distress, but this time they could not open the box; and, after consulting, the Bear said, "I see we cannot do any good without the lucky stone, so let us go to the palace where the merchants now live and try to get it." This was agreed upon; and when they got there they held another council. The bear seems to have had the wisest head, for he was again spokesman, and said, "It is useless for us to expect to be let in here; but you, my friend Mrs. Mouse, you can creep through anywhere--see, there is just a little hole at the bottom of the door. Go in, and, as only one of the merchants is now at home, worry him in every possible way, for you can always manage to escape; and when you have worked him into a perfect fury lead him here to the door, and no doubt he will open it to rush out after you. Then we two will go in and easily master him between us. Only you take care to find out where he keeps the stone." The mouse got through the hole in the door without difficulty; and, after finding out where the stone was, went in search of the merchant, whom she found in bed. She crept in at the bottom and began nibbling at his toes. The merchant jumped up in a fright, but when he saw the mouse his fright turned to rage, and he made a snatch at it; but the little thing was too quick for him: and now began a chase all round the bed-room, round every table and chair, and into every corner of the next room, and, finally, into the hall, where, jumping up and biting him in the calf of the leg, in order to exasperate him still more, she slipped through the hole she had got in at. [Illustration: _The Merchant's Rough Handling._] The merchant threw open the door, and the bear, who was ready, greeted him with the closest embrace. They rolled down together, but the bear soon hugged all the breath out of him, and leaving him in charge of the donkey went with the mouse to fetch the stone. No sooner had they this in their possession than the three went off, regardless of the confusion they left behind them. They soon reached the water-side; but the box was floating in deep water, and the Donkey said, in despair-- "We shall never get at it." The Bear, however, cried, "Nonsense, leave that to me, I can swim well enough, so you, Donkey, just put your fore-feet round my neck, and take the stone in your mouth, but mind you don't swallow it; and you, my little Friend, can make yourself snug somewhere in my long hair." All being satisfactorily arranged, off they set, but were destined to meet with a misfortune on their voyage; for the bear, who was rather fond of hearing himself talk, could not refrain from expatiating on the past adventure. "We managed that pretty well, I flatter myself. What is your opinion, my long-eared Friend?" And as the donkey made no answer he continued-- "How is this? I was always taught that a civil question deserves a civil answer; but this does not seem to enter into your notions of politeness. Who taught you manners, my Friend?" The donkey could stand it no longer, but opened his mouth, and out fell the stone "plop" into the water. "There, you see what comes of your talking. Could you not wait till our work was finished? How could I open my mouth without losing the stone? And now it is gone, and with it all hope of helping our friend." "Well, well, my good Fellow," the Bear interrupted him, for he was not anxious to hear any more, as he felt himself in the wrong, "a moment's action is better than an hour's regret. I have a bright idea that will put all right again. Let us go back, and I'll set about it at once." On the way back the bear called up all the frogs that were in those parts, and said to them, "Fetch me up as many stones as possible from the bottom of the water, for I have an idea of building you a place of refuge in case of danger." A loud croaking was immediately heard, which called the frogs from all parts; and they set about collecting stones without loss of time. It was not long before the lucky stone was added to the heap, which the bear immediately seized; and telling the frogs that there were now stones enough, the three friends started off again. They soon reached the box, which now opened without difficulty, and the poor prisoner was relieved; but only just in time, for the loaf of bread was consumed, and he began to suffer from want. As soon as he had the stone in his hand he wished himself back in the palace, which he found just as he had left it. This time he did not forget his friends, and they lived happily together to the end of their days. Now, does not this story prove that an act of kindness meets with its reward, and that the ungrateful are worse than the brute beasts, for our three good animals effectually showed their gratitude? [Decoration] XXIII. _Tim Jarvis._ Tim Jarvis was as decent and hardworking a man as any one could wish to know, till the evil spirit got astride his imagination. Tim was not only a decent, hardworking man, but recollected his early lessons, that the evil one should be resisted with might and main. Nor was it during the day that the enemy, at first, attempted to gain any advantage; but it was at night that he mainly worked upon his mind by means of dreams. Night after night he dreamed of treasures of gold and precious stones that were to be found, first in one place and then in another, till it grew too much for him, and his waking hours were scarcely different to dreaming. He was now found digging anywhere but in his garden or potatoe field; and indeed his dreams led him all the way from Ireland to London-bridge, with his spade across his shoulder. Now, when poor Tim was on London-bridge he felt himself more puzzled than ever he had been in his life; he was quite bewildered by the confusion and noise, and being pushed from one side to another; but after a while he began to recover himself; and as he walked up and down, first on one side and then on the other, he tried the ground with his spade, but quite accidentally like, or as if it were a walking-stick, for he was wide awake. "For sure," he said to himself, "I'm not going to let so many people suspect what treasure is lying under their feet." He was encouraged by the hollowness of the sound; but then again his spirits sank, for he found no spot where his spade could make the slightest impression, nay, he doubted whether he could stick a pin in anywhere, so hard were the stones. When it had grown dark, and the bridge was still crowded, he began to fear that all the people were there for the same purpose as himself; but he was determined that he would tire them out; and indeed the numbers did gradually decrease. St. Paul's had just struck twelve, when a stranger, stopping just in front of our friend, said-- "Well, Tim, you have come a long way, but you might have done better nearer home. You know, Tim, the lane that runs at the back of your cabin, and you know the old wall, for I've seen you digging under that many a night. Well, Tim, you were in the right road, but too near home. I've seen you turn sharp round that wall, and, crossing the big bog, look longingly at the heap of stones behind the furze-bush in Terry O'Toole's field." "Yes," sighed Tim; "but it would have been more than my life was worth to dig there, for though Terry knows well that his whole field is nothing but ugly stones, he would murther man, woman, or child who stuck a spade in any part of the ground--the big baste." "True for you, Tim," the stranger said, "but the gold is there." After these words the stranger was gone as suddenly as he had appeared, and poor Tim was left, more puzzled than ever. "May be," he said to himself, "its desaiving me he is, that he may have the digging of Lunnon-bridge all to hisself, but then sorrow a spadeful of earth could any one throw up here, in all his life. No, it was to meet the sthrainger that I came all the way here without knowing it, so now I'll go back to ould Ireland." Tim did go back, and, after selling his potatoe-field, bought the waste bit of land, which O'Toole was pleased to call a field. What did Tim care, when all the neighbours called him mad, or even when his wife threatened him because he sold the bed from under her to buy a new spade and pick, for he knew it was troublesome ground he had to work in, and no mistake. When night came, after he had all ready, Tim went to his new property, and, hard as the work was, did not rest till the first grey of morning began to appear. Just then, through a crack in the ground, he thought he heard voices below. He listened, scarcely drawing his breath, when all the breath was frightened out of him, for he plainly heard-- "We'll give Tim a nice dance when he comes for our gold." When he had recovered himself a bit, he scrambled out of the hole as fast as possible, and went home, where he met with no over-pleasant reception from his wife. A strange day that was which Tim spent, divided between rejoicing and trembling, for he knew now for certain that gold was there; but he knew, too, that there were some sort of beings to be dealt with; and what were those beings? His hair stood on end as he pictured some frightful monsters to himself; but yet all must be risked to gain possession of the gold, and he said, "It's mighty polite I'll be to the gintlemen, and sure they won't harm a poor man." Over and over again he repeated what he should say to the "gintlemen," and thus the day passed; the most anxious day of his life. He took care to arm himself with more than natural courage, in the shape of a bottle of potheen, of which he took a sup, and then another, and then a still longer one, before he jumped into the hole. In the darkness, for night had come on, he plainly saw a light shining through the crack in the ground, as the night before, so he immediately set to work; and he had not thrown up many spades of earth, when the ground gave way, and he sank down, he never knew how low, nor could he ever recollect more than that he found himself surrounded by the strangest little beings, who were all jabbering at once, and seemed very angry. He remembered that he made them his best of bows, and gave them his fairest words, when the tallest of them, stepping forward, addressed Tim thus:-- "Tim, we see that you are a decent, well-spoken, and polite gentleman, and in your case we will overlook our privacy being intruded on, which you must look upon as a great favour." "And 'tis very much obleged that I am to your honer and the other gintlemen, and sure 'tis I that will never forget it; but might I not make so bold as to tell you that I am a poor man, and ask your honour whether you could not help me with a thrifle?" There was a loud shout of laughter, and then the same little fellow that had addressed him before, said, "Well, Tim, we have plenty of the rubbish you all think so much of. There, take as much of the gold as you can carry." Tim saw that the ground was covered with guineas, which he set to picking up as fast as he could stow them away, and when he could not find room for one more, he took both his hands full, sighing that he must leave so many behind. Then the little people cried out, "Go home, Tim Jarvis; but shut your eyes close, or some mischief will happen to you." He did as he was told, and felt himself whisked through the air quicker than lightning. Some time after he knew that he no longer moved, he ventured to open his eyes, for he felt a mighty tugging at his hair. He found himself by the side of the hole he had been digging, and his wife, who had grown tired of his strange ways of late, was shaking him rather roughly. [Illustration: _Tim Jarvis and his Wife._] "Lave the breath in me," he cried, "and I will fill your apron with golden guineas." He put his hand in his pocket, but only pulled out a few yellow furze-blossoms. When he saw this Tim was quite dejected, and did not venture to answer a word to his wife's reproaches, but allowed himself to be led home. From that night he left off dreaming; and taking again to his industrious, hardworking habits, soon made up for his past neglect, and was not only able to buy back his potatoe-field, but became a happy, flourishing man. His wife used to say that it was only a dream about the little people and the gold, for that certainly she had found him asleep; but Tim shook his head. [Decoration] XXIV. _The Shoemaker and the Dwarfs._ Why do we read of so many shoemakers that were poor? Surely they must have lived in Ireland; but, be that as it may, we have to tell of another, who, though he was most anxious to fit all the world, could find no customers, till at last he had nothing left but just leather enough to make one pair of shoes. He had been running about all day, longingly looking at all the feet, and wishing he might measure some one for this last pair of shoes, but he returned, having only worn out his own. However, with all his poverty, he had a light heart and a good wife, who was always ready to cheer him; so he determined to make up the shoes in the very best style, and, putting them in his window, trust to a purchaser. He cut them out, intending to begin his work early the next morning, and went to bed, soon falling asleep. Imagine the good man's astonishment when, on the following morning, he found the shoes already made, and in such a manner that he could not take his eyes off them. He put them in his window, though he could hardly make up his mind to part with them, and, half hoping to frighten purchasers away, he set twice as high a price upon them as it had been his custom to charge. However, a customer was soon found; and though it was with regret he parted with those master-pieces of work, yet, when he held so much money in his hand, he was delighted, for not only could he buy leather to make two pairs of shoes, but he could get his wife a few necessaries she had been long obliged to dispense with. That evening he cut out two pairs of shoes, ready for the next morning, when, on getting up, he found those finished, with workmanship no less excellent than that of the night before. For these, also, customers were speedily found, at equally good prices as the previous pair; and that night the Shoemaker cut out four pairs of shoes, which he again found made to perfection the following morning. Thus it went on, the work that was prepared at night being finished by the morning, so that our good friend soon became a flourishing man; but he and his wife remained as simple in their habits as of old, preferring to spend what they could spare on their more needy neighbours. Curiosity seems part of a woman's nature, and the Shoemaker's wife certainly felt very curious to see who their friends were that did the work so beautifully; so she proposed to her husband that they should hide themselves, and, leaving a candle burning, watch for their nightly visitors. They did so, and at midnight saw two Dwarfs come in, who immediately set to at the work left for them, stitching and hammering away so fast that the Shoemaker felt quite bewildered by their rapidity. Not one moment did they stop, but worked on till all was finished, and disappeared long before daylight. Now, if the Shoemaker's wife was curious, she was kind-hearted as well, and was much grieved to see that such good, industrious little fellows should be so neglected by their families and friends, for they had not a stitch of clothes on, when it was winter too. Had they no wives or no sisters to look after their comfort? And she proposed to make them a decent suit of clothes each. The good man was delighted at the proposal; so she bought the stuff, and gave herself but little rest till she had made them a coat, waistcoat, and a pair of trowsers each, as near their shape and size as she could guess. As soon as finished, the clothes were left for them instead of the customary work, and the shoemaker and his wife again watched their coming. About midnight they appeared; and when they found the clothes in place of their usual work, they stood for a moment irresolute, and then took up each article, examining it on all sides. They then began to try on the things, not without making several mistakes, for one of the little fellows had got his arms into the legs of the trowsers, whilst the other was putting on the waistcoat over the coat. But at length they were dressed; and having examined each other, and then themselves, they were so delighted that they set to capering and dancing about the room, and playing all manner of antics, jumping over the chairs and tumbling over head and heels, till at last they danced out of the room hand-in-hand. [Illustration: _The Dwarfs' Capers._] They did not appear again; but the Shoemaker continued to prosper, and became a rich man; he and his wife being respected and loved by all who knew them. [Decoration] XXV. _The Countryman and the Jew._ There was once a Farmer, a great miser, and he had a servant as simple as he himself was close, for he had served his master, three years without being offered any wages, or asking for any. After the three years, however, the man thought he would not work any longer without pay, so he said to his master, "I have worked for you diligently and faithfully, and hope you will now give me a fair reward for my services." Knowing that his man was a great simpleton, the farmer gave him three-pence, saying, "I not only reward you fairly, but splendidly--here is a penny for each year; but, now that you are rich, do not squander your money and get into idle habits." The poor fellow thought that he was rich indeed, so determined that he would not work and slave any longer, but travel and enjoy himself. With his fortune in his purse, and his purse safely in his pocket, he set out; and as he was going along, singing merrily, a little dwarf came up and asked him why he was so merry. "Why should I not be merry," he answered, "for I am rich and have nothing to do but to enjoy myself? I have worked hard for three years, and saved all my earnings." "And how much might they be?" the little man asked. When told that the amount was three-pence, he said he was very poor, and begged hard for the money. The Countryman did not make him ask long, and cheerfully gave him his three-pence, when the little fellow said-- "You have a kind, generous heart, and shall not suffer for your liberality. You shall have three wishes, which shall be granted you--one for each penny." The Countryman was highly rejoiced, and said, "Many thanks, my good Friend, for your offer; and, first of all, I would like to have a gun which will bring down everything that I shoot at; and, secondly, I choose a fiddle, to which, when I play, every one must dance, whether he will or no. These will satisfy me, so I will not trouble you with a third wish at present." "Your wishes are soon granted," said the Dwarf, and gave him the desired gun and fiddle; after which he went his way. Our friend was happy before, but now his happiness knew no bounds; and he only wanted an opportunity to try his fiddle, for the gun he had already tried several times as he walked along. The desired opportunity was not long wanting, for he soon met a Jew; and just where they met stood a tree, on one of the branches of which sat a plump wood-pigeon. "I wish I had that bird," said the Jew; "could you not shoot it for me, my Friend?" "That is easily done," was the answer; and the same instant the bird fell amongst some thorn-bushes at the foot of the tree. The Jew crept in among the bushes to pick it up; and no sooner was he in the middle than the Countryman took his fiddle and played the sprightliest of jigs. The first sound no sooner reached the Jew's ears than he began to dance; and, as the tune went on, he jumped and capered higher and higher, at every leap he took leaving a piece of his clothes hanging to the thorns. The thorns soon began to enter his flesh, and, in pain, he cried out-- "For heaven's sake, leave off playing! What have I done to deserve this?" "What have you done?" said the Countryman. "How many a poor wretch have you not ruined! And the duty to avenge them has fallen upon me, so I will just play you another tune, and mind you dance well to it." The Jew then offered him money to give over; but, as his offer did not rise high enough, he had to dance on till, in despair and worn out by fatigue and pain, he said he would give a hundred pieces of gold, which he had in his purse. As the purse was thrown down the Countryman's heart was softened; so he gave over playing, took up the purse and went his way, highly delighted with his day's work. [Illustration: _The Jew's Dance._] No sooner had he gone than the Jew crept out from among the thorns, half naked, and his heart full of bitterness and revenge. The loss of his money smarted even more intolerably than the wounds in his flesh, and he hastened to the nearest judge, to whom he complained how he had been robbed and ill-treated, giving a description of his tormentor. The judge could not refuse justice to the Jew; so he sent out his officers, who soon caught the Countryman, and, brought back, he was put upon his trial. The Jew's evidence, and the sorry plight he was in, were too convincing to be got over, though the defence was that the money had been given of his own account and not taken from him. The Countryman was condemned to be hanged. He was led off to the gallows at once; but just as the rope was about to be put round his neck he said-- "My Lord Judge, I cannot complain of the sentence passed upon me, since my accuser swears that I robbed and ill-treated him, and I only ask to have one favour granted me before I die." "Anything excepting your life," was the answer. "I do not ask my life, but only that you will order my fiddle to be restored to me, and allow me to play once more upon it." "No! no! for heaven's sake, no!" cried the Jew. "Don't let him have that infernal fiddle, my Lord, or misfortune will come upon the whole of us." But the judge said his word had been given; so he ordered the fiddle to be given to the prisoner. The Countryman no sooner had the instrument in his hands than he struck up a dance, and at the very first note even the judge's feet began to shuffle about as he sat in his chair, and as for the others they fairly danced. In vain the Jew caught hold of the clerk's desk, for his legs flew out on either side; and as the height of his capers was checked they only became the more frequent. The judge's clerk, the officers of the court, the hangman, as well as all the spectators, were dancing with all their might, and soon the judge himself danced out of his chair into the midst of them. At first all seemed good humour and enjoyment, and no one, excepting the Jew, wished to check the general merriment; but as it went on there were no bounds to the capers, and there were cries of pain, as one alighted on another's toes, and cuffs and blows were exchanged as one jostled the other. The Jew, who had broken away from his hold of the desk, was the maddest in his capers, and he shrieked for mercy; the others soon joining in the cry, begged the player to leave off, but he fiddled away faster and faster till the judge promised him a free pardon. The Countryman said, "I already once earned the hundred pieces of gold, and I deserve them now again for the dance I have played; so pray, my Lord, order the money to be restored to me, or I must think that you are not yet satisfied." The judge then said the money should be given him; but the Countryman, without leaving off playing, addressed all the other dancers thus, "You all hear how handsomely his Lordship rewards me, and I expect that each of you will show your gratitude, for the amusement I have afforded you, by a present; each according to his means." So anxious were all to put an end to the dance that every one offered what he could afford, but the Countryman said, "I did not hear the Jew's voice. Now, of him I have to request a full confession of how he came by the hundred pieces of gold; and till he has made this confession I must trouble you all to continue the dance." All threatened the Jew with instant death if he did not confess; so the rogue was forced to condemn himself by confessing that he stole the hundred pieces of gold; for which he was punished with as many stripes, when the dance was over. [Decoration] XXVI. _My Watch._ I must tell you my story myself, that is the story of my watch, and bad luck to it, for it was small comfort to me; and what have I now left of it, but to tell the trouble it brought upon me? One day of the year eighteen hundred and thirty-three, Tim Looney, the parish schoolmaster, a mighty learned man, from whom I got my learning, went up to Dublin, to get his lease renewed with 'Squire Beamish, who is now dead and gone, rest his soul. Well, as I was saying, Tim Looney went up to Dublin, and had just come back, when of course all the neighbours came to hear the news from the big city, and Molly Mahone, as you can imagine, thrust herself before them all, saying-- "Come, you auld pictur card, when are you goin' to tell us the news? What is the good of you, you auld worm, if you canna even speak?" You know Moll is rather hasty. "Och, and it's more wonders I have to tell than one of you will believe. I saw the great Boneparte riding on a flea, and the Dook of Wellington by his side, quite friendly like." "And was Boneparte a very big man?" said I. "I don't know," said Tim; "I've heard say he was a little man, but they call him the great Boneparte for all that." "He was a great man," said Moll to me, "just as you are a great fool, so hauld yer tongue, will ye, and let Tim go on." Tim did go on, and told us many other great wonders; but it's of myself I want to speak. Well, then, after Tim had told us all he had seen, he gave me such a fine large silver watch, and a thirty shilling note, which my sister, Biddy, had sent from Merica, for me to buy a new fiddle with, for she had heard that I was great in music. I put the watch in my pocket to keep it safe, and then I examined the note all over, thinking all the while how beautiful I would play on my new fiddle; but Tim soon stopped me by asking me what o'clock it was. After looking at the sun, which he himself had taught me, I told him it must be about two; when he said, "And why can't you look at the watch, and tell me the exact minute it is?" I didn't look at my watch, for I thought it was making game of me he was, but I said, "And how should she tell me the time of day? Can she speak?" "You are a big fool, Paul," he said; "look at her face, and see where her hands point to." That she should be able to tell me the time, and have a face and hands, with which she points, was too much, so I burst out laughing, but I took her out of my pocket. "There," Tim said, "don't you see something sticking out on her face? Those are her hands, and you see they point to numbers; but may be it's your numbers you don't know, after all my teaching." This provoked me, so I looked at what he called her face, and saw the numbers, sure enough, and the things he called the hands too. "Well," Tim went on, "and what number does the short hand point to?" "None," said I, "for it points just half way between the two and the three." "Then the long hand points to six, and it's half-past two it is," Tim said. "And how does all this happen?" I asked, for I was sorely puzzled, Tim knowing too where the long hand pointed, without my telling him. "Put her up to your ear," he said, "and she will tell you how she works." I did as I was told, and heard her go "tick-a-tick, tick-a-tick." As I listened to her a mighty fear came over me, and I flung her from me, crying out, "The crittur does talk some unnatural language, and perhaps she'll bite too." Tim caught her, and exclaimed, "What a fool you are, Paul!" for he was now quite angry; "if I had not caught her she would have been done for entirely." After he had held her some time in his hands, seeing there was no harm in her, I took her again and went home. I was half afraid of her, so did not look at her again till night, when the big varmint, Pat Molloy, came in, shouting fit to frighten the life out of one. "Is it a watch I hear you've got, Paul?" "Those ugly long ears of yours heard right," I answered, for I did not much like Pat. "And may be then you'll be after telling one the time it is." With that I pulled out the watch, and looked at her; but I had clean forgotten what Tim had told me, though I recollected something about her hands pointing to a number, so seeing something pointing to seven, I said at once, "It's near seven o'clock," for I did not like to be looking too long, to be laughed at by that fellow. "And it's near seven, it is," Pat said. "You're a fine fellow to have a watch. It's a turnip you might as well have in your pocket, for it's long past eight, it is." The pride of the O'Moors and of the O'Doughertys was taken out of me entirely quite by that rascal, for I felt it rush from the soles of my feet into my head, but I wouldn't get into a passion, for him to see that I was in the wrong, so I said, "And if you know the time so well, why do you ask me?" Pat only burst into a hoarse laugh, and ran out of the cabin to tell every one, he could show his ugly face to. I went to bed to drown my troubles, but it was one long night-mare I had; first the watch and then the fiddle dancing on my chest, grinning at me all the while, with Pat Molloy looking on. My first thought on waking in the morning was my watch, and looking up to her, for I had hung her on a nail, as I had been told, I said, "Good morning to you, how are you this morning, my dear?" for I thought it best to be civil to her, but no answer did she make me. I spoke to her again, and as she was still silent I took her down from the nail and held her to my ear. "Och, it's dead she is," I cried, as she still gave no signs of life, and I rushed across to Tim's. I knocked at his window, shouting, "Are you awake?" "No," he said; "why should I be awake at this time o'morning?" "Then," said I, "you must listen to me in your sleep, for it's dead she is, and what will I do at all?" "I hope she had the benefit of the Clergy," Tim cried, starting up and coming to the window. "It's not that I mean, it's not my mother at all, it's the watch that's dead," I explained. "Leave me in peace then," he said, going back to his bed; but as I would not leave him in peace, but kept crying out, "What will I do?" he growled, "Wind her up, you fool; she's not dead at all; but give her here, and the key, or it's ruin her you will." So I gave him the watch and the barn-door key, which I happened to have in my pocket. It was well for me that I turned my head on one side, as I thought I heard some one coming, for just then the key came whizzing past my ear. "I wish it had broken your lubberly head," Tim cried, in the biggest rage I ever saw him. "It's the little key I want; the one with the bit of red tape I gave you yesterday." I fortunately found the funny little thing in my pocket, but it was not a bit like a key. As soon as I gave it him he twisted and twirled it about in her, till I heard her cry, and then he said-- "There, take her away, for she is all right again, and mind you don't let me see you for a whole week, or surely it's murder you I will." Now, mind this and you'll see how strangely things come about. If it had not been for this what Tim said, I should not have had to tell you the story of my watch, or it would not have ended as it now must. If Tim had told me about winding her up the night before I should not have disturbed him in the morning, and he would not have been so angry, and would not have told me not to see him again for a week. He has since said that he did not mean a word of that; and, had I but known it, that tarnation Pat could not have cheated me; however I will tell you how it happened. [Illustration: _The Death of the Watch._] Directly after I left Tim, whom should I meet but Pat, who spoke quite civil, saying, "Well, Paul, and how's the watch? I've been thinking since I heard her 'glucking' last night that it's to lay she wants, and that if she had a nest you'd have some young watches in a day or two." "Do you think so?" said I. "I'm sure of it," said he; so we went along to the barn together and made her a nice comfortable nest of hay. "Now," he said, as he laid her in it, and covered her up quite warm and snug, "you must not go near or disturb her for five days, or it's desert her nest she will, and you'll have no younguns." Well, to finish with my story, after five days I went to the nest, and what do you think I found? No younguns, nor the old watch neither, but a big turnip. I ran to Pat's, but he had gone off to America. I never saw my watch again; but up to this day the boys call out, when they are out of my reach-- "Paul, tell us what o'clock it is." [Decoration] XXVII. _Fittletetot._ There was a good woman of Kittleroopit, but where Kittleroopit is exactly I cannot tell you; so it's of no use pretending to more than one knows. Her husband was a vagabondizing sort of a body, and he went to a fair one day, from which he not only never returned, but never was anything more heard of him. Some said that he enlisted, and others that he had fallen into the hands of the press-gang; certain it is, anyhow, that the press-gang was about the country ready to snap up anyone, for our good dame's eldest brother, Sandy, was all but smothered in the meal-tub, hiding from these man-stealers; and after they had gone he was pulled out from the meal wheezing and sneezing, and was as white as any ghost. His mother had to pick the meal out of his mouth with the handle of a spoon. Well, when her husband was gone the good woman of Kittleroopit had little left but her baby, and there was not much of that; for it was only a wee thing of a few weeks old. Everybody said they were sorry for her, but no one helped her, which is a case of constant occurrence, as you know. The good woman, however, had still something left, which was a sow; and it was, moreover, near littering time. But we all know that fortune is uncertain; for one day, when the dame went into the sty to fill the trough, what should she find but the sow lying on her back groaning and grunting, and ready to give up the ghost. This was a blow to the poor woman, so she sat down with the child on her knee and fretted more sorely than ever she had done for the loss of her husband. I must tell you that the cottage of Kittleroopit was built on the slope of a hill, with a small fir-wood behind it; and as the good woman happened to look down the hill she saw an old woman coming up the footpath, dressed almost like a lady. She had on a green dress, and wore a black velvet hood and steeple-crowned hat. She carried a staff in her hand as long as herself--the sort of staff that old men and old women used to help themselves along with long ago. They seem to be out of fashion now. Well, when the good woman saw the green lady near her she rose up and began courtesying, and said, "Madam, I am one of the most misfortunate women alive, for I have lost--" But the green woman interrupted her, saying-- "I don't wish to hear piper's news and fiddler's tales, my good woman. I know that you have lost the good man of the house, but that is no such great loss; and I know that your sow is very ill, which is worse; but that can be remedied. Now, what will you give me if I cure your sow?" "Anything your good Ladyship likes," answered the good Woman, for she little knew whom she had to deal with. "Let's shake hands on that bargain," said the green Lady; so they shook hands, and madam then marched into the sty. She looked peeringly at the sow, and then began to mutter something which the good woman could not well understand, but she said it sounded like-- "Pitter patter, Holy water." Then she took a little bottle out of her pocket, with something like oil in it, and rubbed the sow about the snout and on the tip of the tail. "Get up, beast," said the green woman; and no sooner said than done, for up jumps the sow with a grunt and goes off to the trough for her breakfast. The good woman of Kittleroopit was now as happy as need be, and would have kissed the very hem of the green madam's gown-tail, but she wouldn't let her, and said, "I'm not fond of any such nonsense; but now that I have set your sick beast on its legs again let us settle our agreement. You'll not find me over unreasonable. I like to do a good turn for a small reward. Now all I ask, and will have, is the baby at your breast!" The good woman of Kittleroopit, who now knew her customer, gave a scream like a screech-owl, and falls to begging and praying, but it wouldn't do. "You may spare yourself all this trouble and screeching as if I were as deaf as a door-post; but this I'll tell you, by our laws I cannot take your child till the third day from this day, and not then if you can tell me my right name." Hereupon the green lady goes her way, round the back of the pig-sty, and the good woman fell down in a swoon where she stood. That night she could not sleep for fretting, and the next day she could do nothing but hug her baby, that she nearly squeezed the breath out of it; but the second day she thought a walk would do her good, so she went into the fir-wood I told you of. She walked on far among the trees, with her baby in her arms, till she came to an old quarry hole all over-grown with grass. Before she came close up to it she heard the "bizzing" of a spinning-wheel and a voice singing, so she crept quietly among the bushes and peeped down into the hole. What should she see, but the green Fairy spinning away as fast as possible and singing awhile-- "Little knows the good old dame That Fittletetot is my name." "Ah, ha!" laughed our good Woman, and she was fit to jump for joy, when she thought how the green old Fairy would be cheated. [Illustration: _The good Woman discovering the Fairy._] She was a merry woman when there was nothing to weigh too heavily on her heart, so she determined to have some sport with the Fairy when she came the next day, as she little doubted she would. That night she slept well, and found herself laughing in the morning when she woke. When she saw the green Fairy coming up the hill, neither lazy nor lame this time, she put the baby under her stool on which she sat so as to hide it, and turning one leg over the other she put her elbow on her knee, resting her head in her hand as if she were fretting. Up came the old Fairy, and said, "You know what I have come for, so let us waste no time." The good woman pretends to grieve more than ever, and wringing her hands as she fell on her knees, "Good, kind Madam," she cried, "spare my only child, and take the old sow." "The foul fiend take the sow," the Fairy said; "I came not here for swine flesh. Now don't be troublesome, but give me the child at once." "Oh! my good Lady," the good Woman again said, "leave my dear child and take myself." "What does the old jade mean?" the Fairy cried, this time in a passion. "Why, you old fool, who do you think would have anything to do with the like of you, you ugly old cat?" This, I promise you, put the good dame's back up; for though she had blear eyes, and a long red nose, she thought herself no less engaging than the vainest; so up she jumped, and making a courtesy down to the ground, she said-- "We cannot all be as beautiful as your own sweet self, and I might have known that I should not be thought fit to tie even the shoes of the high and mighty Princess Fittletetot." The old Fairy could not have jumped higher if she had been blown up; but down she came again, and roaring with rage ran down the hill, followed by the laughter of the good dame of Kittleroopit. XXVIII. _The wee Bannock._ There was an old man who had an old wife, and they lived by the side of a hill. They had two cows, five hens and a cock, a cat and two kittens. The old man looked after the cows whilst the old woman knitted stockings for him, and when she let her ball of yarn fall the kittens sprang upon it, and after it as it rolled away, till it got twisted round all the legs of the chairs and of the table, so that the old woman had plenty to do without knitting the stockings. One day, after breakfast, she thought she would have a bannock, so she made two oatmeal bannocks and put them to the fire to bake. After a while the old man came in and sat down by the side of the fire, and when he saw the bannocks he took up one and snapped it through the middle. No sooner did the other see this than off it ran as fast as it could, and the old woman after it; but the wee bannock ran away and out of sight, and ran till it came to a pretty large thatched house, into which it ran boldly up to the fire-side. There were three tailors sitting on a table, and when they saw the wee bannock come in they jumped up and off the table, and ran behind the good wife who was carding tow on the other side of the fire. "Be not afraid," she cried, "it's only a wee bannock. Catch it, and I'll give you a basin of milk with it." Up she gets with the tow-cards, and the tailor with the goose, and the two apprentices: the one with the shears and the other with the sleeve-board, but it eluded them all. The one apprentice made a snap at it with the shears, but he fell into the ash-pit. The tailor threw the goose and his wife the tow-cards; but it wouldn't do; the bannock got away and ran till it came to a little house by the road-side, into which it ran. There was a weaver sitting on his loom, and his wife was winding a skein of yarn. "Kitty," said he, "what's that?" "Oh," said she, "it's a wee bannock." "It's welcome," said he, "for our pottage was rather thin to-day. Catch hold of it, my Girl; catch it." "Yes, that I will," said she. "How now! why that's a clever bannock. Stop it, Willie; stop it, Man." But it wouldn't be stopped, and away it went over the hillock and ran into the nearest house, straight up to the fire-side. There was the good wife churning, and she said, "Come along, my wee Bannock. I have cream, but no bread." However the bannock dodged round the churn, and she after it, till she nearly upset the churn, and before she could steady it the wee bannock was off, down by the side of the stream into the mill. The miller was sifting meal; but when he looked up and saw the bannock, he said, "It's a sign of plenty when you're running about like that and no one to look after you. But I like a bannock and cheese, so come here, and I'll give you a night's lodging." But the bannock wouldn't trust itself with the miller and his cheese, so it turned and ran out again, and the miller didn't trouble himself about it. This time it rolled on gently till it came to a smithy, and in it ran up to the anvil. The smith, who was making horse-nails, said, "I like a stoup of good ale and a well-toasted bannock, so you are just the thing for me." But the bannock was frightened when it heard him talk of the ale, so it ran off as hard as it could split, and the smith after it, but all to no purpose; for it was out of sight in a crack, and it ran on till it came to a farm-house. In it went up to the fire-side, where the farmer was plaiting straw ropes. "Why, Janet," he cried, "here's a bannock. I'll have the half of't." "Well, John, and I the other half." But neither could get hold of it, and off it was, up one side of the hill and down the other, to the nearest house, and in it went up to the fire. The good folks were just sitting down to supper. "Shut the door," cried the good woman, "for here's a wee bannock come in to warm itself by our fire, and it's just in time for supper." When the bannock heard this it ran all about the house, and got out at last, when it ran faster and faster till it got to another house. As it ran in the folk were just going to bed. The goodman was taking off his breeches, and his wife raking out the fire. "What's that?" cried he. "It's a wee bannock," said his wife. "I could eat the half of it for all the supper I had," said he. "Catch hold of it," cried she, "and I'll have a bit too. Throw your breeches at it--there, stop it--stop it!" The goodman threw his breeches at it and nearly buried it, but it got away and out of the house. The goodman ran after it; and now a regular chase began, round the house, through the garden, across the fields on to a common among the furze, where he lost it, and he had to trot home again half naked. It had now grown quite dark, and the wee bannock could not see an inch before it, so by mistake it got into a fox's hole. Now the fox had had no meat for two days, so it made a snap at the bannock and it was gone in an instant. It would seem as if there were little use in the wee bannock having escaped so many dangers, but not so, for all its pursuers could do very well without it, whereas the poor fox had fasted two days and must have been really hungry. [Illustration: _The Bannock Hunt._] XXIX. _Jock and his Mother._ There was once a widow who had a son, and she called him Jock. Now, one day she said to him, "You are a lazy fellow, but now you must go out and earn something in order to help me." "I'll do that willingly," said Jock. So away he went, and fell in with a pedler, who said to him, "If you'll carry my pack all day, I'll give you a needle at night." He carried the pack all day, receiving the needle at night; and as he went on his way home to his mother, he cut a bundle of rushes and put the needle in the middle of them. When he got home his Mother said to him, "What have you done, and brought home to-day?" "I met with a pedler," said Jock, "and carried his pack for him, for which I received a needle, which you may look for among the rushes." "Out upon you, for a blockhead," said his Mother, "you should have stuck it in your cap." "I'll mind that another time," said Jock. The next day he overtook a man carrying plough-shares, and the man said to him, "If you'll help me to carry my plough-shares during the day, I'll give you one for yourself at night." "Agreed," said Jock. So at night he gets a plough-share, which he sticks in his cap. On his way home he was thirsty, so he went down to the river to have a drink, and as he stooped the plough-share fell out of his cap and was lost in the water. He then went home, and his Mother said to him, "Well, Jock, what have you been doing to-day?" And when he told her she cried out, "How stupid you are, Jock! you should have tied a piece of string to it and trailed it after you along the ground." "Well, I'll mind that another time," said Jock. Off he started the next morning and fell in with a butcher. "If you'll be my servant for the day," he said, "I'll give you a leg of mutton at night." "That is a bargain," said Jock. And after serving his day out he got a leg of mutton, to which he tied a piece of string and dragged it after him through all the dust and dirt. When his Mother saw him she exclaimed, "Will you never grow wise? You should have carried the leg of mutton on your shoulder." "Well, Mother, another time I shall know better," was his answer. The next day he went out as usual, and he met a horse-dealer. He said, "If you will help me with my horses during the day, I'll give you one at night." "I'll do that," said Jock. So after serving him he received a horse as his day's wages. He tied the animal's feet together, but was not able to lift it up; so he left it and went home to his mother, whom he told how he had tried to do as she bid him, but that he could not lift the horse on to his shoulder to carry it. "Oh, you born idiot!" she cried; "could you not have jumped on its back and ridden it home?" "I'll not forget that the next time," he promised. The next day he overtook a drover driving some cattle to a neighbouring town, and the drover said to him, "If you'll help me safely to the town with my cattle, I'll give you a cow for your trouble." This Jock agreed to; and when he got his promised cow he jumped on to its back, and taking its tail over his shoulder, he galloped along, in high glee, towards home. [Illustration: _Jock's Cure for Melancholy._] Now there was a very rich man who had an only daughter, and she had such fits of melancholy that it was sad to see her; so that, after trying every remedy and consulting all the quacks in the country, he had it publicly announced that whoever could make her laugh should have her for his wife. Though she was young and beautiful no one had been found to cure her, and she was sitting in a very melancholy state, at the window, when Jock came galloping along on his cow, which seemed so highly ridiculous to her that she burst out laughing. Well, according to her father's promise, she was married to Jock, and a grand wedding it was, and a grand supper was prepared for the guests; but of all the delicacies Jock was most pleased with some honey he had eaten. Now, after all the company had departed, excepting the old priest that had married them, and who had fallen asleep by the kitchen fire, Jock, who could not forget the honey, said to his bride, "Is there any more of that delicious honey we had for supper?" "Yes," she answered, "you will find plenty more in jars in the kitchen cupboard." So he went into the kitchen, where the lights had been put out, and all had gone to bed, excepting the priest, who was sleeping by the fire; and he found the honey jars. He thrust his hand into one of the jars to get at some of the honey, but his hand would not come out again, and he did not know what he should do, when he bethought him of breaking the jar on the hearth-stone. Now, as already said, the kitchen was in darkness; and Jock, mistaking a large white wig, which the priest wore, for the hearth-stone, gave the poor man such a whack on the head with the honey jar that he screamed out murder; and Jock, frightened out of his senses, ran out and hid himself among the bee-hives. That very night, as luck would have it, some thieves came to steal the bee-hives, which they bundled into a large plaid, and Jock with them without knowing it. Off the thieves ran with their booty on their backs, and when they came to the brook where Jock had dropped the plough-share, one of them kicking his foot against it, cried out, "Here's a plough-share in the water." "That is mine," Jock cried from out of the plaid; and the thieves thinking it was a ghost on their backs, let the plaid, with its contents, fall into the water, and it being tied up Jock could not get out, so was drowned with all the bees. [Decoration] XXX. _The Irish Highwayman._ It was before the introduction of railways, into Ireland at any rate, that a certain Irish Bishop had occasion to visit Dublin. There was, no doubt, a public conveyance of some sort or another of which the good Bishop might have availed himself, but his lordship was a portly gentleman and fond of his ease; besides which his wife and daughter wished to make the journey with him, and they never would for a moment have listened to travelling in a dirty car or coach, so their own comfortable carriage was got ready. I said the Bishop was portly and fond of his ease, but by that I did not mean to infer that all bishops are stout, for I knew one who was a very lean man; nor did I mean that portly personages are all fond of their ease, that is, not more so than the rest of us are; nor do I now mean that a lean man does not appreciate comfort. Be that as it may, the Bishop in question had a handsome comfortable carriage which he thought he might as well use; and, indeed, as his lady and daughter were going with him, he had no choice, so the carriage was used and his lordship's horses too; and to save both, as well as the ladies, the journey was performed in easy stages. Now the Bishop was an advocate for a moderate amount of exercise, and for this reason, as well as to spare his horses as much as possible, he made a point of alighting from his carriage at the foot of the hills, and walking up to the top, unless, indeed, the hill proved too steep. On one occasion he had loitered behind admiring the scenery, which was particularly wild and beautiful, and the carriage had got out of sight. However, as it always waited for him at the top of the hill, that did not trouble him as long as he had only the difficulties of the road to contend with; but soon danger appeared in the shape of an ugly looking fellow, who, suddenly starting up from behind a heap of stones, stood right in front of him, effectually stopping his progress, which was particularly vexatious. From the appearance of the stranger the Bishop felt very much inclined to quicken his pace. [Illustration: _The Bishop and the Highwayman._] "What can I do for you, my good Man?" said the Bishop very civilly, and in his softest voice, for he did not like the look of the man, nor of a dangerous looking club he held in his hand. "As your Honour is so civil as to ask," the fellow said, "you may first of all give me your money, for I'm sartain sure so kind a gintleman would not like to see a poor fellow in distress, when you can relieve him by only putting your hand in your pocket." Civilly as he spoke he was a determined looking rascal, with whom it would evidently be of no use to argue, so the Bishop gave him what silver he had about him, hoping to get off with that; but he was mistaken, for the fellow had no sooner put it into his coat pocket than he said-- "Your Honour has made a mistake, for it's sure I am a thorough gintleman like you could not intend to give only a few paltry shillings. But I beg your Riverence's pardon, for I see now that you are an ornament of the blessed Church. It's some gold pieces you intended to give me; but it will save your Riverence trouble if you give me your purse." This was accompanied by a scarcely perceptible movement of the club, which however seemed a very convincing argument, for his lordship immediately produced his purse, which as quickly followed the silver into the capacious pocket. "I'm sorry to trouble your Honour, your Riverence I mane, any further, for I see you're in a hurry, and it's beg your pardon I do for the same; but I judge you're going to Dublin, and you can have everything in the big city for the asking; but here nothing can be got for love or money, and you see that I want a new coat and hat. Now I'm sure so kind a gintleman won't mind changing yours with me." "This is too much, my good Man," the Bishop said, driven to resistance by this extraordinary demand. "Recollect that you are breaking the laws of God and man, and think of the punishment in this world and the next. Be satisfied, for you have taken all my money, and my clothes I will not part with." "Now, sure," was the answer, "your Honor's Riverence makes a mistake, for you gave me that bit of money, and it is that very kindness makes me not believe that you mane to refuse me now. Pray consider, and I'll wait with pleasure for another answer, for I know you'll be sorry." He stepped back a few paces, and, as if to while away the time whilst waiting for the answer, he flourished his cudgel about, first over his head, then on one side and then on the other. What was to be done? The poor Bishop saw that help was hopeless and resistance equally so, and, after a few moments' hesitation, he took off his coat and hat, laying them on the heap of stones by his side. "Now, bless your Riverence," the fellow said, "I knew you would not refuse me; but after all your kindness I cannot allow you to be without a coat and hat. It would be neither comfortable nor dacent, and, therefore, just put on my coat. Indeed I'll not take a refusal," he continued, as the Bishop hesitated, and he helped his lordship on with his tattered garment. He then removed his unresisting victim's wig and placed his old hat on his head. "Now I hope you intend to let me go," the Bishop said. "I have one more favour to ask, and then I will bid your Riverence a very good morning. I must beg the loan of your watch till I have the honor of seeing you again, for there is no watch or clock for miles around, and it is very awkward, for I don't know when to be at my work, and I'm afraid of cheating my employer out of some of the time due to him. Your Honor can easily get another." "Will you never be satisfied? But beware of keeping me any longer, for there is my carriage close by, and the servants, whom I have only to call to my help." This the Bishop said in despair, pointing along the road as he spoke, but he had a quick reply. "Don't trouble yourself to call, for I saw your Riverence's carriage pass, and it is far out of hearing." This his lordship knew well, so he gave up his watch, and was at length allowed to depart. He hurried on, for he was afraid of another demand being made upon him, and it was not long before he reached his carriage. Much astonishment was caused by his extraordinary appearance, and after he had related his adventure his wife said to him: "Throw off that filthy coat, my Dear, for we shall soon reach a town where you can buy something more befitting you to wear." "Not so easily, my Dear," was his reply, "for I have not a shilling of money left." "Well, never mind," his wife said, "take off the nasty thing, for positively you cannot come into the carriage that figure. I'll give you my cloak to cover your shoulders." The good man was not used to resist his wife, so he took off the coat, throwing it upon the road. As he did so some silver fell out, which induced him to make his servant examine it, and to his joy and relief all his property was found in the pocket. The party reached Dublin without any further adventure, and a few days after received intelligence of the capture of the Highwayman. XXXI. _Fiddling Jackey._ There was once a little boy, who led a very unhappy life, for his father was tipsy from morning till night, and he had no mother to soothe and console him when he had met with ill-treatment, which happened almost daily. I cannot tell you exactly how long ago this was, but it must be a long, long time, for there were fairies then, and the birds, trees, and flowers sang and spoke, which you know has not happened within your recollection, at all events. Jackey's father, for Jackey was the little boy's name, was village musician, and had once played the violin remarkably well, but since he had taken to drinking had grown so careless that his scraping was a horror to all who could hear at all, that the dogs even howled in disgust, and probably in pain, for the noise they made was piteous in the extreme. Now, when the drunken fiddler reeled home at night, accompanied by the most dissolute of the village, the shouting of these, the horrid scraping of the fiddle, and the discordant chorus of some twenty or thirty dogs, made the more steady and respectable portion of the community tremble in their beds, with some undefined fear. All this, you must know, happened in Germany, where in every cottage of the villages there is, at least, one dog, and where the watchman, who is generally the swineherd as well, no doubt was not over sober himself, and more likely to add to the noise than stop it. Though the fiddler was a sad reprobate, and his playing of the worst description, he was tolerated; for the fact is that the most of the elder portion of the villagers cared only for drinking, and the younger ones thought of nothing but dancing; so he was good enough for them after all. His disorderly life and cruelty had killed his poor wife, Jackey's mother, who would have looked upon death as a real blessing, had she not feared for the future of her young son; however, Jackey, who was eight years old, had the thoughtlessness of youth and good health to support him, though, it is true, he cried bitterly after his father had been beating him, and felt sorrowful enough when he had not enough to eat, which happened but too often. Jackey still remembered the time when, though at rare intervals, his father played really well; and the sweet sounds of music had so entered his very soul that he felt a secret consolation within him, amidst all his troubles. This love of music, though it consoled him, occasionally caused him more bitter sorrow than the most cruel beatings; for when he looked at the violin, hanging against the wall, neglected and covered with mud, he thought of the sweet sounds that were still within it, though there was no one to bring them out. Now, one day, when Jackey had been staring longer than usual at the violin, and his mind was filled with sad thoughts, his father happened to come in, and the poor boy, mustering up all his courage, said-- "My dear Father, do not be angry if I ask what the poor fiddle has done to you that you neglect it so? Take care or it will die too, as my dear good mother did, of a broken heart." The only answer to this was a sound thrashing; and, as the beating had been more severe than usual, so Jackey cried longer and more bitterly, all by himself, for his father had gone again; but, as the pain grew less, his crying was not so violent nor loud; then he thought he heard a voice, like sobbing, come from the wall. There was no mistaking it, the sobbing proceeded from the violin, and Jackey's tears burst forth afresh; but there must be an end to all things, and when he had become calmer, he got on a chair, so as to be nearer the instrument, and whispered-- "My dear Fiddle, you pity me, and now I have a friend in the place of my good lost mother. But you, too, I am afraid, are not more happy than she was. Tell me if I can do anything for you." "I do pity you," the violin answered, "for you are a good boy, and I wish to console you for the loss of your mother, and make you forget all the hardships you have to suffer. At the same time, you can do me a very great service. Take me down, and when you have cleaned me and put me in proper order, I will teach you how to make me sing again, better than ever I used to do. Then I shall be happy, and you, my poor Boy, will forget your sorrow, for I know that sweet sounds will console you in all your troubles." [Illustration: _The neglected Fiddle repining._] Jackey said, sorrowfully, "Oh, how I wish to make you happy! But if I take you down, my father will beat me, and, what is worse, perhaps, in his passion, throw you against the wall, and dash you to pieces." "Be not afraid, but do as I tell you," the violin answered; "you know that your father is at the tavern all day long till dusk, when he comes to fetch me, and if, by chance, he does come in, he never notices anything. I promise you no harm shall happen to you; so take me down and carry me, with the bow, into the forest, where, by the side of the stream, I will teach you how to make me bring forth sweet sounds." "You know better than I do what is safe to do, so I will take you to the forest, as you tell me." As he said this, Jackey took down the violin, and having cleaned and tuned it, according to its own directions, he carried it and the bow into the forest, where he seated himself by the side of the rivulet. The breeze played between the leaves and branches of the trees, the leaves and branches rustled, the birds sang sweetly, the stream murmured softly, and all seemed to say-- "Welcome, Jackey! welcome to the forest!" "Oh, how delightful it is here!" Jackey cried; "and now, my dear Fiddle, teach me to imitate all these sweet sounds." The violin told him how to hold the bow and where to place his fingers; and all the birds came round him, first one whistling a note till he could imitate it, and then another giving him the next note, and so on; the rivulet, too, and the wind assisted; and then came the nightingale and taught him how to join the different notes together, that they might harmonize and form sounds agreeable to the ear. Jackey was so attentive, and did all so well, that the trees, the flowers, the stream, and all the birds cried out-- "Bravo, Jackey!" As soon as evening began to draw near Jackey put up his fiddle and prepared to go home, when all the voices, with one accord, cried-- "Come again soon, and we will sing together." Jackey went the very next day, and every succeeding day, and he made the flowers join in the universal harmony. His dear fiddle seconded him in all his endeavours, so that very shortly he imitated all the voices of the forest with the greatest accuracy. It happened about this time that the landlord of the village inn died, leaving a widow, who wished for nothing better than to give him a successor as speedily as possible; but though she was rich, and the business most thriving, yet no suitors appeared. Jackey's father, in his drunken moments, thought he would propose to the widow, for he said to himself that, when master of the inn, he could have as much drink as he liked without paying for it; but when a little more sober his courage failed him, for she was the veriest shrew, and the charms of her person were no more engaging than those of her character. Her hair was neither red, brown, nor black, but a sort of dirty coloured mixture of the three, and each hair seemed to go a different way. Her nose was very, very long, not projecting, but hanging down, like the beak of some of the small tribes of parrots. I think the love-birds have such beaks, but I can scarcely compare her to those, for certainly she had nothing of the love about her. Well, her nose, anyhow, was like a parrot's beak, but flattened down, and that on one side, or else it would have covered her mouth, which would have been no great harm, for that was as ugly a feature as any other, and not improved by having only half the due number of teeth, which, unlike the nose, stuck out instead of hanging down. Her eyes were like those of a cat, and one squinted awfully. Shaggy eyebrows and a pointed hairy chin complete her portrait. Her figure was long, lank, and shapeless--shapeless not meaning no shape at all, but an ugly shape. Most people have some redeeming qualities, or quality at least, but no one had yet discovered hers, and no one had been found bold enough to propose to the interesting widow, though she let it be clearly understood that she wished to remain a widow no longer. Jackey's father had so often made up his mind to make her an offer that at last his mind became familiarized to the horror, and if not in love with the widow, he was decidedly so with her beer and spirits; so one evening, having screwed up his courage to the highest pitch, he, in a few words, offered himself as a husband. The widow took but a few minutes to consider, that, though he was a drunken, worthless fellow, he was better than no husband at all; so she did not give him time to draw back, but accepted him with all his faults. The wedding followed with the least possible loss of time, and the guests drank deeply to the health and happiness of the bride and bridegroom, but the happy husband drank more than any of them. This was a happy beginning; but how short-lived is happiness, for to his this was not only the beginning but also the end. How changed was everything the very next day! Beer and spirits were carefully locked up, and the poor fiddler was put under the water-cure treatment, and this was the first of a series of strictly sober days. He did not resign himself to petticoat government without a struggle, but in every way she was more than his match. Adversity is the bitterest of all medicines, but frequently acts most beneficially on the soul, if not on the body. So it proved with the fiddler, for though, during the first few days of his new life, his temper was sourer than ever, by degrees his spirit was broken, and the outbursts of passion became less frequent. Passion was of no avail, for it never gained him his object, and his amiable spouse still remained his better half. Example had its effect also, for as he daily suffered from his wife's intolerable temper, her unamiability, which at first roused his anger, now caused disgust and horror, and occasionally he could not help reflecting that in many respects he had been like her. As yet the improvement in his character was involuntary, forced upon him, as it were, and failed to soothe his mind and feelings; but Jackey, being treated with less harshness, began to feel for the first time that he had a father. The good boy, looking on his father now without fear, saw the dejection he was constantly labouring under, and, as much as he had dreaded and almost abhorred the harsh brutal man, he now pitied his suffering father, so that he took every opportunity to get near to him, sometimes venturing a remark; and one day, when he saw him in a particularly desponding mood, he fetched the violin and played the voices of the forest to him. Jackey's father was at first bewildered by the tender emotions to which his heart had so long been a stranger, but as the sweet sounds continued, it seemed as if his nature were changed and a new life dawned upon him. He clasped his son to his breast and burst into tears. When he became a little calm, he said-- "How beautifully you play, Jackey! How did you learn? But why inquire? You have always been a good boy, and kinder, better spirits than those of the earth, seeing you so neglected by your unnatural father, have taken compassion on you. I have led a bad life, but now I see my faults, and I will be always kind to you, my Son. Oh, Jackey, your good mother will forgive me for all my past cruelty when she sees how I watch over her dear child!" "Dear Father," Jackey said, "my dear, good mother, who is in heaven, forgives you now. Oh, if she were but here to share our happiness!" "Play me that tune once more," his Father said, "and then we will go to your step-mother, and I will beg and pray of her to send you to school, for I can do nothing, my poor Boy." They went to that amiable lady, with whom, however, all prayers were in vain. She said she would not spend a farthing of her money on father or son, but that Jackey should be a shoemaker; that she would send him to her brother, who was a shoemaker in a neighbouring village, where he would soon be broken of his idle habits. Jackey said he would not be a shoemaker; whereupon she gave him a slap on the face, which made his ears sing and bright spots dance before his eyes, promising at the same time to break his fiddle over his head. Jackey, however, was none the less determined not to be a shoemaker, and his only trouble was how to keep the dear fiddle out of her way. The next morning very early he was waked by a kiss from his father, who said-- "Get up quickly, my Boy, and dress yourself, for I cannot do anything for you here, not even protect you, and it will be better to trust to the kindness of strangers than go to that cruel woman's brother, who no doubt is as bad as herself. We must part, my dear Jackey, but I do not fear for you, for wherever you play the airs you played me yesterday, you will be sure to find friends. Take your fiddle then, and wander forth into the world, and if you remain a good boy, as you have hitherto been, God will watch over you and protect you. Make haste; and in the meantime I will see what I can find to eat for you to take with you." Jackey was ready when his father returned with some provisions done up in a bag. "Now follow me," he said, "and take care that you do not make any noise, so that no one may hear us." They got out safely and went straight to the forest, where Jackey's Father stopping, said to him, "You are now safe out of the clutches of your wicked stepmother, and we must part; but, my dear Boy, we will put our trust in Providence, and, if my life is spared a few years longer, I shall see you again, for when you prosper in the world, and prosper you will, my Son, you will not forget your old father." "Let me remain with you, my dear Father," Jackey said, "for you are not happy, and I will try to cheer you with my fiddle. I do not mind my stepmother's cruelty." "No, my Child, it must not be," his Father answered, "I have deserved my fate, and will try and bear it with resignation; but fortune awaits you in the world, far from here. Do not cry; and now, with my blessing on you, we must part." He pressed his son to his breast, and turned back without uttering another word. Jackey watched him till he was out of sight, and then sadly went on his way into the forest, he knew and cared not whither. After a time he reached the very spot, by the side of the rivulet, where he had first sat with the violin and listened to the voices of the forest; and as he seated himself, the rustling in the trees and the murmuring of the stream joined with the different notes of the birds in forming the harmony of music. The sadness of his heart gradually became softened, and, taking the violin out of the bag in which he always kept it, he again imitated the various sounds he heard, the birds vieing with each other to teach him something new. Returning cheerfulness and the freshness of the air reminded Jackey that he had not yet eaten anything, so he made a good breakfast off the provisions put up by his father, not forgetting to give some crumbs to the birds that gathered about him; and with a light heart he continued his journey deeper into the forest. He thus wandered on all day, and neither found the time long, nor was he weary; for there was constantly something new to see, and hear, and imitate upon his dear fiddle. The sun had sunk below the horizon, tingeing a few feathery clouds with a beautiful pink, and the little wanderer saw no end to the forest; but that did not trouble him, and he chose a soft mossy spot for a bed, on which he lay down, and was soon fast asleep, forgetful of time and everything else. Nothing disturbed his quiet slumbers till about midnight, when a sudden light flashing across his eyes awakened him. He started up, and saw it as light as day all around. Yet it was not daylight; it was more like the light of the moon, but milder and warmer. He looked through some bushes, where the light seemed strongest, and stood transfixed with amazement at what he saw. Hundreds of the most lovely beings were dancing in a circle, whilst thousands of others seemed to fill the air around. Some were sitting, swinging backwards and forwards, on the different flowers, whilst others, in countless numbers, appeared gliding up and down the rays of light. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful as the little aerial beings before him. Though so very small--for they were not nearly the size of Jackey--their forms were fully developed, and of the most exquisite elegance and grace. The maidens in particular, who seemed all of the age of seventeen or eighteen, were lovely in the extreme. Jackey knew they must be fairies; and two of the number who were a little taller, and, if possible, more beautiful than the rest, besides that they wore silver crowns, he judged to be the king and the queen. Dazzled by the light and the beauty of the scene before him, he was for a time lost in admiration; but gradually the sweet tones, as the fairies sang, gained the ascendancy, and all the other senses seemed absorbed by that of hearing. As the fairies danced, they sang, and were joined by thousands of other voices--in sounds, now of the most lively merriment, then softly till they became solemn, when again they burst forth in the wildest strains. The dance never ceased; but as some withdrew from the ring their places were taken by others, who began the song anew. Jackey had no knowledge of time, whether the music continued for minutes only or for hours; however, it became fainter and fainter till it melted away, and he found himself in darkness; but long, long after he lay down again it seemed as if he still heard the fairy song, and when he awoke in the morning it still sounded in his ears. [Illustration: _The Sight Jackey saw._] "How lovely!" Jackey exclaimed; "oh, could I but imitate those sweet sounds!" "Try," the violin said from its bag. "Well thought," Jackey cried; and taking it out, immediately began to play the fairy song. He played it over and over again, and each time better, till at length he said, kissing his dear violin, "Well done, Fiddle, we can do it now." Then Jackey ate his breakfast, and having tried the song once more, he resumed his wanderings through the forest. He stopped several times to play the fairy song again, trying also his other tunes, to see that they had not been driven out of his memory by these still sweeter sounds; and having had his breakfast very early, had made a finish of his stock of provisions, but that did not trouble him, though there seemed no end to the forest. About mid-day, however, he began to feel hungry again, and hastened his steps, in hopes of finding some outlet from the forest, or at least some woodman's hut. He began to feel some anxiety for the future; but he did not despair, for he was a good boy, and put his trust in Providence. The birds sang merrily, as if to cheer him; and soon he saw that the forest became lighter, nor was it long before he found himself on the highway, and at no great distance stood a village. Anxious as he was to reach some human habitations, when he was outside the forest he turned round to bid it farewell, and thank his dear birds for their kindness to him. A farewell sounded back, and cheerfully he went on his way to the village. He remembered his father having said that wheresoever he played he would be sure to find friends; and no sooner did he reach the first houses, than he took out his violin and began to play. First he played the voices of the forest, and soon all the people were at their windows and their doors, listening to him; but when he played the fairy song, they came out and surrounded him, and he had to begin again and again. There was now a contest amongst the principal inhabitants of the village who should take the wonderful boy to their home, when the clergyman and his wife carried him off. Jackey would not accept their kindness without telling them that he could not stay long, for his father had sent him to seek his fortune in the world, that his father was not happy at home, and that he was going back to fetch him as soon as he had made his fortune. The good people promised that they would not keep him longer than he felt inclined to remain with them. They were, however, so kind that week after week still found him there, and he was so intelligent and docile that every one loved him. Living now with people of good education, Jackey soon felt his ignorance, and applied himself so diligently to his studies, in which he was assisted both by the clergyman and his wife, that he made rapid progress. He did not neglect his music, and frequently went back into the forest--no one interfering with his wanderings. Neither did he forget his father, nor give up the intention of seeking his fortune in the world, though he was delayed by the persuasion of his kind protectors, who, however, gave their consent to his departure after he had been with them about a year, providing him with every necessary for his journey, as also with a small supply of money. Jackey had improved as much in person as in mind, but retained his former innocent simplicity of heart and kindly feelings, so that his feathered friends loved him still, and he was as happy as the day was long. He visited one country after another, passing from village to village, and from town to town; and wherever he played, both old and young surrounded him, and every one was ready to befriend him. Thus year after year passed away, and Jackey had grown to be a tall, handsome youth of about nineteen, with flowing black hair, large dark eyes, and an expression of cheerfulness and good humour. His playing was celebrated far and wide, but, more particularly, when he played the fairy song every one was carried away by admiration and surprise. In each country he visited many inducements had been held out to detain him; but a secret impulse drew him on till he came to a large and powerful kingdom, which he found plunged in the deepest mourning; for not only had the queen just died, but the most beautiful of princesses, her daughter, was brought to the very verge of death by grief at the loss of her beloved mother. Her royal father, whose only child she was, in the utmost despair, had promised half his kingdom to the physician who should save her; but the only remedy the most learned could propose was any excitement that would distract her from her grief, for it was that alone that was consuming her. This remedy was beyond their art, and the king proclaimed that whoever cured the princess should be the inheritor of his throne and the husband of his daughter, if she consented to marry him. Jackey, on hearing this proclamation, determined to try what his art could do to cure the princess, since all that was required was to enliven her, and make her forget her grief. He trusted that, with the help of Providence, he should succeed; and that, if even the princess would not marry him, which he scarcely dared to hope, he might still receive a reward sufficient to secure his old father's future happiness, besides having the consolation of saving the life of a young lady universally beloved. He went boldly to the palace, where he was immediately admitted, on stating what his errand was; for the king had given orders not to refuse admittance to any one, however humble, who came to cure his daughter. [Illustration: _Jackey playing to the Princess._] The king was much surprised and disappointed when he saw Jackey; but after he had received an explanation of the means intended to be employed, he became more reconciled, and ordered him to be conducted to the princess's apartment. Jackey gazed with admiration at the beautiful form before him; and to the interest he before felt was added pity, for the princess lay in bed with closed eyes and so pale as if death had already laid its icy hand upon her. He felt that he would willingly lay down life itself to restore colour and animation to that lovely face, and determined to exert his utmost skill in her behalf. First he played the voices of the forest--the soft breeze gliding through the leaves, the low murmur of the stream, and the gentle warbling of the birds; then, as the princess's attention was attracted, he made his violin speak louder and louder, and the Princess exclaimed, "How came I into the forest? Oh! how delightful it is! Sing on, you darling birds!" At length she opened her eyes, and sitting up in the bed, looked about her in amazement. Jackey now played the fairy song; and when he had finished, she said--"Go on, gentle Youth, I entreat you. You have been sent by heaven to call me back to life." She sank back upon her pillow, and as Jackey continued to play, she fell into a soft sleep, with a smile on her lovely face. The king, having been informed of all that had happened, hastened to his daughter's room; and the calm expression of her features, together with the assurance of the head physician that all danger had now passed over, made him, for the moment, forget all his sorrow; and embracing Jackey, he assured him of his everlasting gratitude. The next day the princess awoke, restored to health; and when her preserver was presented to her by the king, she received him with the sweetest smile, and thanked him in the kindest terms. But that was not all Jackey's reward; for when the princess was told of the promise made by her royal father to whoever should save her life, she declared herself ready to fulfil that promise, as soon as the time of mourning for her departed mother had passed. They were, however, betrothed before the whole court, and the king publicly proclaimed that, next to himself, Jackey should be the first in the land. An establishment in every way befitting a prince of the royal blood was appointed him, and he lived in the closest intimacy with the king and his amiable daughter. Jackey, however, in all his splendour, and by the side of his future bride, did not forget his old father, nor the promise he had made him; so he begged permission of the king to go and visit him, which was immediately granted. He set out on his journey to the village where he was born, attended by a numerous retinue, travelling day and night till he reached the forest where he had learned the first notes of music, the foundation of all his fortune. He remembered all the trees, but the whole generation of birds that had known him had long since died. In his heart, however, he thanked them for their kindness, and in remembrance of them he passed on in silence, having left his attendants at the beginning of the forest. His heart beat with anxiety and fear, lest his father should no longer be living, for it was more than ten years since he had left his home; but when he reached the stream where he had first sat in the forest he saw an old man sitting by its side. Jackey immediately recognized his father, but the old man did not see him, for he was plunged in sorrow. Wiping a tear from his eyes, he said, "Am I never to see my dear Jackey again? For how many years have I come here every day, till gradually all his friends have died off--and he, too, I am afraid, must be dead; and I am the cause of his death, for it was I persuaded him to go out into the world." Jackey now took out his violin, which he had carried with him, and played the tune with which he had first soothed his father's grief. The old man recognized the notes, and he cried out, "That is my own Jackey! Come to my arms, my dear Boy!" It was long before either could find words; but then the old man told him that his stepmother was dead; and Jackey related all his adventures, and his present happiness and splendour. Jackey went with his father to the village; but the next day he had him removed to where he had left his followers, and they all returned, without loss of time, to the king, and Jackey's future wife. Jackey and his father were received with great rejoicings, and when the time of mourning for the late queen was over, Jackey was married to the lovely princess, with whom he spent a long life of happiness and peace, reigning with justice and wisdom over the kingdom after the king and his own old father were dead. [Decoration] XXXII. _Teeny-Tiny._[1] [1 From Halliwell's "Nursery Stories."] Once upon a time there was a teeny-tiny woman, who lived in a teeny-tiny house in a teeny-tiny village. Now one day this teeny-tiny woman put on her teeny-tiny bonnet, and went out of her teeny-tiny house to take a teeny-tiny walk. And when this teeny-tiny woman had gone a teeny-tiny way she came to a teeny-tiny gate, and went into a teeny-tiny church-yard. And when this teeny-tiny woman had got into the teeny-tiny churchyard she saw a teeny-tiny bone on a teeny-tiny grave, and the teeny-tiny woman said to her teeny-tiny self, "This teeny-tiny bone will make me some teeny-tiny soup for my teeny-tiny supper." So the teeny-tiny woman put the teeny-tiny bone into her teeny-tiny pocket, and went home to her teeny-tiny house. Now when the teeny-tiny woman got home to her teeny-tiny house she was a teeny-tiny tired; so she went up her teeny-tiny stairs to her teeny-tiny bed, and put the teeny-tiny bone into a teeny-tiny cupboard. And when this teeny-tiny woman had been to sleep a teeny-tiny time she was awakened by a teeny-tiny voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard, which said--"Give me my bone!" At this the teeny-tiny woman was a teeny-tiny frightened, so she hid her teeny-tiny head under the teeny-tiny clothes, and went to sleep again. And when she had been asleep a teeny-tiny time the teeny-tiny voice again cried out from the teeny-tiny cupboard a teeny-tiny louder--"Give me my bone!" This made the teeny-tiny woman a teeny-tiny more frightened, and she hid her teeny-tiny head a teeny-tiny further under the teeny-tiny clothes. And when the teeny-tiny woman had been to sleep again a teeny-tiny time the teeny-tiny voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard said again a teeny-tiny louder--"Give me my bone!" [Illustration: _The Teeny-tiny Woman's Fright._] And this teeny-tiny woman was a teeny-tiny bit more frightened, but she put her teeny-tiny head out of the teeny-tiny clothes, and said in her loudest teeny-tiny voice--"Take it!" [Decoration] XXXIII. _The Cannibal Cow._ It was in the year ----. But why should I insult you by being more particular in date than that it was during the Irish rebellion, when, one dreadfully stormy night, old Goff, with his wife, daughter, and only son, Tim, were sitting in the kitchen, which not only served as general sitting-room, but was also the old couple's bed-room? The wind howled and blew in gusts, shaking the windows and doors as one without, in a hurry to get in, amongst whose virtues patience could not be numbered. "This is a fearful night," old Goff said, "and fearful work, may be, is going on just now; for I heard from neighbour Flanagan that the red-coats have been seen in the neighbourhood. Go, Tim, and see that all the doors are well fastened; and when the old woman has given us our supper, we'll get to bed, for that is the safest place these times." The old man had no sooner spoken than there was a tap at the door--at first, gentle; as, however, neither father nor son moved, but sat staring at each other in fear and trembling, the knocking grew louder and louder. At length Tim whispered, "Hadn't you best go to the door, Father, for that will impose upon them more, if it's thaves they are, and show more respect, like, if it's the red-coats?" "No, no, my Son!" the old man whispered back, "you go; for then they will see that you are safely at home, like a steady lad, and not out with those wild boys, who are the cause of all these troubles. Go, my Son; but don't open the door, for the life of ye, but ask the gintlemen, civil, Who might be there, and what they might be wanting?" There was no help for it, so poor Tim crept to the door, and, after listening whether he heard the cocking of pistols or the clanking of swords, mustered courage to ask who was there. "And who should it be, sure," was answered from without, "but Paddy, auld Paddy the Piper? Och! then let me in, darlint, that I may warm and dry mesel', for it's caulder than the 'Squire's greetin', and as damp as the say itsel'." [Illustration: _A Terror-stricken Household._] Without answering him, Tim ran back to his father, who, in the mean time, had put out the light, and had got as far as the kitchen-door to listen. Now Tim, in his hurry, rushed upon the old man, who went rolling down, and Tim, to save himself, caught hold of the table, which he upset, and he himself fell sprawling upon the floor. Not being hurt, he went to help his father, who was shouting thieves and murder, and it was some time before his son could convince him that the place was not full of thieves, but that it was only Paddy the Piper who wanted to come in. "Nay, lave me in pace," he said, as Tim tried to raise him up, "for I'm dead, sure!" "But what about Paddy?" Tim asked. "And are ye sure it's Paddy it is, and that it is by himself he is?" And then the old man added--"If it's the Piper himself, I think bad not to give him the bit and the sup; but ye mustn't let him in, Tim, for sure it's Paddy has a baddish name, and if he's found here we shall all swing for't. But take the kay, my Boy, and let him into Katty's shed, where he can be as comfortable, like, as the priest himself in his own bed, and he shall not go without his supper." Now Katty, you must know, was old Goff's best and favourite cow, and as such had a shed to herself, to which Tim led the Piper; and when Paddy had a good large mug of whisky, he forgot that he was wet and cold. We will not assist at old Goff's recovery from being "murthered quite," but suppose him, as well as the others, safely in bed; and as we shall be busy with the Piper we will not disturb them till the morning. Paddy was so warm and comfortable after his supper, but more particularly after the whisky, that he felt one drop more would make him the happiest man in all Ireland; but he dared not risk offending old Goff by disturbing him again, for he always found a good friend in him when his wanderings took him that way. What was to be done? He tried to sleep, but it would not do; though it was not the want of a bed that troubled him, for it was little Paddy knew of that, except by name, and, indeed, Katty gave him the best of accommodation; but yet the comfort was fast oozing out of him. Now Paddy had a friend who, quietly and quite in private, distilled the best of spirit, and there was no fear of his being in bed--at least, not at night. True, he lived full four miles off, and most of the way lay across a dreary bog; but now that Paddy was once with him in imagination he found less rest than ever. Tim had carefully locked Katty's door; but, though old, the Piper was still active, so made nothing of clambering up to a hole in the roof--for where is the shed or cabin to be found in Ireland that has not a hole in the roof? if, indeed, what should be the roof is not one big hole. In dear old Ireland everything is old, excepting the hearts and spirits of its people. Once outside the shed, Paddy made the best of his way towards his friend's; and expectation giving strength and activity to his legs, he ran briskly on, when, all at once, he was brought to a stand--not because he was out of breath from running, but from astonishment at the fruit borne by a sturdy old tree he had just reached. A man, well and securely hanged, was dangling from a branch of the tree, with his toes most provokingly just beyond reach of the ground. Paddy peered at him through the dark, to see which of his friends it was, and then addressed him thus:--"Och! Murphy, me lad! and is it yerself I run my nose agin here in the dark? but I forgie yer for not gettin' out o' the way, seeing that yer movements are not quite yer own. Now tell me what has brought yer here in this ugly fix? But how's this?" he continued, examining his friend still more closely--"and was it for this dance yer put on them iligant boots? Why, Murphy, I shouldn't know yer if I didn't see that it's yerself! But now," Paddy continued, talking to himself, "his dance is over, and what will he be wanting with his boots? I'm sartain he won't mind if I borrow them, for sure me own brogues are none of the best. But why, my auld Friend," he said, again addressing the hanging man, "why didn't yer put on yer Sunday best intirely, for yer no better than a scarecrow dangling there?" Paddy examined himself from head to foot, and then, shaking his head, he muttered--"No, I canna better mesel', 'cepting with the boots, which I'll make bold to take, trusting poor Murphy won't feel his feet cauld." After thus alternately soliloquising and addressing his friend, Paddy set himself to work to pull off the dead man's boots, but they resisted all his efforts. He took it good-humouredly and out of humour, but with equally bad success, and at length went on his way; but he could not make up his mind to resign such a splendid piece of good fortune, so he returned after he had gone a few steps, and made another attempt. The boots, however, remained immoveable, and losing all patience, he exclaimed, "Bad luck to them!" and taking out a large knife he carried with him, cut off the legs just above the boots, thinking that, more at his leisure, he would be able to clear them out. His plans were now altered, and instead of going on to his friend, he returned to Katty's shed, carefully carrying his new acquisition under his arm. He found no difficulty in getting back into the shed, but the difficulty of freeing the boots from the feet and portion of the legs that remained in them was increased rather than lessened; and at length Paddy fell asleep over his unaccomplished task. When he awoke day was already beginning to dawn, and as he wanted to be early at a small town, some six miles off, where there was to be a fair, he had no time to lose; so he quickly got out of the shed, leaving the boots behind him as useless--his friend Murphy's feet pertinaciously keeping possession of them. Not long after, Tim went to fetch him to breakfast, to make up for the inhospitality of the previous night; for with returning light the courage of the family was restored, and, as is frequently the case with weak minds, day gave an appearance of security to that which night had shrouded in danger. What was his surprise to see the shed occupied by Katty alone; for he had found the door locked as he had left it the night before, and yet Paddy was nowhere to be seen. He never once thought of the hole in the roof, and was puzzled beyond measure. Paddy must be somewhere; so he looked in all the four corners of the shed, under the straw, and even under Katty herself, who was comfortably lying down. He now saw the boots, and was more puzzled than ever. He scratched his head, as people will do when the understanding is at fault, and during that process a horrible light burst upon him. He rushed out of the shed back to the kitchen, where, to the amazement of all, he let himself fall into old Goff's, just then, vacant chair, his mouth open, his hair erect, and his eyes nearly starting from his head. All exclaimed with one voice, "What in heaven's name has happened! What is the matter with you, Tim?" After gasping several times for breath Tim cried out, "Och, the unnatural baste! Och, the blood-thirsty cannibal! Poor Paddy! Och, the murthering brute!" "In the name of all the saints tell us what has happened!" his Father said; and after a few more incoherent sentences, Tim related how on going into the shed he could not find the Piper, though he could not have got out, for he had locked the door the night before, and found it still locked; how that, after looking all about, he had discovered the boots, but that Katty had eaten up poor Paddy. [Illustration: _Tim's Dismay at Katty's Cannibalism._] An exclamation of horror burst from all. "Every bit of him," Tim continued. "The blood-thirsty baste has eaten every bit of him. Not a morsel of poor Paddy is left but the boots." The rest were quite as much horrified as Tim himself, and not a word was uttered till his Sister, who first recovered something like self-possession, said, "Let us go and look once more, for it is almost too horrible to believe that Katty could do such a thing; she has always been such a good, gentle beast." "Och, the cannibal!" Tim muttered, with a shudder. "Tim," old Goff said, "I've heard that a cannibal is one man that eats another, and if so, perhaps Katty is not a cannibal; but, mind me, I'm not going to defend the unnatural baste if she has eaten the Piper. Did you say his pipes and all are gone? Take care and don't go too near the crittur, but take the pitchfork with you. Oh, that I should ever live to hear the like!" Most unwillingly Tim went back to the shed; but as his sister led the way he was ashamed to remain behind. However, when they got there Katty began bellowing with all her might, for she was unused to being neglected, and felt herself ill used that Tim should have been in without taking her her morning's food, and now finding herself again disappointed, she stared wildly at them. Both started back, and Tim cried, "See there, how wicked she looks! Is that the baste you say is so gentle? Sure she's dangerous, let's go back." The sister ventured in and took the boots, which she carried to the house. These told the tale but too clearly, and poor Katty had not a single voice raised in her favour. It was now discussed what should be done with the animal, for keeping her was out of the question. Who would drink the milk of such a beast! Besides, it was dangerous to go near her; and it was therefore settled that Tim should take her to the fair, which fortunately was held that very day, and sell her at any price. Suddenly they were startled by a loud bellowing from the shed, for during this time no one had thought of feeding the poor beast, and the next moment all were seized with the utmost consternation, for Katty appeared at the shed door and walked straight up towards the house. The kitchen was now a scene of the wildest confusion, for in their eagerness to seize upon any article of furniture that might serve as a weapon of defence, they rushed against each other; but Katty stopped at some fresh grass that was in a cart near the house, which indeed had attracted her. As soon, however, as she had taken the edge off her morning appetite she went to the window, for she was a sociable beast, and had always been accustomed to be noticed; but all the inmates of the kitchen were huddled together at the further end, and their terror is indescribable when she pushed the window open, for it had not been properly fastened. She, however, stood so quiet, and looked so gentle and mild, that after a time old Goff mustered courage to say, "Now that she has filled herself with grass she will perhaps not bite, so now is the time to secure her. Take the rope that is hanging up there, Tim, make a noose, and slip it quickly over her nose." As Tim hesitated, his Sister said, "I will go with you;" and then he did as he was directed, till, as he was about to slip the rope over her nose, she opened her mouth, thinking it was something for her to eat. Tim started back so suddenly that, losing his balance, he fell flat upon the floor, shouting for help, but his sister, catching hold of the rope, put it round Katty's nose; and when Tim saw that there was no danger he finished the work for her, tying the rope at least half-a-dozen times round the unresisting creature's jaws. Nothing now remained to be done but for Tim to get on his Sunday clothes, which did not take long, and poor Katty was led off, receiving much rougher treatment than she had been accustomed to. For a time Tim and Katty had the road to themselves, and were not over-pleasant companions, for to poor Katty all seemed strange; besides that she received many a blow from her guide, who was in anything but a good humour; and when they were joined by any one it made it none the more pleasant for Tim, who now found out all the difficulties he had to contend with, for he was not prepared with an answer when asked what was the reason why Katty was to be sold, or why her mouth was fastened up so. What could he answer, for, as he said to himself, "If I tell the truth who would buy the unnatural baste? And I won't let the people think we want money." His pride revolted at this; but it was evident he must be prepared with a more satisfactory answer than he had hitherto given, namely, that he did not know why his father intended to part with his cow, for he heard two farmers, who had lately joined the others, talking thus together. The one said, "Why, that is old Goff's favourite cow, sure it can't be it's selling her he is, for I heard that he was offered twelve pounds for her no longer than a fortnight ago, but he wouldn't sell her at any price." "May be it's gone dry she is," said the other. "No, she doesn't look like that." "Then it's money he wants. May be the rint isn't paid, and--" "No, it's not that," the first speaker interrupted him, "for old Goff is too close an old fist not to have plenty of money; but mark me, Neighbour, there's something wrong with her, sleek and fresh as she looks, and it isn't I that would be buying her at any price." Poor Tim was sadly puzzled, for it was impossible he could escape being asked all manner of questions, and he knew no more than his heels what to say. Then, too, he feared that no one would have her, and what should he do with her then. His worst fears were soon to be realized, for a new comer, who had heard the end of the conversation of the last two speakers, now said to him-- "Well, Tim, and what has the darling of your house done that you want to sell her? Is it fits she has, for there is something wild in her eye? Or it's vicious she is? Speak, Man, what is the matter with her?" To avoid unpleasant questions, Tim said, "It's too much trouble to my sister to attend to her, for it's my sister's cow she is." "And is it washing her face of a morning that's too much trouble to your sister?" Tim was now asked; "or perhaps combing her hair is troublesome, or may be it's cutting her corns your sister doesn't like; but come, Tim, that won't do, Man, for why is Katty more trouble than the other cows? Let me look at her, that I may see what ails her." He examined her all over; and, to Tim's horror, taking the rope from round her nose, looked into her mouth, but he could not discover one single fault in her, which only excited his suspicion the more. "May be you'd take five pounds for her?" And, as Tim eagerly assented, he continued, "You'll take five pounds for her, and your father just a day or two ago refused twelve. There's something in all this I can't make out, so go on with her, for I'll none of her. I'm not going to be tricked by you." Tim was now in utter despair. He saw plainly he must say that it was money they wanted. But would even that do, for his father had other cows, and why sell the one which everybody knew was the favourite? His only chance was to get rid of her to some one who did not know him, and he therefore hurried her on to the market. The market was very full, and, when he found himself surrounded by strange faces, he felt more at ease; however, no purchaser was found, and Tim began to feel not only impatient, but seriously uneasy, for Katty looked about her in a very suspicious manner, and he dreaded the consequences should she grow very hungry. He shuddered as he thought of the fate of poor Paddy, and, oh horror! just then he thought he saw Paddy himself in the distance. He could not take his eyes from the spot where he had seen the horrid apparition, though he trembled at the possibility of its reappearance. There it was again, beckoning to him. This was more than poor Tim could bear, and he rushed wildly out of the market, down the nearest turning, and out of the town. On he ran, not knowing where, pursued in imagination by poor Paddy's ghost, till out of breath, when he ventured to look back. He could run no more, for he was now transfixed to the spot by horror. Katty, with her mouth open, came full gallop after him, and quicker than the wind followed Paddy's ghost. He stood motionless till they were close upon him, and then fell senseless to the ground. When he recovered he found Paddy holding a pocket flask of whisky to his lips, whilst Katty was looking at him with the mildest expression of concern. "What were you doing in the market with Katty? And what, in heaven's name, induced you to run away as if possessed by a thousand devils?" Paddy said. "What does all this mean, Tim? Have you gone clean mad?" "And is it you, Paddy?" Tim asked; "or is it your ghost? For if it's your ghost I beg your honor ten thousand pardons for all the trouble I've given you, in making your honor run after me so far. And I beg your honor to forgive my auld father and mother, and my dear sister, and to forgive me too. And I humbly beg your honor will not haunt us, for it will be the bodily death of us all; but if we can do anything to give your blessid soul rest, tell me what it is and it shall be done. Where shall we bury your blessid feet? It was not our fault that this blood-thirsty baste, bad luck to it, ate you up last night, all but your honor's feet, bless them. Directly we found out the misfortune that had happened to your honor, for I went early to fetch you to the most iligant breakfast my mother could get ready, we all settled that the cannibal brute should no longer be one of our family, and I brought her to the market to sell. This is every word the blessid truth. So I beg your honor to forgive us, and may your soul rest in peace!" "Stop," Paddy cried, "or yer'll be the rale death o' me." It was now Paddy's turn to fall, and he rolled about on the ground convulsed with laughter, for he now saw what a mistake Murphy's boots had led to. When he had recovered himself enough to be able to speak, he told Tim how all had happened, and advised him to take Katty home again directly, which he did, and Katty became even a greater favourite with the whole family than ever she had been. XXXIV. _The Three Men of Gotham on Nottingham Bridge._ You, of course, know that the good people of Gotham have been particularly noted for their wisdom; but if, by chance, this should not form one of the items of your varied knowledge, the stories I am about to relate will leave no doubt on your minds as to the justice of the report. Whether it may be something in the air that has made these people so peculiarly gifted I cannot tell, for I must confess that I have never been at Gotham, and know absolutely nothing of the geological properties of the soil, or indeed of the neighbourhood in any way, excepting that Nottingham is the principal city of that part of the country. You probably know, as well as I can tell you, what Nottingham is noted for, so I will say nothing about it, particularly as what I might and could say would in no way help us in clearing up the mystery, namely, why the inhabitants of one particular place should be mentally gifted beyond others. If, indeed, we were considering Nottingham itself I might attempt some sort of an explanation, by telling you that a great part of the business of the town being shoemaking would perhaps account for a contemplative turn of its citizens, for shoemakers are supposed to be men of deep thought. Why this should be so is another mystery requiring to be cleared up, which I will leave to others to do, and only just remark, that there can be no doubt several cases of men of thought and talent among that class might be cited. I will only mention the German shoemaker, of whom perhaps you have heard, who wrote up over his shop,-- "Hans Saxs shoe Maker and poet too." That's not bad, particularly for a German. But to return to Gotham, with which a consideration of Nottingham has nothing to do. We all know particular individuals who are shining stars, and even families of stars we know, but still that does not tell us how and why there should be a whole community of such extraordinary lights. We have confessed our inability to explain this in the case of Gotham, and therefore let us take a liberal view of the matter, and suppose that from generation to generation the children inherited from their parents such a happy development of brain, that it was utterly impossible they could be anything but wise. It might be worth a phrenologist's while to go down there. But mind, I am only speaking of what the people of Gotham were, for, as I said, I know, personally, nothing of the place, and at the present day all may be materially altered. I cannot tell you exactly when it happened, but on a certain day, in a certain year, two men of Gotham met on Nottingham bridge. "Well met, Neighbour," said the one man, "whither are you going?" "I have just come from the market at Nottingham, and am going home to fetch my wife and child, whom I forgot," was the answer; "and pray where are you going, Neighbour?" "I'm going to the market at Nottingham to buy sheep," said the first man. "And which way do you intend to bring the sheep home?" asked the man who had come from Nottingham. "Over this bridge," answered he who was going thither. "But you cannot," said the one. "But I must," said the other. "But you shall not, Neighbour," said the man who was on his way home to fetch his wife and child. "And why shall I not, Neighbour?" asked he who was going to Nottingham to buy sheep. "You see," said the one, "that there is not room for my wife and child to pass, so keep them back, Man." "I care not," said the other, "my sheep shall pass, so let your wife and child stand back." "They shall not pass." "But they shall pass." "Woo! Woo! back there," shouted the one man, spreading out his arms and legs, as is done to keep sheep back. "Woo! Woo! get on there," shouted the other, flourishing his stick, and striking the ground first on one side and then on the other. "Take care, or you will drive them over my wife. But if she is hurt you shall pay the doctor's bill." "I will not pay the doctor's bill. But you take care, for if you make my sheep jump over the side of the bridge and they are drowned you shall pay for them." "I will not pay for them." "But you must pay for them." Whilst this dispute was going on another man of Gotham had ridden up, with a sack of meal behind him on his donkey, and hearing the quarrel between his neighbours about the one's wife, whom he had just seen safe at home, and about the other's sheep, when there were no sheep there, he got off his donkey and called to the two disputants to lift the sack of meal upon his shoulders. When they had done so, first untying the mouth of the sack, he emptied the meal over the side of the bridge into the river. Then, holding up the sack with the mouth down, before his astonished neighbours, he said,-- "Will you tell me how much meal there is in this sack?" [Illustration: _The Three Wise Gothamites._] "Why, none," both said, "since you have just emptied it out." "Well," he answered, "just so much wit is in your two heads when you dispute about wife and sheep, and neither wife nor sheep are here." Now which was the wisest of the three? [Decoration] XXXV. _The Man of Gotham and his Cheeses._ One hot summer's day a man of Gotham was on his way to Nottingham market to sell his cheeses, which he carried in a bag slung across his shoulder. He found the heat oppressive, and his load so troublesome, that he could not help bewailing his lot in the following words--"Unfortunate man that I am, why have I not a cart like neighbour Dobbins, or even a barrow like old Mathews? My good woman will make so many cheeses that I have no rest any market day. But now I have it; she is a shrewd woman, and I will propose to her to make the cheeses so that they can walk to market, and then I need only walk by the side of them, to see that they do not loiter or play by the way. I wonder she never thought of that." This bright idea consoled him and made him forget even his load for a time, but it weighed so heavily upon him that he was soon recalled to his misfortunes, and as he trudged along he constantly changed the bag from one shoulder to the other. Now with these frequent changes the mouth of the bag had got loose, and just as he reached the top of the hill, looking down upon the bridge and Nottingham in the distance, one of the cheeses fell out and rolled down the hill. He watched it for a time, and as it kept so well to the road, neither turning to one side nor the other, but jumping over the stones that lay in its way, he exclaimed in delight, "Well done, well done, keep on like that, my good friend, and you'll soon be at your journey's end! It was foolish of my old woman not to tell me that they could run by themselves, but now that I have found it out, I'm not going to carry the lazy things a step farther." Having come to this wise resolution he bundled the cheeses out of the bag, and, as they rolled down the hill, cried after them, "There, follow your companion; but you need not run so fast, for I shall rest myself a bit and then walk leisurely after you. Now, mind you all meet me in the market-place." He watched them with the greatest satisfaction as they ran down the hill and over the bridge, when, the road turning suddenly, they were lost to his sight; and then, too, they all left the road, some running into one bush and some into another, whilst the rest got no further than the ditch by the roadside. [Illustration: _The Gothamite and his Cheeses._] After a short rest the worthy man went on his way to Nottingham, without troubling his mind about the cheeses, as he fully expected to find them waiting for him in the market-place; but when he got there he was somewhat astonished to find that they had not yet arrived. "No doubt," he said to himself, "as soon as they were out of my sight they got to some of their games in some field or another. That is always the way, but they'll be here soon." When, however, the market time was nearly over, and the cheeses had not appeared, he inquired of the market people whether they had seen them. No one had seen his cheeses, and when he was asked who brought them he said,-- "No one brought them. Sure they were quite able to come by themselves, as you would say if you had seen them running along the road; but now I think of it, they were going at such a rate that they are no doubt half way on their road to York by now." So he hired a horse and rode off towards York to try and overtake them, but strange to say he did not overtake them, nor indeed did he ever see them again, nor hear any tidings of them. [Decoration] XXXVI. _Twelve Men of Gotham go out Fishing together._ Twelve men of Gotham settled to go out fishing together; and, as the anticipation of pleasure is nearly worth the pleasure itself, they fixed the time a fortnight off, and each day during the interval made some preparation for the great day. The appointed day came in due time, and it was cold and drizzling; but the twelve met, for what true sportsman would allow weather to stop him? They were all in the highest spirits, and their conversation was of the wittiest and most brilliant description, as you will judge it must have been when you know more of the men. I do not attempt to give it you here, being well aware that I could not possibly do it justice. When they got to the river-side, after a lengthy consultation, they settled that the fish would feel shy of coming to them, seeing so many together; and it was therefore agreed they should separate, all to meet again at the same place in five hours' time. After they had fairly divided their provisions into twelve parts, each took his share, and went whither his fancy guided him. Exact to the time, the twelve again assembled together, and adjourned to a tavern, where it had been arranged the day should be finished in conviviality. They were cold and wet to the skin, but all declared they had had a delightful day, each reserving his adventures till they were comfortably seated together. Most extraordinary adventures they had all had; for one related how, immediately that he had thrown his line, well baited with a worm, he hooked the most wonderful fish he had ever seen; for though it only appeared on the top of the water for a moment at a time, he could plainly discover that it was hairy, and had a long tail. He had given the creature line enough to play, but, when he had followed it more than a mile, the line unfortunately broke--for the beast was strong, being quite as large as a cat. "That is extraordinary," another then cried, "for I, too, followed a hairy fish, such as I never saw before. You must know, as I went along looking for a likely spot, I frightened the creature from the bank, and it swam across the river. As quick as possible, I threw my worm just before its nose, but it would not bite, so, like a shot, I was in the water, and waded across after it. It took refuge in a hole, and when I put in my hand to catch it, it bit me so that I have not been able to use that hand all day, and no doubt that is the reason I have not hooked a single fish. The beast appeared, for all the world, like a rat." A third then told his companions how he had wandered along the side of a river till he came to a mill, where, by the bubbles under the wheel, he could see that the water was swarming with fish. He threw in his bait, and almost immediately had a bite. He felt convinced that he must have hooked several large fish at the same time, for no single one could have pulled the line with such force. The line was strong, so that it did not break, and at length the rod itself was fairly dragged out of his hands, and for a moment disappeared under the water. The fish, however, must have broken away, for the rod appeared again entangled in the wheel, and was whirled round till it was dashed to pieces. Finishing the account of his startling adventure, he said, "I am sure, my Friends, that at that spot there will be plenty of sport for the whole twelve of us together; and had it not been for that unlucky accident of losing my rod, I should have brought fish enough for all our suppers." Various were the adventures narrated, several of them having narrowly escaped drowning, as they said--only that the water was not deep enough. Amongst the whole twelve only one fish was produced--a small one, which its fortunate captor had found floating, dead, upon the water. When the last of the twelve had finished his account, he said, "I am sure, my good Friends and Neighbours, that no twelve men ever had such an extraordinary day's fishing as we have had; and, had we not met with these unfortunate accidents, we should have brought home such strange fish, and in such quantities, that the account of our day's sport would have been inserted in all the newspapers. But, my dear Brethren, we have been in many great dangers, and I shudder when I think of it, that perhaps one of us has been drowned. Let us count, and see whether the whole twelve of us are safely here." "Yes, let us count!" all exclaimed; "for perhaps one of our dear brothers is drowned, and what will his unfortunate widow do?" Each of the twelve counted in turn, and each only counted eleven, omitting himself; and then all cried out, "It is but too true that one of our dear brothers is lost! Who shall carry the sad news to his widow? But first let us go back to the river, and look for the body." These twelve wise men went down to the river, and searched every place where, during the day, either of them had been, but no body was found, which they bitterly bewailed, as it was deprived of Christian burial. They then drew lots which of them should inform the unfortunate widow of her dreadful loss; and when he on whom the lot fell inquired of the others to whose widow he should go, and no one could tell him, they bewailed still more bitterly that they could not discover which of their dear brothers was lost. [Illustration: _The Lost Fisherman found._] It happened that at this time a gentleman from the Court was passing, and seeing them in such distress, asked the cause. They said, "This morning twelve of us came down to the river to fish, and one is missing, whom we cannot find." Then the Gentleman said, "What will you give me if I find your missing companion?" To which they answered, that they would gladly give all the money they had if he could restore their lost brother to them. He then made them stand in a row, and riding along the back of them gave each such a smart cut with his whip that they cried aloud with pain, and as they did so he numbered them; but when he came to the twelfth he thrashed him till he and all his companions cried out for mercy for him; and the Gentleman said, "This is the twelfth of you!" whereupon they thanked him for restoring their lost brother to them. XXXVII. _The Cobbler's Wager._ One fine summer's day a strong, active young man was sauntering along the Exeter road, with apparently no immediate object in view but to pass away the time, for he certainly seemed in no hurry to reach the place of his destination--if, indeed, such a thing was in his thoughts, as it undoubtedly should have been, for he was carrying home a pair of shoes he had taken the greater part of the week to mend. You will guess by this that he was a cobbler by trade, and from the way he was going on we may, perhaps, form an idea how it is that cobblers are proverbially so little to be depended upon in the performance of a promise--at least, when that promise refers to their work. The young man we are talking of was not fond of work, but, being a merry, jovial fellow, was much liked in the neighbourhood where he lived, more particularly as he was always ready to give a helping hand to any one who required the assistance of a strong arm, and never hesitated to neglect his own business to help others. Perhaps, too, that sort of occupation was more profitable than mending boots and shoes, for he always seemed to have money to spare when he met any companions of his own stamp at the different road-side inns. He was now coming near to such a house, and was trying to find a good excuse to turn in--for the landlord, according to his words, was a man of the right sort--when a butcher, in his cart, carrying a calf he had just bought, whom he knew well, overtook him. No excuse was, of course, required now to drop in at Tom Turner's, the landlord just mentioned, if even he had not been standing at his door, where, however, he was, ready to welcome them. The three were soon merry enough over a jug of foaming ale; and the butcher, in particular, was in high spirits, for he had not only made a good bargain, but one he prided himself upon. The Landlord said to him, "I'm sure you've been playing your pranks off on some one, or that you've overreached some poor wretch in a bargain, makes you in such high glee this morning." "Well, I've not done so badly, I think," the Butcher answered, rubbing his hands. "A little mother's wit in one's head is worth having, and where's the good if one doesn't use it? You must know I particularly wanted a calf this morning--indeed, I couldn't do without it, whatever price I had to give; and as I happened to hear yesterday that old farmer Hagan had some very fine ones, I went to him. Now I didn't tell him that I wanted a calf--leave me alone for that--but I said I wanted some sheep, which I knew he just happened not to have. He told me that he hadn't any, and, as I expected, then said he had some first-rate calves which he wished me to see. "'I am very sorry to hear it, Neighbour,' I said; 'for calves are falling down to nothing in value since the celebrated Doctor Tweedle came into these parts. You know that he has declared veal to be the most unwholesome meat there is, and that eating it is little short of eating poison; so that no one will touch it. I have two of the most beautiful calves you ever saw, which I am but too happy to be able to get rid of at thirty shillings each--just half what I gave for them. A friend of mine has occasion for three, which he is going to send off to a distance; so I am glad to be able to do you a good turn, if you are willing to part with one of yours on the same terms; but it must be a good 'un.' "Old Hagan was loath to part with one of his calves at such a price, but was so frightened by what I had told him, that he let me have the one that is outside in my cart, saying, 'I know, Neighbour, that you are not a man likely to be over-reached, and that you would not sell at such a price if you saw a chance of getting a better one.' "Now," the Butcher continued, "does either of you think he could make as good a bargain as that?" And he chuckled, again rubbing his hands, as they both confessed that they gave in to him. Shortly after, the cobbler rose to go, saying, as the butcher offered to give him a lift in his cart, that he was going another way; and as he went out, he made a sign to the landlord to follow him. When they were outside together he whispered, "I should like to play our boasting friend a good trick." "I wish, with all my heart, you could," the Landlord answered; "but he is a cunning fellow." "Cunning as he is, I've a great mind to steal the calf he's so proud of having cheated old Hagan out of, and then sell it him again, but at double the price," the Cobbler said. "He's too deep for you," said the Landlord; "you can't do it." "What will you bet?" the Cobbler asked. "Anything you like!" was the answer. "Well, then," the Cobbler again said, "let it be a gallon of your very best ale. Now you go back, and manage--as if without any particular motive--to tell our friend that you have a calf (that can be easily done as he is getting into his cart), when you may as well say that it is just like the one he has. You do this, and leave the rest to me." "I hope, with all my heart, that you'll succeed," the Landlord said, as he went back into the house; and the cobbler hastened along the road which he knew was the butcher's way. When he had got some distance from the house, he dropped one of the shoes he was carrying home by the side of the road, where it would be sure to be seen, and then ran on some distance further, where he dropped the other shoe, choosing the spot close by an opening in the hedge by the road-side. Shortly after, the butcher came the same way, still chuckling over his morning's bargain, and when he saw the shoe, drew in his horse. He was about to get out, when he thought better of it, saying, "There's some of that careless cobbler's work. He evidently has come this way, and dropped one of the shoes I saw him carrying--but I'm not going to take the trouble to carry it after him. Let him come back, and that will teach him not to refuse a civil offer again. If he had but dropped the pair, I should not mind getting out to pick them up--though certainly it would not be to give them to him, but to keep them myself." With these friendly thoughts he drove on, and, before long, saw the other shoe. "Hallo!" he said; "why, that lazy rascal of a cobbler, rather than go back when he discovered the loss of the one shoe, has thrown the other away as useless; but I'll not be such a fool, and won't begrudge a little trouble for the sake of a good pair of shoes." So saying, he jumped out of his cart and picked up the shoe, and, finding it was a good one, ran back for the other, leaving his cart standing in the road. No sooner had he turned a corner in the road, than the cobbler jumped out from behind the hedge where he had hidden himself, and having lifted the calf out of the cart, took it on his shoulders, and hurried back with his load, as fast as possible, a short cut to Tom Turner's house. Tom received him with an acclamation of joy; and as soon as they had stowed the calf away in a shed, he produced some of his very best ale, over which they discussed what was further to be done. The Cobbler said, "As soon as the butcher finds that his calf has disappeared, and that there are no signs of it, he will be sure to come back to you, having heard you had one; but be sure you do not let him have it a farthing under three pounds, for you know that was the price named by himself, and that he said he must have one to-day at any price. When we have had our joke out, we will give him back his money, making him pay the amount of our wager, and another gallon to boot. But he is a slippery rogue, so mind you do not part with the calf without receiving the money down. And now, what will you bet that I do not steal this very calf again?" The landlord, enjoying the joke, betted another gallon, and his companion continued, "To prepare for another sale, tell him, as he is driving off--tell him you have another calf, the twin brother to this one, and so like it that no one can tell one from the other." After all that had been arranged, the cobbler related every circumstance of the past adventure--not forgetting the butcher's soliloquy--to Tom's infinite amusement, and added, "Take particular notice whether he says anything about finding the shoes; for if he intends to act dishonestly we may alter our determination about giving him back his money." He had scarcely finished when they saw the butcher's cart at the door, so he hastened away to his former hiding-place. [Illustration: _The Cobbler carrying off the Calf._] The next moment the butcher was in the house, and he cried out, "Tom! you must positively let me have that calf of yours, for mine has played me an infernal trick, and has run off! I saw the brute, and ran after it. But it doesn't matter, for I know where it is, and can easily catch it again. But I'm in a hurry, so I thought it better to come back for yours." "How did it happen?" Tom asked. "Why, my horse got a stone in its hoof, and as I had to go a few yards off to get a dry stick to pick it out with, the brute took advantage of my being away, jumped out of the cart and got into a field by the side of the road. When I got back, though I saw it, it had the start of me, and I was not inclined to run far after it. But, now, I'm in a hurry; so tell me at once, Tom, what you want for your calf." Tom answered, "You know that I do not quite believe in veal being poison, in spite of the great Doctor's opinion; but, to accommodate a friend, I don't mind parting with it cheap, though I really can't take less than three pounds." The butcher, finding that his own words were used against him, made no difficulty, but, paying the money, carried off the calf, Tom calling after him that if he lost that he had his twin brother for him. He congratulated himself, as he drove along, that, though he paid dearly for the calf, he had, at least, got a good pair of shoes for nothing. To make up for lost time he put his horse to its best trot, but drew in suddenly when he got to the spot of his misfortune, for he heard a sound like the bleating of a calf. He listened for a moment, and then exclaimed, in glee, "Oh! it's you is it, my runaway? Now, take my word for it, you shall suffer for this." He jumped out of the cart and got into the field, but the bleating seemed to proceed from the next field, and when he got there from another, till he was led on to a considerable distance from his cart. The cobbler, who had imitated the bleating of a calf, when he had led on the butcher till he got confused, hurried back to where the cart was, and hastily taking out the calf, got safely back with it to Tom Turner's. Tom, who had scarcely expected success this time, was fit to split his sides with laughter, when he heard an account of this last adventure, and in his turn told what had passed between him and the butcher. "Why, the rascal!" exclaimed the Cobbler, who was a honest fellow himself, "so he intends to steal the shoes, for he knows well enough that they belong to me. We'll give him another chance when he comes back, for I'll tell him that I lost the shoes; but if then he does not restore them, why I'll sell them to him for his calf and the money we get out of him. Don't you think it will serve him right?" The landlord agreed, that if he persisted in dishonestly keeping the shoes, he would deserve to pay dearly for them, adding,-- "If we could manage it, it would be well to let him have his calf this time for nothing." But the Cobbler, who was very indignant at the fellow's shuffling dishonesty, said, "No, no, he deserves no manner of consideration, but I hope he won't prove quite as bad as I think him." The butcher soon returned, and this time told the truth of the manner in which he had lost the calf; but when the cobbler told him of his loss he was far from confessing that he had found the shoes, and that they were then in his cart, hidden under some straw. He was out of humour at his own losses, and said, rather brutally, "You are so careless that your loss serves you right. What is your loss to mine? I have now paid four pounds ten for a calf, and still haven't got one for my customers. Come, Tom, my good Friend, you must be merciful this time, and let me have your other calf a little cheaper. If you'll let me have it for two pounds here's the money, but if not I must go back to old Hagan's for one." Whilst this bargain was being concluded the cobbler went out, and looking in the butcher's cart soon found the shoes, which he took, replacing the straw as he found it. Tom accepted the two pounds that were offered him, and the butcher was this time allowed to get his dearly-bought calf safely home; but I'm sorry to say the owner of the shoes had to wait another day for them, as the cobbler spent the remainder of that one with his friend, and merrily they spent it. XXXVIII. _The Miller and his Donkey._ There was a miller, never mind in what part of the country, who had a tall, gawky son; but their combined wit had not proved sufficient to keep their business in a flourishing condition, for the poor man got poorer and poorer, selling one thing after another that was not absolutely required to keep the mill going, when, indeed, there was work for it to do, till the turn came for the donkey to be sold. This donkey had been a faithful servant to the miller, who looked upon it as a friend, and being a kind feeling man, it was with a heavy heart he made up his mind to take it to the fair to sell--but there is no resisting necessity. On the day of the fair, having some distance to go, he started early, and took his son with him, that they might both see the last of their friend. The donkey walked on in front, thoughtfully and demurely, as donkeys are wont to do, whilst the father and son followed sorrowfully. They soon got into the high road, which was crowded with people going to the fair, and the two poor simple fellows soon became the butt of the different wits. "That is a hopeful son of yours," one would say to the father; "you must feel proud of him I should think." And another would say to the son, pointing with his thumb to his father, "The old 'un looks a tartar; does he whip you much?" Many of the like remarks we made to father and son, loud enough to be heard by both, though pretended to be in a whisper; but the principal shafts were shot at them in conversations carried on round about, not a word of which could they fail to hear. "Did you ever see such an old fool as that," said one, "to be walking along this hot road, and his donkey going on in front with nothing to carry?" "Oh," another said, "that's the donkey behind, for he in front is much the wiser of the two." "I wonder," another joined in, "the old fellow doesn't take more care of himself at his time of life, if not for his own sake, at least for his baby's, for what would become of the poor child if anything were to happen to him?" Stung by these remarks the old man got on to the donkey, though he regretted giving the poor beast such a load to carry, and he sought to lighten it by partly walking, for his long legs easily reached the ground. This made matters worse, for he soon heard one of his tormentors say, "Look there, was there ever such an old brute? He's taking it easy, and lets his poor boy toil along as best he can. Such an interesting child, too! Oh, if its mother did but know how cruelly her darling child is being treated." Hearing this the miller made his son take his place, and wondered, as he walked by his side, whether he was now doing right. He was as far from it as ever, poor man, for he very shortly heard an exclamation, and this time from an old man, whose opinion should carry some weight. "Well, this is too bad; what will the world come to next? Here's a big lout of a fellow riding whilst his old father's walking. It's disgraceful, that it is, for if even the fellow's lame, at any rate he should make room for the old man. The donkey's strong enough to carry the two." [Illustration: _The Burdened Beast._] Now the miller got on the donkey in front of his son, to whom he whispered not to weigh too heavily on the poor beast's back, and they got on for some distance in peace. But it was not to last long, for when the donkey happened to stumble, from kicking against a stone, there was a general outcry: "They want to kill the poor beast. Is there no one to interfere? But it's one comfort that cruelty to animals can be punished. Who'll inform against these two big brutes? Why either of them is strong enough to carry the poor little thing, instead of breaking its back, as they are doing with their weight." "When shall we do what's right?" said the poor Miller. "Get off, my Son, and so will I, and we'll carry the donkey between us. Surely then we shall not be blamed." [Illustration: _The Beast a Burden._] Having borrowed a strong pole, they tied the donkey's four legs to it, and each taking an end of the pole across his shoulder, they managed, though with great difficulty, to carry it; but it seemed impossible to please the people. There was a general shout of laughter as the two poor fellows toiled along, nearly weighed down by the load they were carrying; but that was not enough, for the most insulting epithets were showered upon them, till worried and distressed beyond endurance, the Old Man exclaimed, in despair, "I see there is no doing right, but as long as we remain together fault will be found, so we must part, my old friend;" and as they just then came to a bridge, with his son's help, he threw the donkey over the side into the river below. [Decoration] XXXIX. _Doctor Dobbs, and his Horse Nobbs._ Doctor Daniel Dobbs, of Doncaster, had a nag that was called Nobbs. One day, in the middle of winter, the Doctor having been summoned to attend a patient at some distance from his dwelling, and being anxious to return home before it was dark, rode poor Nobbs very hard. On his arrival, not finding his man in the way, the Doctor fastened Nobbs by his bridle to a rail in the yard, and went into his parlour, where he sat down to warm himself by a good fire. It had happened that the Doctor's dairy-maid had brewed a barrel of strong beer, which had been drawn off into the cooler; and the dairy-maid having been called away to milk her cows, she had carelessly left the door of the brewhouse open. The steam of the beer proved wonderfully inviting to poor Nobbs, who had been hard rode, and now stood in the cold extremely thirsty. After sundry efforts he got loose from the rail, and repairing to the brewhouse, drank so heartily of the beer, that, before he was aware of it, he fell down dead drunk. The Doctor's man coming home, ran into the yard to convey Nobbs to the stable; not finding him at the rail, he looked about, and at length discovered him stretched upon the ground, cold and insensible. Bursting into the parlour, where the Doctor was seated with Mrs. Dobbs, he communicated to them the news of poor Nobby's decease. The Doctor and Mrs. Dobbs were both good-natured people, and of course were much concerned; but as the Doctor never suffered misfortunes to get the better of his discretion, he immediately gave orders that Nobbs should without delay be flayed, and that his skin should be taken next morning to the currier. The Doctor's man accordingly set to work: poor Nobbs was dragged to the dunghill, his skin was stripped off, and he was left to be eaten by the hounds. He had not, however, lain long before the novelty of his situation had a considerable effect upon him. As he had lost his skin, of course the coldness of the night operated with double activity in dissipating the fumes of the beer which he had swallowed; and at length he awoke, got upon his legs, and trotted away to the stable-door, which happened to be close by the parlour. Not finding it open, and being both cold and hungry, he began to whinny for assistance. The Doctor and his wife had just done supper, and happened at that moment to be talking of the accident which had befallen their nag, over a hot bowl of brandy-punch. No sooner had Nobbs whinnied, than Mrs. Dobbs turned pale, and exclaimed, "Doctor Dobbs! as sure as I live, that is Nobb's voice--I know him by his whinny!" "My Dear," said the Doctor, "it is Nobb's whinny sure enough; but, poor thing, he is dead, and has been flayed." He had hardly said this before Nobbs whinnied again--up jumps the Doctor, takes a candle in his hand, and runs into the yard. The first thing he saw was Nobbs himself without his skin. The Doctor summoned all his servants, ordered six sheep to be killed, and clapped their skins upon poor Nobbs. To make a long story short, Nobbs recovered, and did his work as well as ever. The sheep-skin stuck fast, and answered his purpose as well as his own skin ever did. But what is most remarkable, the wool grew rapidly; and when the shearing season came, the Doctor had Nobbs sheared. Every year he gave the Doctor a noble fleece, for he carried upon his back, you know, as much as six sheep; and as long as Nobbs lived, all the Doctor's stockings, and all Mrs. Dobbs' flannel petticoats, were made of his wool. [Illustration: _Doctor Dobbs on his Horse Nobbs._] XL. _The Brownie._ There was once a farmer whose name was John Burdon, a kindly, industrious man, who lived happily with his wife and children, in an old house, where his father had lived before him. His five children were thriving and merry, with no more quarrelling than is usual amongst children, and altogether there was a quiet in the old house, in spite of the games that were going on within. Of a sudden all this changed, and every thing seemed to go wrong. Whatever the game might be, one of the children was sure to be hurt. If they were playing at ball, the ball would be sure to strike one or the other on the nose or in the eye, on which a bellowing followed; or if the game was puss-in-the-corner, or blind-man's-buff, two or more of the children were certain to run their heads together, or tear their clothes, so that the good dame, whose boast it had always been that they never got into mischief, had now enough to do to repair the daily damage. The farmer, now hearing constant complaints, said some evil spirit must have crept into the house; and he was right enough. A brownie or goblin had taken up his abode there, and not finding the quiet within which the outside promised, bestowed his ill-humour upon the inmates, and daily invented some new scheme for tormenting the children. In one corner of the kitchen in which they generally played there was a closet, where the brownie had located himself; and that he might watch them, and see at what moment he could best torment them, he had thrust out a knot that was in the closet door, thus making himself a little window. Now, it happened one day that the eldest boy had the shoe-horn in his hand, and merely in play stuck it in the knot-hole, whence it was immediately ejected, striking the boy on the head. [Illustration: _The Brownie's revengeful Pranks._] As often as this was repeated so often it darted out, such good aim being taken that it invariably struck one of them on the head, and generally the one who had put it there. Though one always suffered, it was sport to the others, and therefore the horn was frequently stuck in the hole, so that the brownie became more and more irritated, not confining his pranks to the children, but making the parents suffer in various ways. There would be noises in the night, and things that were in daily use would all at once be mislaid, and, after ever so much trouble and worry, found in places where they had already been a dozen times looked for. There could be no doubt this was the brownie's doing, and there could be still less doubt when the chair was moved back, just at the moment when one of the old couple was going to sit down, and he or she went rolling on the floor, for then a laugh was heard proceeding from the moved chair. This trick was played them more particularly when they had anything in their hands, such as a cup of tea, which would be emptied in the falling one's face, and the laughing on such occasions was louder and longer. At length, unable to bear it, the farmer determined to leave a house where there was no longer any comfort, and, if possible, to let it. The last load of the furniture was being removed, and the Farmer, following with his wife, said-- "I'm heavy at heart at leaving the old house, where, for years, we were so happy, and perhaps we shall not find the new one half as convenient." "The new one will not be half as convenient," was uttered in a strange, squeaky voice, which seemed to be in an old tub at the back of the cart. "Oh! oh! are you there?" cried the poor Farmer, "then we may as well turn back." "Yes! turn back," said the squeaky voice. They did, in fact, turn back, and from that day peace was restored to the house, for the brownie no longer tormented any of its inmates, nor, indeed, gave any signs of being there, excepting by immediately darting the shoe-horn out whenever it was put in the knot-hole. THE END. CHISWICK PRESS:--PRINTED BY WHITTINGHAM AND WILKINS, TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. Transcriber's note Text in italics has been surrounded with _underscores_, and small capitals were changed to all capitals. A few punctuation errors have been corrected silently, and an extraneous space was removed. Otherwise the original was preserved, including inconsistent spelling and hyphenation. For example: the river Pegnitz is also spelled as Pegnetz, this has not been changed. 
21187	----	Doctor Jolliffe's Boys by Lewis Hough ________________________________________________________________ This a very enjoyable book about life in a boy's boarding school in the late nineteenth century. Despite school-rules, the boys get out of bounds for a number of reasons, for instance visiting a forbidden tuck shop; engaging in various cruel country sports, like rat baiting; going skating on a frozen lake, especially near the thin ice; poaching on a large nearby estate; and suchlike attractions. Every scene is beautifully drawn, and I have wondered many times why the author did not write more, and indeed why this book is not more well known than it is. Until I found a copy in an old book shop I had never heard of either the author or of the book. The characters of the various principal actors in the story are very well drawn, and one feels one knows them all quite well by the end of the book. There was in fact another contemporary author of the same name, who was an expert in economic and currency affairs, and who also wrote using, and about, a novel way of getting books printed. N.H. ________________________________________________________________ DOCTOR JOLLIFFE'S BOYS BY LEWIS HOUGH CHAPTER ONE. A TALE OF WESTON SCHOOL. WESTON _versus_ HILLSBOROUGH. "Well cut, Saurin, well cut! Run it out! Four!" The ball was delivered again to the bowler, who meditated a shooter, but being a little tired, failed in his amiable intention, and gave the chance of a half-volley, which the batsman timed accurately, and caught on the right inch of the bat, with the whole swing of his arms and body thrown into the drive, so that the ball went clean into the scorer's tent, as if desirous of marking the runs for itself. "Well hit indeed! Well hit!" The Westonians roared with delight, and their voices were fresh, for they had had little opportunity of exercising them hitherto. Crawley, the captain of their eleven, the hero in whom they delighted, had been declared out, leg before wicket, when he had only contributed five to the score. Only two of the Westonians believed that the decision was just, Crawley himself, and the youth who had taken his place, and was now so triumphant. But he hated Crawley, and rejoiced in his discomfiture, even though it told against his own side, so his opinion went for nothing. Well, no more did anybody's else except the umpire's, who after all is the only person capable of judging. "Saurin has got his eye in; we may put together a respectable score yet." "He is the best player we have got, when he only takes the trouble; don't you think so?" said Edwards, who believed in Saurin with a faith which would have been quite touching if it had not been so irritating. "He thinks so himself at any rate," replied the boy addressed, "and we are a shocking bad lot if he is right. Anyhow he seems to be in form to-day, and I only hope that it will last." The batsman under discussion hoped so too. If he could only make an unprecedented score, restore the fortunes of the day, and show the world what a mistake it was to think Crawley his superior in anything whatever, it would be a glorious triumph. He was not of a patriotic disposition, and did not care for the success of his school except as it might minister to his own personal vanity and gain, for he had a bet of half-a-crown on his own side. But his egotism was quite strong enough to rival the public spirit of the others, and raise his interest to the general pitch. The match between Weston and Hillsborough was an annual affair, and excited great emulation, being for each school the principal event of the cricketing season. One year it was played at Weston and the next at Hillsborough, and it was the Westonians' turn to play on their own ground on this occasion. Hillsborough went in first and put together 94 runs. Then Weston went to the wickets and could make nothing of it. There was a certain left- handed Hillsburian bowler who proved very fatal to them; it was one of his twists which found Crawley's leg where his bat should have been. Result, eight wickets down for twenty, and then Saurin went in and made the 9 we have witnessed. Between ourselves the cut was a fluke, but the half-volley was a genuine well-played hit, which deserved the applause it got. The next ball came straight for the middle stump, but was blocked back half-way between the creases, and another run was stolen. "Over!" The new bowler went in for slows. The first, a very tempting ball, Saurin played forward at, and hit it straight and hard into the hands of long field on, who fumbled and dropped it, amidst groans and derisive cheers. Warned by this narrow shave he played back next time, and seemed to himself to have missed a really good chance. This feeling induced hesitation when the next ball was delivered, and the result of hesitation was that the insidious missile curled in somehow over his bat and toppled his bails off. Saurin was so much mortified as he walked back to the tent that he could not even pretend to assume a jaunty careless air, but scowled and carried his bat as if he would like to hit someone over the head with it. Which, indeed, he would. There was one consolation for him, he had made ten, and that proved to be the top score. For the first time within living memory Weston had to follow its innings! Now when you consider that the presidents of Oxford and Cambridge Clubs kept an eye on this match with a view to promising colts, you may imagine the elation of the Hillsburians and the dejection of the Westonians when Crawley and Robarts walked once more to the wickets. Their schoolmates clapped their hands vigorously indeed, and some of them talked about the uncertainty of cricket, but the amount of hope they had would not have taken the room of a pair of socks in Pandora's box. But Crawley was a bowler as well as a batsman, and Robarts was the Westonian wicket-keeper, so that both were somewhat fagged when they first went in, whereas they were now quite fresh. Again, the Hillsburian bowling champion found his dangerous left arm a little stiff, and his eyesight not so keen as it had been an hour before. One is bound to find a cause for everything, so these may be the reasons why the pair, after defending their wickets cautiously for an over or two, began to knock the bowling about in great style. "What a jealous brute that Crawley is!" said Saurin, sitting down by Edwards. "Awful!" replied Edwards, not at all knowing why, but following Saurin blindfold, as he always did. "I was the only one who made any stand in the first innings, and yet he does not send me in early. He will keep me to the last, I daresay." The wonderful stand spoken of had not lasted two overs, but Edwards only observed: "It's mean." "Not that I care," said Saurin. "Of course not." "Only I do hate spite and jealousy." "He ought not to be captain." "Bah! the soft-spoken humbug; it's a wonder to me that fellows don't see through him." "It _is_ strange," echoed the complacent Edwards. The number 30 went up amidst a storm of clapping, and Saurin relapsed into prudent silence, but he thought "hapes," like the Irishman's dumb parrot. The dinner-bell rang, the pair were not separated, and the score stood at 50. "It will be a match yet," was the general opinion on the Weston side, and their opponents also thought that the affair did not look quite such a certainty, and agreed that they must not throw a chance away, though they hoped much from dinner, which sometimes puts a batsman off his play, the process of digestion inducing, especially in hot weather, a certain heaviness which impairs that clearness of brain necessary for timing a ball accurately. At the same time the bowlers would get a good rest, and the left-handed artist, who had been acting as long-stop, might reasonably be expected to regain his cunning. True that the midday meal tells most upon the field, which very generally grows sluggish after eating: but the Hillsborough boys fancied that would not matter so much, if they could only separate those two. But "those two" had a due sense of their responsibilities, and ate a very moderate meal, which they washed down with nothing stronger than water. They also played very careful cricket on first going in again, and risked nothing until they had got their hands in. _Item_, Crawley had mastered the left-handed bowler's favourite ball, and by playing very forward hit it away before it took the dangerous twist. It looked very risky, and the Hillsborough wicket-keeper was in constant hope of stumping him, but he never missed, and scored off every ball of that sort which came to him. When the same twisters came to Robarts he played back, contenting himself with simply guarding his wickets with an upright bat. Altogether the two put 85 together before Robarts was caught at point. As they were going in to dinner Crawley had said to Saurin: "You go in the first wicket down. You showed good form in the first innings, and it was a very unlucky ball that settled you so soon. But you will have a good chance again presently." Which speech had the unintended effect of making Saurin more exasperated than ever. "Confound his patronising!" he said to himself; but he could not find any excuse for any audible utterance except the conventional "All right," and he now drew on his gloves, took up his bat, and issued from the tent. "Play careful cricket, Saurin," said Robarts as he passed him; "the great thing is to keep Crawley at the wicket as long as we can." "A likely story!" he thought to himself as he strode across the turf, "to make myself a mere foil and stop-gap for that conceited brute! Not I." Far from practising the abstinence of the other two, he had eaten as much as he could stuff and drunk all the beer he could get, and this, combined with resentment at Robarts' words, caused him to go in for slogging just to show that he was not to be dictated to. The first ball he got he hit as hard as he could, and well on to the ground, but it was cleverly stopped before a run could be made. The second he sent into the hands of the fielder standing at mid-wicket, who stuck to it, fast as it came, and threw it up amidst the cheers of his friends. Saurin stalked away with his duck's egg. Four more wickets fell before Crawley was run out, by which time he had scored 90 off his own bat, the total standing at 150. Thirty more was added before the Westonians were all out, and the score stood--first innings, 40; second, 180; total, 220, against 94. So that Hillsborough now had to make 126 to tie, and 127 to win. It was a good match; anybody's game. During the remainder of the afternoon Saurin behaved disgracefully. His temper had completely mastered him, and he was sulky and careless to an extent which made even Edwards ashamed for him. He let balls pass with hardly an attempt to stop them, picked them up and threw them in in a leisurely manner, which gave more than one run to the other side, and showed such indifference that he was hissed. For every run was of importance. The fact was that Weston that year was decidedly weak in the bowling, Crawley being the only one to be depended upon, and he could not be kept at it for ever; and, though the fielding generally was good, the Hillsburians scored fast. At seven o'clock they were 100 for seven wickets, and the excitement was very great when Crawley, who had had an hour's interval, went on once more to bowl. His first ball was cut for five. His second took the middle stump clean. His third came back into his hands. His fourth, the nastiest of shooters, glided under the bat into the wicket. Three wickets in three consecutive balls--something like a sensational over! The match was over, and Weston had won by 21 runs. There could be no doubt to whom the victory was due, and Crawley was pounced upon, hoisted, and carried home in triumph amidst the most enthusiastic cheering. "All right!" he said, colouring and laughing as they put him down; "I am glad we won, but that last ball was the most awful fluke I ever made in my life. I lost my balance as I delivered it, and nearly came down. To tell the truth, I feared it would be wide, and could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the bails off." One would have imagined that Saurin's evil genius was taking part in the events of the day, and piling success upon the rival he hated in order to exasperate him to madness. His state of mind, indeed, was little short of that as he went sullenly to his tutor's house, with the sight of Crawley, raised on his comrades' shoulders, in his eyes, their cheers ringing in his ears, and the thoughts of Cain in his heart. "I shall give up cricket," he said to Edwards next day; "it's a beastly game." "I don't care for it myself," replied his friend; "only, what is one to do?" "Lots of things; you don't know Slam's. I tell you what--I'll take you there." "Thank you; that will be very jolly; only don't you think if one were caught, you know--eh?" "We should get into a jolly row, no doubt; but there is no fear of being caught. And, as you say, if one does not play cricket, what is one to do?" One thing which induced Saurin to relinquish the game which he had at one time practised with some hope of success, was that he shrewdly suspected that, after what occurred, he would no longer be retained in the eleven. And he was right, for at the very next meeting of the committee it was unanimously agreed that a fellow who failed so utterly to keep his temper was of no use at all, even if he were a much better player than Saurin; and this opinion was intimated to him without any squeamishness in the choice of terms. Had Weston lost the match his conduct on the occasion might have resulted in his being sent to Coventry; but success is the parent of magnanimity, and, since his lack of public spirit had not proved fatal, it was condoned. But it certainly did not increase his popularity. The whole affair was most unfortunate. Saurin was a disappointing sort of fellow. He was rather good-looking, and on ordinary occasions his manners were those of a gentleman. His abilities were certainly above the average, and his eye and hand worked together in a manner which was calculated to ensure success in all games, especially as he was fleet of foot and muscular. Thus he was always giving promise of distinguishing himself, and dying away to nothing. The explanation is that he was very vain and very indolent, and his vanity induced him to engage in different pursuits which would excite admiration, while his indolence prevented him from persevering long enough for success. Directly anything bored him he dropped it. Self-indulgence seemed to him the only true wisdom. He never resisted the whim of the moment except through fear of the consequences, and unfortunately many of his propensities were vicious. He had taken up cricket rather warmly, and seemed less inclined to get tired of it than of most healthy and innocent diversions, and cricket kept him out of mischief; so it was very unlucky, both for himself and for those over whom he had influence, that his jealousy of Crawley had led him to make such an idiot of himself. CHAPTER TWO. SLAM'S. About a mile from Weston College there was a dilapidated old house with a large yard and an orchard. There had been a farm attached to it once, but the land had been taken into the next estate, and the old homestead let separately many years before. The landlord would gladly have got rid of the present tenant, but he had a long lease, and, while he paid his rent, he was secure, and could snap his fingers at the squire, the clergyman, the magistrates, and all other people who did not appreciate him. Not that he ever did so snap his fingers; on the contrary, Mr Slam, though practically defiant, was remarkably civil, not to say obsequious, in his demeanour when he came into contact with the gentry. By profession he was a rat-catcher, and he had an intimate knowledge of the habits and frailties of all the small predatory animals of Great Britain, and knew well how to lure them to their destruction. In a game-preserving community such talents ought, one would imagine, to have met with appreciative recognition; but unfortunately Slam was suspected of being far more fatal to pheasants, hares, and rabbits than to all the vermin he destroyed. He protested his innocence, and was never caught in the act of taking game; but if anyone wanted to stock his preserves, Slam could always procure him a supply of pheasants' eggs, and more than one village offender who had been sent to expiate his depredations in jail was known to have paid visits to Slam's yard. Slam was a dog-fancier as well as a rat-catcher, and therefore doggy boys were attracted to his premises, which, however, were sternly interdicted. In the first place they were out of bounds, though this of itself did not go for very much. There was no town very near Weston, and so long as the boys made their appearance at the specified hours they were not overmuch interfered with. Paper chases, or hare and hounds as they are sometimes called, were openly arranged and encouraged; and if boys liked to take walks in the country, they could do so with a minimum of risk. If they were awkward enough to meet a master face to face when out of bounds, he could hardly help turning them back and giving them a slight imposition; but if they saw him coming, and got out of his way, he would not look in their direction. But to enter an inn, or to visit Slam's, was a serious offence, entailing severe punishment, and even expulsion, if repeated. Yet one beautiful warm summer's evening, when the birds were singing and the grasshoppers chirruping, and all nature invited mankind to play cricket or lawn-tennis, if there were no river handy for boating, four youths might have been seen (but were not, luckily for them) approaching the forbidden establishment. A lane with high banks, now covered with ferns and wild flowers, and furrowed with ruts which were more like crevasses, ran up to the house; but they left this and went round the orchard to the back of the yard, in the wall of which there was a little door with a bell-handle beside it. On this being pulled there was a faint tinkle, followed by a canine uproar of the most miscellaneous description, the deep-mouthed bay of the blood-hound, the sharp yap-yap of the toy terrier, and a chorus of intermediate undistinguishable barkings, some fierce, some frolicsome, some expectant, being mixed up with the rattling of chains. Then an angry voice was heard amidst the hubbub commanding silence, and a sudden whine or two seemed to imply that he had shown some practical intention of being obeyed. A bolt was drawn, the door opened, and a short wiry man, dressed in fustian and velveteen, with a fur cap on his head and a short pipe in his mouth, stood before them. "Come in, gents," said he. "Your dawg's at the other end of the yard, Mr Stubbs, that's why you don't see him. He's had an orkardness with Sayres, Mr Robarts' dog, as was in the next kennel, and I thought they'd have strangled themselves a-trying to get at one another, and so I had to separate them." "Will it be safe to let him loose?" asked Stubbs. "No fear; he will never go near the other while he's loose and the other one chained up; besides, he'll be took up with seeing you, he will." It was very pleasant to the feelings of Stubbs that his dog knew him, which he evidently did, for he danced on his hind-legs, and wagged his tail, and whimpered, and did all that a bull-terrier can do in the way of smiling, when his proprietor approached for the purpose of freeing him from his chain. Their interviews were not as frequent as either dog or boy would have desired, but then they were very pleasant, for they brought the former a short spell of liberty, a meal of biscuit or paunch, and sometimes--oh, ecstasy!--the worrying of a rat, while Stubbs enjoyed the sense of proprietorship, and the knowledge that he was doing what was forbidden. He had dreams of leaving school and taking Topper home with him, and owning him as his friend before all the world, and he talked to Topper of that happy prospect, and Topper really quite seemed to understand that Stubbs was his master, who had paid money for him, and was now put to considerable expense for his board and lodging, let alone the danger he ran in coming to visit him. To an outsider, calmly reflecting, it did not seem a very good bargain for Stubbs, but still very much better than that of Perry, his friend and present companion, who kept a hawk, and vainly endeavoured to teach the bird to know him and perch on his wrist. But Perry was fond of hawks, and much regretted that the days were gone by when hawking was a favourite pastime. The other two visitors at Slam's that evening were Saurin and Edwards. Edwards had never been there before, and consequently his feelings were curiously compounded of fear and pleasurable expectation. He had looked from a distance at the place, the entrance to which was so sternly forbidden, and imagined all sorts of delightful wickedness--how delightful or why wicked he had no idea--going on inside. He was considerably disappointed to find himself in a dirty yard full of kennels, to which dogs of all sorts and sizes were attached, none of whom looked as if it would be safe to pat them. There were a good many pigeons flying about, but he did not care for pigeons except in a pie. Perry's hawk was only interesting to Perry. There was a monkey on a pole in a corner, but he was a melancholy monkey, who did nothing but raise and lower his eyebrows. "Does the gentleman want a dawg?" asked Slam. "He will see," replied Saurin; "if there is a real good one that takes his fancy he may buy him. It's all right; he's a friend of mine. Have you got that tobacco for me?" "To be sure; you will find it in your drawer." Saurin went to a little wooden outhouse which contained a table, a chest of drawers, a cask of dog-biscuits, cages of rats, and other miscellaneous articles, and opening a locker which seemed to be appropriated to him, he took out a meerschaum pipe and a tobacco-pouch, and came out presently, emitting columns of blue fragrant smoke from his mouth. Edwards looked at his friend with increased respect, the idea of being intimate with a fellow who could smoke like that made him feel an inch taller. "I think it's beginning to colour, eh?" asked Saurin. "Beautifully, I should say," replied Edwards. "Won't you try?" "Thanks; I think I should rather like," said Edwards, who began to feel ambitious, "but I have not got anything to smoke." "Oh, Slam will let you have a pipe, or a cigar if you like it better." Edwards, calling to mind that cigars smelt nicer than pipes, thought he should prefer one. "Slam, my friend wants a cigar." "Well, sir, as you know, I can't sell such things without a licence; but if the gent likes to have a few rats for one of the dawgs to show a bit of sport, I'll _give_ him a cigar with pleasure. It's sixpence for half a dozen." "And, by the by, Edwards, it is usual to stand some beer to pay your footing. A couple of quarts of sixpenny will do." "That will make eighteenpence altogether," responded Edwards cheerfully, producing that sum. "I'll send out for the beer at once," said Mr Slam, taking the money and going towards the house. Where he sent to is a mystery, for there was no public-house within a mile, and yet the can of beer arrived in about five minutes. It is much to be feared that Slam set the excise law at defiance when he felt perfectly safe from being informed against. "Rats for Topper!" exclaimed Stubbs. "Oh, I say, Edwards, you _are_ a brick, you know. I have been hard up lately, and he has not had a rat for ever so long. You won't mind my letting them out for him, will you? You see, I should like him to think it was I who gave him the treat, if you don't mind." Edwards had no objection to become a party to this innocent deception, and the cage of rats was brought out from some mysterious place where there was an unlimited supply of those vermin. Whereupon every individual dog in the establishment went off his head with excitement, and began barking and tearing at his chain in a manner to soften the hardest heart. That rats should be so near and yet so far! The building, which was once a stable, had been fitted up expressly as an arena, where dogs might exhibit their prowess, and thither the cage was now carried by Stubbs, Topper going almost the whole way on his hind- legs, with his nose close to the wires. Considering the amount of excitement the entertainment did not last long; the rats were turned out into the arena, where Topper pounced upon them one after the other with a nip and a shake which was at once fatal. In a couple of minutes there were six fewer rats in the world, and Topper was extremely anxious to diminish the number still further. Doctor Johnson, the compiler of the dictionary, said he had never in his life had as many peaches and nectarines as he could eat, and that was Topper's feelings with regard to rats. Edwards did not enjoy the spectacle quite as much as he felt that he ought. Besides, he was engaged in desperate efforts to light his cigar. Match after match did he burn, sucking away all the time like a leech, but no smoke came into his mouth. "Let us go into the orchard and finish the beer," said Saurin. The orchard was surrounded by so thick a hedge that it was just as private as the yard. A cobby horse was cropping the grass, an ungroomed, untrimmed animal, very much better than he looked, his master, for reasons of his own, being as anxious to disguise his merits as most proprietors of the noble animal are to enhance them as much as possible. There were possibilities of recreation here, though they were somewhat of a low order. Quoits hung up on several large nails driven into a wall, and there was a covered skittle alley. For there were a good many small farmers of the class just above that of the a labourer in the neighbourhood, and some of them frequented Slam's, and were partial to skittles. The four boys and the proprietor of the establishment seated themselves on benches in this orchard and gulped the beer. "Your cigar does not seem to draw well," said Saurin. "No," replied Edwards; "I can't think what is the matter with it; I never smoked a cigar like this before." Which was perfectly true, as it was the first he had ever put into his mouth. "Let me look at it. Why, you have not bitten the end off! You might as well expect smoke to go up a chimney that is bricked up at the top. Here, I'll cut it for you with my penknife; now you will find it go all right. What a row that hawk of yours makes, Perry!" "Yes, he ought to be hooded, you know. Hateful times we live in, don't we! How jolly it must have been when education meant learning to ride, fly a hawk, train a hound, shoot with the bow, and use the sword and buckler, instead of mugging at abominable lessons." "Right you are, sir," said Mr Slam; "why, even when I was a lad a fight or a bit of cocking could be brought off without much trouble, but nowadays the beaks and perlice are that prying and interfering there's no chance hardly. And as for them times Mr Perry was speaking of, why, I've heard tell that the princes and all the nobs used to go to see a prize-fight in a big building all comfortable, just as they goes now to a theayter. And every parish had to find a bull or a bear to be bated every Sunday. Ah! them was the good old times, them was." Edwards did not find his cigar very nice. The smoke got down his throat and made him cough till his eyes watered, and the taste was not so pleasant as the smell. However, Saurin seemed to like it, so there must be some pleasure about it if he only persevered. He laboured under a delusion here, for Saurin would rather not have smoked, as a matter of fact, though he had a great object in view, the colouring of his pipe, which supported him. His real motive in this, as in all other matters, was vanity. Other boys would admire him for smoking like a full-grown man, and so he smoked. He would never have done it alone, without anyone to see him, being too fond of himself to persevere in anything he did not like, out of whim, or for the sake of some possible future gratification, of the reality of which he was not very well assured. "Did you ever play at quoits, Edwards?" asked Saurin presently. "Yes, I have played at home; we have some." "Suppose we have a game, then. Why, hulloa, how pale you look! don't smoke any more of that cigar." "I do fee--feel a little queer," said Edwards, who certainly did not exaggerate his sensations. A cold sweat burst out on his forehead, his hands were moist and clammy, and though it was a warm evening he shivered from head to foot, while he had a violent pain in his stomach which prevented his standing upright. "Come, man alive, don't give way. We must be getting back soon," said Saurin, who was rather dismayed at the idea of taking his friend to his tutor's in that condition, and the consequent risk of drawing suspicion on himself. "Would not a drop of brandy be a good thing, Slam?" "Well, no, not in this here case," said Slam. "The missus shall mix him a little mustard and warm water; that's what he wants." "You are sure it's only the cigar," groaned Edwards. "I am not poisoned or anything?" "Poisoned! how can you be? You have taken nothing but the beer, and we have all drunk that. No, it's the tobacco; it always makes fellows rather seedy at first, and I expect you swallowed a lot of the smoke." "I did." "Well, then, drink this and you will be all right presently." Edwards took the emetic, which had the effect peculiar to that description of beverage. It was not a pleasant one; indeed, he thought he was going to die; but after a while the worst symptoms passed off, and he was able to walk home. Saurin and Edwards lodged at the same tutors, and they went up to the room of the latter without attracting attention. Here Edwards, under the other's directions, washed his face, cleaned his teeth, changed his jacket and neck-tie, and put some scented pomatum on his hair, and then lay down on his bed till the supper-bell should ring. "I shall not be able to eat," he remonstrated. "Do you think I need go down?" "Oh, yes; come and have a try, or else it will excite suspicion. You would have to show at prayers directly afterwards, you know, so it will not make much difference. You have nothing to do with old Cookson between this and supper--no exercise or anything?" "No, thank goodness!" "That's all right. You have a good hour for a nap, and your head will be better then. I must go and sweeten myself now." I regret to say that "old Cookson" was the shockingly disrespectful way in which this flagitious youth spoke of his reverend and learned tutor. CHAPTER THREE. TOM BULLER. Weston College was a polishing-up establishment. Boys were not admitted under the age of fourteen, or unless they showed a certain proficiency in Greek and Latin, in the first book of Euclid, in arithmetic and algebra up to simple equations. And the entrance examination, mind you, was no farce. If a candidate was not well grounded they would not have him; and it was necessary to be particular, because the first or lowest form assumed a certain amount of knowledge in the commencement of that course which proposed to land the neophyte in the Indian Civil Service, the army, or a good scholarship at one of the universities. Though fourteen was the age of possible admission, very few boys were qualified until they were at least a year older, and consequently there was no organised system of fagging, and flogging was a very rare and extreme measure; but otherwise the system somewhat resembled that of the large public schools. The head-master and three other masters each had a house full of boarders, whose preparation of lessons on certain subjects he superintended; and every boy had a separate apartment, which was his study and bedroom. It was an expensive school, and the discipline of Dr Jolliffe was more lax than many parents and guardians quite liked; and yet few of the boys who went there were rich. It was very rarely, that is, that one of them had not to make his own way in the world. And the number, which was limited, was always complete. For results speak for themselves, and the examination lists showed triumphant successes for Weston. It is true that if they only took boys of considerable proficiency, and got rid of all who made no progress, they might be expected to show a good average; but then, on the other hand, there was no cramming, and every encouragement was given to healthy athletic exercise. Three or four years were taken to do the work which is too often jammed into a few months. That was the secret; and, though of course there were failures, it answered well on the whole. This is an explanatory digression, just to let you know what sort of stage our characters are acting upon. It was Saturday afternoon, and a half-holiday, and there was only one boy left in Dr Jolliffe's house. His name was Buller, and he was neither sick nor under punishment. His window was wide open, for it was very hot and stuffy in his little room, into which the sun poured, and on the other side of a lane which ran underneath was the cricket-field, from which the thud of balls struck by the bat, voices, and laughter resounded in a way to tempt any fellow out of his hole. But there he stuck with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, forcing himself to concentrate his attention upon a book which lay open before him. "Because _a divided by b_ equals _c divided by d_," he murmured, "the first quotients _m m_ are equal. Yes, I see that; again, since _a divided by b_ equals _m_ plus _x divided by b_, and _c divided by d_ equals _m_ plus _r divided by d_, hum, hum, why, in the name of all that's blue--oh, yes! I see. But then--oh, a thousand blisters on the idiot who invented this rot! But I won't be licked." And he began again and again, sticking to it for another half-hour, when he suddenly cried out, "I have it! What a double-distilled ass I am! Of course it is simple enough. If _a divided by b_ equals _c divided by d_, and _a_ and _b_ be prime to each other, _c_ and _d_ are equimultiples of _a_ and _b_. Of course they are; how could they be anything else? The other fellows saw it at once, no doubt. What a lot of trouble it gives one to be a fool! Now, I'll go and practise bowling." Buller was no fool; indeed he would not have thought himself one if he had been; but he was slow at everything--learning, games, accomplishments--though he had this compensation, no slight one either, that when he had once mastered a thing he had got it for ever. His school-fellows called him a duffer, but it did not vex him in the least, for he considered it a mere statement of a patent fact, and was no more offended than if they had said that he had two legs. But he had a strong belief that perseverance, _sticking_, he called it, could make up in a great measure for want of natural ability. The fable of the hare and tortoise had given him great encouragement, and, finding in practice that he passed boys who had far more brilliant parts than himself, he never gave way to despair, however hopeless the task before him might seem. His ambition--never expressed, however, to anyone--was to get into the eleven. Had it been known it would have been thought the very height of absurdity, and have become such a standing joke that its realisation would have been rendered well nigh impossible. It proved that Buller had sound sense that he was able to see this. He did not much expect to succeed, but he meant to try all he knew, ever since the day he was called "old butter-fingers" in a game in which he showed especial incapacity to catch the ball. He began by mastering that; whenever he could he got fellows to give him catches. He practised throwing the ball up in the air and catching it again. When he went home for the holidays he would carry a tennis-ball in his pocket, and take every opportunity of throwing it against a wall and taking it at the rebound with both hands, with the right hand, and with the left. At last he got quite dexterous--and sinistrous, too, for that matter. But the mere fact of being able to manipulate the ball smartly, though it is of supreme importance in cricket, would never gain him admission into the eleven of his house, let alone that of the school. For that, as he well knew, he must cultivate a speciality, and he decided upon bowling. Wicket-keeping could only be practised in a regular game, and no side would agree to let him fill the post--it was not likely. Batting everyone wanted to practise, and it would be very rarely that he would be able to get a good bowler to bowl for him. There was a professional, indeed, who was always in the cricket-fields during the season, but his services were generally in request, and, besides, they were expensive, and Tom Buller had not much pocket-money. But there was almost always some fellow who was glad to get balls given to him, and, if not, you can set a stump up in front of a net and bowl at that. To have worked all this out in his mind did not look like lack of intelligence or observation, and to act upon it steadily, without saying a word about it to anybody, showed considerable steadfastness and resolution. He now put his algebra and papers into his bureau, took out his cricket-ball and ran down-stairs and round to the fields. At first it seemed as if he would be obliged to have recourse to his solitary stump, for, it being the Saturday half-holiday, there were two matches going on, and those present not taking part in them were playing lawn- tennis. But presently he espied Robarts, who had been in and out again in the game he was engaged in, and was now waiting for the innings of his side to be over, standing in front of a net, bat in hand, with two boys bowling to him. "May I give you a ball, Robarts?" he asked. "Of course you may, Buller; the more the merrier," was the reply; "only, if you are so wide as to miss the net, you must go after the ball yourself." And Robarts raised his bat, prepared for a good swipe if the ball came within reach, which he did not much expect. Buller measured his distance, took a short run, and sent the ball in with the energy begotten of long mugging at algebra on a fine afternoon. Every muscle in his body seemed to long for violent exertion; the pent- up strength in him, like steam, demanded an outlet, and, with his hand rather higher than the shoulder, he sent the ball in with a will. "By Jove! that was straight enough, and a hot one too!" exclaimed Robarts, who had only just managed to block it. "It made my hands tingle." The two others delivered their balls, which were hit away right and left, and then Buller came again with another which had to be blocked. The other bowlers who had been playing, and were going in again presently, were glad to stop and leave Buller to work away alone, which he did in a deliberate, determined manner, proving that his first attempts were not chance shots. Twice he sent the wickets down, and once, when the ball was driven back to him, he caught it with the left hand, high up. "Well," said Robarts when he was called away to go and field, "and you are the fellow they called a duffer! Why, it is like magic! Were you playing dark last year, or what?" "No; but I have been practising." "You have practised to some purpose, then. If you could only vary your bowling a little more you would be very dangerous. You see, if you always send the same sort of ball, a fellow knows how to meet it after a bit." Robarts as an all-round player was only reckoned inferior to Crawley, and his words of approval were very gratifying to Buller, who felt himself a step nearer one particular goal. He did not indulge in daydreams, however, not being of an imaginative disposition. The actual difficulty which he had to master at the time took up all his thoughts and energies, and the distant object to be attained, though never absolutely lost sight of, was never dwelt upon or brooded over. He at once looked about for someone else to bowl for, and found his particular chum, Penryhn, who, after fagging out through the heat of the day, had gone to the wicket with the sun in his eyes, and been clean bowled the first ball. "Will you really bowl for me?" he said eagerly in reply to Buller's offer. "What a good fellow you are!" "Why? for doing what I want? That is laying in a stock of good works cheap. You won't mind a few wides, I hope; Robarts says there is too great a sameness about my bowling, so I want to practise twisters and shooters. You won't mind if I bowl at your legs?" "Not a bit; _ignis via_--fire away." The necessity for violent exertion had been taken out of Buller, indeed it was now oozing away from every pore of his skin. So he did not try fast bowling, except now and then when he attempted to put in a shooter, but concentrated his attention principally upon placing his ball, or on pitching it to leg with an inward twist towards the wicket. He constantly failed; sent easy ones which were hit about to the peril of neighbouring players; cut Penryhn over once on the knee-cap and once on the ankle. But he never once delivered the ball carelessly, or without a definite object. And when his arm got so tired that his mind could no longer direct it, he left off and Penryhn bowled in turn to him, his great object then being to keep an upright bat rather than to hit. "I'll tell you what, Tom, you have improved in your cricket awfully," said Penryhn as they strolled back in the dusk. "Why, you took Robarts' wickets twice." "Yes, but I should not have done it in a game; fellows step out and hit recklessly in practice." "No matter for that; you are quite a different bowler from what you were." "The fact is it takes me all my time to learn to do what comes to other fellows naturally." "That's a bit too deep for me; some fellows can do one thing easily and others another, and every fellow has to work hard to learn those things which belong, as it were, to the other fellows. There are chaps, I suppose, like the Admirable Crichton, who are born good all round, and can play the fiddle, polish off Euclid, ride, shoot, lick anyone at any game, all without the slightest trouble, but one does not come across them often, thank goodness. I say, do you know what genius is?" "Not exactly; that is, I could not define it." "Well, I have heard my father say that some very clever chap has said that it is `an infinite capacity for taking pains,' and if that's true, by Jove, you must be a genius, Tom!" And they both burst out laughing at the notion, and went in and changed their flannels. And Buller lit his candle and mugged at a German exercise till the supper-bell rang. Half-holidays did not necessarily preclude work in the tutor's pupil- rooms, which was preparatory to that in school, though practically the hours of recreation were never interfered with in fine weather. But after the hour of "All In," as the local phrase went, when the roll was called, and every boy had to be in for the night, an hour which varied with the time of the year, it was different. And on this Saturday evening Mr Cookson had some arrears of Historical Theme correction to make up. For since history plays a considerable part in modern competitive examinations, every boy had to read up a certain portion of some standard work every week, and write a theme upon it, without the book, in the pupil-room. This theme was looked over with him by his tutor before being sent in to the head-master, and if it did not reach a certain standard it was torn up, and he had to read the subject again and write another one. Edwards was one of the essayists whose paper had not yet been examined, and he stood at this tutor's elbow while he read it over. "`After he had been some years in England Sir Elijah Impey was tried by Doctors' Commons.'" "_House_ of Commons, boy," said Mr Cookson, "people are not impeached at Doctors' Commons, that's where wills are proved," and he made a correction,--"`and proved he hadn't murdered the rajah. And so Sir Philip Francis, the author of a book called _Junius_, the writer of which was never discovered,'"--"why, that's a bull;" Mr Cookson could not help chuckling as he made a dash and a correction,--"`and deaf Burke,'"--"`I never heard that he was deaf--oh, that was another man, a prize-fighter, ho, ho, ho, ahem!'"--"`and Burke were very much ashamed of themselves, and were hissed, and never alluded to the subject, from which originated the phrase of "burking the question,"'"--"Pooh, pooh, never make shots like that:"--"`and Sir Elijah Impey was found Not Guilty, and all his property was taken from him to pay the lawyers with.'" "Well, well, it's not so bad," said Mr Cookson, signing his name at the bottom of the last page. "And now, Edwards," he added, turning and looking the boy straight in the eyes, "I have a good mind to have you flogged." "Me, sir!" exclaimed Edwards, turning pale; "what for, sir?" "Doctor Jolliffe does not flog for many things, but there are certain offences he never fails to visit with the utmost severity. Smoking is one of them." "I assure you, sir, I have not--" "Lying is another, so do not finish your sentence. I can smell the stale tobacco." And indeed Edwards was wearing the jacket in which he had indulged in that emetical luxury, his first cigar, two evenings previously. "But really, sir, it is no lie," he urged; "I have not been smoking, and I cannot tell where the smell comes from, unless it is my jacket, which I wore in the holidays, when I sat in the room with my father when he was having his cigar sometimes, and which has been in my box till the other day. I am certain it cannot be my breath or anything else." "Come nearer; no, your breath and hair are free from the taint. Well, it may be as you say, and I am loth to suspect you of falsehood. But listen to me, my boy; I am not assuming that you have been smoking, mind, but only, as we are on the subject, that you might do so. It may seem very arbitrary that the rules against it are so very severe, considering how general the practice is, but they are wise for all that. However harmless it may be for those who have come to their full growth, smoking tobacco is certainly very injurious to lads who are not matured. And indeed until the habit is acquired--it affects the digestion and the memory of every one. Now, in these days of competitive examinations, when every young fellow on entering life has to struggle to get his foot on the first rung of the ladder, and all his future prospects depend on his doing better than others, how inexpressibly silly it is for him to handicap himself needlessly by taking a narcotic which confuses his brain and impairs his memory, and which affords him no pleasure whatever. I treat you as a rational being, and appeal to your common sense, and speak as your friend. Now, go." Edwards was not such a ready liar as you may think him, though he certainly prevaricated. He _had_ worn that jacket in his father's smoking-room, and it _had_ lain in his box during the early part of the term. He had not smoked again since the occasion commemorated, and that was two days previously, and he persuaded himself that his tutor's question applied to that day. But he knew in his heart that it didn't, and with the kind tones of his tutor's voice ringing in his ears he felt as if he ought to be kicked. But when he went up to his room he found Saurin there, and any feelings of self-reproach he had had soon melted away. "What's up, now?" asked his friend. "You look as if you had seen a ghost." "I nearly got into an awful row, I can tell you!" replied Edwards. "My tutor smelt my jacket of smoke while he was correcting my theme." "By Jove! And how did you get out of it?" "I told him I had worn the jacket in my father's smoking-room." "Ha, ha, ha! that was a good un. Well done, old fellow! I did not think you had so much presence of mind. You will make your way yet." Edwards was on the point of protesting that what he said was the fact, but his guide, philosopher, and friend seemed so much pleased with the ingenuity of his plea that he could not bear to rob himself of the credit of it, and so he looked as knowing as he conveniently could, and chuckled, taking a pride in what five minutes before he was ashamed of. "That's the worst of cigar-smoking, the smell clings so to the clothes and hair. Now, a pipe is much easier to get sweet again after, unless, of course, you carry it about in your pocket. Wore the jacket in your father's smoking-room about a month ago! and old Cookson was soft enough to swallow that. How old Slam would chuckle! I must tell him." "Do you know, I am not quite certain that my tutor did altogether believe that I had not been smoking," said Edwards, his conscience stirring again a little bit now that he saw the man who had spoken so kindly to him incurring the terrible risk of forfeiting Saurin's esteem through a false imputation of too great credulity. "You see, he's a good-natured chap, and I think he wanted to believe if he could, and as my hair and breath did not smell, he gave me the benefit of the doubt." "Thought it would bring discredit on his house if it were known to contain a monster who smoked tobacco," said Saurin, "and so was glad to pretend to believe the papa-smoking-room story. Well, it is possible; old Cookson may not be so great a fool as he looks. Anyhow, I am glad for your sake that he did not report you; old Jolliffe would not have been humbugged. He would have said, `Your jacket stinks of tobacco, and jackets don't smoke of themselves.' And you would have got it hot, old fellow, for Jolliffe is mad against smoking." CHAPTER FOUR. AN OUTSIDE PROFESSOR. Saurin's master passion of vanity caused him to be fond of low company. This may sound odd to some, because many vain people are sycophants, who will do anything to be seen in the company of persons of title or high social position, and who cut the acquaintance of old friends, and even benefactors when they dare and can do without them, when they are of inferior grade. These are contented to shine with a reflected light; but Saurin's pride was of a different description, and he chafed at being a satellite, and always wanted to figure as a sun, the centre of his companions, who must revolve around him. How small a sun did not matter. And so, though really possessed of considerable abilities, he was happier when in the company of boors and clodhoppers, who owned his superiority and deferred to all he said, than he was with his equals, who presumed to question his opinions, differ in their tastes, and laugh at his failures. This natural disposition had, unfortunately, been fostered by circumstances. He was an only child, born in India, and had been sent over to England in his early infancy, and committed to the care of an uncle. His parents died before they could come home, and he never knew them. His uncle and guardian lost his wife very soon after the boy was sent to him. He was older and had settled in life very much earlier than his brother, and his two children (girls) were married and living, at a distance. He resided nominally in the country, but after his wife's death lived a great deal in London. So there was no one to look properly after the orphan, who associated with grooms and gamekeepers, and played with the village boys. Unfortunately the best of these went to work, and it was only the idle good-for-nothings who were available as playmates. When his uncle had an inkling of what was going on he sent him to school, where he did not get on badly so far as learning was concerned, but unfortunately he did not unlearn the lessons taught him by bumpkin ne'er-do-weels, and when he went home for the holidays he renewed his acquaintance with them with fresh zest. He had a good voice, and would sing to the revellers at harvest homes and other rural festivities as they sipped their ale, and delighted in their applause and wonder at his cleverness, and in the deference they paid him. When he went to Weston his ambition took at first a higher flight, and he dreamed of dominating the school. With this idea he began to study with some ardour, and his natural ability enabled him to make good progress. At all the games in which success brought consideration he also tried to attain proficiency, and he endeavoured in every way he could think of to court popularity. But there were others as clever and cleverer than himself, as good and better at football, running, and cricket, and very many whose manners and disposition were more attractive. He had not got the patient persistency of Tom Buller, or with his superior quickness he might have gone far towards success. But he wanted to establish his position at a jump, and every failure discouraged and irritated him. And so his efforts became more and more spasmodic, and he confined himself to trying to become the head of a clique. But his overbearing vanity and selfishness would show itself too glaringly at times, and many who accepted him as a leader at first grew weary of him, and Edwards was his only really faithful follower. Therefore he fell back upon Slam's, where certain young farmers of the neighbourhood, for whom he sometimes provided drink, applauded his songs and jokes, and fooled him to the top of his bent. But he none the less chafed at his want of appreciation in the school, and bitterly hated Crawley, who in a great measure filled the place which he coveted. Since the cricket match in which he had figured so ignominiously, Saurin had become a confirmed loafer, and frequented the old reprobate's yard almost daily. And, indeed, a new attraction had been added to the establishment. Wobbler, the pedestrian, a candidate for the ten-miles championship of Somersetshire, was residing there during his training for that world-renowned contest. It cannot be correctly said that Wobbler was very good company, for indeed his conversational powers were limited, which was perhaps fortunate, seeing that his language was not very choice when he did speak. But he was a man of varied accomplishments; not only could he walk, but he could run, and swim, and box. Indeed he had only deserted the pugilistic for the pedestrian profession because the former was such a poor means of livelihood, closely watched as its members were by the police. Now, Saurin had long wished to learn to box, an art which was not included in the curriculum of the Weston gymnasium, and here was an opportunity. The professor's terms were half-a-crown a lesson, provided there was a class of at least four. The ordinary allowance of pocket-money at Weston was eighteenpence a week, _plus_ tips, _plus_ what was brought back to school after the holidays. In the words of Mr Slam, "it wouldn't run to it." There were seven occasional frequenters of the forbidden yard who were anxious to acquire the rudiments of the noble art of self- defence, but half-a-crown a lesson was a prohibitive tariff. Indeed it seemed contrary to principle to pay to learn anything. Saurin hit on a way out of the difficulty; he wrote this letter to his guardian: "My dear Uncle,--I should like to learn gymnastics, fencing, boxing, and those things, but the regular man appointed to teach such things here is a duffer, and makes it a bore, keeping you at dumb-bells and clubs and such stupid work for ever, just to make the course last out, for the charges are monstrous. And so, hearing about this, Professor Wobbler, a first-rate instructor, I am told, has engaged a room in the neighbourhood, where he gives lessons at half-a-crown each, or a course of ten for one pound. It has to be kept secret, because the man appointed by the school would have the boys forbidden to go there if he knew. If you don't mind, will you please send the pound to me or to Professor Wobbler. I will send you his receipt if you pay him through me. Please do not mention the matter if it does not meet with your approval, as I should be very sorry to take the poor man's bread out of his mouth." This part of the epistle, a cunning combination of the _suppressio veri_ and _suggestio falsi_, was given to all the others who were in the plot to copy. I am sorry to say that in several instances, including those of Saurin and Edwards, it was successful, and the class was formed. The professor was not beautiful to look at. His forehead was low and projecting, his eyes small, his nose flat, his lower jaw square and massive. Neither were his words of instruction characterised by that elegance which public lecturers often affect, but they were practical and to the point, which after all is the chief thing to be looked at. "You stands easy like," he said to Saurin, who was taking his first lesson in an unfurnished room of Slam's house, the fine weather having terminated in a thunderstorm, and a wet week to follow. "Don't plant your feet as if you meant to grow to the floor, and keep your knees straight--no, not stiff like that, I mean don't bend them. You wants to step forwards or to step backwards, quick as a wink, always moving the rear foot first, or else you'd stumble over it and get off your balance, and that would give t'other a chance. You must be wary, wary, ready to step up and hit, or step back out of reach. Keep your heyes on t'other's, and that will help you to judge the distance. Take 'em off for a bit of a second and you'll have his mawley well on your nose at once. Now, your left arm and fut in advance, not too much; keep your body square to the front. Your right arm across, guarding what we calls the mark, that's just above the belt, where the wind is. Let your left play up and down free, your foot and body moving with it graceful like. That's better. Now, try to hit me in the face as hard as you can; you won't do it, no fear; I should like to bet a pound to a shilling on that every time, and I won't hold my hands up neither. It's just to show yer what judging the distance is." Saurin hesitated at first, and hit gently; but urged to try his best he at last struck out sharply, but could not reach the professor's visage. Sometimes he turned it slightly to the right, sometimes to the left, and the blow went past his ear. Some times he just drew his head back, and the pupil's fist came to within an inch of what he called his nose, but never touched it. This was a way the professor had of showing his credentials--it was his unwritten diploma proving his efficiency to instruct in the noble art. After this the boxing gloves were put on, and the pupil was directed to walk round the professor in a springy manner, leading off at his face, the instructor throwing off the blows with an upward movement of the right arm. Next, after a pause for rest, they went on again, Saurin leading off, the professor parrying and returning the blow, slowly at first, then quicker as the pupil gained skill and confidence in warding off the hit. Then the instructor led off, and the pupil parried and returned. Then one, two, three, four. And so the first lesson ended, and Stubbs, who was another of the class, was taken in hand. Now Stubbs had naturally let his beloved Topper loose as he passed through the yard, and the dog followed him into the room where the lesson was going on. So long as Stubbs led off at the professor Topper was quiet and happy; his master he thought was worrying someone, it was his human equivalent to killing a rat; but when the professor led off at _him_, the case was different, and Topper, without warning, went straight at the supposed assailant's throat. Fortunately the professor had a bird's-eye handkerchief round his neck, which protected it from the dog's teeth, for Topper sprang right up and fixed him. It was frightful to look at, but Stubbs had the presence of mind to seize his animal round the throat with both hands immediately and drag him away; his teeth were so firmly set in the handkerchief that that came too. No one is a hero at all hours, and Wobbler came as near being frightened as a soldier or a pugilist can be supposed, without libel, to do. This made him angry, and he used language towards the dog and his anatomy, and his own anatomy, which is not customary in polite society. Stubbs carried the offender down to his kennel and chained him up, and on his return offered a peace-offering of beer, which was well meant but unkind, seeing that the professor was in training and restricted as to his potations. However, Topper's fangs had not broken the skin, thanks to the handkerchief, though certainly not to Topper. Mr Wobbler recovered his equanimity, and affably condescended to apologise for his remarks. "I'm almost afeard as I swore, gents," he observed, and his fear was certainly well founded. "I was a trifled startled, you see, and expressed myself as I felt, strong. Bull-terriers is nice dogs, and I'm very partial to them, in their proper place, but that's not a hanging on to my wind pipe; at least that's _my_ opinion. But I'm sorry if I spoke rough, which is not in my habits. Nobody can say that Job Wobbler is uncivil to his backers or his patrons." A speech which was perhaps rather lacking in dignity for a professor. The lesson then went on, and was succeeded by others, sometimes in the room, sometimes in the orchard, according to the weather. And when the pupils had attained a certain degree of proficiency they were paired off against one another, first for leads-off, at the head, parry and return at the body, stop and return at the head, and so forth. Finally, for loose sparring, the professor standing by and stopping them when they got wild, or began punching indiscriminately. Saurin made considerable progress, and was a long way the best of the class--so much so, indeed, that he had to play lightly with the others, or they would not all set to with him. Even such a critic as Slam expressed his approval, and this superiority was sugar and sack to Saurin, being indeed the first consolation he had received since the mortification of being turned out of the eleven. But, alas! sparring was not a recognised item of Weston athletics, and he could not gain the applause of the whole school by his proficiency, which was only known to a very few of the initiated. Unless, indeed,--and here a thought which had long lain dormant in his mind, for the first time assumed a distinct shape. Suppose he happened to come to an open outbreak with Crawley, and it ended in a fight, what an opportunity it would be to gratify his ambition and his hatred at the same time! He did not actually plan anything of the kind, or say to himself that he would pick a quarrel. The idea was merely a fancy, a daydream. Man or boy must be bold as well as bad deliberately to form a scheme for bringing about an encounter with a formidable enemy, and Saurin was not particularly bold, certainly not rashly so, and Crawley would be likely to prove a very awkward customer. Instructors of any sort, whether they are professors of mathematics, or Hebrew, or of dancing, or boxing, have this in common, that they are sure to take a special interest in apt pupils; and so Mr Wobbler paid more attention to Saurin than to the others, and showed him certain tricks, feints, and devices which he did not favour everybody with. He also gave him some hints in wrestling, and taught him the throw called the cross-buttock. Saurin used likewise to go to the highroad along which the professor took his daily walks in preparation for his match, and sometimes held the stop-watch for him, and learned how to walk or run in a way to attain the maximum of speed with a minimum of exertion. The mere learning to box, and the necessary association with a man like Wobbler, would not have done the boys much harm of itself. The deception practised in order to obtain the money to pay him with, and the skulking and dodging necessary for approaching and leaving Slam's premises without being seen, were far more injurious to them, especially since the great freedom allowed to the boys at Weston was granted on the assumption that they would not take advantage of it to frequent places which were distinctly forbidden. And to do them justice, the great majority felt that they were on honour, and did not abuse the trust. But for Saurin, and for Edwards and a few others who followed Saurin's lead, the mischief did not end here. Mr Wobbler sometimes unbended-- Mr Saurin was such a "haffable gent" there was no resisting him--and told anecdotes of his past experiences, which were the reverse of edifying. It was a curious fact that every action upon which he prided himself, or which he admired in his friends, was of a more or less fraudulent nature; and Mr Slam, who was always present on these occasions, shared these sentiments, and contributed similar reminiscences of his own. It was true that the boys looked upon these two, and upon the young sporting farmers who sometimes dropped in, and boasted of poaching, and horse-cheating exploits in a spirit of emulation, as "cads," who had a different code from their own; but it is very difficult to associate with persons of any station in life who think it clever to defraud others, and consider impunity as the only test of right or wrong, and to laugh at their dishonourable tricks, without blunting our own moral sense. We cannot touch pitch without being defiled. Another great evil was the beer-drinking, at any time, whether they were thirsty or not, which went on. Worse still, spirits were sometimes introduced. The frequenters of Slam's spent all their pocket-money at that place in one way or another; and the pity of it was, that most of them would much rather, certainly at starting, have laid it out in oyster-patties, strawberry messes, and ices, than in forming habits which they would very probably give their right arms to be rid of in after-life. The best hope for them, next to being found out, was that their course of boxing lessons would soon be over, and Mr Wobbler would go away to walk his match and clear out of the neighbourhood, and that then they would give up frequenting this disreputable hole before the bad habits which they were so sedulously acquiring got a complete hold upon them. As it was at present, Topper was the only living being that had tried to do a good turn for them; if he had succeeded in worrying the professor, the whole clique would have broken up. CHAPTER FIVE. HOSTILITIES COMMENCED. Many Weston boys who had nothing to do with Slam, who did not care for ratting, and saw no fun in being the proprietor of a dog that could only be seen occasionally and by stealth, took a perfectly legitimate interest in Wobbler as a competitor in the Somersetshire ten-miles championship, and when it became generally known that he was training in the neighbourhood (which was not for some time, nor until the number of boxing lessons subscribed for by the Saurin class had been pretty well exhausted), a good many repaired when time allowed to the nice bit of straight highroad some two miles off where the pedestrian pounded along daily, with his body inclined somewhat forward, his arms held in front of his chest, a little stick in his right hand, fair heel and toe, at a rate of over seven miles in the hour. A group, of which Penryhn was one, were walking in that direction one afternoon, when Buller overtook them at a sharp run, pulling up alongside his friend. "So you have come then after all?" said Penryhn. "Yes," replied Buller, mopping his forehead. "I finished the task I set myself directly after you started, and thought I could catch you up. But it's hot!" "Is it true that you have been elected into the house eleven?" "Yes," replied Buller; "it seems rum, doesn't it?" "I don't know why it should. I am sure I am very glad, old fellow, for I know that you wished it." "Well, yes I did. I am uncommonly fond of cricket, don't you see, and have tried hard to improve." "That you must have done, by Jove! But how was it?" "Well, Robarts said something to Crawley, and Crawley came up to me the day before yesterday and said he had heard that I could bowl a bit; would I come and give him a few balls. So I went and bowled to him for an hour, and the result was that he called a house meeting, and I was put into the eleven." "You will be in the school eleven next year, you see." "I don't know," replied Buller; "it depends on how I get on, you know. I might make a regular mull of it." "Bosh! not you; you have gone on improving too steadily for that," said Penryhn confidently. "This is one of the milestones the chap comes to; he will be here presently if we wait. What's the row over there?" "Oh! one of those men with images, and some of our fellows, Saurin, Edwards, and that lot, chaffing him." An Italian with a large tray of plaster of Paris figures on his head was tramping from one town to another, and seeing the groups of boys gathered in different parts of the road, thought he might do a stroke of business, so taking down the tray he solicited attention. "I makes them all myself; I am poor man, but artist." "Ah! and how do you sell them?" asked Saurin. "Sheap, oh mosh too sheap; what you like to give." "Will you take a shilling for the whole lot?" "Oh! young gentleman, you make fun, you joke. Ha, ha! One shilling for the beautiful little statues! What joke!" "Too much, is it? I thought so; not but what they would make capital cockshies." A large pile of flints, hammered into a convenient size and form for missiles, lay handy, ready for repairing the road, and the coincidence caused Saurin's idea to become popular at once. "Let's have one for a cockshy. Here's Bismark." "He's a German, and I hate German; most abominable language I have had to tackle yet. Stick Bismark up on that gate, and we will shy from the other side of the road. Stick him up, I say, you jabbering idiot." "Oh! sare, what pity to throw stone at the beautiful cast! Buy him and take him home, no break him." In spite of his remonstrances the great chancellor was set up on the five-barred gate, and the boys began to pelt him from the heap of stones on the opposite side of the road. "And who is to pay me for my beautiful images?" asked the Italian, in some trepidation for his money, it being difficult to say which of all these eccentric young savages was the actual purchaser. "Oh! whoever does not hit it shall owe you for it." "But I should like that you pay now, before you throw." "Why, you idiot, how can we tell who hits and who misses beforehand. Stand out of the way can't you!" "Good shot!" "That was near." "That has got him!" and down went the bust in fragments. Then a Cupid was exposed to missiles far more substantial than his own, and succumbed. His mama was next sent up by these young Goths; fancy Venus herself being put in the pillory and stoned! What one thing after that could they be expected to respect? Not the infant Samuel, who, in spite of his supplicatory attitude, found no pity. Not Sir Garnet Wolseley, who was exposed to as hot a fire as he had ever been under before, with worse luck; not Mr Gladstone, nor Minerva, nor Tennyson. The spirit of mischief, the thirst for destruction, grew wilder by gratification, and soon the whole stock of models was reduced to a heap of plaster fragments. "Ah! well, I have sell them all quick to-day," said the Italian, putting a good face on the business, which yet looked to him rather doubtful, and it is very rare for people to indulge in mischief at their own expense. "It is twenty shilling, one pound you owe me, sare," he added to Saurin. "I owe you!" cried Saurin. "I like that! Why, I hit more of them than anyone else, and it was those who missed the lot who were to be responsible. Go to them, man." "Oh! gentleman, kind gentleman, you are making fun of me. You speak to me first; you say, `Put up the figures for shy.' I poor man, you gentleman. You laugh! Give me my money, you sare, or you, or you;" and the Italian grasped his long black hair with both hands, and danced about in a manner which amused his tormentors greatly, and their laughter put him a rage. "You rob me," he cried, "I will go to the police; I will have you put in prison if you no pay me. Give me my money." "We will make a cockshy of you if you don't look out," said one; and another actually threw a stone at him, an example which others were preparing to follow, when Crawley, with a group of boys who had seen nothing of the early part of the business, came up, and seemed inclined to take the Italian's part. The aggressors dropped their stones quietly and began to slip away. "It's a beastly shame, and a disgrace to the school," said Crawley indignantly. Saurin heard him as he hurried off, and if he had had any money in his pocket he would have turned back, thrown it to the image man, and asked Crawley what he meant. But being without funds he was obliged to make off while he could, or the Italian would fix on him and follow him home. For to break away and show him a fair pair of heels across country would be impossible after an altercation with his school- fellow; it would be putting himself in too humiliating a position. So he walked on at a sharp pace, choking with suppressed passion. "Where he live, that fellow; where he live?" cried the Italian. "Per Baccho, I will have the police to him! You know him, excellenza; tell me where he live?" "I will not tell you that," said Crawley. "But here's half-a-crown for you." A considerable number of boys had now collected, and as example, whether for good or evil, has an extraordinary effect on either boys or men, a collection was started. Some gave a shilling, some sixpence, and a sum of ten shillings was made up altogether, which was probably quite as much as the figures were worth. So the Italian calmed down and dried his eyes, for he had been crying like a child, and with a profusion of thanks took up his board and went his way. And it being time to go back to Weston, all the boys started off in that direction, leaving Mr Wobbler to tramp backwards and forwards between his milestones in solitude. Of course some kind friend told all this to Saurin, and it exasperated him still more, if that was possible. One thing he was determined upon, Crawley must be repaid the money he had given to the Italian figure-seller at once. After hunting in all his waistcoat pockets and his drawers he could only raise eighteenpence, so he went to Edwards' room. "Look here, old fellow," he said; "lend me a shilling till Monday, I want it particularly." "I'm awfully sorry," replied Edwards, "I have not got one." "I'll pay you back on Monday, honour bright." "I know you would; it isn't that. I assure you I am not making excuses; you should have it directly if it were possible; but I am as penniless as a fellow can be, not so much as a postage-stamp have I got." "I must get a shilling somehow; whom to ask?" "Ask Griffiths; he always has money," suggested Edwards. "Hang the fellow, yes," said Saurin. "But he will make such a favour of it if he lends it, and he is just as likely as not to refuse. I have it, though! He offered me half-a-crown for my crossbow last term, and I would not let him have it; he shall now." The crossbow in question was an ingenious little thing about six inches long, the bow of steel, the string of catgut, the stock and barrel of wood, and it projected marbles or spherical bullets with very considerable force. It would raise a bump on the head at twenty yards, and break a window at thirty. Griffiths also lived in Mr Cookson's house, so that Saurin had only to go to his own room, get out, dust, and rub up the article, which had lain in a corner forgotten, and go up the other staircase. "I say, Griffiths," he began; "in turning out some old things I have just come across this little steel bow which you wanted to buy of me, you know. I am tired of it now, and so you can have it if you like. Half-a-crown, I think, you said that you would give, was it not?" Griffiths coveted the toy as much or more than ever he had done, but he was a born dealer; and when he saw that the other was anxious to sell he assumed indifference in order to lower the price. "Why, you see," he said, "last term is not this term. I was pretty flush just then, and had a fancy for the thing. Now the money has gone, and I don't so much care." "You won't have it then? oh! very well; all right." "Stop, don't be in a hurry; I'll give you eighteenpence for it." "Make it two shillings," urged Saurin. "No; eighteenpence or nothing," Griffiths persisted. "You old Jew! Well, here it is then," said Saurin. "Have you got a shilling?" asked Griffiths. "I have only got half-a- crown; but if you can give me change--" Saurin took the coin, giving back a shilling without further remark. He was thinking that it would be more effective to offer Crawley the larger coin, instead of fumbling with small money, and the notion pleased him. Besides he was not particularly disappointed; so long as he got what he wanted at the moment, it was not his nature to look much further. But he did not sleep much that night. Again this Crawley had scored off him, by putting himself in the position of generous benefactor and chivalrous defender of the weak, with him (Saurin) for his foil. There was one comfort; he was not so much afraid of Crawley as he did not conceal from himself that he had once been. Hitherto he had feared that if it came to a quarrel, he would not get the best of it, and this had caused him to restrain himself on many occasions when he had longed to give vent to his feelings. But, now that he had skill and science on his side, the case was different, and the balance in his favour; and if this wonderful Crawley, whom everybody made such a fuss about, did not like what he had to say to him, he might do the other thing. The boys were gathered about the quadrangle in groups, waiting to go in for eight o'clock school, for the different class-rooms were not open till the master of each came with his key and unlocked the door, by which time all the class were expected to be outside, ready to go in with him. And so it was the custom to assemble rather early, and now, though it was ten minutes to the hour by the big clock, the majority had arrived. Directly Saurin came he looked for Crawley, and saw him standing chatting with some other fellows. He walked straight up to him. "Oh, Crawley!" he said, "I hear that you paid that Italian blackguard half-a-crown for his broken crockery yesterday, and since he made his claim upon _me_, though I owed him nothing, I don't choose to let it look as if you had paid anything for me, so here is your money back;" and he tendered the half-crown, which the other did not put his hand out to receive. This exasperated Saurin still more. "Take it," he said; "only I'll thank you not to be so confoundedly officious again." "I don't want your money," said Crawley quietly. "You are entirely mistaken; I paid nothing for you. If I knew the image man's address I would forward him your half-crown, but I do not. So you must hunt it up for yourself if you want to make restitution." "But you paid him the money." "That was an act of private charity. The man whom you call a blackguard--I don't know why, for _he_ had not been destroying any defenceless person's property--had had a scoundrelly trick played him, and I and some other fellows got up a subscription for him, as anyone with a spark of gentlemanly feeling would be inclined to do. I am sorry that your contribution is tendered too late, but so it is." "So you call me a blackguard and a scoundrel, do you?" hissed Saurin, who was quite beside himself with rage; and certainly Crawley's speech was the reverse of soothing. "You stuck-up, hypocritical, canting, conceited prig, I should like to break your nose for you." "Break away, my hearty," said Crawley, putting his hands up; "but I am not a plaster of Paris image, mind you, and can hit back." The sneer was another spur to Saurin's passion; his temples throbbed as if they would burst, and his look was as evil as a painter, wanting a model for Mephistopheles, could have desired, as he sprang at his enemy with an inarticulate cry, and struck at him with all his force. The boys closed round them, eager, expectant, those at a distance running up. But blows were hardly exchanged before someone cried, "Look out; here's the Doctor!" and the combatants were separated, and the crowd dispersed in an instant. "We will meet again, I hope," said Saurin. "Any time you like," replied Crawley. "On Saturday afternoon in The Dell, then." "I shall be there, and I hope we shall not be interrupted." And they walked off in different directions, trying to look as if nothing was the matter, which was not so easy, Saurin being hardly able to restrain his excitement, and Crawley being flushed about the forehead, where the other's fist had struck him; otherwise he was no more discomposed than usual, and, being put on to construe soon after entering the school, acquitted himself very well and with the most perfect _sang froid_. Fortunately Saurin was not subjected to the same ordeal or he would have been considerably flustered, if not totally unable to fix his mind on the subject; and he might have excited suspicion as to something unusual going on, which again might have caused inquiry, and so spoiled sport. But he was not called up, the redness of Crawley's brow remained unnoticed, and all was satisfactory. This was Thursday, so there was a day's intermission before the fight, which was the general school topic. The weather, which had been very fine in the early part of the term, had broken up, the sodden grass was unfavourable for cricket and lawn- tennis, so that this little excitement came in just at the convenient time. I wonder why everything connected with fighting is so interesting! Little children love playing at soldiers best of all games, and delight in destroying whole tin armies with pea-shooting artillery. With what silent eagerness the newspapers are devoured in war-time when the details of a battle appear! If two cocks in a farm- yard get at one another the heaviest bumpkin from the plough-tail, who seems incapable of an emotion, grows animated. I suppose it is because of the animal nature of which we partake which frequently excites us to prey on other animals and quarrel with one another. Fights were very rare at Weston, but they took place occasionally, and there was even a traditional spot called the Fairies' Dell, or more commonly The Dell, where they were brought off. But for a boy of the standing and position of Crawley,--in the highest form, captain of the eleven, secretary and treasurer of the cricket and football clubs--to be engaged in such an affair was unprecedented, and the interest taken in it was so great as to set the whole school in a ferment. The dislike borne by Saurin to the other was well known, as also that he had attributed his expulsion from the eleven to him, though unjustly, since public opinion had been well nigh unanimous on the point. As for the chances of the combatants, only the small clique who frequented Slam's, most of whom had seen him sparring with the gloves, favoured that of Saurin. The general idea was that the latter was mad to try conclusions with one so superior to him in every way, and that Crawley would lick him into fits in about ten minutes. As for the champions themselves, they awaited the ordeal in very different frames of mind. To Crawley the whole thing was an unmitigated bore. It would get him into some trouble with the authorities probably; it was inconsistent with his position in the school, and was setting a bad example; then he could hardly expect to avoid a black eye, and it was only three weeks to the holidays, by which time his bruises would hardly have time to disappear. His family were staying for the summer at Scarborough, and his sisters wrote him enthusiastic accounts of the lawn-tennis parties there. How could he present himself in decent society, with one of his eyes in mourning? But he saw something comic in his own annoyance, and it did not affect him sufficiently to interfere with his studies or amusements. He neither feared the contest nor desired it. He had no wish to quarrel with Saurin, a fellow he did not care for, it is true, but whom he did not think sufficiently about to dislike. He thought rather better of him for having the pluck to attack him, and was a little ashamed of his own bitter words which had goaded the other into doing it. But really the fellow had addressed him in such an overbearing and insolent manner that he could not help replying as he did. After all, if he had to fight someone, he would rather it were Saurin than anyone else, since he appeared to hate him so much. But if Crawley was cool about the matter, his antagonist was very much the reverse. When his passion expended itself, he was not free from apprehension of the consequences of what he had done. Supposing he were ignominiously defeated, after having provoked the contest, what a humiliating position he would be placed in? In every way in which he had competed with Crawley he had hitherto been worsted, and he could not help fearing lest this superiority should still be maintained. However, the die was cast, he was in for it now, and must go through with it as best he could, and, after all, his recently acquired skill must stand him in good stead. Reason in this way as he might, however, he was nervous, and could not settle to anything for long. On Friday night, while Crawley was working in his room, there came a knock at the door, and when he called out, "Come in!" Tom Buller entered. "I have got something I want to tell you, Crawley," he said. "I have just found out that Saurin has been taking lessons in boxing." "Oh! of whom? Stubbs, Edwards, or someone equally formidable?" "No; of Wobbler the pedestrian, who was once a pugilist, and who has been giving boxing lessons at Slam's." "Oh! I see, that is what has screwed his courage up to the proper pitch. I understand it all now." "Yes, but avoid wrestling with him; he is good at the cross-buttock, I hear. May I be your second?" "Certainly you may, if you like; Robarts is the other, and thank you for wishing it, Buller." CHAPTER SIX. THE FIGHT. Beyond the fields where cricket was played there was a little wood, and in this wood a circular hollow, like a pond, only there was no water in it. It was a wonderful spot for wild flowers in the spring, and that was probably the reason why some romantic person had named it The Fairies' Dell. The boys, who were not romantic, as a rule, dropped the Fairies, and called it The Dell. As has been said, this spot was chosen as the arena for the few fistic encounters which the annals of Weston could enumerate, and a better place for the purpose there could hardly be. There was plenty of room for a ring at the bottom, and the gently sloping sides would accommodate a large number of spectators, all of whom had a good sight of what was going on, while the whole party were concealed from view. At four o'clock on the Saturday afternoon this hollow was thickly studded with Westonians, and all the best places taken. The masters usually took advantage of the half-holiday to go out somewhere for the afternoon, but still ordinary precautions to avoid observation had not been neglected. The boys did not repair to the appointed spot in large noisy bodies, but in small groups, quietly and unostentatiously. Some of them took their bats and balls out, and began playing at cricket, and then stole off to the rendezvous, which was close to them. Saurin was first on the ground; he stood under the trees at the edge of the dell with Edwards and Stubbs, who acted as his seconds, trying to laugh and chat in an unconcerned manner, but he was pale, could hardly keep himself still in one position, and frequently glanced stealthily in the direction by which the other would come. Not to blink matters between the reader and myself, he was in a funk. Not exactly a _blue_ funk, you know, but still he did not half like it, and wished he was well out of it. Presently there was a murmur, and a movement, and Crawley, with Robarts and Tom Buller on each side of him, and a knot of others following, appeared. Without saying a word both boys went down the sides of the dell to the circular space which had been carefully left for them at the bottom, took off their jackets, waistcoats, and braces, and gave them to their seconds, who folded them up and laid them aside, tied pocket- handkerchiefs round their waists, turned up the bottoms of their trousers, and stepped into the middle of the arena. "Won't you offer to shake hands?" said Stubbs to Saurin. "I believe it is usual on such occasions." "Pooh!" replied Saurin, "that is in friendly encounters, to show there is no malice. There is plenty of malice here, I can promise you." He finished rolling up his shirt sleeves to the armpits as he spoke, and walked to the middle of the ring, where Crawley confronted him. All were wrapped in breathless attention as the two put up their hands, and every note of a thrush singing in a tree hard by could be distinctly heard. The two boys were just about the same height and age, but Crawley had a slightly longer reach in the arms, and was decidedly more "fit" and muscular. But, on the other hand, it was evident directly they put their hands up, that Saurin was the greatest adept at the business. The carriage of his head and body, and the way he worked his arm and foot together, showed this. He moved round his adversary, advancing, retiring, feinting, watching for an opening. Crawley stood firm, with his eyes fixed on those of his antagonist, merely turning sufficiently to face him. At length Saurin, judging his distance, sent out his left hand sharply, and caught Crawley on the right cheekbone. Crawley hit back in return, but beat the air; Saurin was away. Again Saurin came weaving in, and again he put a hit in without a return. The same thing happened a third, a fourth, and a fifth time, and then Crawley, stung by the blows, went at the other wildly, hitting right and left, but, over- reaching himself, lost his balance and rolled over. The lookers on were astonished; they had expected Saurin to be beaten from the first, and though Crawley was so popular, murmurs of applause were heard, such is the effect of success. Buller knelt on his left knee so that Crawley might sit on his right. In the same manner Saurin sat on Edwards' knee. Saurin's face had not been touched, while that of Crawley was flushed and bleeding. "You will not be able to touch his face just yet," said Buller. "Fight at his body and try to hit him in the wind. And never mind what I said yesterday about closing with him, we must risk his cross-buttock, and your superior strength may serve you." "Time! time!" cried the boys, and the antagonists jumped up from their seconds' knees, and met again. Saurin had lost all his nervousness now; his superiority was evident, and he felt nothing but triumph and gratified malice. He did not stop to spar now, but directly he was within reach hit out with confidence. Crawley took the blow without flinching or attempting to parry it, and sent his right fist with all his strength into Saurin's ribs, just as Buller had directed him. Saurin recovered himself, and the round went on, Crawley being further mauled about the face, neck, and head, but getting a hit in now on the other's body, now a round right-hander on his side or the small of his back. In the end they grappled, wrestled, and rolled over together, and were then helped by their seconds to their respective corners. Saurin's face was still untouched, but he puffed and panted for breath, and seemed to feel the effect of the body blows. "That is capital," said Buller to Crawley; "stick to that for the present, he will soon begin to tire." "Why, Buller, you seem to be quite up to this sort of thing!" said Robarts in surprise. "My elder brother went in for the Queensbury cups, and is always talking about boxing and fighting: that's how I know," replied Buller quietly. "And that is why you wished to be my second?" asked Crawley, who, though his face was a pitiable object, was perfectly cool and self-possessed, and not a bit blown or tired. "Yes," replied Buller; and "Time!" was again called. The mass of the spectators looked upon the fight as won by Saurin already, and all the cheering was for him now. This opinion was further strengthened presently, for Crawley, seeing his antagonist panting, thought that at last he might get on equal terms with him, and rushed in to fight at close quarters, but he was met by a straight blow from Saurin's left fist right between the eyes, which knocked him fairly down on the broad of his back, where he lay quite dazed for a moment, till Robarts and Buller assisted him to his corner. The cheering and the cries of "Bravo, Saurin!" "Well hit, Saurin!" were loud and long; many thought that Crawley would not come up again. But though puffed about both eyes, and with a considerably swollen nose, Crawley was soon all right again, and as lively as when he began. "If I only could mark him!" he said to his seconds. "It is so absurd to see him with his face untouched." "Wait a bit," replied Buller. "Keep on pegging at his body and wrestling; I'll tell you when to go for his face. He is getting weaker for all that hit last round." This was true, for Saurin's blows, though they got home, had no longer the force they had at first. In one round, after a severe struggle, he threw Crawley heavily, but the exertion told more upon himself than upon the one thrown. And he began to flinch from the body blows, and keep his hands down. Loafing, beer-drinking, and smoking began to tell their tale, in fact, and at last Buller said, "Now you may try to give him one or two in the face." They had been at it nearly half an hour, and Crawley, who had been taking hard exercise daily and leading a healthy temperate life, was as strong as when he first took his jacket off. He could hardly see out of his right eye, and his face and neck were so bruised and tender that every fresh blow he received gave him exquisite pain. But his wits were quite clear, he had not lost his temper, and when down, in a few minutes he was ready to stand up again. He easily warded off a nerveless blow of his antagonist, returned it with one from his left hand on the body, and then sent his right fist for the first time straight into Saurin's face. Saurin got confused and turned half round; Crawley following up his advantage, followed him up step by step round the ring, and at last fairly fought him down amidst cheers from the boys, the tide of popularity turning in his favour again. "You have marked him now, and no mistake," said Buller to Crawley as he sat on his knee. And there could be no doubt about that. The revulsion of feeling Saurin had gone through was great. After establishing his superiority, and feeling confident of an easy victory, to find his adversary refuse so persistently to know when he was beaten! To see him come up time after time to take more hammering without flinching was like a nightmare. And he felt his own strength going from the sheer exertion of hitting; and when he knocked Crawley down he hurt his left hand, which it was painful to strike with afterwards. Again, the body blows he received and thought little of at first began to make him feel queer, and now, when the other took a decided lead, he lost his head and got wild. For he was not thoroughly "game:" he had not got that stubborn, somewhat sullen spirit of endurance which used to be so great a characteristic of the English, and we will hope is not extinct yet, for it would be sad indeed to think that it had passed away. A brilliant act of daring with plenty of spectators and high hope of success is one thing; but to stand at bay when all chance seems gone, determined to die hard and never give in, is quite another. I like to see a fellow spurting when he is distanced; catching his horse, remounting, and going in pursuit after a bad fall; going back to his books and reading harder than ever for another try directly the list has come out without his name in it--never beaten, in short, until the last remotest chance is over. That is the spirit which won at Agincourt, at Waterloo, at Meeanee, at Dubba, at Lucknow, at Rorke's Drift. It was this that Saurin was deficient in, and that would have now stood him in such stead. Edwards was not the one to infuse any of it into him, for he was as much dismayed by the effects of the last round as his friend himself. Stubbs, indeed, tried to cheer him, inciting him to pull himself together, spar for wind, and look out for a chance with his sound right hand, but he was not a youth to carry influence with him. In the next round Crawley closed with his adversary, who, when he at last struggled loose, rolled ignominiously over on the ground, and in point of beauty there was nothing to choose now between the visages of the two combatants. "I--I can't fight any more," said Saurin, as he was held up on Edwards' knee, to which he had been dragged with some difficulty. "Oh! have another go at him," urged Stubbs; "he is as bad as you are, and you will be all right presently if you keep away a bit, and get down the first blow. Just get your wind, and science must tell." "But I'm so giddy, I--I can't stand," said Saurin. "Time!" was called, and Crawley sprang off his second's knee as strong as possible, but he stood in the middle of the ring alone. "It's no good; he can't stand," cried Edwards. And then a tremendous cheering broke out, and everybody pressed forward to congratulate Crawley and pat him on the back. But he made his way over to Saurin, and offered to shake hands. "It all luck," he said. "You are better at this game than I am, and you would have licked me if you had not hurt your left hand. And look here, I had no right to speak as I did. And--and if you thought I wanted to get you out of the eleven you were mistaken." Saurin was too dazed to feel spiteful just then; he had a vague idea that Crawley wanted to shake hands, and that it would be "bad form" to hold back, so he put his right hand out and murmured something indistinctly. "Stand back, you fellows," said Crawley, "he is fainting. Give him a chance of a breath of air." And indeed Saurin had to be carried up out of the dell, laid on his back under the trees, and have water dashed in his face, before he could put on his jacket and waistcoat and walk back to his tutor's house. And when he arrived there he was in such pain in the side that he had to go to bed. Crawley himself was a sorry sight for a victor. But his discomforts were purely local, and he did not feel ill at all; on the contrary, he was remarkably hungry. Buller was with him when he washed and changed his shirt, for he had been applying a cold key to the back of his neck to stop the nose-bleeding, and now remained, like a conscientious second, lest it should break out again. "I say, Buller," said Crawley suddenly, "_you_ never go to Slam's, I hope?" "Not I." "Then how do you know such a lot about prize-fighting?" "I told Robarts; my elder brother is very fond of everything connected with sparring, and has got a lot of reports of matches, and I have read all the prize-fights that ever were, I think. I used to take great interest in them, and thought I might remember something which would come in useful. There is a great sameness in these things, you know, and the principles are simple." "I am sure I am much obliged to you for offering to be my second; I should have been licked but for you." "I don't know that. I think you would have thought of fighting at his wind when you could not reach his face for yourself, and tired him out anyhow. But if I have been useful I am glad. You took pains to try my bowling when most fellows would have laughed at the idea; and there is the honour of the house too. What I feared was that you would not follow what I said, but persist in trying to bore in." "Why," replied Crawley, laughing, "Saurin backed up your advice with such very forcible and painful examples of the common sense of it, that I should have been very pig-headed not to catch your meaning. But what rot it all is!" he added, looking in the glass. "A pretty figure I shall look at Scarborough, with my face all the colours of the prism, like a disreputable damaged rainbow!" "There are three weeks yet to the holidays; you will be getting all right again by then," said Buller. "I doubt it; it does not feel like it now, at all events," replied Crawley; and when supper-time came he was still more sceptical of a very speedy restoration to his ordinary comfortable condition. It was an absurd plight to be in; he felt very hungry, and there was the food; the difficulty was to eat it. It hurt his lips to put it in his mouth--salt was out of the question--and it hurt his jaws to masticate it, and it hurt his throat to swallow it. But he got it down somehow, and then came prayers, conducted as usual every evening by Dr Jolliffe, who, when the boys filed out afterwards, told him to remain. "By a process of elimination I, recognising all the other boys in my house, have come to the conclusion that you are Crawley," said the doctor solemnly. "Yes, sir," replied Crawley. "Quantum mutatus ab illo! I should not have recognised you. Circumstantial evidence seems to establish the fact that you have engaged in a pugilistic encounter." "Yes, sir." "And with whom?" "I beg your pardon, sir; I hope that you will not insist on my telling. It was my fault; we had a dispute, and I spoke very provokingly." "Your mention of his name would not make much difference, if you were as busy with your fists as he seems to have been. But I am disappointed in you, Crawley; it vexes me that a boy of your age and standing in the school, and whose proficiency in athletic sports gives you a certain influence, should brawl and fight like this." "It vexes me too, sir, I assure you." "You should have thought of that before." "So I did, sir, and also of the figure I should cut when I went home." "Well, certainly," said the doctor, unable to help smiling, "I do not advise you to have your photograph taken just at present. But you know," he added, forcing himself to look grave again, "I cannot overlook fighting, which is a very serious offence. You must write a Greek theme of not less than two pages of foolscap, on the Blessings of Peace, and bring it me on Tuesday. And apply a piece of raw meat, which I will send up to your room, to your right eye." Crawley ran up-stairs rejoicing, for he had got off easier than he expected, and the application of raw meat gave him great relief, so that next day the swellings had very much subsided, though his eyes were blood-shot, and his whole face discoloured. But Saurin did not come round so soon: there were symptoms of inflammation which affected his breathing, and induced his tutor, Mr Cookson, to send for the doctor, who kept his patient in bed for two days. He soon got all right again in body, but not in mind, for he felt thoroughly humiliated. This was unnecessary, for it was agreed on all sides that he had made a first- rate fight of it, and he decidedly rose in the estimation of his school- fellows. But Saurin's vanity was sensitive to a morbid degree, and he brooded over his defeat. A fight between two healthy-minded boys generally results in a close friendship, and Crawley made several overtures to his late antagonist; but as they were evidently not welcome, he soon desisted, for after all Saurin was not one of "his sort." And the term, as it is the fashion now to call a "half," came to an end, and though his wounds were healed, and his features restored to their original shape, Crawley had to go to Scarborough like one of Gibson's statues, tinted. CHAPTER SEVEN. TREATING OF AN AIR-GUN AND A DOOR-KEY. Saurin met with a disappointment when he returned home. His uncle had intended to go abroad and take him with him, but this intention was frustrated by an attack of gout, which kept him to his country home, where his nephew had to spend the entire vacation, and he found it the reverse of lively. Sir Richard Saurin's house stood in the midst of a well-timbered park, and there were some spinneys belonging to the place also. At one time he had rented the shooting all round about, and preserved his own woods; but it was a hunting country, and the havoc made by foxes was found to be so great that he gave up preserving in disgust, and so, growing lazy, made that an excuse for dropping the other field shooting, which passed into different hands. So now there was no partridge-shooting, unless a stray covey chose to light in the park, and there were very few pheasants, though the rabbits were pretty numerous. Sir Richard, being free from any paroxysm of his complaint when his nephew arrived, laughed at his black eye. "Is that the result of your course of lessons in boxing?" he asked. "Well, Uncle Richard, I should have come worse off if I had not had them," replied Saurin; "but one cannot fight without taking as well as giving." "But why fight at all? That is not what you are sent to school for." "I never did before, and it is not likely to happen again, only I was forced on this occasion to stand up for myself." "Well, well," said Sir Richard, "I have something more serious to speak to you about." Saurin felt his heart beat; he feared for a moment that his visits to Slam's, and the impositions he had practised, had been discovered; but this was not the case. "It is not a very good report I have received of you this time," continued his guardian. "It seems that you have grown slack in attention to your studies, and have not made the progress which might fairly be expected from a boy of your age and abilities. Now, it is only right to warn you that the income left you by your father very little more than covers the expense of your education; and since a considerable portion of it consists of a pension, which will cease on your being twenty-one, it will not be sufficient for your support, so that you must make up your mind speedily what profession you will adopt, and must exert every effort to get into it. Our vicar here, a young man newly come, is a mathematician and a good German scholar, two subjects which gain good marks, I am told, in all these competitive examinations, and I have made arrangements for you to read with him every morning for a couple of hours." This was not a very bright look-out for the summer holidays. "Since it was so very necessary for him to work, it was perhaps well that he should not have too much to distract him," he said sarcastically; but found some truth in the words, for he was forced into taking an interest in a German novel which the clergyman, with some tact, chose for him to translate. But the life _was_ dull; when he sought out his former companions, the village scapegraces, he found that there had been a grand clear out of them; it was as if the parish had taken a moral purgative. Bill had enlisted; Tom, the worst of the lot, had (it was his mother who spoke) "got into bad company and gone to Lunnon;" Dick and Jim were in prison, and Harry had reformed and been taken into a gentleman's stables. Solitude! His principal amusement was shooting rabbits. September was close at hand, and if he had sought the society of his equals, instead of making a bad name in the neighbourhood in former years, he would probably have had more than one invitation to better sport amongst the partridges; but he had such an evil reputation that the gentlemen of the county did not covet his society for their sons. Now, rabbit shooting in the winter, with dogs to hunt the bunnies through brushwood, furze, or bracken, so that snap-shots are offered as they dart across open places, is very good fun; but the only way Saurin had of getting at them at this season was by lying in wait in the evening outside the woods and shooting them when they came louping cautiously out. He found excitement in this at first, but it was impossible to miss such pot-shots for one thing, and he got very few chances for another. The report of the gun frightened them all into the wood, not to venture out again for some time, probably till it was too dark to distinguish them. The only chance was, when a rabbit had been got at one place, to go off at once to another wood at some distance and lie in ambush again there. In this way two, or at most three shots might be got in the short period of dusk. Fond as he was of carrying a gun, Saurin found this sport unsatisfactory after a week or so, though it was infinitely better than not shooting anything at all. But one day when he rode over to the county town, seven miles off, for cartridges, he saw a small air-gun of a new and improved pattern in the shop, which took his fancy very much indeed. It was beautifully finished, charged in the simplest way imaginable, and would carry either a bullet or a small charge of shot, killing easily, the man said, with the former at fifty yards, and with the latter at five-and- twenty. It would require some skill to hit a rabbit in the head with a bullet; and as there was no report to speak of, only a slight crack, killing or missing one would not scare the others. The price was not high, and as Sir Richard never objected to his having anything in reason that he wanted, and was, moreover, glad that the rabbits who committed sad havoc in the garden should be thinned down, he took it home with him and tried it that evening. Just about sunset he repaired to his favourite spot, a clump of three trees growing close together, behind which he could easily conceal himself. A wood, full of thick undergrowth, well nigh impenetrable, ran in front and made an angle to the right, so that there were two sides from which the rabbits might come out. The air was perfectly still, not a leaf was stirring, and every note of a bird that was warbling his evening song, positively the very last before shutting up for the night, fell sharp and clear upon the ear, as Saurin knelt behind the trees, gun in hand, eagerly watching. Presently he saw something brown, rather far on his left, close to the wood. It came a little further out, and the long ears could be distinguished. Saurin was rather doubtful about the distance, but, eager to try his new weapon, he took a steady aim and pulled. No smoke, no fire, nothing but a slight smack such as a whip would make. The rabbit raised its head, listened, and hopped quietly back into the wood. A palpable miss. But there on the right was another, not thirty yards off this one. Saurin slewed round, got the sight well on its head, and pulled again. This rabbit did _not_ go back to the wood, but turned over, struggled a little, and then lay still. Saurin did not run out to pick it up, but kept quiet, and presently another came out, to see what was the matter with its friend apparently, for it louped up to the body; and he nailed that. And he missed two and killed two more, and then the rabbit community began to suspect there was something wrong, and kept in the wood. But, returning home, he stalked and shot another in the park, making a bag of five altogether, which pleased him immensely. Next day he tried the shot cartridges on blackbirds and sparrows in the garden, and slaughtered not a few, to the gardener's great delight. It was not only the efficiency of so toy-like a weapon which pleased Saurin; the silence and secrecy with which it dealt death had a charm for him. And so it happened that when the time came for him to return to Weston, he took the air-gun with him. It went into a very small compass, and was easily stowed in his portmanteau. He could smuggle it to Slam's and keep it there, and if he had no chance of using it, he could still show it off to Edwards and his other intimates, and also to the perhaps more appreciative eyes of Edwin Marriner and another, perhaps two other scamps of sporting tastes whom he met at Slam's on certain afternoons, when they guzzled beer, and smoked, and played sometimes at bagatelle, sometimes at cards, or tossed for coppers. And they won his money in a small way, and laughed at his jokes, and took interest in his bragging stories, and went into ecstasies over his songs, and really liked and admired him in their fashion. So the departure of Mr Wobbler did not keep him away, and he went to the yard as much as ever. If he had won the fight it would probably have made a difference, and he might have tried once more to compete for influence and popularity in the school. But now he had quite given up all ideas of that kind. He spoke to Crawley, and shook his hand with apparent cordiality when they first met after coming back, because he felt that it would be ridiculous to show a resentment which he had proved himself powerless to gratify; but he hated him worse than ever, if possible. If the breaking up of the boxing-class did not diminish Saurin's visits to Slam's, it had that effect on the other members of it. Stubbs was faithful to his dog, and Perry to his hawk, and there were other boys who had pets there, or who liked to go on a wet day to see ratting, or the drawing of the badger, an animal who lived in a tub, like Diogenes, and was tugged out of it by a dog, not without vigorous resistance, when anyone chose to pay for the spectacle; the poor badger deriving no benefit from the outlay. But such visits were fitful. Edwards, indeed, was faithful to his friend, but even Edwards did not care for Slam's any longer. He had taken a violent passion for football, and often played, leaving Saurin to go to the yard alone. On Sundays, indeed, he could not play football, but neither did he like playing cards on that day. Saurin laughed him out of his scruples, but not all at once. But Saurin did not want companionship; he preferred that of Marriner and Company. Edwin Marriner was a young farmer in the neighbourhood of Weston College, and he farmed his own land. Certainly it was as small an estate as can well be imagined, consisting of exactly two acres, pasture, arable, cottage, and pig-stye included, but undoubted freehold, without a flaw in the title. He was just twenty-one when his father died, a year before the time we are treating of, and then Lord Woodruff's agent made him an offer for his inheritance, which he stuck to like a very Naboth. The price named was a good and tempting one, far more indeed than the land was worth; but when the money was spent he would have nothing for it but to become a mere labourer, or else to enlist, and he did not fancy either alternative, while he could manage to live, as his father did before him, on his patch, which spade-labour made remunerative. He worked for hire in harvest-time, and that brought something; the pig- stye yielded a profit, so did a cow, and there were a few pounds reaped annually from a row of beehives, for the deceased Marriner, though not very enlightened generally, had learned, and taught his son the "depriving" system, and repudiated the idiotic old plan of stifling the stock to get the honey. All these methods of making both ends meet at the end of the year were not only innocent but praiseworthy; but the Marriners had the reputation of making less honourable profits, and that was why Lord Woodruff was so anxious to get rid of them. The two acres lying indeed in the midst of his lordship's estates, was of itself a reason why he should be inclined to give a fancy price for them; but when the proprietor was suspected of taking advantage of his situation to levy considerable toll on the game of his big neighbour, who preserved largely, he became a real and an aggravated nuisance. Marriner, as his father had done, openly carried a gun, for which he paid his license, and it was impossible, with reason, to blame him, for the rabbits alone would have eaten up every particle of his little stock if he took no measures against them. If he shot an occasional pheasant, or his dog caught a hare, or even two, in the course of the season on his own land, why, no one could wonder. But it was not necessary to sow buckwheat in order to attract the pheasants. And he had no right whatever to set snares in Lord Woodruff's covers, which, though they could not catch him, the gamekeepers were certain he did. One thing decidedly against him in the opinion of the gentry round about, was that he frequently visited Slam's, and Slam was regarded as a receiver of stolen goods, certainly so far as game was concerned, perhaps in other matters also. Edwin Marriner was a wiry-looking little man, with red hair and whiskers, quick bright eyes, and a look of cunning about his mouth. He had two propensities which interfered with one another: he was very fond of strong drink and very fond of money. The drink was delightful, but to spend the money necessary to procure it was a fearful pang. The best way out of the dilemma was to get someone to treat him, and this he did as often as he could. He had plenty of cunning and mother wit, and was skilled in woodcraft, but he was utterly innocent of anything which could fairly be called education. He had been taught to read, but never exercised the gift; he could do an addition sum, and write, with much labour, an ill-spelled letter, and that was all. And this was the individual selected by Saurin for a companion, and, whose society he preferred to that of all his schoolfellows, Edwards not excepted. On half-holidays he would go to his little farm (which was half-an-hour's walk too far for ordinary occasions, now the days had grown short, and "All In," was directly after five-o'clock school), and talk to him while he was at work, for Marriner was industrious, though with a dishonest twist, and if he went to Slam's yard so often now it was because his gentleman friend brought some grist to his mill, besides often standing beer for him, and because he had business relations with Slam; though he liked the boy's company too, and admired his precocious preference for crooked ways, and hatred of lawful restraint. The fact was that they were drawn together by a strong propensity which was common to both, and which formed a never-failing topic of interesting conversation. This propensity was a love of sport, especially if indulged secretly, unlawfully, and at the expense of somebody else; in a word, they were arrant poachers, the man in fact, the boy at heart. Not but what Saurin had snared a hare too in his time. For some time Marriner had been chary of confessing his depredations, for he was careful about committing himself, especially to a gentleman, who might naturally be supposed to side with the game-preservers. But when the ice was broken he talked freely enough, and from that time the intimacy commenced. Yet at times he had qualms, and feared that he had been rash to depart from his custom of close secrecy; and it often occurred to him that it would be well to draw Saurin into some act of complicity, and so seal his lips effectually and for ever. He felt and expressed great admiration for the air-gun, and suggested that they should try it some moonlight night upon the roosting pheasants. This was treated as a joke at first; a romantic idea which could not, of course, be carried into practice; but after it had been referred to, and discussed again and again, it did not look so utterly impossible. The principal difficulty was the getting out at night, but after many careful inspections of his tutor's premises Saurin saw how this might be managed. There was a small back-yard into which the boys had access at any time; this was surrounded by a high wall with a _chevaux de frise_ at the top, which might be considered insurmountable unless one were Jack Sheppard or the Count of Monte Christo. But there was a door at the bottom, seldom used, hardly ever, indeed, except when coals came in. Outside there was a cart track, and then open field. It was the simplest thing, a mere question of obtaining a key to this door, and he could walk out whenever he liked. Yes, but how to get the key, which was taken by the servant to Mrs Cookson when not in use? To watch when coals were next brought in for an opportunity of purloining it would be worse than useless, for a new lock would be put to the door, and suspicion aroused. An idea occurred to him; he had read of impressions of keys being taken in wax, and duplicates being made from them. He asked Marriner if it were possible to get this done, and the reply was yes, that he knew a friendly blacksmith who would make a key to fit any lock, of which he had the wards in wax, for a matter of say five shillings, which was leaving a handsome margin of profit for himself, we may remark in passing. Five shillings was a lot, Saurin thought, when he was not sure that he would use the key if he had it. Marriner did not know, perhaps it could be done for three; at any rate he might as well have the wax by him in case he got a chance. Curiously enough, he thought he had some in the house, though he sold all his honey in the comb as a rule. But a hive had been deserted, and he knew he had melted the wax down, and it must be somewhere. It was, and he found it, and he got a key and showed Saurin how to take an impression of it. "Why, you have done it before then!" said Saurin. "P'raps," replied Marriner, with a side glance of his cunning eyes. "A poor man has to turn his hand to a bit of everything in these hard times." It was an early winter, and the weather turned very cold, which caused a great consumption of fuel. And one morning, on coming in to his tutor's from early school, Saurin heard the small thunder of coals being poured into the cellar, and saw the yard door open, a wagon outside, and a man staggering from it under a sack. He ran up to his room, threw down his books, took the wax, and went back to the yard door, where he took a great interest in the unlading of the sacks. A fine sleet was falling, with a bitter north-east wind, to make it cut the face, so that there were none of the servants outside, and no one to see him but the two men who were busied in their work. Never was such an opportunity. He had the least possible difficulty in taking the key out of the lock, pressing it on the wax in the palm of his hand, in the way Marriner had shown him, and replacing it without attracting observation. Then he returned to his room, whistling carelessly, and putting the wax, which had the wards of the key sharply defined upon it, in a seidlitz-powder box, to prevent the impression being injured, he locked it up in his bureau and went to breakfast. Now that this had been accomplished so favourably, it seemed a pity not to have the key made. He might probably never want to use it; but still, there was a pleasant sense of superiority in the knowledge that he was independent of the "All In," and could get out at any hour of the night that he chose. So the next time he went to Marriner's cottage he took the box containing the wax with him, and Marriner paid him the high compliment that a professional burglar could not have done the job better. A week after, he gave him the key, and one night, after everyone had gone to bed, Saurin stole down-stairs, out into the yard, and tried it. It turned in the lock easily, the door opened without noise, and he was free to go where he liked. Only there was no place so good as bed to go to, so he closed and locked the door again, and went back to his room, feeling very clever and a sort of hero. I am sure I do not know why. No one was taken into his confidence but Edwards, and he only because it was necessary to talk to somebody about his poaching schemes, and to excite wonder and admiration at his inventive skill and daring courage, and this Edwards was ready at all times to express. He was never taken to Marriner's, but he still occasionally accompanied his friend to the yard--on Sundays, usually, because of the card-playing, to which he had taken a great fancy. He still thought in his heart that it was very wrong, but Saurin laughed at such scruples as being so very childish and silly that he was thoroughly ashamed of them. Saurin, who was so clever and manly that he must know better than he did, saw no harm. Besides, he was very fond of playing at cards, and though he did not much like the very low company he met at Slam's yard now, he told himself that what was fit for Saurin was fit for him, and it was desirable, beneficial, and the correct thing to see life in all its phases. His hero's defeat by Crawley had not diminished his devotion one iota, for he attributed it entirely to Saurin having crippled his left hand when he knocked his adversary down. Even then he believed that Saurin would have won, only Crawley was in training, and the other was not. Crawley was all very well, but he lacked that bold and heroic defiance of authority which fascinated Edwards (himself the most subordinate soul by nature, by the way). The idea of Crawley's daring even to dream of going poaching, or breaking out at night, or having a false key made! No, he was a good commonplace fellow enough, but Saurin was something unusual,--which it is fervently to be hoped he was. Poor Edwards, with his weak character, which made it necessary for him to believe in someone and yield him homage; what a pity it was he had not fixed on a different sort of hero to worship! CHAPTER EIGHT. ANOTHER PROJECT OF EVASION. Frost, hard, sharp, crisp, and unmistakable; do you like it? It is very unpleasant when you get up of a morning; the water is so cold. And then going to school shivering, and being put on to construe when you have the hot ache in your fingers, is trying to the patience, especially if one is inclined to self-indulgence, and is aided and abetted when at home by one's mother. But everything has its compensations. Without work play would become a bore; if there were no hunger and thirst there would be no pleasure in eating and drinking; even illness is followed by convalescence, with story-books to read instead of lessons, and licence to lie in bed as long as you like, and so there is the delight, in very cold weather, of getting warm again; and there is also skating. Whether we like it or not we have to put up with it when it comes, and it came that year at an unusual time, before the end of November. We often indeed have just a touch at that period, three days about, and then sleet and rain; but this was a regular good one, thermometer at nineteen Fahrenheit, no wind, no snow, and the gravel-pits bearing. The gravel-pits were so called because there was no gravel there. There had been, but it was dug out, and carted away before the memory of the oldest inhabitant, and the cavities were filled with water. There were quite three acres of available surface altogether, and not farther than a mile from Weston; but "_Ars longa, vita brevis est_;" the art of cutting figures is long, and the period of practice short indeed. Considering the price spent on skates in England, and the few opportunities of putting them on, it seems barbarous of masters not to give whole holidays when the ice _does_ bear. But then what would parents and guardians say? A boy cannot skate himself into the smallest public appointment, and the rule of three is of much more importance to his future prospects than the cutting of that figure. The Westonians made the most they could of their opportunity, however, and whenever they had an hour to spare the gravel-pits swarmed with them. Their natural tendency was to rapid running, racing, and hockey; but Leblanc, who was born in Canada, where his father held an appointment, and who had worn skates almost as soon as he had shoes, did such wonderful things as set a large number of them practising figure skating. Buller was bitten by the mania; he had never tried anything before but simple straightforward running on the flat of the skate with bent knees, so he had a great deal to learn; but with his usual persistency, when he once took anything in hand he did not regard the difficulties, and only dreaded lest he should not have sufficient opportunity of practising. He began, of course, by endeavouring to master the outside edge, which is the grammar of figure skating, and watched Leblanc, but could make nothing out of that, for Leblanc seemed to move by volition, as some birds appear to skim along without any motion of the wings. He could not give hints, or show how anything was done, because he could not understand where any difficulty lay. It was like simple walking to him; you get up and walk, you could not show any one exactly _how_ to walk. But there were two or three other fair skaters from whom more could be learned; Penryhn, for example, was a very decent performer of simple figures. He came from a northern county, where there was yearly opportunity of practice, and had been taught by his father, who was an excellent skater. "The first great thing you must always bear in mind," said he, "is that the leg upon which you stand, while on the outside edge, must be kept straight and stiff, with the knee rigidly braced. You see some fellows there practising by crossing the legs; while they are on one leg they bring the other in front, and across it, before they put it down on the ice. This certainly forces you to get on to the outside edge, but it twists the body into a wrong position--one in which the all-important thing in skating, balance, cannot be acquired. Besides, it gets you into a way of bringing the foot off the ground to the front, whereas it ought always to be a little behind the one you are skating on, and it takes as long to get out of that habit as to learn the outside edge altogether pretty well. Why, here is Old Algebra positively with a pair of skates on!" "Old Algebra," as a mathematical genius, whose real name was Smith, was called, skated very well too. "Look here, Algebra," cried Penryhn, "I am trying to show Buller how to do the outside edge; can't you give him a scientific wrinkle?" "The reason why you find an initial difficulty in the matter," said Algebra gravely, adjusting his spectacles, "is that you naturally suppose that if you bend so far out of the perpendicular, the laws of gravity must cause you to fall. But that is because you omit the centrifugal force from your consideration; remember what centrifugal force is, Buller, and it will give you confidence." "Oh, I have confidence enough!" said Buller; "it's the power of getting on to the edge without overbalancing myself that I want, and all that rot about the laws of gravity won't help me." "I fancied they wouldn't, but Penryhn asked for a scientific wrinkle. If you want a practical one, keep the head and body erect, never looking down at the ice; when you strike out with the right foot, look over the right shoulder; body and foot are sure to follow the eye, and clasp your hands behind you, or keep them at your sides; do anything but sway them about. That's it, you got on to the outside edge then; now boldly with the left foot, and look over the left shoulder. Never mind (Buller had come a cropper); you fell then because you did not let yourself go, but when your skate took the outside edge you tried to recover. You lacked confidence, in short, in the centrifugal force, and bothered yourself, instinctively, without knowing it, with the laws of gravity. Try again; you stick to that. Rigidity. Right foot--look over right shoulder, not too far, just a turn of the head. Left foot--look over left shoulder. There, you did not fall then. Trust to the centrifugal force, that's the thing," and he swept away with a long easy roll. "A capital coach he would make," said Penryhn, admiringly. "He always tells you just what you want to know without bothering." "Yes," said Buller, "I have asked him things in lessons once or twice, and he made it all as clear as possible, but I didn't know he was good for anything else. This is a grand idea for learning to skate, though; look here, this is all right, is it not?" "Yes, you have got it now; lean outwards a little more, and don't bend forward. The weight should be on the centre of the foot." There are few sensations more delightful than the first confident sweep on the outside edge, with the blade biting well into the clear smooth ice, and Buller felt as if he could never have enough of it, and he kept on, trying to make larger and larger segments of a circle, not heeding the falls he got for the next half-hour, when it was time to be getting back, and he had reluctantly to take his skates off, and jog home at a trot. The next chance he had he was back to the ice and at it again. Others who had got as far as he had began practising threes, or trying to skate backwards, but not so Buller. He must have that outside edge perfectly, and make complete circles on it, without hesitation or wobbling, much less falling, before he attempted anything else. Progress did not seem slow to him, he was used to that in everything, and he was surprised at improving as quickly as he did. All he dreaded was a heavy snow-fall, or a breaking up of the frost, and either calamity was to be expected from hour to hour. Before going to bed on the night of the third day of the ice bearing, he drew the curtain and looked out of window. The moon was nearly full, there was not a breath of wind stirring to shake the hoar-frost off the trees; all was hard, and bright, and clear. How splendid the pits would be now! How glorious to have the whole sheet of ice to one's self! why, with such a chance of solitary practice he might well expect to cut an eight, for he could already complete entire circles on each foot. If it were not for the bars to his window he would certainly go. The lane below had no building to overlook it; none of the windows of that part of the house where Dr Jolliffe and his family, and the servants slept, commanded the lane. He would have no other house to pass on the way to the gravel- pits; really there would be no risk to speak of at all. The window was barely more than six feet, certainly not seven from the ground, and the brick wall old and full of inequalities where the mortar had fallen out, and the toe might rest; with a yard of rope dangling from the sill, to get in again would be the easiest thing possible. The more he thought about it the more simple the whole scheme seemed; if it were not for the bars. He examined them. The removal of one would be sufficient. "You beast!" said Buller, seizing and shaking it. It seemed to give a little, and he shook it again: it certainly was not very tight, and he examined it further. It fitted into the woodwork of the window-frame at the top, and terminated at the bottom in a flat plate, perforated with three holes, by which it was secured by nails to the sill. Nails? no, by Jove, screws! Only the paint had filled in the little creases at the top of them, and it was simple enough to pick that off. His pocket- knife had a screw-driver at the top of it, he applied this and turned it; the screw came up like a lamb. So did the second; so did the third. The bar was free at the bottom, and when he pulled it towards him it came out in his hand! He replaced it, just to see if it would be all right. It was the simplest thing in the world, you could not tell that it had been touched. So he took it out again, laid it aside carefully, and considered. He had no rope, but there was a leather belt, which he buckled round one of the other bars, dropping the end outside. Perhaps that would give rather a slight grip, so he also got out a woollen scarf, such as is sometimes called a "comforter," which he possessed, and fastened that to the bar also. With that there could be no difficulty in getting in again. Should he give Penryhn or any other fellow a chance of accompanying him? Well, on the whole, no. It was impossible that it should be discovered, but still, apparent impossibilities do happen sometimes. Suppose one of the masters had a fancy for a moonlight skate! He did not mind risking his own skin, when the risk was so slight, but to get another fellow into a row was an awful idea. Besides, two would make more noise getting out and in than one, and the other might laugh, or call out, or play the fool in some way or another. And as for being alone in the expedition, Buller rather liked that than otherwise. He was rather given to going his own way, and carrying out his own ideas unhampered by other people's suggestions. So he quickly determined to keep his counsel and disturb no one. He had blown his candle out before first trying the bar, and had been working by the bright moonlight. Then he fastened his skates round his neck, so that they should neither impede his movements, nor clatter, and put one leg out of window, then the other, turned round, let himself down by the hands, and dropped into the lane. He looked up to see that the scarf was hanging all right; it was within easy reach of both hands; he gave it a pull to try it, and being satisfied, got over into the field, and started at a jog-trot for the gravel-pits. It was glorious; utter stillness--the clear sheet of ice flooded with the moonbeams, a romantic sense of solitude, and a touch of triumphant feeling in having got the best of the world, and utilising such a magnificent time, while others were wasting it in bed. He put his skates on and began. Whether the exhilaration of stealing a march upon everybody, or the impossibility of running up against anyone, or the confidence inspired by solitude, and the absolute freedom from being laughed at if he fell, were the cause, he had never gone like this before. Striking out firmly from the start, he went round the sheet of ice in splendid curves, the outside edge coming naturally to him now. A long sweep on the right foot, a long sweep on the left, round and round, with arms folded or clasped behind him. Not a trip, not a stumble, not a momentary struggle to retain the balance. It was splendid! Then at last he began with the circles which he was so anxious to perfect himself in. Round he went on his right, in smaller compass than he had ever accomplished one yet, with plenty of impetus to bring him round at the end. Then round on the left, quite easily, without an effort. Again with the right, and so on, a capital eight. It was like magic, as if he had acquired the art in an instant. Or was he in bed and dreaming that he was skating? It really seemed like it. If it were so, he did not care how long it was before he was roused. But no, he was wide awake, and the phenomenon was simply the result of confidence, following on good and persevering practice in the right direction. Breaking away from his eight, he swung round and round the pond again as fast as he could go. Then he tried a three; the first half on the outside edge, forwards was easy enough, and he found no difficulty in turning on the toe, but he could not complete the tail on the inside edge backwards without staggering and wobbling. He had a good two hours of it, and then the moon disappeared behind a bank of clouds and he prepared to go home. Skating in the dark would be poor fun, and besides it was very late, so he made for the bank, took his skates off, and jogged back. Mr Rabbits, one of the masters, who was great at chemistry, and could tell you to a grain how much poison you swallowed in that water for which the Gradus sarcastically gives _pura_ as a standing epithet, had been asked by the vicar of Penredding, a village five miles off, to give a lecture in his school-room to the parishioners, one of a series of simple entertainments which were got up to cheer the long evenings in the winter months. The vicar was an old college friend of Mr Rabbits, who gladly consented, and like a wise man chose the subject which he was best up in, writing a very amusing and instructive but very elementary paper on Light, with plenty of illustrations and simple experiments, which kept his audience in a state of wonder and delight the whole evening, and sent them home with plenty to think and talk about afterwards. It was necessary to have a very early and hurried dinner, the lecture beginning at seven, so Mr Rabbits went back to the vicarage after it was over, to supper, after which there was a chat about the old college boat and so forth, and it was rather late when he started for home. He had refused the offer of a conveyance, considering that the five miles walk on a bright still frosty night would be a luxury, and so he found it, though for the latter part of his journey the moon was obscured. It was not so dark, however, as to prevent his distinguishing objects, and as he passed along the lane by which he entered Weston he was sure he saw someone lurking under the wall at the back of Dr Jolliffe's house. Suspecting there was something wrong, he got into the shade under the hedge and crept noiselessly along, taking out of his pocket a piece of magnesium wire which he had made use of in his lecture, and a match-box. Presently he saw the figure raise itself from the ground towards a window, and immediately struck a match and ignited the wire, which he held over his head. The whole side of the house was at once as bright as day, and a boy was distinctly seen getting in at the window. "Buller!" exclaimed Mr Rabbits, "what are you doing there?" "Please, sir, I am getting in," said poor Buller. "So I perceive," said Mr Rabbits; "but what right have you there?" "It's my own room, please, sir." "Well, but what right then had you out of it at this time of night?" "None at all, sir, I am afraid." "Then why did you do it?" "I hoped not to be seen, sir." "Hum! What have you been doing?" "Skating, sir." "I shall report you in the morning." Poor Tom Buller! How crest-fallen he felt as he conscientiously replaced the bar, and screwed it down again. How heavy his heart was as he took his clothes off and got into bed? What a fool he had been, he thought, and yet at the same time how awfully unlucky. Wrecked at the moment of entering the port! However, it was done now, and could not be helped; he must stand the racket. He supposed he should get off with a flogging. Surely they would not expel him for such a thing as that. Of course they would make an awful row about his breaking out at night, but he had not done any harm when he _was_ out. And the doctor was a good- natured chap, he certainly would let him off with a rowing and a flogging. He had never been flogged; did it hurt very much, he wondered? at all events it would soon be over. He had thought for a moment while skating that perhaps it was a dream; how jolly it would be if it could only prove a dream, and he could wake up in the morning and find that the whole business was fancy. What a good job that he had not told Penryhn, and got him into a row as well. What a nuisance that old Rabbits was to come by just at the wrong moment; five minutes earlier or five minutes later it would have been all right. What thing was that he lighted? What a tremendous flare it made, to be sure. Well, it was no use bothering; happen what might he had a jolly good skate, and was firm on the outside edge for ever. Now the thaw might come if it liked, and Tom, who was a bit of a philosopher, went to sleep. CHAPTER NINE. THE POACHERS. Buller was not the only Weston boy who broke out unlawfully that night. From Mr Cookson's house as from Dr Jolliffe's an adventurer stole forth. But Saurin's object was not so innocent as Buller's, neither was it so unpremeditated. For he nursed felonious designs against Lord Woodruff's pheasants, and the project had been deliberately planned, and, as we know, the key which was to open the yard door cunningly manufactured, a long time beforehand. Edwards, as a result of talking about the expedition, and his friend's glowing anticipation of the fun of it, became quite anxious to join in. But Marriner did not think this advisable when Saurin put the matter to him. They only had one air-gun, and two were quite enough for a stealthy excursion of this kind. A third could take no part in the proceedings, and would only be an extra chance of attracting observation. As a matter of fact, Marriner would rather have been quite alone, as his custom was on these predatory occasions, and it was only his desire to make Saurin an accomplice, and so seal his mouth, which induced him to depart from his ordinary custom now. And to tell the truth, when the time actually came, and Edwards saw his friend steal along the yard, unlock and open the door at the further end, and close it behind him, he was glad in his heart that he was not going too. Not because it was wrong: he had got his ideas so twisted that he thought it an heroic piece of business altogether, and admired Saurin for his lawless daring. But he felt conscious of not being cast in the heroic mould himself, and actually shuddered at the thought of gliding about the woods at dead of night, thinking that someone was watching him behind every tree, and might spring out upon him at any moment. Especially when he curled himself up in bed, and pulled the blankets snugly round him, did he feel convinced that he was far more comfortable where he was than he would have been in Lord Woodruff's preserves. Saurin had no compunctions of this sort; _he_ did not flinch when the time came; on the contrary, when he found himself out in the fields he felt a keen thrill of enjoyment. There was just enough sense of danger for excitement, not enough for unpleasant nervousness. To be engaged in what was forbidden was always a source of delight to him, and here he was braving the rules of his school and breaking the laws of his country all at once: it was like champagne to him. Yet it was the very height of absurdity to risk expulsion, imprisonment, perhaps penal servitude for _nothing_, literally for _nothing_. He had no earthly use for the game when it was stolen, Marriner would have it and sell it, but the question of Saurin's sharing in the profits had not even been mooted. To do him justice he had not thought of such a thing, the sport was all that tempted him. The field of their operations was not to be near Marriner's house, but in a part of the estates a good bit nearer Weston, and on the other side of it. Marriner had learned that there was to be a poaching expedition on a large scale that night at the other extremity of the preserves, a good three miles off. He knew the men and their method. They used ordinary guns, killed off all they could in a short time, and got away before the keepers could assemble in force, or if they were surprised they showed fight. He never joined in such bold attacks, but when he knew of them took advantage, as he proposed to do on the present occasion, of the keepers being drawn away, to do a little quiet business on his own account in another direction. The place appointed for Saurin to meet Marriner was a wood-stack reached by a path across the fields, two miles from Weston. Closing the yard door behind him, but not locking it, he started off at a sharp walk, keeping in the shade whenever he could, though all was so still and noiseless that he seemed almost to be the only being in the world, when he had once got quite out of the sight of houses. But no, a night-hawk swept by him, so close as to make him start, and a stoat met him in the middle of a trodden path across a ploughed field; showing that there were other game depredators besides himself abroad. The way seemed longer than it was in the daytime, but at last he got to the wood-stack, where he saw no one, but presently a figure stole round the corner and joined him: Marriner with the air-gun and a sack. "It's all right," he said, "I heard the guns nigh half-an-hour ago. There's never a watcher nor keeper within more nor a couple of miles off, and we have a clear field to ourselves." Saurin took the gun, for it was an understood thing beforehand that he was to have all the shooting, which indeed was but fair, and Marriner, carrying the sack, led the way to a coppice hard by, indeed the wood forming the stack had been cut out of it. He crept on hands and knees through the hedge and glided into the brushwood, Saurin following, for some little distance. Suddenly he stopped, laid his hand on his companion's arm, and pointed upwards. Perched on the branch of a tree, and quite clear against the moonlit sky, was a round ball. "Pheasant?" asked Saurin. "Yes," was the reply. "And there's another roosting there, and another yonder, and another--" "I see them," replied Saurin in the same whispered tones. And raising his air-gun he got the roosting bird in a line with the sights, which was as easy to do pretty nearly as in broad day, and pressed the trigger. The black ball came tumbling down with a thump on the ground, and Marriner, pouncing upon it, put it in his sack. A second, a third were bagged without stirring from the spot. A few steps farther on another, who had been disturbed by the whip-cracks of the air-gun, had withdrawn his head from under his wing. But he did not take to flight at once, being comfortable where he was and the sounds not very alarming, and while he hesitated he received a violent shock in the middle of his breast, which knocked him off his perch powerless and dying. A little further on another, and then yet another were bagged: it was a well-stocked coppice, and had not been shot yet. Lord Woodruff was reserving that part for some friends who were coming at Christmas, and with the prospects of whose sport I fear that Saurin somewhat interfered that night. The sack indeed was pretty heavy by the time they had gone through the wood, and then Marriner thought that it would be more prudent to decamp, and they retraced their steps by a path which traversed the coppice. Once back at the wood-stack they were to separate, so before they left the coppice Marriner put down his now heavy sack, and Saurin handed him the air-gun, which he stowed away in his capacious pocket. Then they went on, and just as they were on the edge of the wood came suddenly upon a man. "Hulloa! young gentleman," exclaimed he to Saurin, who was leading, "what are you up to? What has the other got in that sack?" Marriner slipped behind the trees. "I have got _you_, at any rate," said the man, seizing Saurin by the collar. The latter would not speak lest his voice should be recognised afterwards, but he struggled all he knew. The man soon overpowered him; but Marriner came to the rescue. Throwing down the sack of pheasants, he had taken from his pocket an implement of whalebone with a heavy knob of lead at the end, and coming behind the man, both whose hands were holding on to Saurin, he struck him with it on the head as hard as he could. The keeper's grasp relaxed, he fell heavily to the ground, and Saurin was free. The man lay on his back with his head on the path, and the moonbeams fell on his face. "Simon Bradley," muttered Marriner. "To be sure he lives this way, and was going home after the alarm on t'other side." Saurin was seized with a violent shivering from head to foot. "He isn't, I mean to say you have not--eh?" he said. "Dunno, and don't much care, curse him!" replied Marriner. "It would be laid to t'other chaps if he is." "But we ought to do something; get him some help," urged Saurin, who had not become sufficiently hardened to like such devil's work as this. "If he is living he will be frozen to death lying out such a night as this." "Oh, he will be all right!" said Marriner. "He's only stunned a bit. He will come to in ten minutes and get up and walk home." "But can't we leave word at his house, and then be off?" "That would be a fool's trick, that would. Why, it would bring suspicion on us, and if he is a gone coon--it's impossible, you know, almost--but _if_ he is, we should get scragged for it. Come, I didn't think you was so chicken-hearted, or I wouldn't have brought you out. Let's get away home at once while we can, and don't go a putting your neck in a halter for nowt." Fear overcame compunction, and Saurin turned and fled. How he got home he did not know, but he seemed to be at the back-door of the yard immediately almost. Then he steadied himself, went in, locked the door, and stole up to his room and to bed. _He_ did not sleep that night. The face of the gamekeeper lying there in the moonlight haunted him. He wished, like Buller, but oh, much more fervently, that the whole business might turn out to have been a nightmare. But the morning dawned cold and grey, and he got up and dressed himself and went in to school, and it was all real. He could not fix his attention; his mind would wander to that coppice. Had the gamekeeper come to, tried to struggle up, fainted, fallen back, perished for want of a little assistance? Or had he got up, not much the worse, and had he seen his face clearly, and, recognising that it was a Weston boy, would he come to the school and ask to go round and pick him out? "Saurin!" It was only the voice of the master calling on him to go on with the construing, but he had so entirely forgotten where he was that he started and dropped his book, which caused a titter, for Saurin was not habitually either of a meditative or a nervous turn. He felt that he really must pull himself together or he would excite suspicion. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said; "my hands are numb, and I dropped the book. Where's the place?" he added _sotto voce_ to his neighbour. "I think your attention was numb," said the master. Saurin had the chorus in the play of Euripides, which was undergoing mutilation at his fingers' ends, so he went on translating till he heard, "That will do. Maxwell!" and then he relapsed into his private meditations. After all, he had not struck the blow, Marriner's trying to drag him into a share of the responsibility was all nonsense. They might say he ought to have given the alarm, or gone for a doctor, but nothing more. And yet he fancied he had heard somewhere that to be one of a party engaged in an unlawful act which resulted in anyone being killed was complicity or something, which included all in the crime. One thing was clear, he must keep his counsel, and not let Edwards or anyone know anything about it, because they might be questioned; and he must guard against showing that he was at all anxious. And why should he be? A man did not die for one knock on the head; he was probably all right again. And he could not have seen his face so as to recognise him; it was quite in the shade where they had been struggling. It was all nonsense his worrying himself; and yet he could not help listening, expecting a messenger to come with some alarming intelligence, he could not define what. After school Edwards came up to him and drew him aside confidentially, full of eagerness and curiosity. "Well," he said, "was it good fun? How did it all go off?" "It was a regular sell," replied Saurin, smothering his impatience at being questioned, and forcing himself to take the tone he was accustomed to assume towards his chum in confidential communications. "How! did you not meet Marriner?" "Oh, yes! I met him all right; but it was no good. There were other poachers out last night, and we heard their guns, so of course we could not attempt anything, because the gamekeepers would all have been on the look-out. You were well out of it, not coming, for it was precious cold work waiting about, and no fun after all." "What a bore! But you will have better luck next time, perhaps." "I hope so, if I go; but the fact is, I have lost confidence in Marriner rather. He ought to have found out that those other fellows were going out last night, don't you see? At least he always brags that he knows their movements. And it will be some time before the moon serves again; and then the Christmas holidays will be coming on; and by next term the pheasants will all have been shot off. The chance has been missed." "Well, at all events, you have got all right and not been discovered. Do you know, when one comes to think about it, it was an awful risk," said Edwards. "Of course it was," replied Saurin; "that made all the fun of it. Rather idiotic, though, too, since one hopes to preserve game one's self some day. It would be a better lark to go out to catch poachers than to go out poaching." "A great deal, I should say. Not but what that is risky work too. Those fellows do not flinch from murder when they are interrupted." "What makes you say that?" cried Saurin quickly, turning and catching him sharply by the arm. "I don't know!" replied Edwards, astonished at the effect of his words. "I have read about fights between gamekeepers and poachers in books, and heard of them, and that; haven't you? How queer you look! Is there anything the matter?" "Not a bit of it," said Saurin, regretting his imprudence; "only, I was frozen hanging about last night, and when I got back I could not sleep for cold feet, so I am a bit tired. And I think I have caught cold too. And you know," he added, laughing, "having enlisted in the ranks of the poachers last night, at least in intention, I feel bound to resist any attacks on their humanity. "But, as a matter of fact, I believe that they do show fight for their spoil and their liberty when they find themselves surprised. Shots are exchanged and mischief happens sometimes. But my poor little air-gun would not be a very formidable weapon in a row, I expect. Its peppercorn bullets are good for a rabbit or pheasant, but would hardly disable a man. The gamekeeper with his double-barrel would have a good deal the best of it. But, I say, my cold has not taken away my appetite. Let us get in to breakfast, and hang poaching." CHAPTER TEN. THE FATES ARE DOWN UPON BULLER. Tom Buller had finished his breakfast, and was ruefully preparing his lesson in his room, when he heard his name being called up the staircase. "Buller! I say, Buller!" "Well, what's the row?" he asked, opening his door with a sinking heart. The voice of the caller sounded singularly harsh and discordant, he thought. "Oh, Buller! the doctor wants to see you in his study." "All right!" replied Buller; "I will come at once." But though his mouth said "All right," his mind meant "All wrong." He had entertained the absurd hope, though he hardly admitted the fact to himself, that Mr Rabbits, with whom he was rather a favourite, would not report him, forgetting, or not realising, the great responsibility which Mr Rabbits would incur by failing to do so. Well, he would know the worst soon now at any rate, that was one consolation, for there is nothing so bad as suspense, as the man said who was going to be hanged. Dr Jolliffe's study was in a retired part of the house, not often visited by the boys. Here the uproar of their voices, and their noisy tread as they rushed up and down the uncarpeted staircases, could not be heard. Here thick curtains hung before the doors, which were of some beautifully grained wood (or painted to look like it), and gilded round the panels. Thick carpets lined the passages, rich paper covered the walls; all the surroundings were in violent contrast to the outer house given up to the pupils, and gained an exaggerated appearance of luxury in consequence. Buller, with his heart somewhere about his boots, tapped at the awful door. "Come in!" was uttered in the dreamy tones of one whose mind was absorbed in some occupation, and who answered instinctively, without disturbance of his thoughts. Buller entered and closed the door behind him. The doctor, who was writing, and referring every now and then to certain long slips of printed paper which were lying on the table at his side, did not speak or look up, but merely raised his hand to intimate that he must not be disturbed for a moment. So Buller looked round the room; and noted things as one does so vividly whenever one is in a funk in a strange place; in a dentist's waiting-room, say. The apartment was wonderfully comfortable. The book-cases which surrounded it were handsome, solid, with nice little fringes of stamped leather to every shelf. The books were neatly arranged, and splendidly bound, many of them in Russia leather, as the odour of the room testified. Between the book-cases, the wall-paper was dark crimson, and there were a few really good oil-paintings. The fireplace was of white marble, handsomely carved, with Bacchantes, and Silenus on his donkey--not very appropriate guardians of a sea-coal fire. On the mantel-piece was a massive bronze clock, with a figure of Prometheus chained to a rock on the top, and the vulture digging into his ribs. And Buller, as he noticed this, remembered, with the clearness afforded by funk spoken of above, that an uncle of his, who was an ardent homeopathist, had an explanation of his own of the old Promethean myth. He maintained that Prometheus typified the universal allopathic patient, and that the vulture for ever gnawing his liver was Calomel. The clock was flanked on each side by a grotesque figure, also in bronze. Two medieval bullies had drawn their swords, and were preparing for a duel, which it was apparent that neither half liked. A very beautiful marble group, half life-size, stood in one corner, and gave an air of brightness to the whole room. And on a bracket, under a glass case, there was a common pewter quart pot, which the doctor would not have exchanged for a vase of gold. For it was a trophy of his prowess on the river in old college days, and bore the names of good friends, now dead, side by side with his own. The table at which the doctor sat was large, with drawers on each side for papers, and a space in the middle for his legs, and was covered with documents collected under paper-weights. It took Tom Buller just two minutes to note all these objects, and then the doctor looked up with an expression of vacancy which vanished when he saw who stood before him. He tossed his quill-pen down, took off his spectacles, and said: "Well, Buller, what have you got to say for yourself?" Tom hung his head, fiddled with a button of his jacket, and murmured something to the effect that he did not know. "It is a very serious offence of yours that has been reported to me, nothing less than breaking out of the house, out of _my_ house, in the dead of night. A most enormous and unparalleled proceeding. Why, in the whole course of my experience I never knew of a boy having the audacity--at least it is extremely rare," said the doctor, somewhat abruptly breaking the thread of his sentence. For he suddenly remembered, conscientious man, that when an Eton boy himself he had committed a similar offence for the purpose of visiting the Windsor theatre. "Suppose that in consequence of your example the custom spread, and the boys of Weston took to escaping from their rooms at night and careering about the country like--" He was going to say like rabbits, but the name of the master who had detected the offender occurred to him, and dreading the suspicion of making a joke he changed it to--"jackals, howling jackals." "Have you been in the habit of these evasions?" "Oh, no, sir!" cried Tom, encouraged by something in the doctor's tones to speak out. "I never thought of such a thing till last night, just as I was going to bed. But the moon was so bright, and the bar was so loose, and the ice bears such a short time, and I take so much longer than others to learn anything, and I was so anxious to get perfect on the outside edge, that I gave way to the temptation. It was very wrong, and I am very sorry, and will take care nothing of the sort ever happens again." "So will I," said the doctor drily. "These bars shall be looked to. And who went with you?" "No one, sir, no one else knew of it. I just took my skates and went. I did not see how wrong it was, sir, then, as I do now. I am slow, sir, and can only think of one thing at a time." "And the outside edge engrossed all your faculties, I suppose." "Yes, sir." Dr Jolliffe would have given something to let him off, but felt that he could not; to do so would be such a severe blow to discipline. So he set his features into the sternest expression he could assume, and said, "Come into my class-room after eleven-o'clock school." "Yes, sir," replied Buller, retiring with a feeling of relief; he was to get off with a flogging after all, and he did not imagine that castigation at the hands of the doctor would be particularly severe. For the head-master's class-room contained a cupboard, rarely opened, and in that cupboard there were rods, never used at Weston for educational purposes. For if a boy did not prepare his lessons properly it was assumed that they were too difficult for him, and he was sent down into a lower form. If he still failed to meet the school requirements, his parents were requested to remove him, and he left, without a stain on his character, as the magistrates say, but he was written down an ass. Such a termination to the Weston career was dreaded infinitely more than any amount of corporal punishment or impositions, and the prospect of being degraded from his class caused the idlest boy to set to work, so that such disgraces were not common. The birch, then, was had recourse to simply for the maintenance of discipline, all forms of imprisonment being considered injurious to the health. And an invitation to the doctor's class-room after school meant a short period, quite long enough, however, of acute physical sensation, which was not of a pleasurable character. But everything is comparative in this world, and Tom Buller, who had feared that expulsion might be the penalty exacted for his offence, or at any rate that his friends at home would be written to, and a great fuss made, was quite in high spirits at the thought of getting the business over so quickly and easily. He found a group of friends waiting for him to come out of the doctor's study, curious to know what he had been wanted for, Tom not being the sort of fellow, they thought, to get into a serious scrape; and when he told them that he had got out of his window the night before to go skating, that Mr Rabbits had caught him as he was getting in again by lighting up some chemical dodge which illuminated the whole place, and that he was to be flogged after eleven-o'clock school, they were filled with admiration and astonishment. What a brilliant idea! What courage and coolness in the execution! What awfully bad luck that old Rabbits had come by just at the wrong moment! They took his impending punishment even more cheerfully than he did himself, as our friends generally do, and promised to go in a body and see the operation. One, indeed, Simmonds, lamented over his sad fate, and sang by way of a dirge-- "`Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew,'" in a fine tenor voice for which he was celebrated. And this being taken as an allusion to the branch of cricket, in which Buller had learned to become a proficient, was considered a joke, and from that time forth the object of it was known as Tom Bowling. Eleven o'clock came, and they all went into school, and Buller did his best, to fix his attention on what he was about, instead of thinking of what was coming afterwards. Dr Jolliffe's class was select, consisting of a dozen of the most proficient scholars, Crawley and Smith being the only two of those mentioned in this story who belonged to it. He had hardly taken his chair ten minutes before a servant came in with a card and a note, stating that a gentleman was waiting outside, and that his business was very pressing. The doctor glanced at the card, which was Lord Woodruff's, and then tore open the note, which ran thus: "Dear Dr Jolliffe, can I speak to you a moment. I would not, you may be sure, disturb you during school hours if there were not urgent reason for the interruption." "Where is Lord Woodruff?" he asked, rising from his seat. "Waiting in the cloister at the foot of the stair, sir." And there indeed he found him, an excitable little man, walking up and down in a fume. "Dr Jolliffe," he cried, directly he saw him, "were any of your boys out last night? Tut, tut, how should you know! Look here. There were poachers in my woods last night, and the keepers, hearing the firing, of course went to stop, and if possible arrest them. The rascals decamped, however, before they could reach the place, and the keepers dispersed to go to their several homes. One of them, Simon Bradley, had some distance to walk, his cottage being two miles and more from the place. As he passed through a coppice on his way he came upon a boy and a figure following with a sack, whether man or boy he could not say, as it was in deep shadow. He collared the boy, who was big and strong, and while he was struggling with him he was struck from behind with a life- preserver or some such instrument, which felled him to the ground, bleeding and senseless. After some time he came to, and managed to crawl home, and his wife sent off to tell me, and I despatched a man on horseback to fetch a surgeon. And Bradley is doing pretty well; there is no immediate fear for his life. Of course he has recovered his wits, or I could not give you these details, and he is certain that the fellow he was struggling with was a Weston boy." "Well, you see, Lord Woodruff," said the doctor, "unless the poor fellow knew the boy, he could hardly be sure upon that point, could he?" "Pretty nearly, I think, Dr Jolliffe. Your boys wear a distinctive cap of dark flannel?" "Yes; but when they get shabby they are thrown aside, and many of the village youths round about get hold of them and wear them." "Aye," said Lord Woodruff, "but Bradley is confident that this was a young gentleman; he wore a round jacket, with a white collar, and stiff white cuffs with studs in them, for he felt them when he tried to grasp his wrists. No young rustic would be dressed in that fashion, and, taken together with the cap, I fear that it must have been one of your boys." "It looks suspicious, certainly," said the doctor, somewhat perplexed. "I am very sorry indeed to give you trouble, and to risk bringing any discredit on the school," said Lord Woodruff. "But you see one of my men has been seriously injured, and that in my service, and if we could find this boy, his evidence would enable us to trace the cowardly ruffian who struck the blow." "Then you would want to--to prosecute him, in short." "In confidence, doctor, I should be glad not to do so if I could help it, and if he would give his evidence freely it might be avoided. But it may be necessary to frighten him, if we can find him, that is. And, doctor, allow me to say that if this were merely a boyish escapade, a raid upon my pheasants, I should be content to leave the matter in your hands, considering that a sound flogging would meet the case. But my man being dangerously hurt alters the whole business. I owe it to him, and to all others in my employ, not to leave a stone unturned to discover the perpetrator of the outrage, and I call upon you, Dr Jolliffe, to assist me." The doctor bowed. "Can your lordship suggest anything you would like done towards the elucidation of this mystery?" he said. "In spite of the jacket and cuffs, I find it difficult to suppose that any Weston boy is in league with poachers. But you may rely on my doing all in my power to aid you in any investigation you may think desirable." "I expected as much, and thank you," replied Lord Woodruff. "It occurred to me, then, that it might be well, as a preliminary measure, to collect the boys together in one room and lay the case before them, promising impunity to the offender, if present, on condition of his turning queen's evidence." "It shall be done at once," said the doctor. "Will you speak to them, or shall I?" "It does not much matter," replied Lord Woodruff. "Perhaps the pledge would come better from me, the natural prosecutor." "Very good." The doctor returned to his class-room, not too soon. One of the young scamps had taken his chair, and was delivering a burlesque lecture, near enough to the head-master's style to excite irreverent laughter. They listened for his step upon the stair, however, and when he entered the room they might have been taken for a synod discussing a Revised Edition by the extreme gravity of their demeanour. "We must interrupt our studies for a short time, I am sorry to say," observed Dr Jolliffe. "I wish you to assemble at once, but without noise, in the schools. And, Probyn, run round to the other class-rooms, and tell the masters, with my compliments, that I wish their classes also to go there at once, and arrange themselves in their proper places, as on Examination Days." The "Schools" was a large room which held all Weston; but the college was liberal in the matter of accommodation, and only three classes were habitually held in it, that so the hubbub of voices might not be inconvenient. For some persons are so constituted that when you seek to instruct them in Greek, they take an intense interest in mathematics, if treated upon within their hearing, and _vice versa_. But every class had its appointed place in the schools, all the same, and in a few minutes after the summons had gone forth, the boys, not quite broken- hearted at having to shut up their books, were reassembled in the large room, wondering what on earth had happened to cause such an unparalleled infraction of the daily routine. One sanguine youth suggested that they were to have an extra half-holiday in consequence of the fine condition of the ice, and he had many converts to his opinion; but there were many other theories. Saurin alone formed a correct guess at the real matter in hand, conscience prompting him. No sooner were all settled in their places than the head-master came in accompanied by Lord Woodruff, who was known to most present by sight, and curiosity became almost painful. "It is he who has begged us the half-holiday," whispered the prophet of good to his neighbour. "Shall we give him a cheer?" "Better wait to make certain first," replied his more prudent auditor. Next the roll was called, and when all had answered to their names Dr Jolliffe announced that their visitor had something serious to say to them; and then Lord Woodruff got up. "No doubt some of your fathers are preservers of game for sporting purposes," he said, "and you all know what it means. I preserve game in this neighbourhood; and last night one of my keepers was going home through a wood where there are a good many pheasants, for it has not been disturbed this year, when he met two persons. They may not have been poachers, but poaching was certainly going on last night, for the guns were heard, and the man naturally concluded that they were trespassing in pursuit of game, for why else should they be there at that hour of the night. And so, as was clearly his duty, he endeavoured to secure one of them. But just as he had succeeded in doing so, he was struck down from behind with some weapon which has inflicted serious injuries upon him. He has recovered his senses, and laid an information that the person he seized was a Weston boy." There was a murmur and a movement throughout the assembly at this sensational announcement. Saurin, who felt that he was very pale, muttered, "Absurd!" and strove to assume a look of incredulous amusement. "Now, boys, listen to me. I take a great interest in Weston College, and should be sorry to see any disgrace brought upon it. And indeed it would be very painful to me that any one of you should have his future prospects blighted on first entering into life, for what I am willing to look upon as a thoughtless freak. But when the matter is once put into the hands of the police I shall have no further power to shield anyone, and if they trace the boy who was in that wood last night, which, mind you, they will probably do, safe as he may think himself, he will have to stand his trial in a court of justice. But now, I will give him a fair chance. If he will stand forward and confess that he was present on the occasion I allude to, and will say who the ruffian was that struck the blow, for of complicity in such an act I do not for a moment suspect him, I promise that he shall not be himself proceeded against in any way." There was a pause of a full minute, during which there was dead silence; no one moved. "What!" continued Lord Woodruff; "were you all in your beds at eleven o'clock last night? Was there no one out of college unbeknown to the authorities?" He looked slowly round as he spoke, and it seemed to Buller that his eyes rested upon him. Though he knew nothing of this poaching business, he was certainly out, and perhaps Dr Jolliffe had told Lord Woodruff so, and this was a trap to see if he would own to it, and if he did not, they might suspect him of the other thing. He half rose, and sat down again, hesitating. "Ah!" said Lord Woodruff, catching sight of the movement; "what is it, my lad? speak up, don't be afraid." "I was certainly out of the college last night," said Buller, getting on to his feet, "but I was not near any wood, and I did not meet any man, or see or hear any struggling or fighting." "It has nothing to do with this case, my lord," interposed the doctor. "This boy went late to the gravel-pits to skate, and was seen by one of the masters. It was a breach of the regulations, for which he will be punished, but nothing more serious." "Oh! if he was seen skating by one of the masters that is enough. Might I speak to the gentleman?" "Certainly." And Mr Rabbits was called forward and introduced. "Oh! Mr Rabbits, you actually saw this boy skating last night, did you?" "No, not exactly. He was getting in again at his window when I surprised him?" "May I ask at what time?" "About half-past twelve." "And how, if you did not see him, do you know that he was out skating?" "He said so," replied Mr Rabbits innocently. "And his word is the only evidence you have that he was not elsewhere?" Mr Rabbits was obliged to confess that it was. "Buller! come here," cried the doctor. "Now, did anyone see you at the gravel-pits, or going there, or coming back?" "No, sir." "Think well, because you may be suspected of having gone in an exactly opposite direction. If any friend was with you I am certain that he would be glad to give himself up to get you out of a really serious scrape. Shall I put it to the boys, my lord?" "It is of no use, sir," said Buller. "I was quite alone, just as I told you, and no one knew I was out. I did not think of it myself till a few minutes before, when I found the bar loose. And I did not open my door even. And I saw no one, going or returning, till Mr Rabbits lit his chemical as I was getting in at the window." "It is very painful to--ah--to seem to doubt your word, in short," said Lord Woodruff with hesitation, for he was a gentleman, and Tom's manner struck him as remarkably open and straightforward. "But you know it is impossible to accept anyone's unsupported evidence in his own favour, and I really wish that you could produce some one to corroborate your rather unlikely story. Assuming for a moment that you were in the company of poachers for a bit of fun last night, and that you saw something of this affray, and being caught as you got home, were frightened into accounting for your being out at so late an hour by this story of going skating in the moonlight; I say, assuming all this, I appeal to you to save yourself from serious consequences, and to forward the ends of justice by telling anything you know which may put us on the traces of the fellow who has injured my poor gamekeeper. A fellow who would come behind and strike a cowardly blow like that, trying to murder or maim a man who was simply doing his duty, does not deserve that you should shield him. Come, will you not denounce him?" "But how can I tell about things of which I have no knowledge whatever?" cried Buller, who was getting vexed as well as bewildered. "What I have said is the exact truth, and if it does not suit you I cannot help it. Believe me or not, as you like, there is no good in my going on repeating my words." "I cannot accept the responsibility of taking your bare word in such a matter," said Lord Woodruff, more stiffly, for Tom's tone had offended him; "a magistrate may do so. Of course I shall not adjudicate in my own case," he added, turning to Dr Jolliffe. "Mr Elliot is the next nearest magistrate, and I shall apply for a warrant against this youth to him." Tom Buller experienced a rather sudden change of sensation in a short period. A quarter of an hour ago he felt like a culprit, now his heart swelled with the indignation of a hero and a martyr. To be accused of poaching, and asked to betray a supposed accomplice in what might prove a murder, just because he happened to be out after ten one night, was rather too strong, and Tom's back was up. "You had better go to your room, Buller, and wait there till you hear further," said Dr Jolliffe, not unkindly. To tell the truth the doctor was a good deal ruffled by this accusation, brought, as it seemed to him, on very insufficient grounds, against some member of the school. But he was determined to be as cool and quiet about it as possible, and not to give any one a chance of saying that he had obstructed the ends of justice. For if he took the highly indignant line, and it were proved after all that one of his boys was involved in the scrape, how foolish he would look! "And you really mean to have this boy up before Mr Elliot on a charge of poaching?" he asked. "What else can I do?" said Lord Woodruff. "His own obstinacy in refusing to tell what he knows is to blame." "But supposing that he really knows nothing, how can he tell it? I know the boy well, and he is remarkably truthful and straightforward. Intensely interested, too, in the studies and sports of his school, and the very last to seek low company or get into a scrape of this kind." Lord Woodruff smiled and shook his head. CHAPTER ELEVEN. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. Have you ever stood near a bee-hive when something unusual was going on inside? When a swarm was meditated, or you had cut off the communication with a super which you meant to take? Just such a buzz and murmur as then arises might have been heard in Weston court-yard when the boys poured out from the schools, only increased so much in volume as the human vocal organs are more powerful than the apiarian. And surely not without cause, for the scene which had just been enacted, without any rehearsal, for their benefit was simply astounding. "Fancy Tom Buller the chief of a gang of poachers!" cried Saurin. "By Jove, I did not think it was in him, and fairly confess that I have not done him justice. He is a dark horse and no mistake." "Why, you don't for a moment suppose that there is anything in it, do you?" asked Robarts, who heard him. "I don't know, I'm sure," replied Saurin; "perhaps not. Awful liars those keeper chaps, no doubt. We shall know all about it in time, I suppose." "It would not be bad fun if one got a fair price for the game one took," said Griffiths. "But the risk and difficulty of selling it would be so great that one would be certain to be robbed." "What an ass Tom Bowling was to give himself up; it would have been all right if he had sat still." "I don't know that. He had already been caught breaking out of college, don't you see, and they would have been certain to put this and that together." "Who would?" "Old Jolliffe." "Not a bit of it. I twigged his face when Buller stood up, and he looked as vexed as possible. _He'd_ never have told." "I am not sure of that, and I think Buller was right not to risk it." "Fussy old chap, Lord Woodruff!" "Not a bad sort altogether, I believe, if you rub him the right way." "No more am I; give me everything I want, and never thwart me, and I am the easiest fellow to live with in the world." That is a sample of the way the matter was discussed and commented upon. But the most astonished of the whole school, and the only one who could not trust himself to make any remark at all in public, was Edwards. For the second time that day he had to watch his opportunity for a private conference with Saurin, and when he found it he opened on him eagerly. "What a chap you are! And so you had a regular fight with keepers, and nearly did for one; and all you said this morning was that the whole thing was a failure and a sell. And even when we talked about gamekeepers catching poachers, and the poachers resisting, you kept it all dark." "Why, it was a serious thing to talk about, you see," said Saurin. "Well, I think you might have trusted me at all events," replied Edwards somewhat reproachfully. "Trust you! My dear fellow I would trust you with my life," said Saurin. "But I thought it better to keep Marriner's attack on this keeper secret for your sake. There was sure to be a row, and in case of the inquiry coming in this direction, and your being questioned, it would be so much jollier for you to be able to say that you knew nothing about it. Whereas, if I had entered into all the details, it would have bothered you. For, to tell the truth, I feared the man was killed; now he is not hurt much, I don't care." "They would not have got anything out of me," said Edwards. "Perhaps not," replied Saurin. "But those lawyers are awful fellows when they get you into the witness-box, and make you say pretty nearly what they like. I had much rather have nothing to tell them myself if I were to be put in such a position, and I thought you would feel the same." "You are right, so I do," said Edwards. "What a fellow you are, Saurin, you think of everything!" "It is different, now that they have got hold of that ass, Buller; what a joke it all is, isn't it?" "Yes," replied Edwards, in a tone of hesitation, however, as if he did not quite see the humour of it. "Rather rough upon Buller, though, don't you think?" "Not a bit of it; he has got off his flogging." "But suppose he comes in for something worse?" "How should he? They cannot prove that he was in the coppice when he was about three miles in the opposite direction, you know. Now, if I were once suspected, they would find out that I constantly went to Slam's, who finds agents to sell the game for all the poachers round, and some of the keepers too, if the truth were known, and that I had been seen in Marriner's company; who is considered to make a regular income out of Lord Woodruff's pheasants, and they would have some grounds to go upon. But Buller is all right." But though he spoke like this to quiet Edwards, Saurin did not care whether Buller got into serious trouble or not. He was a friend of Crawley's, had seconded him in the fight, and given him advice which contributed as much as anything else to Saurin's defeat. If he were expelled and sent to prison it would not break his (Saurin's) heart. The only fear was that if Edwards blabbed--and he was so weak that he could not be absolutely trusted--fellows would think it horribly mean to let Buller be punished unjustly, for what he himself had done. And on this account, and this account only, he hoped that Buller would get off. Mr Elliot, the magistrate, lived at Penredding, the village where Mr Rabbits had gone to lecture, and thither Tom Buller was driven in a close fly, the doctor accompanying him. Lord Woodruff, who had come to Weston on horseback, rode over separately. Mr Elliot was a man of good common sense, though his opinions were not quite so weighty as his person, which declined to rise in one scale when fifteen stone was in the other. He was a just man also, though perhaps he was less dilatory in attending to the wishes of a member of one of the great county families than he might be in the case of a mere nobody. If a rich man and a poor one had a dispute, he considered that the presumption was in favour of the former, but he did not allow this prejudice to influence him one iota in the teeth of direct evidence. Just after the fly had left Weston some snow flakes began to fall. "Ah!" thought Tom, "it may snow as hard as it pleases now. I have had a good turn at any rate. I was not able to do the outside edge when the frost set in, and now I can cut an eight. I wish, though, I could keep my balance in the second curl of those threes. I must practise going backwards, and stick to that next time I have a chance." Dr Jolliffe, who saw that he was absorbed in reflection, thought that he was dwelling upon the serious nature of the position, in which he found himself, and would have been amused if he could have read the real subject of his meditations. But he could not do that, so he read the proof-sheets of his new treatise on the digamma. The snow fell thicker, and by the time they reached Penredding the country was covered with a white sheet. Mr Elliot, who had been warned of their coming, was ready to receive them, and Lord Woodruff came forward with an inspector of rural police, and told his story, which was written down by a clerk and read over. Then the whole party set out on their travels again and drove to the cottage of the wounded gamekeeper, where they were received by a young woman, who had been crying her eyes red, and to the folds of whose dress two little children clung, hiding their faces therein, but stealing shy glances now and then at the quality, and the awful representative of the law, who had come to visit them. "The doctor has told us that it would do your husband no harm to say before me what he has already told Lord Woodruff," said Mr Elliot to her. "I was rejoiced to hear that he is doing so well. It was a most shameful, brutal, and cowardly attack, and we are most anxious that the offender should be brought to justice." "Yes, sir," said the woman. "Doctor thinks it may quiet him like to have his dispositions took, and then he may go to sleep." "Exactly. Will you be so kind as to tell him that we are here?" She pushed the children into an inner room, ran up-stairs, and presently reappeared, asking them to walk up. Bradley was in bed, propped with pillows. A handkerchief was tied round his head, and his face was pale from loss of blood. Either from that cause, or on account of the shock to the nervous system, he was also very weak. "How do you feel now, Bradley?" asked Lord Woodruff gently, going to the bed-head. "Rayther queer as yet, my lord," was the reply. "No doubt. But you have a good hard head, and there is nothing serious the matter, the doctor says. But it may be some days before it will be prudent for you to go out, so, as we want to get on the traces of the fellow who struck you at once, Mr Elliot has kindly come over to take your deposition here, instead of waiting till you were fit to go to Penredding." When Tom Buller saw the woman and children, and then afterwards their strong bread-earner reduced to such a condition, he indeed felt heartily glad that there was no truth in the accusation against him. To have had any part in bringing about such a scene of family distress would have been too much for him. The wounded man told his story clearly enough, and then Tom Buller was told to stand in the light where he could see him clearly. "Noa," said the wounded man, "I could not say who it wor. There was a bright moon, but the boy was in the shadow, and I got no clear look at his face; but he wor one of the Weston young gentlemen, I am sartin of that. A bit bigger than him, I should say, but I couldn't say for sure. He wor a strong un, I know that." When all this was written down, back they went to Penredding again, slower now, for the snow was getting deep, and assembled once more in Mr Elliot's study, where Buller was warned against criminating himself, and then allowed to speak. He had been out that night, but in a contrary direction, skating; no one had seen him, and he had no witnesses. "There is hardly any case," said Mr Elliot. "The boy owns that he was out the night of the assault, and the gamekeeper swears he was struggling with a boy, whom he thinks was rather bigger. But there are no marks of any struggle having taken place upon the lad. There may be reason for suspicion, but nothing more." "Exactly; and I do not ask for a committal, but only for a remand, to give the police an opportunity of collecting further evidence," said Lord Woodruff. "And I do not oppose the remand," said Dr Jolliffe. "I am perfectly convinced of the boy's complete innocence; but in his interest I should like the matter to be gone into further, now the accusation has once been made." "Very good; this day week, then. And I will take your bail for his appearance, Dr Jolliffe." And it being so arranged, everybody went home through the snow; and the police took up a wrong scent altogether, that, namely, of the gang that had been taking game in another part of the preserves earlier in the night, and to which it was somewhat naturally supposed the other two belonged. And one of them was traced, and a reward, together with impunity, was offered to him if he would turn queen's evidence, and say who had struck down the keeper. But the man, of course, could tell nothing about it. As for Tom Buller, he went back to his lessons as usual, and was a hero. It was something novel to have a fellow out of prison on bail at Weston, and the boys racked their brains for some evidence in his favour. His flogging was put off _sine die_, for the doctor felt it unjust to deal with his case scholastically while the question of his punishment by the laws of the country was still pending. The only boy who thought of anything practical was Smith, "Old Algebra," as they called him. He went up privately to Mr Rabbits one day and said, "I beg your pardon, sir, but might I speak to you for a moment?" "Certainly, Smith," said Mr Rabbits; "what is it?" "When you saw Buller getting in at the window by the light of your magnesium wire, did you notice his skates?" "Bless me!" cried Mr Rabbits; "now you mention it, I think--nay, I am sure I did. They were hanging round his neck. To be sure; why, that tends to corroborate his assertion that he went skating." "Will it not be enough to clear him, sir?" "Well, not quite, I fear. You see, they may say that he might have started to go skating, and met with this poacher, and gone off with him out of curiosity. But still it is worth something, and I shall make a point of appearing before the magistrate and giving evidence on the point. It was a very good idea of yours--very." When the snow ceased, the boys took brooms with them to the gravel-pits and cleared a space, which grew larger every time they went to skate on it, some of the hangers-on of the school helping forward the work, for what coppers and sixpences they could pick up. But they were lazy, loafing dogs, and the boys did most of it for themselves. Buller did not go to the ice any more, however; though not expressly forbidden, he thought the doctor would not like it; it would look as if he did not take his position seriously enough. It was for the sake of skating that he had broken out at night and got into this scrape, and so now he would deny himself. The week passed, and Buller again went over with Dr Jolliffe to Mr Elliot's house at Penredding, Mr Rabbits this time accompanying him. The frost still held, and the boys went skating. I have said that there was no recognised system of fagging at Weston; yet, when a fellow in the head-master's class told a boy in the lowest form to do anything, why, it so happened that he generally did it. So, when Crawley observed: "There's a beautiful bit of smooth ice under here. I say, you two, Penryhn and Simmonds, suppose you take those brooms and clear a bit of it." Penryhn and Simmonds acted on the suggestion. After clearing some twenty square yards of beautiful black ice, Simmonds turned up something hard, which he picked up and invoked Jupiter. "What is it?" asked Penryhn. "Findings, keepings," responded Simmonds. "Let's look," said Penryhn. "Why, that is Buller's knife!" "Ah, ah! how do you know that?" "Why, it has a punch in it; he lent it me to punch a hole in my strap when we got home from skating one day. It has his name engraved upon it somewhere; there it is, look, on that plate--`T. Buller'." "Like my luck!" sighed Simmonds; "I never found anything yet but what it belonged to some other fellow." "What was that you said, Penryhn, about Buller lending you his knife?" asked Crawley, who was cutting threes on the new bit of ice. "What day was it?" "The day before the snow; yesterday week, that was." "What time?" "In the evening, just before supper, when I was cleaning up my skates for next day. By Jove! I see what you are driving at. Buller has not been any day since, so he must have dropped it when he came that night." "Of course. Now, you and Simmonds run back to school, find Cookson, who is senior master now the doctor's out, ask leave to go over to Penredding, and cut there as hard as you can split." The pair were off before he could finish his sentence. The party assembled in Mr Elliot's library was the same as on the week previously, with the addition of a detective, who had detected nothing, and Mr Rabbits, who now testified that he saw skates hanging round Buller's neck when he was getting in at the window. The question was concerning a further remand, for the magistrate firmly refused to commit the boy for trial on the evidence before them. "I grant that it is suspicious; he was out late at night when he had no business to be, and that same night a Weston boy was, almost to a certainty, seized by Bradley in the coppice. But if one boy could get out another might, and now it is proved that this one had his skates with him at the time. No jury would convict on such evidence." He did not even like granting a remand, but neither did he like to stand out too strongly against the wishes of Lord Woodruff. At this juncture voices were heard outside, and presently a constable opened the door and said that two young gentlemen from Weston had something to say. "Found the real culprit, perhaps," muttered Lord Woodruff. "Bring them in," said the magistrate, and Simmonds and Penryhn entered, hot, excited, and still panting for breath. "Please, sir, we have leave from Mr Cookson, and I have found Tom Bowling--I mean Buller's knife," said the former, addressing Dr Jolliffe, who waved his hand towards Mr Elliot in silence, and frowned. "Wait a bit, my lad, do not be flurried," said the magistrate; "stand there. Let him be sworn," he added to the clerk. And Simmonds took his first legitimate oath. Then he told the simple story which we know. And when he had done Penryhn kissed the book in his turn and completed the chain of evidence. It was really quite sufficiently clear, that unless yet another boy had got out, and gone skating on the gravel-pits that night, taking Buller's knife with him and losing it, that he himself had been there as he said; and therefore that he was not in the coppice, two miles on the other side of Weston. Lord Woodruff himself was convinced, and Buller was at once discharged, everybody shaking hands with him. "And, Buller," said Dr Jolliffe as they left the house, "as I hope that the anxiety you have been subjected to by your own unlawful action will prove sufficient punishment, I shall not take any further notice of your breaking out that night. Let it be a lesson to you, that you cannot engage in what is unlawful without assuming something which is common to _all_ criminals, and running the risk of being mixed up with them." Which was a beautifully mild preachee to take the place of floggee. Tom Bowling received quite an ovation next day, and did not know what to do with his popularity. He was ready enough to skate now, but a thaw came, and there was no other chance afforded that term. CHAPTER TWELVE. A HOLIDAY INVITATION. A week before the Christmas holidays a boy named Gould came up to Crawley and said, "I wish you would come and stay with me a week or so this Christmas at my father's place in Suffolk, Nugget Towers. The best of the shooting is over, the partridges being very wild by now, and it is not a pheasant country, as there are no woods to speak of. But there are a good many snipe down towards the river, so you had better bring your gun. Besides we will have a day's partridge driving, for there are plenty, if you could only get at them. And there is a pack of foxhounds that meets about ten miles off once a week at least, and some harriers close by. I generally go out with the harriers. We can give you a mount; you do not ride above twelve stone I should say, do you?" "No, I should think not, but I have not been weighed lately," replied Crawley. "You are very kind, I am sure, but does your father know? Perhaps he has made arrangements to fill his house." "Oh no! it is all right. My father does not bother his head about such things; he is perpetually going to London, and thinking of business. But my mother and sisters want you to come, and have told me to ask you." "I am much obliged to them, they are very good. And I should like it very much," said Crawley, somewhat more hesitatingly than it was his wont to speak. For this invitation was rather a hot coal on his head. Gould had courted his acquaintance and he had rather snubbed him, not liking him particularly. He was rich, which mattered to nobody, but he gave himself airs on the strength of it, and that did. There are few things more irritating than to hear anyone perpetually bragging of his money, and if you happen to be poor yourself I do not think that it helps you to sit and listen more patiently. And then Gould was an injudicious flatterer; he made the flattered fellow uncomfortable. It is a nice thing, flattery, and causes one to feel good all over, if it is delicately applied with a camel's-hair brush, as it were. But Gould laid it on with a trowel. He only courted success; if anyone were down he would be the first to spurn him. Now, Crawley was undoubtedly the boy held in greatest estimation in the school: captain and treasurer of the cricket and football clubs, good- looking, pleasant in manners, open, generous, clever at lessons, he was a special favourite with masters and boys, and therefore Gould burnt his incense before him. For to be Crawley's chum was to gain a certain amount of consideration in the school, and Gould did not mind shining with a reflected light. He was not like Saurin in that respect, whose egotism saved him at least from being a toad-eater. Gould was vain enough, but his vanity was of a different kind. But hitherto all his efforts had been in vain, and Crawley had rather snubbed him. This had not prevented Gould from talking about him, exaggerating his merits, and bragging about his intimacy with him at home. It was always "my friend Crawley and I" did this, that, and the other. So that Mrs Gould wrote to him one day asking whether he would not like his inseparable to come and stay with him during the holidays; and Clarissa Gould added a postscript to the effect that as he was so clever he would be of great use to them in their private theatricals. Crawley was one boy amongst a rather large family of girls; the father was dead, and the mother, though able to live in ordinary comfort, was far from rich. She could not indulge in carriages and horses, or men- servants, for example, and she lived near London for the sake of her daughters' education. So that Crawley had never had an opportunity of gaining proficiency in those sports which cannot be indulged in without a good deal of expenditure, and he looked upon hunting and shooting as sublime delights far out of his reach at present, though perhaps he might attain to them by working very hard, some day. His ambition was to enter the army, not that he thought drill any particular fun, or desired the destruction of his fellow-creatures, or ever indulged in dreams of medals, bars, triumphal arches, and the thanks of parliament, but simply because he might get to India, stick pigs, and shoot tigers. Shooting! hunting! Gould's words made his nerves tingle from head to foot with excitement. And he had thought the fellow who now offered him a taste of such pleasures a muff, a bore, a sycophant, and done his best to avoid him! How wrong it is to have prejudices! "Well, then, when will you come?" asked Gould. "As soon as it is convenient to have me after Christmas," replied Crawley. "I must spend the Christmas week at home, you know; but then I am free. I should tell you, though, that I cannot shoot or ride a little bit. I have never had any practice, and you will find me an awful duffer." "All right; fellows always say that." "Yes, I know they do sometimes, in mock modesty. But in my case it's a fact, and I warn you, that I may not spoil your fun." "My dear fellow," said Gould, "you could not do that unless your want of skill were catching. I should be glad if I could put you up to a wrinkle or two." "On those terms, then, I shall be very glad to come." "That is all right." What a happy stroke for Gould! he had come to call Crawley "my dear fellow" already. The idea of his new friend putting him up to a "wrinkle or two" rather tickled Crawley. Gould was so poor a performer at cricket, fives, lawn- tennis, football everything which required a ready hand, a quick eye, and firm nerves--that Crawley could not imagine his beating him even with the advantage of previous knowledge. Yet he had not exaggerated his own deficiencies. Bring his gun, indeed! The only gun he had to bring was a single-barrelled muzzle-loader which had belonged to his father. With this he had shot water-rats, sparrows, and, on one occasion when they were very numerous, fieldfares; but not flying--he had never attempted that. No; he had stalked his small bird till he got within thirty yards of the bough where it was perched, and taken a steady pot-shot. As for riding, when a very little boy during his father's lifetime he had had a pony; and two or three times since, when staying at watering-places in the summer, he had mounted a hired hack. So that his ideas of sport were gathered entirely from books and pictures, to which, when they treated of that subject, he was devotedly attached. What happy hours he had spent poring over _Jorrock's Hunts, Mr Sponge's Sporting Tour_, and the works of the _Old Shekarry_! When he went to a picture-gallery he was listless until he came upon some representation of moving adventure by flood or field, and then the rest of the party could hardly drag him away. He had a little collection of coloured prints in his room at home, gathered at various times, and highly esteemed by him, which conveyed a somewhat exaggerated idea of equine powers. For in one a horse was clearing a stream about the width of the Thames at Reading, and in another an animal of probably the same breed was flying a solid stone wall quite ten feet high. Now he was to have a little taste of these often-dreamed-of joys, and the idea absorbed his thoughts and made him restless at night. To do him justice, he did not think about it on first meeting his mother and sisters when he went home; but on the second day of his return the invitation and all it promised came back to him, and he broached the matter to Mrs Crawley at breakfast-time. "Please, Mother, I have had an invitation to spend a week with a school-fellow after Christmas." "Oh, and who is he?" asked Mrs Crawley. "A chap named Gould; they are awfully rich people--just the sort I ought to know, you know. They live in Suffolk at a place called Nugget Towers." "And what sort of boy is he? Because, of course, Vincent, we must ask him here in the summer in return." "Well, he is always very civil to me, and I don't know any harm of him; but he is not good at games and that, and not much fun to talk to--so I have never been quite so thick with him as he wished. That makes it all the more civil of him. He must have talked about me at home, for his mother sent the invitation." "Well, Vincent, I am glad you spoke of it at once, for we must make haste to look over your linen, which generally comes home in a terrible state. You had better go to-day to the tailor and get measured for your dress clothes; but you were to have had them for Christmas any way, so that will be nothing extra." For Crawley, it must be mentioned, had arrived at an age and height when a tail-coat was a necessary garment if he went anywhere of an evening. "No, Mother," he said, "except a pair of porpoise-hide boots and some leggings; and could I have a gun, do you think? There will be some shooting, you know." "A gun, Vincent! Will not the one you have already do?" "Oh, no, Mother--it is so old and out of date, I should be laughed at. I might just as well take an arquebus or a crossbow." "Is not a gun a very expensive thing?" "Why, you may make it so, of course; but I don't want that. I have been studying the _Field_, and I can get a good central-fire breech-loader for £10." "Ten pounds is a good deal," said Mrs Crawley thoughtfully; "but I suppose you must have a gun if you want one. Only remember, Vincent, that I am not rich, and your education and other expenses are very heavy. And there are your sisters to be thought of--what with their dresses and their music, drawing and dancing, I have to be very careful." "Oh, of course, Mother," said Crawley, going round and kissing her; "what a dear you are!" And his heart smote him as he thought of certain "ticks" he owed at school, and had not yet had the courage to confess to. For Vincent Crawley, though he had many good qualities, was by no means perfect. He was rather spoiled by indulgence at home and popularity at school, and thought a good deal too much of himself for one thing, and for another he was inclined to be thoughtless and extravagant in money matters. It is excellent to be generous with money which is absolutely our own; but to seek to get the credit for generosity at other people's expense is quite another, and not at all an admirable thing. Crawley knew this in theory, but practically, if he wanted anything and could get it, he had it; and if a friend had a longing for ices, strawberry mess, oyster- patties, or any other school luxury, he would treat him, running up a score if he had not the cash in his pocket to pay with. And if there was generosity in this impulse, I fear that there was ostentation too. It added to his popularity, and popularity had become as the air he breathed. _For the only real test of generosity is self-denial_. If you go without something you really want in order to oblige someone else, that is genuine, admirable, and somewhat rare. But if you have everything you want and forego nothing whatever by conferring a favour, you may show good nature, careless indifference to the value of money, or a pleasant sense of patronage, but not necessarily true generosity. That _may_ be the spirit which dictates your conduct, but the act does not prove it. Now, in Crawley's case, his mother was the only one who had to exercise self-denial. But he never thought of that. He prided himself on being a very generous fellow, and so he was by nature, but not so much so as he took credit for, and he was growing more selfish than otherwise; which was a pity. He went up to London, and was measured for his dress clothes, and got his boots and gaiters, and then sought out and found the gun-shop, mentioned in the _Field_, and instead of pretending to be knowing about firearms, wisely told the shopman why he came to him, and that he trusted him entirely, being quite unable to judge for himself, which made the man take particular pains to select him a good one, and show him how to judge if the stock suited him; namely, by fixing his eyes on an object, and bringing the gun sharply up to his shoulder. Then closing the left eye, and looking along the barrel with the right, to see whether the sight was on the object. If he had to raise or lower the muzzle to obtain that result, it was obvious that it did not come up right for him. At length he got one which suited him exactly, and he was shown the mechanism by which the breeches were opened and closed, and learned how to take it to pieces, put it together again, clean it, and oil it. Finally he bought it, together with a hundred cartridges, fifty being loaded with snipe-shot, and fifty with number five; all on the gunmaker's recommendation, to whom he explained the kind of shooting he expected to have. He would not let it be sent home for him, but took it off himself. "You only hold it straight, sir, and I'll guarantee the gun will kill well enough," said the maker as he left. What a charm there is in a new bat, a new gun, a new fly-rod, a new racket; how one longs for an opportunity to try it! Really it is often a consolation to me to think that very rich people lose all that. When everything is so easily obtained, nothing is of any value. Crawley at any rate was delighted with his new possession. He took it to pieces and put it together again for the benefit of every member of the family, besides a good many times for his own private delectation, and practised aiming drill and position drill by the hour together, without knowing that there were any such military exercises. The frost set in again, however, a week before Christmas, and when the ice bore, he had to leave his new toy alone, for besides practising himself, his sisters required tuition in the art of skating. And you must not think that he found the time hang heavy to the day of his departure; he was too fresh home, and of too genial a disposition for that, besides which it was Christmas time. But he did look forward with pleasurable excitement to his visit, for all that. The day came at length, and he started for Barnsbury, snugly ensconsed in a first-class carriage, with wraps, and comic papers, and a story by Manville Fenn with a thrilling picture on the cover, and his beloved gun in the rack over his head. His mother had suggested travelling second- class, but he durst not, for fear someone should meet him at the station. He was right in that expectation, for when the train stopped at Barnsbury he saw Gould and a man in livery waiting for him on the platform. "All right! how are you, old fellow?" said Gould, shaking him by the hand. "How good of you to come! No hunting in such a frost as this, so I thought I would drive over myself." Crawley said something civil, and the groom touched his hat and asked what luggage he had, taking his gun-case from him as he spoke. "It will be brought after us in the tax-cart," said Gould, "which has come over too. I hate a lot of luggage in the trap I am driving, don't you? Leave it to William and come along; it will be all right;" and he led the way out of the station, where there was a dog-cart with another liveried servant on the seat, and a handsome nag in the shafts, waiting at the door. The man jumped down and touched his hat; Crawley got in; Gould gathered up the reins, sat beside him, and started, the man springing up behind as they moved off, and balancing himself, with folded arms, as smart and natty as you please. Crawley wondered more and more that he had never perceived any superiority in Gould; surely he must be very blind. "It is only half-an-hour's drive, behind an animal like this," said his new friend. "The frost is giving, so we may have a run with the harriers in a few days. In the meantime there are a good many snipe. We will have a crack at them to-morrow morning, if you like." "I should like very much," replied Crawley. The country they were driving through was not very picturesque, as it wanted wood, a strange want for Suffolk; but they soon came to a lodge with a gate, opened for them by a curtseying woman, and admitting them to a park where there were trees, and fine ones, though standing about by themselves, not grouped together. They spun along through this up to a large white house with a colonnade in front, and a terrace, with urns for flowers and statues all along it, looking bare and cheerless enough at this time of year. But the hall made amends when they entered it, for it was warm, luxurious, and bright enough for a sitting-room. Two footmen in plush and with slightly powdered hair inhabited it, and one of them helped Crawley to get rid of his wraps, and then Gould led the way to the drawing-room, where Mrs Gould and three daughters were drinking tea and eating muffins and things, for fear they should have too good appetites for dinner, I suppose, and introduced him. Crawley shook several hands and accepted a cup of tea, and sat down on a very low and very soft seat, which he could have passed the night in luxuriously if beds had run short, and felt as awkward as you please. He always was shy in ladies' society. Not in that of his sisters, of course; he patronised them and made them fag for him. It was certainly their own fault if they did not like it, for they had taught him. But they did like it, he being one of his sort, and not often at home, and in return he waltzed with them, which was a bore, and gave them easy service at lawn-tennis, which made him slow, and was generally an amiable young Turk. But the Misses Gould did not look like being fagged, rather the reverse. They were all grown up, at least to look at, though one was not yet "out." Clarissa, the next, a girl of eighteen, came and sat down by him and talked to him, for which he felt very grateful, for he was beginning to wish the floor to open and let him through. At first, indeed, she talked of things he knew nothing about: balls, and levees, and the four- in-hand club, and the Orleans. But finding the service was too severe, and he could not send the ball back, she asked if he was fond of the theatre, and as he was, very, and had been to one a few nights before, he became more like himself, and showed some animation in his description of the piece he had seen, and the performers. At this juncture a quiet-looking man out of livery came softly into the room, and asked him deferentially for his keys, as his luggage had arrived. Seizing the idea that he proposed to unpack for him, an operation he disliked, he gladly gave them up, wondering whether these rich people ever did anything for themselves at all. "I see that you are great upon acting," said Miss Clarissa when the valet was gone, "and I am so glad! For we are getting up some private theatricals; you will take a part?" "Why," said Crawley in some dismay, "I never yet tried to act myself; I am afraid I should spoil everything." "Oh no! we have heard all about you from my brother, you know; you have a good memory, have you not?" "I believe so; I have never found much difficulty in learning by heart." "That is one good thing to begin with; we will soon see if you can act at all. Some of our friends are coming over to-morrow for rehearsal. We have agreed to try _St. Cupid, or Dorothy's Fortune_, and we want a `Bellefleur.' You will take the part, will you not? I am to be `Dorothy Budd.' You will not have so very much to do. Do you know the play?" "No, unfortunately, and I--" Crawley began, meaning to back out; but Miss Clarissa cut him short. "No matter," she said, "I will fetch you a copy," and she got up and returned presently with a little book. "You had better read it all through, and mark your parts with the tags. The tags, you know, are the last sentences of the speaker before you, to which you have to reply. You can learn some while you are dressing for dinner; that is a capital time. And I will give you a hint or two this evening in the billiard- room. You don't mind?" What could Crawley say? He _did_ mind, not bargaining for learning lessons in the holidays; but he could not show himself so uncivil a boor as to refuse. So he promised to do his best, and when the gong sounded, took his little book up into the bedroom with him. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. CRAWLEY IS TAKEN DOWN THREE PEGS. "Good gracious!" A large fire was burning in the grate; an easy-chair was drawn up on one side of it; over the back of an ordinary one opposite a clean shirt was warming itself, with the studs inserted in the front and the wristbands. On the bed the dress clothes were neatly laid out; the patent-leather boots stood at attention on the hearth-rug; hot water steamed from a japanned jug on the wash-hand stand; two wax candles lit up the dressing-table; two more stood on another near the fire, which had also writing materials on it. The room could not have been prepared for a duchess, because a duchess would not wear a black coat and trousers; and besides, they were certainly _his_ clothes. Dressing took Crawley about ten minutes, and he had an hour for the operation. So he looked hurriedly through the play, and marked the parts allotted to Ensign Bellefleur. It did not seem very much, so he felt a little encouraged, and taking Miss Clarissa's advice, set the book open on the table and began learning what he would have to say, while going on with his toilet. He had a really surprisingly retentive memory, and picked up a good bit even in that little time. He found Mr Gould in the drawing-room when he went down, and the old gentleman asked him after his progress in study, and what profession he intended to adopt, in a pompous and condescending way; but it was only a few sentences, for there were other gentlemen there, who came up and button-holed him seriously, and with whom he seemed to hold portentous conversation, politics, perhaps, or shares, or something of that kind. Then the ladies assembled, and the second gong boomed, and the people paired off. Crawley timidly offered his arm to Miss Clarissa, rather fearing he was doing wrong, and ought to go to someone else. But she took it all right; and he quoted from the play he had been studying: "`Here we escape then. Come, cousin! nay, your lips were set for pearls and diamonds, and I'll not lose the promised treasure.'" "`Well, good counsel is a gem,'" the young lady responded smartly. "`But, George, I fear me you'll never carry the jewel in your ears.' The quotation is not apt, though, for you evidently have carried my good counsel in your ears, and been learning your part already. How good of you!" Here was a chance for Crawley to say something pretty; but he could not think of what it should be till afterwards. If the ladies' society was a little thrown away upon him he appreciated the dinner, which was by far the most luxurious meal he had ever seen in his life. A _table-d'hote_ at Scarborough had hitherto been his _beau ideal_ of a feed, but that was not in the race with the Gould banquet. And the champagne; on the few occasions when he had had a chance of tasting that wine, he had got all he could and wanted more. But now his only care was not to take too much of it, lest it should get into his head. "Are you studying your part?" asked his neighbour, for he had been silent for some time. "No," he replied; "I was thinking that if your brother lives like this every day, he must find the fare rather unpalatable when he goes back to Weston." "I believe he does," said Miss Clarissa laughing. "At least he writes home grumbling letters enough, and we have to send him hampers of good things--Perigord pies and that. Don't stop longer than you like," she added as the ladies rose. "Papa will go on talking about stupid things all night." And shortly afterwards young Gould, who had taken his sister's place when she went, proposed that they should go to the billiard-room and knock the balls about. So they went and made a four-handed game with two of the girls. And then Miss Clarissa read over the scenes in which Crawley had to take part with her, and made him repeat what he had learned, with appropriate action. And he got partially over his shyness, and spent rather a pleasant evening, thanks, a little bit, I fancy, to a little vanity. His friend came to have a chat with him after they had gone up to their rooms, and when he left Crawley could not help thinking what a pity it was that his sister Clarissa had not been the boy and he the girl. She was such a much better sort of fellow for a friend; had more go, and was heartier. Before he finally turned in he read the part of Ensign Bellefleur over again, for he felt too much excited by the novelty of everything to sleep, if he went to bed. At last, however, reading the same words over repeatedly quieted his nerves, and he slept soundly till morning. "You are still inclined to have a try for the snipe?" asked Gould at breakfast. "It is still thawing, and the ground will be very sloshy; I hope you have got thick boots." "Yes, and if I hadn't I do not mind a little wet," replied Crawley. "But I can't find my gun anywhere." "Oh, that is all right in the gun-room." This was another new idea to Crawley, who previously thought that it was only ships in Her Majesty's navy, and not houses, that had gun-rooms. They visited it presently, and Crawley found his property taken out of its case, put together, and standing side by side with others in a glass cupboard. He took it down and left the house with his companion. On the terrace they found a keeper with the dogs, and started off for the marshy ground by the river. "Put a few cartridges loose in your pocket," said Gould. "William will carry the rest." The low-lying lands were intersected by deep trenches, which divided them into fields just as hedges would. These were now frozen over, but the ice was melting fast, and water stood on the top. Along them walked the two gunners, William the keeper following with Scamp, the retriever, in a leash; for Scamp would hunt about and put everything up far out of range. "Look out, Crawley!" cried Gould, as a snipe flushed in front of him. He would not have known it was a snipe unless Gould had told him, as it was the first he had ever seen alive. He tried to take aim at it, shutting the left eye as if he were shooting at a target with a rifle, which caused him to twiddle his gun about as if he were letting off a squib, for the bird darted about as though on purpose to dodge him. So he pulled one trigger, and then, quite by accident, for he did not know how to find it in his flurry, the other, and I don't suppose went within two yards of the snipe with either barrel. With a steadier flight, having now got well on the wing, it sailed within reach of Gould, who knocked it over. "Wiped your eye, old fellow!" he cried triumphantly as Scamp came back with the bird in his mouth. "Yes; I told you I was a duffer," replied Crawley, who took note that the best way was to wait for the bird to have done his zigzagging. So he steadied himself, and the next chance he had he did wait. But not a bit could he cover the bird with that little knob of a sight, and when the smoke cleared away he saw it careering like a kite with too light a tail in the distance. Gould also missed twice, and then shot one the moment it was off the ground, before the erratic course commenced. "That looks the easiest dodge," thought Crawley, and the next shot he had he tried it with the first barrel, missed, waited till the snipe was flying more steadily and gave it the second barrel, missed again. He got quite hot, and felt sure the keeper was laughing at him, but that official only said: "I'd put in a cartridge with bigger shot now; there's some duck, I think, in yon bit of rushes by the river." They did as he advised, and they walked down to the spot. In went the spaniels, and out came a fine mallard, ten yards in front of Crawley, and sailing away from him as steady as a ship. He could cover this large evenly-flying mark as easily as if it were on a perch nearly, and when he pulled trigger the duck stopped in his flight, and fell with a heavy splash in the river, into which Scamp plunged as if it were midsummer, and presently brought the duck to land. Crawley felt the elation which always accompanies the first successful shot at a bird on the wing; at any rate he had killed something, and might do well yet when the strangeness wore off. He had another chance at a duck a little while afterwards, but this time the bird flew across and not straight away from him, and as he held his gun still at the moment he got the sight on the duck and fired, of course, since the duck had not the politeness to stop too, the charge went about two yards behind it. "I beg your pardon, sir," said William, "but if you takes aim like that you will never hit 'em; 'tain't possible. You must forget all about your gun, and only look at the bird, and pull the trigger the moment you gets a full sight of him. The gun will follow your eye of itself, natural." "I know I ought to keep both eyes open," said Crawley, "but I forget." "Well, that is best, to my thinking, though I have known some good shots too who always shut the left eye. But whether or no the chiefest thing is not to see that sight on your gun when you shoot, but only to look at the bird." They went on to another snipe patch, and soon Crawley missed again. "Never mind, sir," said William, "it's a knack, snipe-shooting is, and no one can catch it without practice. I've seen good partridge, aye, and rabbit shots, miss 'em time after time, and I've knowed good snipe- shots poor at anything else too." At last, by trying to follow the keeper's directions, Crawley did hit a snipe as it was flushed, but it was his only one. They were much more plentiful than usual in that part, and lay like stones, so that they had plenty of shooting, and William groaned in spirit over the opportunity of sport that had been wasted on two boys. What a tip Sir Harry would have given him in his delight if he had come out with him on such a day! Thirty-five cartridges had Crawley burned when they turned homewards in the afternoon, and the result was one duck, one snipe; if he had possessed a tail, how closely it would have been tucked between his legs! He hardly dared look the animals who had those appendages in the face; how they must have despised him! Gould, who was a bad shot, had bagged five couple, and patronised him insufferably. When they got home he found a warm foot-bath ready in his room, which was a most refreshing luxury, and having made himself presentable he went down to the drawing- room, where the neighbours who were going to act in the forthcoming play were assembled at afternoon tea, preparatory to the rehearsal. And presently they adjourned to the library and went through the play, a certain Mr Foljambe, to whom everybody paid implicit obedience, directing and instructing them. Crawley knew his part, and paid attention to what he was told, and the great man considered that he would do, if he could only get over a certain shy awkwardness. And indeed it was a provoking thing to Clarissa Gould, that when they went through their scenes alone together he acted in a manner that really showed great promise, but if a third person were present he was not so good, and with every additional spectator the merit of his performance diminished. There was only one scene in which he managed completely to forget himself and become the person he represented, and that was where he crosses swords with the hero, and is disarmed. He could fence a little, and did not quite like playing at getting the worst of it when it was not certain that he ought to have done so; but still, the violent action, and the clash of steel helped him to get rid of that feeling that he was making a tom-fool of himself, which confused him when he had to make a lot of spoony speeches to the girl. Mr Foljambe encouraged him with the assurance that being dressed for the part would give him confidence; in a strange dress, a false moustache, and a painted face, he would not know himself in the glass, and would feel that the spectators did not entirely recognise him either. It was necessary to make the best of him, for there was no other Ensign Bellefleur available. The men of the day before had taken their departure, and were succeeded by a more lively lot, for there was to be a partridge drive and a big lunch on the morrow, and most of those who were to take part in it slept at Nugget Towers that night. So, instead of shares and companies, Mr Gould the father held forth upon agricultural prospects, the amount of game, and the immediate renewal of hunting, in consequence of the complete change in the weather. "You ought to have had a good many snipe by the way, Gould," said one of the guests. "They are always found in those water meadows of yours at the end of a frost." "My son and his young friend can tell you best about them," replied Mr Gould. "I believe they have been out after them to-day." "Ah! and what sport had you?" asked the inquirer, turning to young Gould. "Oh, I got five couple." "And your friend?" "I only shot one," said Crawley with an uneasy laugh. "Come, I say, Lionel," said Clarissa Gould to her brother, "I am not going to have my cousin Bellefleur treated in this manner. You are a nice sort of host to leave your guest the worst of the shooting." "He had as many shots as I had," said young Gould, whose desire of self- glorification smothered any soupcon of good taste which he might have acquired, "only he missed them all." "Indeed, yes," said Crawley, concealing his sense of humiliation in the very best way; "why I fired two barrels at one snipe before Gould killed it for me. I am a perfect novice at all field sports." "Ah!" observed the first inquirer, "I know I fired away a pound of lead before I touched a snipe when I first began. But what a lot of them there must have been if you killed five couple, Lionel." "I do not think I should care for shooting if I were a man," said Clarissa to Crawley. "But hunting, now, I should be wild about. I hunt sometimes, but only with the harriers. Mama will not let me go out with the foxhounds, and they meet so far off that I cannot fall in with them by accident, for there is no cover near here. But the harriers are to go out the day after to-morrow, if the frost does not return, and I am looking forwards to a good gallop. Are you fond of hunting?" "I know that I should be," replied Crawley, "but I do not own a horse, and never have a chance of it." "Oh, well, we will mount you; I think Daisy will be quite up to your weight, Sir Robert certainly would, but Daisy is the nicest to ride." After dinner there was music, and Crawley was asked if he could sing. There was no backing out, for young Gould had bragged about his friend's voice, which was indeed a good one though untrained. But he only sang _Tubal Cain_, _Simon the Cellarer_, and one or two others of that sort, of which the music was not forthcoming. At last, however, Julia Gould, who was the pianist, found _John Peel_, which he knew, and he found himself standing by that young lady, confused and shamefaced, trying to make his voice master a great lump there seemed to be in his throat. To make it worse the hubbub of voices ceased at the first notes, though it had swelled the louder during previous performances. All the men began marking the time with heads and hands, and when the chorus came first one and then another joined in, and it ended in a full burst of sound, just as when Crawley sung it at school. This gave him confidence, and he sang the second and remaining verses with spirit, the choruses swelling louder and louder, and when he finished there was much hand- clapping. So at last he had a gleam of success, and Lionel Gould, who had been growing a little supercilious, returned partially to his old conciliatory manner. Next day a large party sallied forth with their guns, and Crawley was placed under a high, thick hedge, and told to look out for partridges as they came over his head. Young Gould was some little distance on his left; and at about the same interval on his right Sir Harry Sykes, a neighbouring squire famous for his skill with the gun, had his station. Beaters had gone round a long way off to drive the birds towards them, and soon shots were heard to right and left; and then Crawley saw some dark specks coming towards his hedge, and prepared to raise his gun. But it was like a flash of lightning; they were over and away before he could bring his gun up. Gould had fired, indeed, though ineffectually, but Sir Harry had a brace. Three more appeared; this time Crawley fired his first barrel at them before they were within shot, and then turning round, gave them the second after they had got far out of it. More came; Gould got one, Sir Harry another; a brace, flying close together passed not directly over Crawley, but a little to his right; and Sir Harry having just fired and being unloaded, Crawley let fly at them, and by a lucky fluke they both came rushing to the ground, stone-dead. "Good shot, boy!" cried Sir Harry. He had hardly spoken before more birds came directly towards him; Crawley watched; he shot one as it came on, and immediately, without turning round, raised his gun, head, and arms, till it seemed as if he would go over backwards, and fired again with equally deadly effect. This second feat Crawley did not attempt to imitate, but a steady shot as they came on he did keep trying, and not entirely without success, for every now and then a partridge came tumbling nearly into his face. But Gould shot two to his one, and he did second worst of the party. However, it was such quick and wholesale work that individual prowess was taken little notice of. And then there was a long, hot luncheon, which some of the ladies came out to, and another drive a few miles off in the afternoon. It was all very exciting, and Crawley found the day a great deal too short; but still he would have preferred the snipe-shooting, if he could only be alone with no one to see his misses. There seemed more sport in finding your game than in having it driven up to you. When he went up to dress for dinner he found a hamper of game there, with a blank label attached, for him to put any address he liked. So he wrote his mother's; and when it arrived she gave him most unmerited credit for skill, forethought, and trouble-taking. The Goulds certainly did things in a princely way. It rained softly all that night, clearing up about nine in the morning, when those who were going out with the harriers had been half-an-hour at breakfast--Miss Clarissa, who was one of them, taking that meal in her habit. Crawley could hardly eat for excitement. The moment the water for his tub had been brought he had jumped up, and, directly he was dressed, hurried to the stables to see the horse he was to ride. "And which is it to be?" asked Miss Clarissa. "Well, I meant to take your advice and Daisy; but the groom said she had a delicate mouth and required a light hand, which I cannot have, you know, for want of practice. And he said Sir Robert was the stronger animal and would stay better, though not so fast. So I fixed on Sir Robert." "And he will carry you very well if you can hold him; Lionel can't." "What can't I do?" asked young Gould across the table, with his mouth full of game-pie. "Hold Sir Robert." "Why, his mouth is a bit hard, but I can sit him anyhow." "Oh, yes, he goes easy enough." The horses were soon brought round, and they all--a party of five--went out. Miss Clarissa, the only lady, put her foot into Mr Foljambe's proffered hand and vaulted lightly into the saddle. Crawley could mount without awkwardness; he had learned enough for that, and he knew what length of stirrup suited him, and could trot along the road or canter over the grass without attracting attention; so all went well till they reached Marley Farm, where the meet was. But directly Sir Robert saw the hounds he got excited and wanted a gallop--a thing the frost had debarred him of for weeks. So he kicked up his heels and shook his head, and capered about in a manner very grateful to his own feelings, but most discomposing to his rider, who was first on the pommel, then on the crupper, then heeling over on the near side, then on the off--though both sides threatened to be off sides if these vagaries took a more violent form. When the hounds were turned into a field and working, Sir Robert evidently thought: "Come! I can't be standing still all day while those dawdling dogs are bothering about after a hare; a gallop I must have!" And he began to fight for his head; and it took all Crawley's strength-- and he was a very muscular youngster--to hold him. Sir Robert did get away half across the field once and nearly demolished a hound, with twenty voices halloing to Crawley to come back, and the master using language which his godfathers and godmother never taught him, I am certain. I can only quote the mildest of his reproofs which was: "Go home to your nursery and finish your pap, you young idiot, and don't come endangering the lives of animals a thousand times more valuable than yourself!" Poor Crawley, wild with shame and rage, managed to haul his horse round and get back to the others, when it did not improve his temper to see the broad grin on young Gould's face. "Don't fight with your horse, youngster," said an old gentleman kindly. "The more you pull, the more he will pull too." And Crawley loved that old gentleman, and would have adopted him for a father, or at least an uncle, on the spot, especially when he found his advice serviceable; for, loosing his reins when Sir Robert did stand still, and only checking him lightly when he tried to dart forward, kept him much quieter. But would they never find that hare? Yes, at last there was a whimper, and another, and then a full burst, and away went the hounds, and the field after them, and, with one final kick up of his heels, Sir Robert got into his stride. Crawley forgot anger, vexation--everything but the rapture of the moment. The life of the scene, the contagious excitement of dogs, horses, and men, the rapid motion, it was even beyond what he had imagined. So across a field to a little broken hedge, which Sir Robert took in his stride without his rider feeling it. Then sharp to the right towards a bigger fence, with a ditch beyond; nothing for a girl to crane at, but having to be jumped. Crawley, straining his eyes after the hounds, and not sitting very tight, was thrown forward when the horse rose, and, when he alighted, lost his stirrup, reeled, and came over on to mother earth; and when he rose to his feet he had the mortification to see Sir Robert careering away in great delight, and he proceeded to plod through the heavy ground after him. "Whatever made you tumble off? Sir Robert never swerved or stumbled!" cried Miss Clarissa as she swept by him. But his wounded vanity was hardly felt in the greater annoyance of being out of the hunt. But the best of harriers is that you hardly ever _are_ out of the hunt. The hare came round again; some good-natured man caught the horse and brought him back to the grateful Crawley, who remounted and soon fell in with the hounds at a check. "I say, you know," said Mr Foljambe, "if you get another fall I shall exert my authority as theatrical manager and send you home. I cannot have my Ensign Bellefleur break his neck when the part is not doubled." "No!" said Miss Clarissa, "not before Wednesday." Whimper, whimper; they hit it off and away again. Another fence with hurdles in it, and a knot of rustics looking on in delight. More cautious now, Crawley stuck his knees in and leaned back, and, when Sir Robert alighted, was still on, with both feet in the stirrups, but very much on the pommel, and not in an elegant attitude at all. "Oh, look at he!" cried a boy with a turnip-chopper in one hand and a fork for dragging that root out in the other. "He be tailor." "It's agwyne to rai-ain, Mister Lunnoner!" added another smockfrock; "won't yer get inside and pull the winders up?" Even the clodhoppers jeered him; and that confounded friend of his, Gould, was close beside and laughed, and would be sure to repeat what he heard. Never mind, it was glorious fun. He came off again later in the afternoon, but that was at a good big obstacle, which most of the field avoided, going round by a gate, and Sir Robert stumbled a bit on landing, which made an excuse. But this time the horse, who was not so fresh now, waited for him to get up again. He felt very stiff and sore when it was all over and they were riding home again; especially it seemed as if his lower garments were stuffed with nettles. As for his tumbles, the ground was very soft, and he had not been kicked or trodden on, so that when he had had a warm bath he was as right as ninepence, only a little stiff. Gould came to see after his welfare while he was dressing, and hoped he was not hurt, and expressed an opinion that he would learn to ride in time, and was glad they had only gone out with the jelly dogs instead of the foxhounds, or his friend and guest would not have seen anything of the run. All which was trying, coming from a fellow who had looked upon him as an oracle, and to whom he had condescended. At dinner, too, he was chaffed a little; but the hardest rider in the county, who had condescended to go out with the harriers to try a new horse, the foxhounds not meeting that day, and who was dining with Mr Gould afterwards, came to his rescue. "Never mind them, lad," he said; "you went as straight as a die. I saw you taking everything as it came, never looking for a gap or a gate, and it is not many of them can say the same." This was Saturday, and Crawley was glad of a day of rest when he got up next morning, he was so stiff. On Monday preparations for the private theatricals began in earnest. Dresses came down from London, and were tried on and altered; the large drawing-room was given up to the hands of workmen, who fitted up a small stage at one end of it, with sloping seats in front, that all the guests might see. Those who were to act were always going into corners and getting some one to hear them their parts, and there were rehearsals. It was all a great bore to Crawley, who would fain have spent the time in shooting or riding, of which he got but little, so exacting was Miss Clarissa; and he was to go home on the Thursday, the day after the entertainment. As the time approached, too, he felt more and more uncomfortable; he had found out from young Gould that the whole thing had been got up by his sister Clarissa, who thought herself a very good actress, and wished to show off; and he could easily see that he would not have been asked to the house at all, if it had not been for his school-fellow's talk, about what a clever individual he was--able to do everything. Now, next to Sir Valentine May, no character in the comedy is so important for the display of Dorothy Budd's (Clarissa's) performance as Ensign Bellefleur; and the more clearly Crawley saw this, the more fervently did he wish that he was out of it. It was too late now, however, and as he got on very fairly in the rehearsals, he began to hope he should pull through somehow. On Tuesday the house was filled with company, and he was asked to give up his room and go to the top of the house, which, however, was no trouble to him. His clothes of seventeen hundred and fifteen were though, when the eventful evening came, and his wig, and the man who fitted it and daubed his face. And yet, when all the fidgeting was over, he wished that it had to begin again, that he might have a further respite. The play began, and during the first scene he stood at the side envying the cool self-possession of Captain Wingfield, who had the part of "Valentine," and every one of whose speeches was followed by laughter from the unseen audience. When the second scene opened Miss Clarissa joined him, looking charming in her old-world dress; they were to go on in company, and he made a strenuous effort to pull himself together. But when he found himself in the full glare of the foot-lights, and looking before him saw the mass of expectant faces which rose, rank behind rank, half-way to the ceiling, his head went round, his brain became confused, and his first sentence was inaudible. "Speak up!" said Miss Clarissa in a loud whisper, and he uttered, "And have you no ambition?" in a louder key indeed, but in trembling accents, and standing more like a boy saying a lesson. The audience cannot hiss in private theatricals, but they could not help a suppressed titter, which confused Crawley still more. He forgot what he had to say, and looked appealingly to the prompter, who prompted rather too loudly. Altogether the scene was spoilt, and Clarissa furious. He did a little better in the second act, but not one quarter so well as he had in rehearsals, and was ready to punch his own head with vexation when the whole thing was over, and he had got rid of his costume and the messes on his face. He went to bed instead of to supper, and next morning at breakfast no one alluded to the performance before him. Soon afterwards he took his leave of all but Miss Clarissa, who kept out of his way, and Lionel Gould drove him to the station very sulkily, for his sister had vented her displeasure upon him. And so they said an uncomfortable good-bye, and Crawley felt much relieved when he found himself alone in the train, with the humiliations of his visit behind him. They did not do him any harm, quite the contrary; he was made of better stuff than that. Of course he felt sore at his failures, when he was used to play first fiddle. When the devil of conceit is cast out of us the throes are severe. But by the time he got home Crawley was able to laugh at his own mishaps. Perhaps Gould got the worst of it after all. "_That_ friend of yours an Admirable Crichton!" said his sister. "A fine set you must be!" CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE DESCENT OF AVERNUS. A worse resident than Mr Wobbler the pedestrian took up his abode at Slam's, and this was no other than his son, Josiah Slam, who had gone to London as the only field wide enough for his talents ten years before, and had only been occasionally heard of since. Now, however, he thought fit to pay his parents a visit, and did not appear to be in prosperous circumstances, though it is probable that he had money, or money's worth, or the prospect of it, for Slam was not the man to kill the fatted calf for a prodigal son, unless he saw the way to making a good profit out of the veal, the hoofs, and the skin. Josiah was a young man of varied accomplishments, all of which were practised for the purpose of transferring other people's cash from their pockets to his own. He called himself a sportsman, and no doubt the operation alluded to was sport, to him. Arriving about Christmas time, when holiday making was general, he gleaned a little at the game of skittles, at which many of the agriculturists round about thought they were somewhat proficient; but cunning as he was he could not go on disguising his game for ever, and so directly he saw that the yokels were growing shy of playing with him, he gave it up. The Sunday pitch- and-toss and card assemblages were also a source of profit to him. Marriner thought he could cheat, and had indeed stolen money in that way from his companions, and there was nothing Josiah Slam liked better than dealing with a weaker member of his own fraternity. He allowed Marriner to cheat him a little, and pretended not to discover it; played at being vexed; drew him on, and fleeced him of his ill-gotten gains. But it was apparent that he played too well at these amusements also, so then he showed them a game at which everybody might win, except himself. Where it was all chance, and skill could not interfere. Roulette, in short. The room in which Professor Wobbler had given his boxing lessons had a table fitted up in it, and on this table the wheel-of-fortune, with its black and red compartments, and its little ivory ball to rattle round and finally fall into one of them, was placed, with a cloth marked in compartments answering to those in the wheel for the gamblers to stake their money upon. This game proved very fascinating to the dissipated amongst the farmers' sons round about, and to some of the farmers too, and money which ought to have gone to buy stock, or for the rent, was lost at that table. Of course some of them won occasionally, and considerable sums, for them, too; that formed the fascination of it. But the agricultural interest was depressed, and ready money not forthcoming to the extent Josiah Slam desired; so upper servants of the neighbouring gentry were admitted, under strong vows of secrecy, and more than one gamekeeper's and huntsman's family was short of coals and meat that winter, because the money to provide such necessaries was left on that satanic, innocent-looking table. Every night this gambling went on, and Josiah made a good deal of money by it, being prepared, however, to clear out of the neighbourhood at the first symptom of the police having caught scent of the affair. Ready money was waning and business growing slack when the Weston boys came back from the Christmas holidays, and Josiah, who knew that some of them frequented his father's yard, saw a fine opportunity of augmenting his gains by setting his little ball rolling in the daytime for their especial benefit. The scheme was nearly stifled by its own success; on the very first occasion a boy won four pounds, and could not conceal the triumphant fact from two or three intimate friends, who each whispered it to two or three others, and the consequence was that on the next Saturday afternoon no fewer than thirty Westonians came to Slam's yard seeking admittance. This alarmed old Slam, who saw a speedy prospect of discovery, and of that hold upon him which the authorities had long been seeking, being afforded them, to the consequent break up of his establishment. Better small safe profits which should last, he thought, than a haul, which after all must be limited to the amount of the school-boys' pocket-money, and be shared with his son, and the stoppage of all his little sources of profit. Not to mention the prospect of legal punishment. So the thirty had to go away again grumbling, with their money in their pockets. _O fortunati, si sua bona norint_. But small parties of the initiated were still admitted, amongst them, of course, Saurin and his shadow, Edwards. The latter, who, as was said in a former chapter, had a peculiar fondness for games of chance, was positively infatuated with this device of young Slam's. It interfered with his studies by day, and he dreamed of it by night, so much did it engross his thoughts. He was never easy unless staking his shillings on that table, and watching eagerly whether the little ball would drop into a red hole or a black one. Saurin did not take half the interest in it at first, the principal attraction for him lying in the illegality, and the tampering with what he had heard and read of as having been the ruin of so many thousands. And he thought what fools they must be. There were many ways in which he could well imagine anyone spending his last penny, but not over a toy like this. But one day he came away a winner of a couple of sovereigns, and there was something in seeing the shillings and half-crowns gathering into a pile before him which caused him to catch the sordid fever with which his friend was infected. Hitherto he had made his stakes carelessly, but now he took a deeper interest in the thing. Sometimes he had won a few shillings and Edwards had lost, and at other times it went the other way, but the winner's gains were never so great as the loser's losses, and it was evident that the difference must remain with the conductor of the game, Josiah Slam. "Why, we have been practically playing against each other for that rogue's benefit!" exclaimed Saurin, when he made this discovery. "In future we must always stake our money the same way." And this they did. Then Saurin had another bright idea. It was an even chance each time whether red or black won, just the same as heads or tails in tossing, so it could not go on very long being one or the other in succession. Then, supposing they staked on red, and it turned up black several times, they had only to persevere with red and increase the stake and they must win their losses back, while if it was red several times they would have a clear gain. This appeared to Edwards as a stroke of genius, and he was in a state of fever till they had an opportunity of putting it in practice. And it answered at first; but presently one colour, the wrong one, won so many times running that all their united capital went into Josiah's bank. They looked at one another in blank dismay; there was an end to their speculations for the rest of that term, and by the next Mr Slam junior would have decamped from the paternal abode, for when the racing season commenced he flew at far higher game than the purses of rustics and school-boys. "Can't come no more, can't yer?" said Josiah. "I'm sorry for that, though I expect I should be a loser, for you play well and knows a thing or two, you do. But it's the sport I care for more than the money, and I should have liked yer to have another chance. I know what I did once when I were in that fix; I just took and pawned my watch, and with the money I got on it I won back all I'd lost and more on the back of it, in a brace of shakes, and then took the ticker out again all comfortable." "But there is no pawnbroker near here." "No, in course not, and such a thing might not suit gents like you neither. Not but lords and markisses does it often; and if ever you really did want a pound or two very bad, for a short time, there's my father, as goes over to Cornchester perpetually, would pop anything light and small for yer, and bring yer back the money and ticket safe enough." The hint took; old Slam was intrusted with Edwards' watch that evening, and shortly afterwards with Saurin's; and later on with all the pins and rings they possessed, though these were not worth much. This may all sound accountable in Edwards, who was so weak and soft; but Saurin, though vicious, was no fool, and such excessively absurd conduct may appear to you inconsistent with his character. But that is because you do not know the rapidly enervating and at the same time fascinating mastery which gambling has on the mind of one who gives way to it. It is a sort of demoniacal possession; the kind-hearted, amiable man becomes hard and selfish, the generous man mean and grasping, the strong-minded superstitious under its influence. It may seem strange to enact laws to prevent people from risking their own money if they choose, but every civilised government has found it absolutely necessary to do so. For the losing gamester always thinks that with a little more money to risk he would certainly win all back again, and the thought maddens him so that he will not even shrink from crime to obtain it. One day when the pair were penniless, and had no more means of raising money, young Slam generously offered them a loan, only requiring them to sign a paper acknowledging the transaction. To prevent their feeling themselves placed under an obligation he delicately allowed them to sign for more than they had received a proposition which Saurin acceded to with alacrity. Edwards, though he also signed, did so with hesitation, and expressed fears about the safety of the transaction afterwards. "Pooh!" said Saurin, "the I O U is mere waste paper; we are both under age, and can snap our fingers at him if he demands payment. Besides, we will pay him back the first time we win enough." "But supposing we don't win enough? we have been very unlucky lately," objected Edwards. "All the more reason why luck should change," replied Saurin. "But suppose it does not, all the money will have gone into the fellow's pocket, so we shall have repaid him in reality, don't you see?" Edwards didn't quite. If you borrow a shilling of any one to gamble with, and lose the stake and pay him with the shilling you have borrowed from him, he does not exactly get what is due to him. However, Edwards made no reply; no doubt Saurin knew best. Crawley lost a little of the estimation in which he had been held that term. It was extremely mean of Gould to gossip about his guest's discomfitures at Nugget Towers, but the temptation to glorify himself at the other's expense was too strong. He had plenty of pocket-money always, and rich men or rich boys are sure to have some one to listen to them with a certain amount of deference, and if Gould was not popular exactly, his hampers were. "I had Crawley to stay with me at Christmas, you know," he said. "He's a good fellow; pity he's so awfully poor. He had never been in a decent house before, and was awfully astonished. He had what they call `the keeper's gun,' a ten-pound thing; our head-keeper twigged it. Good gun enough, I daresay, but not what a gentleman has for himself. But he could not use it; worst shot I ever met, by Jove! I showed him a thing or two, and he began to improve by my hints. He is not above taking hints, I will say that for him; and his riding! Why, I thought from those prints in his room that he was ever such a swell; but I don't believe he was ever outside a horse before. Even the ploughmen laughed at him. `Get inside and pull up the windows!' they called out." And so he went on, somewhat exaggerating all Crawley's failures, not so much out of any ill-will as for self-glorification. You may know the pastime of boring a hole through a chestnut, threading it on a string, and fighting it against other chestnuts: if you hit on a very tough chestnut, and with it broke another one, it is, or used to be the rule that your chestnut counted all the victories of the one it split in addition to its own, of which a careful account was kept. So that if a chestnut was a fiver, and it beat a tenner, it became at one leap a fifteener. In something the same way Gould had an idea he might score by Crawley, who was thought so much of for his proficiency in many things. If he himself was so much richer, such a better rider and shot, it ought to be assumed that if he took the trouble he could also beat him at cricket, football, mathematics, German, and freehand drawing. It was not very logical, and indeed he did not put the matter to himself so nakedly as that, but that was the sort of idea which influenced him nevertheless. At the same time I fear that there may have been a little spite in his feelings too; he had been a good deal snubbed by his sister Clarissa for introducing a friend who had gone far to spoil her triumph in the play she had got up with such pains and forethought, and he much regretted having ever asked him. Gould's bragging would not have been much believed, only Crawley confirmed it. "Yes," he said, "I went to stay with Gould's people; very kind of them to ask me. They live in grand style; I thought I had got to Windsor Castle by mistake at first. I should have enjoyed it immensely if they had not made me act in private theatricals, which I hate, and I am afraid I came to utter grief over it. Took me out snipe-shooting; did you ever shoot at a snipe? bad bird to hit; Gould got some. I suppose one would pick up the knack of it in time. And, yes, we went out with the harriers; I had never sat a horse when he jumped anything before, and I came a couple of croppers. But it was great fun, and I did not hurt myself. Gould did not get a fall, oh no; he is used to it." A good many were rather disgusted with Gould when he talked in the way he did, and Buller let him see it. "It's awfully bad form to ask a fellow to your house, and then boast that he can't do things that he never tried before, so well as you can," he blurted out. "Oh, of course, we and know that Crawley is perfect in _your_ eyes," sneered Gould. "That's rot," said Buller elegantly; "but I do know this, that you might have practised anything you know, shooting, riding, anything, all your life, and if Crawley had a week's practice he would beat your head off at it; come, then, I'll bet you what you like." "That is impossible to prove." "No matter, it does not need proof; every fellow with eyes in his head must see it. But that's nothing. If you were ever so much better it would be just as mean to brag about it." Crawley had no idea that Gould bore him any grudge, and being grateful to him for his invitation, sought to give him those opportunities of intimacy which he had evidently coveted before. But it was Gould now who drew back, somewhat to the other's relief, for he could not bring himself to care much about him. Well, all this foolish talk of Gould's did have a certain effect: a good many boys lost some faith in their idol, and began to suspect that its feet might be of clay. And then Crawley took to reading very hard that term, for his time for trying to get into Woolwich was approaching, and he was very anxious not to fail; and this made him less sociable, which affected his popularity. It did not interfere with his sports; he was as energetic at football as ever, and took his usual pains to make the boys pay up their subscriptions, for he was secretary and treasurer. But that was not exactly a genial duty, though everybody was glad that somebody else would take the trouble. And for the rest, he was now always working hard or playing hard. "Hulloa, Edwards!" he said one day about the middle of term, "you have been very lazy about your football lately; you promised to be good at it, you know. It's a pity to give it up." "But I have not," said Edwards. "I am going in for it again now." And he meant it; for the last penny of the loan had vanished, and he felt the need of excitement and action of some kind. "That's right, old fellow," said Crawley. "Of course you play for your house against ours in the match." "I believe so." "Come and have a game this afternoon," said Crawley, turning back after they had parted; for the pallid and careworn face of the other struck him, and he thought very likely a little exercise and bustle was just what he wanted, but that he felt listless, as one does sometimes, when one is glad afterwards if some one else will save us the trouble of making up our minds, and start us. "No, thanks," replied Edwards, "I can't come to-day, I have something else I must do. But I shall practise regularly after to-day." And he went on his way to meet Saurin, and go with him to Slam's yard. For a crisis had arrived in their affairs which assumed a most serious aspect. It was no longer a question of obtaining the means of continuing their gambling; they had awakened from that dream, and saw what dupes they had been. And indeed the Slams, father and son, found that their little game was being talked about in the neighbourhood too freely for safety, and had abruptly discontinued it. Josiah, indeed, was about to take his departure altogether, and in announcing that intention to Saurin and Edwards, demanded immediate payment of the money he had advanced them, in consideration of which they had jointly signed an acknowledgment for five pounds. They had, indeed, kept away from the yard when their money was all gone, but Josiah Slam was not to be balked in that manner. He went over to Weston, and accosted Saurin in the street. "I cannot pay you just now; don't speak to me here, we shall be seen," said Saurin. "What do I care for that?" replied Josiah. "If you don't come to me I'll come to you." "I will come to the yard to-morrow afternoon, only do go away now," urged Saurin. "You had better," said the man significantly. And so Saurin and Edwards were now on their way to the yard. "Well, gents, have you got the money?" asked Josiah Slam, who admitted them. "I hope so, for I wants to be off, and I'm only a-waiting for that." "No," replied Saurin, "we have not got it; it is not likely. We did not sign that paper until we had lost everything to you, and we shall not have any more till after Easter. Perhaps we may pay you then, though I don't consider we owe you anything really. You have won it all back, and a lot more besides." "What's that to do with it?" cried young Slam. "You had as good a chance of winning of me, hadn't yer?" "No, of course not," replied Saurin. "I am not certain that we had any chance at all." "What d'yer mean? yer--" "Oh, don't bluster and try to bully," said Saurin. "I'm not afraid of you." "Oh, you're not, ain't yer, my game chicken? but I have got your I O U." "Much good may it do you! Why, we are under age, and it's of no value at all." "And you call yerself a gentleman! Yah! But I'm not so green as yer think, my boy. Of course I knowed it warn't a legal dokiment. But it's proof enough for me. If you don't pay I shall take it to yer master, and see if he won't pay it for yer." "Don't be a fool; you know very well he would not." "No, I don't; at any rate I shall try it on." "It would do you no good, I tell you." "If not, it would do you two chaps harm, I know; why, you would get it pretty hot if yer master knowed yer had come here at all; and if he found you'd been playing cards on a Sunday, and roulette, and pawning yer watches and things, I'll bet a hundred it wouldn't make it better. Gents like you can allus get money somehow; write to yer friends; it's only two pun ten apiece, and they won't stick at that to get you out of such a shindy as this will be. This here's Thursday and I'm bound to go on Monday. If you don't bring them five pounds by then, I'll go to your master with that 'ere I O U in my hand on Monday morning as sure as I stand here. So now you know." And with this ultimatum the rascal dismissed them. They walked slowly along the lane leading to Weston with hearts as heavy as could be, for indeed they were at their wits' end. If this fellow fulfilled his threat, and they had no doubt he would, it most certainly would result in expulsion for them both. To write home for more money was out of the question, for each had exhausted every conceivable excuse for doing so already, and any further application would only bring a letter to Dr Jolliffe asking the reason for all this extravagance, instead of cash, and so precipitate the calamity rather than ward it off. A less shameful peccadillo might have been confessed, but this low-lived gambling, this association with a fellow like Josiah Slam, how could it be spoken of? Impossible! Well, but what was to be done? Anything, anything to stave off the immediate peril; but what? That thought haunted each of them all day and during a sleepless night, and when they met on the following morning each looked at the other to see if he could detect any gleam of hope in his face. "Look here," said Saurin, "there is just a chance, not a good one, but still a chance. That fellow Gould always has heaps of money, and from all these stories of Crawley's visit to him at Christmas his people must be very rich. Now he is not a generous fellow, but he likes to show off. And if we went to him and told him all about it, and that we were dead certain to be expelled if we could not raise five pounds, do you not think he might lend it us till after Easter?" "I am afraid he won't," replied Edwards, "but it is worth trying." "You see, it would be something for him to brag about afterwards," continued Saurin. "It would make him look important and influential that he had got two fellows out of such a row, and was the only one in the school who could do it." "It is worth trying at any rate," said Edwards. "Ask him this afternoon." CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A CRIME. Once every term the cricket and football committees assembled to transact business. They learned what funds were in hand, what subscriptions had been paid and what were in arrear, also the expenditure for balls, nets, goals, stumps, rolling the ground, and all other items. After which, rules were discussed, and arrangements for future matches made. It was part of the principle of the school that the boys should manage all these things for themselves, as it was considered that to learn practically how to set such matters going and keep them in order was quite as educational as to acquire the right use of the subjunctive. All that the authorities had to do with the arrangement was that when the day and hour for a committee meeting was fixed, the master in whose house the secretary was, gave leave for his pupil-room to be used for the occasion; and it was also customary to ask one of them to audit the accounts. These assemblages were of a twofold character: during the first part, when the accounts were read out, and what had been done gone over, any boy who liked might attend and ask questions. But when arrangements for the future were discussed, the room was cleared of all but the committee. Experience had brought that about; for when outsiders had been allowed to remain, the number and variety of absurd and futile suggestions which were made, prevented any conclusion being come to at all. Since Crawley was the secretary and treasurer of both the cricket and football clubs there was only one general meeting, at which the accounts of both were taken together, instead of two in the term, as when those offices were vested in different individuals. Crawley had found these burdens rather onerous this term; with that stiff examination looming nearer and nearer every month he began to feel serious, for he had set his heart upon getting into the artillery if he could, and he was going at his subjects in downright earnest, with no shirking or trifling when the humour was not on him. So that the time it took him to prepare these accounts, and still worse, to collect the subscriptions, he did rather grudge. But he never dreamed of resigning on that account; he had undertaken these duties, and would go on with them without grumbling. Perhaps he had the feeling which energetic folk who are accustomed to other people leaning on them are naturally apt to acquire, that things would get into a muddle without him. However he had got in the subscriptions, docketed his papers, and prepared everything for the meeting that evening, and the last finishing stroke being put, he locked all up in the japanned box which he kept in his room, with "Weston Cricket Club" neatly painted on it in white letters, changed his clothes for flannels, and ran out to the football field. He had not been gone a quarter of an hour before Saurin and Edwards approached the house on their visit to Gould, who was also an inmate of Dr Jolliffe's. They had chosen that time in order to find him alone, for he had had a slight sprain of the ankle--not enough to lay him up altogether, but sufficient to prevent his playing at football; and as he was rather glad than otherwise of an excuse to sit in with a novel, the chances were that he was now so occupied. It was a fine March day, with a bright sun and a cold east wind--not high enough to be unpleasant though, unless you dawdled about. When they came to the side-door which led to the boys' part of the house, which was a separate block of buildings from the doctor's residence, though joined to and communicating with it, Saurin stopped and said: "I think perhaps you had better wait here for me; I shall get on better with him alone." "All right!" replied Edwards with a feeling of relief, for he dreaded the interview with Gould beyond measure. It is nervous work to ask anyone to lend you money, unless you are quite hardened. Saurin felt that too; it was a bitter pill for his pride to swallow, with the prospect on one side of a refusal and on the other of being subjected to insolent airs of superiority, for Gould was not the fellow to grant a favour graciously. But he had a stronger will than Edwards, and the situation made extreme measures necessary. He entered the passage alone, then, and mounted the staircase, not meeting anyone. Dead stillness pervaded the house except for the trills of a canary at the far end of the second landing. Crawley's door was open as he passed, and he saw his clothes strewn about over a couple of chairs and the japanned box standing in a corner by his bureau. Saurin passed on, the song of the canary growing louder as he advanced, and knocked at Gould's door; there was no response. "Gould!" he cried, "Gould! are you in?" As there was still no answer he turned the handle and looked in; there was the canary hanging in the window, through which the sun poured, and his shrill notes went through his head; but no Gould. "Plague take it!" muttered Saurin; "it is all to do now another time, and I cannot get this suspense over. I wonder where the fellow has gone to!" He closed the door again and retraced his steps slowly. When he repassed Crawley's room he stopped and listened. Not a sound except the bird's song. His heart beat so quickly that it was like to choke him, and he grew quite giddy. "Crawley!" he said in an unsteady voice, for though he saw the room was empty he had an insane fancy that he might be there, invisible, or that this mist before his eyes might prevent his seeing him. Then he mastered his apprehensions with an effort, and stepped into the room. Going to a chair, he felt the coat which hung over the back; there were keys in the pocket. Then he listened again; not a sound, for the singing of the canary had stopped. Ten minutes later Saurin went down-stairs quietly, stealthily. He found Edwards waiting for him outside, took him by the arm, and led him away. "Have you seen anyone?" he asked eagerly, but in a voice which he could not keep from trembling. "Not a soul," replied Edwards. "Then, come a long to my tutor's--quick! get your flannels on; and we will go into the football field. We are late, but can get in on one side or another." "But, have you succeeded? Will Gould lend the money?" "No, he won't; and I would not have fellows know I asked him for worlds; so I am glad no one saw us." Saurin was as white as a sheet, he trembled all over, and there was a look in his eyes as of a hunted animal. That one in whose courage, presence of mind, and resources he trusted so entirely should be affected to such a degree as this, appalled poor Edwards; what a black gulf, indeed, must yawn before them! "Is there no chance at all, then?" he asked in piteous accents. "Yes, it will be all right; I--I have thought of something else," stammered Saurin. "Don't mind me--I'm knocked over by asking a favour and being refused; that's all. I shall be all right directly. Only swear you will never say a word to anyone about it. I tell you I have thought of a way to silence that villain Slam, and I will go and see him the first chance. It will be all right if you only hold your tongue. And now look sharp and let us change and go and play football; there's lots of time." They had reached their own rooms by this, and Edwards did what Saurin told him, wondering, but partly reassured; and in a few minutes they were on their way to the football field, where they were hailed by their own house and paired off on different sides. Saurin had sulkily retired from all the school sports for some time, and the boys wondered at the energy with which he now rushed into the game. The fact was he felt the necessity for violent exertion to escape reflection and drown thought in fatigue. He could not do it, but he succeeded in regaining the mastery over his nerves, his looks, his speech. As for Edwards, he played more listlessly than usual; and the thought occurred to several that afternoon that if Saurin would only take up regular practice again he would be a greater source of strength to the house team than Edwards. And they wanted to be as strong as possible, for the match with the doctor's house was approaching, and they feared that they were a little overmatched. That evening a good many boys were assembled in Dr Jolliffe's pupil- room to hear the reports concerning the cricket and football clubs, which were really one, as the same subscribers belonged to both, and it was only for clearness and to avoid confusion of accounts that they were treated separately; besides that, one boy could not always be found to undertake, like Crawley, the management of both. There were the committees, and besides them a sprinkling of the curious, who did not care to listen to the debit and credit accounts, but had the Anglo-Saxon instinct for attending public meetings of any kind, so that the room, though not half full, contained a respectable audience, when Crawley with his japanned box in his hand entered, and went to the place reserved for him at the head of the table. "I have not a long story to tell you," he said, producing his keys and inserting one in the lock of the box. "Fellows have paid up pretty well, and we are rather in funds. The principal expense has been a new roller which we were obliged to have, the old one being quite worn out, and besides, as many of you have often observed, not heavy enough. Indeed the committee have been blamed rather severely by enthusiastic cricketers on this score, as if they had taken weight out of the roller, or could put extra weight into it; and I have sometimes thought that if the critics would have sat on the roller instead of on us, it would have been more effective." Laughter; for a little joke goes a long way on these solemn occasions. "Mr Rabbits has kindly audited our accounts, which are satisfactory, I believe; here they are, if any one likes to look at them. We do not owe anything, and there are two pounds in hand for the football, and seven pounds twelve shillings for the cricket accounts, which I have here. Hulloa! what is this?" and Crawley changed countenance as he opened a _portmonnaie_ which he took out of the box, and drew from it a five-pound note. "I have been robbed!" he cried. "There were four half-sovereigns, two sovereigns, and twelve shillings in silver, besides this bank-note in the purse this morning, and now there is only the five-pound note here!" The consternation caused by this announcement was so great that for quite a quarter of a minute there was a dead silence, and then ejaculations, suggestions, questions, began to pour. "Perhaps it is loose in the box," said some one, and the papers were immediately all taken out, and the box turned upside down to prove the futility of that perhaps. "Well, never mind; of course I am responsible," said Crawley presently, recovering himself. "I was taken by surprise, or I should not have made all this fuss. The money will not be wanted till the cricketing season begins next term, and I can make it good by then." Outsiders then took their departure, leaving the committee to any deliberations that might remain, and carrying the news of the robbery far and wide, so that it became the principal topic of conversation throughout the school that evening. Of course it lost nothing in the telling, and some received the information that Crawley's room had been regularly cleared out that day, all his books, clothes, and pictures taken, besides five pounds of his own and twenty of the public money. The committee had not much business to transact. The day for the match at football between Dr Jolliffe's and Mr Cookson's houses was settled, a suggestion that some new turf should be laid down on a part of the cricket-field where the grass had been worn past recovery was agreed to, and the members who did not board at Dr Jolliffe's were back at their own houses before "All In." But the excitement about the loss of this money was naturally greater in the house where it had taken place than anywhere else, and as the boys talked about it at supper the servants heard of it. It was evident that though no accusation might be made, suspicion would be very likely to fall upon them, and as they were anxious to have the matter sifted, the butler was deputed to report the whole affair to the doctor. So when prayers were over Dr Jolliffe told all present to remain where they were, and then calling up Crawley, he asked him whether the account he had heard was correct. "I did not mean to report it, sir," said Crawley, "but it is true that four pounds in gold and twelve shillings in silver were taken from the tin box belonging to the cricket and football club this afternoon." "When did you last see this money?" "At about a quarter to three, sir. As it was a half-holiday I thought I would get all my papers ready against the cricket and football meeting this evening. I set to work at that at a little after two; it did not take me very long, as they were all ready before, and only wanted arranging, and a little memorandum written out of what I wanted to say, for fear I should forget anything. When I had done I counted out the money in hand, and put it in a purse which I have always used for the subscriptions; there was the sum I have mentioned and a five-pound note. I put the purse back in the box, locked it, placed the keys in my coat- pocket, changed my clothes, and went out to play at football. I heard the clock strike three just after I had begun to play." "And when did you miss the money." "At the meeting, when I opened the box." "You had not done so again till then after locking it up, when you went out?" "No, sir." "You are sure?" "Positive, sir." "And the five-pound note was not taken?" "No, sir; that was left." "Was it in the same compartment of the purse as the gold and silver?" "No, sir; but it could be seen if the purse was opened, and why it was not taken too I cannot imagine." "That is not so difficult of explanation. But now I must ask you a painful question; but it is your bounden duty to answer it without reserve. Have you any suspicions as to who may have taken it?" "None whatever, sir. I am almost certain that there was not a boy in the house. I was the last to remain in. Indeed I found all but three in the football field, and I know where they were, for I saw them playing at fives as I passed the court. At least two were playing, and the third, who had hurt his foot, was looking on." "Do you mean to say, for it is necessary to be accurate, that you recognised every boy in the house except these three in the football field yourself?" "Not exactly, sir; but we have been talking the matter over, and those whom I did see can answer for all the rest." "And who were the three boys in the Fives Court?" "I was the looker-on, sir," said Gould, stepping forward. "And when did you leave?" "When the others left off play, sir. We all returned together at tea- time." "That is right, sir," said Smith and Simmonds. "We were the two playing at fives, and Gould went and returned with us." (Of course it is not meant that they said all this together, in chorus, as people do in a play; but they both stood forward, and Smith was the spokesman.) "And now, Crawley," resumed the doctor, "are you sure that the money was not taken _after_ your return. You left your room again, perhaps, before the meeting?" "Yes, I did for a short time, sir; but then I had the keys in my pocket; and the box was fairly unlocked. There are no marks of violence; and it's a Brahma, so, whoever did it, must have had the right key." "I am very glad that all the boys in my house seem able to prove so clear an _alibi_," said the doctor. "That will do." When they had all dispersed Dr Jolliffe made inquiries amongst the servants. The fat cook indignantly demanded that her boxes should be searched; but one coin of the realm is so like another that there did not appear to be much object in that, beyond the pleasure of inspecting a very smart bonnet in reserve for Easter, and other articles of apparel. The maids who waited on the boys were very much cut up about it. They never went near the rooms after they had once cleaned them up in the morning till supper-time, when they turned down the beds (which were set on end, and shut up to look like cupboards during the day), and filled the jugs and cans with fresh water, etcetera. But it was impossible for them to prove their absence during those two hours--from three to five--so clearly as the boys could, though they could testify to one another's not having been away for many minutes at a time. It was extremely unpleasant for them, and for the butler and another man- servant in a less degree also, for, though they had no business to go into the boys' part of the house, it was possible that they might have gone there without having any business. But there was no reason to conclude that anyone residing in the house at all was the guilty party; any person could walk in from the street at any hour. Itinerants often passed through the place with mice, squirrels, and other things, which they tried to sell to the boys, and one of these might have slipped up-stairs. But, no; a man like that would not have known that there was likely to be money in that particular box; it certainly looked more like the action of someone who had good information. Such were the speculations and reasonings which were rife in Weston for the next few days; and then the topic began to grow stale, for no one had been seen hanging about the house that afternoon, and there was no satisfactory peg upon which to hang conjecture. One hard fact remained; poor Crawley was answerable for four pounds twelve shillings which had been stolen from him, and this came at a time when he was particularly anxious to spend as little money as possible. He did not make much fuss about it, and only to Buller, his friendship with whom grew stronger the more they knew of one another, did he speak his mind. "My poor mother!" he said during a Sunday walk the day after the robbery; "I shall have to ask her for the money, and it is precious hard upon her. I have been abominably extravagant, and she is not rich, and there are a lot of us. I owe a good bit to Tiffin, and to my London tailor too, but he will wait any time. Tiffin duns me, hang him! though why he should be devoted to capital punishment for asking for his due I don't know either. I should not have had such a lot of patties, fruit, ices, and stuff. He will have to be paid at latest when I leave; and at that time, if I get into Woolwich, there will be my outfit. And then I must needs buy a gun and a license for just three days' shooting with Gould last Christmas; and tipping the groom and keeper was a heavy item besides. One of my sisters is delicate, and can't walk far; and they could keep a pony-carriage if it wasn't for me. And now, here is another flyer I must rob my mother of, just because I left my keys in my coat when I changed my dress--sheer carelessness!" "Never mind; you will get into Woolwich next examination, and then you will soon get a commission, and draw pay, and not want so much from your mother." "Yes, I think of that, and it is some consolation; but still it is in the future, don't you see, and I must ask her for this stolen money at once. By Jove! I wish I had come back unexpectedly for something, and caught the fellow taking it! I wonder who on earth it can be!" "I have no idea. Not Polly the maid, I'll take my Davey; I have so often left money and things about, and never lost a halfpenny." That same Sunday Saurin and Edwards were standing with two or three others in the quadrangle, when Gould limped by. "How is your ankle getting on, Gould?" one of the group called out. "Better, thanks," he replied, joining them. "I say, if it had kept me in yesterday afternoon Crawley might have thought I took the money! What a joke, eh? Fancy my wanting a paltry four pounds odd." "You were not in?" cried Edwards; and he could have bitten his tongue out immediately afterwards. But the surprise was too great for his prudence. He and Saurin had gone to their own tutor's house before repairing to the football field, you may remember, and that route did not pass the Fives Court. So that it was the first intimation Edwards had that Saurin lied when he said he had asked Gould for a loan, and been refused. "No," said Gould, looking at him in surprise; "what made you think I was?" "Only your sprain," said Edwards, recovering himself. "Some fellows were saying that if you were in, the thief must have trod very lightly for you not to have heard him, as your room is so near. But as you were out, and all the other fellows too, he had the coast clear, you know." "What is your idea about the whole thing, Saurin?" asked Gould; "you are a sharp chap." "Oh, I don't know," said Saurin. "I should not be very much surprised if the money turned up, and there proved to have been no robbery at all." "What on earth do you mean?" "The chances are I am wrong, no doubt, but it is possible. Crawley is a very careless fellow, you know, about money matters." "But how could he have made a mistake, when he counted out the money such a short time before?" asked one of the group. "I was present at the meeting, and you should have seen his surprise when he took up the purse." "Oh, I dare say it is all as you think," said Saurin. "I only know that if I had charge of money I should always be in a muddle. I never know anything about my own, and it is little enough to calculate; if I had to keep it separate from that of other people I should always be bothered between the two. But no doubt Crawley is better at business than I am." "I say; he is awfully poor, Crawley is, and tries to make a show as if he were rich," said Gould. "I know he has been dunned by old Tiffin lately, and it is quite possible he may have paid him out of the club money and got confused, eh? Of course, what I say is strictly between ourselves." CHAPTER SIXTEEN. AN ACCIDENT. "It is no business of mine," said Saurin, turning on his heel. "But if any fellow likes to get up a subscription to make good Crawley's loss, real or imaginary, I'll subscribe." And he sauntered off, whistling carelessly. Edwards had already detached himself from the group, feeling that he must be alone to think upon the tremendous and horrible revelation which had just dawned upon his mind. As Saurin passed him he hissed in his ear the one word "Fool!" And there was such an evil look of mingled rage and fear on his face as the human countenance is seldom deformed by. But Edwards met it without quailing, and there was nothing but aversion in the glance he gave him back. The scales had fallen from his eyes, and his infatuation was dissipated. Never again was he to listen greedily to Saurin's words, and think them wiser than any others. Never more would he admire and applaud him; build castles in the air, forming wild projects for the future, in his company, or associate willingly with him. They exchanged no other word, and Saurin went his way, strolling in a leisurely manner till he was out of sight; and then quickening his pace he took the direction of Slam's yard. At the rate he was walking he soon got there, and going round to the well-known back-door, he knocked. It was not long before he saw an eye reconnoitring him through a crack. "Come, do not keep me waiting here all day while you are squinting through that hole!" he cried with a savage oath. "Let me in." Josiah Slam said apologetically that he wanted to make sure who it was, and admitted him. "Have you got the money, master?" he asked. "I have got four pounds, and that is all we can raise. It is as much as we have had in cash, and if you will give up that memorandum for it I will pay it you." "Nonsense! it's for five pund, I tell yer, and five pund I will have." "No you won't; I cannot get it. So if you won't take the four, let me out. You may do your worst." "Come, say four ten." "You fool, don't you see I am in earnest!" cried Saurin, his suppressed rage bursting out. "Why, I would cut your dirty throat if--" He restrained himself and said, "Fetch the paper if you mean to; I cannot breathe the same air as a man who has threatened me, and I won't stand bargaining here a minute longer." Josiah Slam knew when he had got his victim in a corner, and desperate to biting pitch; so without another word he fetched the I O U and gave it to Saurin, who simultaneously handed him _two sovereigns and four half-sovereigns_. The fellow took it with a chuckle, for he had never had the slightest intention of getting himself into trouble, which he assuredly would by attempting to make any use of that bit of paper. Call upon Dr Jolliffe indeed, to get a couple of school-boys, whom he had fleeced, into a shindy! Not worth the trouble for him, indeed. But it occurred to him that the threat might bring cash, and it had. "Won't yer come in and have something?" "Let me out!" "Well, if you must go, here you are. Good-bye, young gent, and better luck next time. And if when yer goes racing, yer wants--" Saurin was out of hearing. "Bless 'em," continued Mr Slam, junior, "I should like to know a few more like them two young gents a good bit richer. Well, they are about somewhere, if one could but light on 'em." Saurin did not return to Weston at once, but walked as fast as he could put foot to ground along the lanes and the highroad, trying by physical exertion to numb thought, and he partly succeeded, now and then, for a short time, but black care soon caught him up again, and brooded over his shoulder. A voice which did not seem to emanate from his own brain kept repeating, "What you have done can never be undone; never, never. Not if you live to be a hundred; not for all eternity." "It can, it shall," he replied. "Only let me escape suspicion, and I will make it up over and over again." "That would not make what has happened, not to have happened." "It is only one act." "Self-deceiver, you have been growing to it for years, your corruption has been gradual, and this is the natural result. You will go on now; each time it will come easier to you, until you grow to think nothing of it. Read your future--outcast, jail-bird." "No, no; I will lead a new life, work hard, avoid bad company." "Avoid bad company! I like that! What company can be worse than your own _now_?" "I will _not_ sink deeper; no one knows." "You forget; one does know, others _may_ know, _will_ know." "I could not bear that; I would destroy myself and escape the shame." "Destroy yourself indeed! I defy you; you cannot do it. You may kill yourself; it is not at all unlikely; but that is not destruction, but only the commission of another crime." This inward voice became so real to him that he thought he must be possessed or else going mad. Suppose it were the latter, and he let the truth out in his delirium! He determined to live by rule, to study hard, to be conciliatory, not to draw observation on himself. And to begin with, he must be getting back to Weston; it would never do to be late, and risk questioning. The first time he had an opportunity of speaking to Edwards alone he said, "I have seen that man as I promised, and there is nothing to fear from him. I have secured his silence." "At what a price!" sighed Edwards. "Look here," murmured Saurin, turning on him fiercely; "if it is as you think, you take advantage of it, which is just as bad. We are in the same boat, and must sink or swim together. What is done cannot be undone; don't be a fool. If your weakness excites suspicion it will be ruin to both of us." "I know, I know," said Edwards, turning away with loathing. They hated the sight of one another now, these two inseparables. What revolted Edwards most of all was the other's insinuation about Crawley. It was all of a piece with his conduct when Buller was accused of that poaching business, and showed his true character. Days went by and they never spoke to one another of the shameful secret they shared, and indeed rarely on any other subject. They would have avoided all association if it had not been for the fear of exciting suspicion. They were more attentive to their studies, and at the same time took a more prominent part in the school games than either had done for a long time: Edwards, because it was his natural bent to do so when freed from other influences; and Saurin, partly from prudence, partly because he was making a struggle to escape from the net which he felt that evil habits had thrown around him. He was like one who has been walking in a fog along the brink of a precipice, and discovers his position by setting a foot on the very edge and nearly falling over. He shrank from the abyss which he now saw yawning for him. At the same time he exerted himself to become popular, and since he was no longer anxious to thrust himself perpetually into the foremost place, he was not without success. "What a much better fellow Saurin is now he has given up going to that Slam's yard!" said one of his intimates, and his hearers acquiesced. He had never repeated that abominable hint about the possibility of Crawley's not having lost the money at all; but Gould had taken up the idea, and the gossip had spread, as such ill-natured talk about any one who is popular or in a higher position than others, is sure to do. Very few, if any, really believed that there was a grain of truth in the notion, but some thought it clever to talk as if they did, just to be different from the majority. Others might jump to a conclusion, swallowing all that the popular idol chose to tell them, but they withheld their judgment. Unluckily these rumours reached Crawley's ears; some friendly ass "thought he ought to know," as is always the case when anything unpleasant is said, and it fretted and annoyed him exceedingly. It also had the effect of annulling a movement which was being set on foot to make up the missing money by subscription, the notion of which emanated curiously enough from the same source as the scandal. Saurin had thrown out the hint as a sneer, not a suggestion, but it was taken up by some honest lad in the latter sense. It had been submitted to the masters, who not only approved but were anxious to head the subscription, and the whole thing could have been done at once without anyone feeling it. But Crawley called a special meeting, and the pupil- room was crammed to overflowing this time to hear what he had to say, which was this: "I have asked you to come for a personal and not a public reason. I am told that it is proposed to raise a subscription to make up the four pounds twelve the fund has been robbed of. Now, though I was perhaps not careful enough, I could hardly expect my keys to be taken out of a coat and the box opened during a short absence, and so I should have been very glad not to have to bear this loss, for which, of course, I am solely responsible, alone. But some kind friends (Gould, I believe, started the idea) are pleased to say that I have robbed myself; that is, I have spent the money intrusted to me and invented the story of a robbery." ("Oh! oh! shame! shame!") "Well, yes, I think it was rather a shame, and I am glad you are indignant about it. But the accusation having been once made, of course I cannot accept the kind suggestion to make the loss good." There was a great hubbub and loud protestations, but Crawley was firm. His honour was at stake, he said, and he must repay the money himself; then his traducers at all events could not say that he had profited by holding the office of treasurer. Those who had indulged in idle innuendoes were heartily ashamed and sorry, and Gould for a short time was the most unpopular boy in the school. Crawley cut him dead. The day following this special meeting was Saturday, exactly one week after the robbery, and the day appointed for the football match between the houses of Head-master and Cookson. I fear that a detailed account of this match would hardly interest you, for this reason. The Head- master, whose scholarship and capacity worked up Weston to that state of prosperity which it has maintained ever since, was an Etonian, and the games instituted under his auspices were played according to Eton rules. Dr Jolliffe had also been educated at the same school, and thought everything connected with it almost sacred. So it happened that the Rugby game of hand-and-football had never supplanted the older English pastime, which it has now become so much the fashion to despise, and which, indeed, if it were not for the Eton clubs at Oxford, Cambridge, and elsewhere, might disappear as the national rats did before the Hanoverian. The Westonians then used round, not oblong footballs; their object was to work the ball between the goal-posts, not over a bar at the top of them; and it was unlawful to touch it with the hands unless caught in the air, and then only for a drop-kick. I do not advocate one game more than the other; both to my thinking are excellent, and I have no sympathy with those who would suppress every pastime which is fraught with some roughness and danger. The tendency of civilisation is naturally towards softness, effeminacy, and a dread of pain or discomfort; and these evils are far more serious than bruises, sprains, broken collar-bones, or even occasionally a more calamitous accident. However, the chances are that my reader is all in favour of the Rugby game, and would therefore follow the changes and chances of the present match with but little interest. It was exciting enough, however, to those who were engaged in it, for Cookson's made a better fight of it than their opponents expected. They had been practising with great pains, and their team worked well together and backed each other up excellently. So that, quite early in the match, the ball having been some time at their end, and they acting solely on the defensive, Jolliffe's thought they were going to carry all before them and got a little rash and careless; those who should have kept back to guard their own end pressing too far forwards, when Edwards, who was fleet of foot and really good at seizing chances, got a clear kick at the ball which sent it over the heads of the attackers into the middle of the field, and, getting through to it again, began dribbling it towards the hostile goal with a series of short kicks, having a start of the field, who, seeing their error, were now racing back to their own end. The goal- keeper dashed out and met Edwards in full career, both kicking the ball at the same time; but another on the Cookson side, who had been keeping close in view of such a contingency, got a fair chance at the ball, which slipped sideways from the two, and sent it sheer between the posts, scoring a goal for Cookson's. The success of such a simple manoeuvre was equivalent to a "fools' mate" at chess, and was a lesson to Jolliffe's never to despise their enemy. They were not to be caught napping again, however, and, by dint of steady, persistent, concentrated play, they too got a goal and equalised matters. Then, after a considerable period, during which the advantages fluctuated, they obtained a rooge. If, in the old game, the ball is kicked behind the goal-posts but not between them, there arises a struggle between the contending sides to touch it with the hand. If one of the defenders, those behind whose goal the ball has passed, does so first, nothing has happened, and the ball is kicked off again for renewal of the game. But should one of the opposite side so touch it, a rooge is gained. The rooge is formed close in front of the defenders' goal, they being clustered in a semicircle with their backs to it, and with a big and heavy member of the team for the central pillar, who plants his heel firmly in the ground, the ball being placed against his foot. The opposite side complete the circle, leaving an opening for one of their number to rush in and get a good kick at the ball--they instantly closing upon him and endeavouring to force the whole surging, struggling mass bodily back between the posts, ball and all; if they cannot make an opening they send the ball through alone--the defenders, of course, endeavouring to force the ball out sideways, and either touch it down behind their goal or get it away from their end altogether. One goal counts more than any number of rooges; but when no goal is made at all, or the number of them on each side is equal, the rooges decide the game. Ends were changed, and after a good deal of play without result Cookson's also scored a rooge, and matters were equal again; after which the Jolliffe team, which was the strongest physically, kept the ball entirely in the neighbourhood of the Cookson goals. For the latter had made great exertions, and were tiring fast. The time fixed for leaving off play was now approaching; and if they could only keep matters as they were a little longer they would make a drawn match of it, which would be of itself a triumph, considering that their opponents, with the redoubtable Crawley at their head, were reckoned so much the stronger. "Come, we _must_ get one more rooge," said the Jolliffe captain, "and weak as they are getting we ought to turn it into a goal." And pursuing his determination he dribbled the ball up close to the base line, sent it behind the goal-posts, and rushed forward to touch it down. Edwards ran up to it at the same time to touch it first, and a collision ensued which sent him flying. Near that spot there was a tree with seats round it, and Edwards fell heavily with his side against a corner of this wooden settle. Crawley touched the ball down. "You have given us all our work to get this!" he called out to the other, laughing; and then seeing that Edwards was lying on the ground, he added, "You are not hurt, old fellow, are you? Only blown?" But as the other was not in the position in which any one would lie still a moment to get breath, he went up to him and repeated his question. "I don't know; I--I feel rather queer," was the reply. Crawley stooped, and put his arms round his body to raise him up, but Edwards shrieked out, "Ah! don't; that hurts!" The other players now gathered round, and many offered well-meaning but absurd suggestions. One practical youth ran off, however, to Cookson's house to report what had happened, and then returned with a chair. By the time he got back Edwards had managed to rise, and was sitting on the settle, very faint. They managed to transfer him to the chair, and carried him home in it very gently, and by the time he was laid on his bed, which had been got ready, the doctor arrived. A couple of ribs were broken, he said, after an examination which made poor Edwards groan a good deal; but he did not think there was much more the matter, which words were a great comfort to Crawley, who began to fear that he might have been the cause of the boy's death. He was quite sufficiently sorry and vexed as it was, and would have liked to nurse him if he had been allowed. It was just as well for his reading that they were not in the same house, for he spent all the hours that he was out of school, and not necessarily in his own tutor's, by Edwards' bedside. You cannot fall with your side against a sharp angle heavily enough to break a couple of ribs without feeling it afterwards, I can tell you, so you had better not try, and Edwards suffered a good deal from pain and difficulty of breathing for a few days, and when the inflammation was got down, and he felt more easy, he was kept back by a great depression of spirits. "One would say that the boy had something on his mind!" said the doctor to Mr Cookson, "but that is impossible. At his age we possess no minds worth speaking about to have anything upon;" and so he lost the scent after hitting it off to go on the trail of a witticism, which after all was not very brilliant. Edwards was delirious one night, and astonished the housekeeper, a motherly dame who sat up with him, by his talk on the occasion. "Look here!" he said; and thinking he wanted drink or something she got out of her chair and leaned over him; "let us have five shillings on the black this time; it has gone red four times running, and that can't go on, can it?" "Certainly not," said Mrs Blobbs, wondering whatever the boy's distracted fancy was running on. "Don't do it! Don't do it!" he then cried. "I'll have nothing to say to it. Let us stand our chance rather. Not that way; not that way; no, no, that's making bad worse. I won't! I won't!" That was only one night, however, the third after the accident, and he was all right in his head next morning, only so terribly depressed. Saurin never came near him. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. COMPOUNDING A FELONY. "I know what is the matter with you," said Crawley, replacing the pieces on a backgammon board at the end of the game. "Do you?" replied Edwards, turning if possible a shade paler, while his heart palpitated under his sore ribs. "Yes," continued the other; "you are worrying because you cannot get on with your reading, and the prospect of examination is getting uncomfortably distinct. I hear from Mr Cookson that you have been mugging lately, just as I have. Well, you will not lose much time, and you will find yourself all the clearer for lying fallow a little. And look here, I am a little more forward than you, and if you will come and stay with us in the holidays I will read with you; I think I could help you a bit. My mother would be very glad to see you. Or if that can't be, I'll come to you. I am sure we could more than make up for any lost time." Edwards was able to sit up now, and Crawley read amusing books, and played games with him whenever he could leave school or pupil-room. "What a kind chap you are!" said Edwards with a broken voice, and with water in his eyes, for he was very weak and nervous; "I--I don't deserve it." "Not?" exclaimed Crawley. "Why, surely I ought to do what I can, when it is my fault that you got hurt. I am most unlucky this term; I get robbed, and am suspected of inventing the story of it to cover my misappropriation of the money; and then I wind up with breaking a fellow's ribs!" "No one thinks for a moment that you were not robbed as you say; I am certain of it!" cried Edwards. "I don't know about that; some of them said they did, and I would give anything to prove that they did me wrong. It will stick in my gizzard a long time, I can tell you." Edwards buried his face in his hands and fairly sobbed. "I can bear it no longer," he cried at last. "You so kind to me and all! I know who robbed you." "You!" exclaimed Crawley, thinking the boy had gone delirious again. "Yes, I," repeated Edwards. "I did not see it done, and he never told me he had done it, but I know he did, and--and, I profited by the money and never said anything." "Come, come, Edwards, you are ill and weak, and exciting yourself too much. We will talk about this another time." "No, no, now; I must speak; it is killing me." And then he rapidly told the whole story; how Saurin and he had gambled and lost, and the peril they had brought themselves into; and how Saurin had gone that fatal Saturday afternoon to try and borrow money of Gould--all he knew, in short. "Saurin!" said Crawley, when he had heard all. "I never thought very much of him, but I had no idea he was so bad as that. But don't you fret, Edwards; you were put in a very queer position, and nobody could say what he would do if he suddenly found it his duty to denounce an intimate friend for a crime which was committed to get out of a scrape in which he himself was implicated. It would be an awful hole to be in! How far have you told me all this in confidence?" "I leave that quite to you. I do not ask to be spared myself, but if you could be cleared and satisfied without Saurin being publicly tried and sent to prison, I should be very grateful." "All right! I think I can manage that. And now, don't you bother yourself; you shall not get into any row, that I promise." "Oh, Crawley, what a good fellow you are!" cried Edwards. "I wish I had got killed, instead of only breaking a couple of ribs!" "And let me in for being tried for manslaughter!" exclaimed Crawley, laughing. "Thank you for nothing, my boy." Crawley made up his mind that night what he would do. The next morning he asked Robarts, Buller, and Smith, _alias_ "Old Algebra," to come to his room when they came out of school at twelve. Then he made the same request of Gould, who looked surprised and flustered. "You will condescend to speak to me at last, then?" he said, sulkily. "I could not suppose that you wished to hold any communication with a defaulter," replied Crawley, "and I am sure I could not trust myself in the company of any fellow who thought me one. I ask you to come to my room now because I have discovered who took the money, and I want to clear myself in your eyes." "All right! I will come if you wish it." "Thank you very much." Having thus arranged for his court of inquiry, the next thing was to secure the attendance of the accused. He found Saurin talking to a knot of boys, and asked if he could speak to him privately for a moment. "Well, what is up?" Saurin asked. "You look as grave as a mute at a funeral." "Yes," said Crawley, "what I have to say is rather grave. It is about that four pounds twelve shillings you took out of my box." "It's a lie!" cried Saurin, turning pale as death. "And yet the evidence against you is very clear," said Crawley quietly. "Do you know a man named Josiah Slam, a son of the fellow who lives near here? Come, I do not wish to prosecute you, unless you force me; I want to give you a chance. Robarts, Buller, Smith, and Gould are coming to my room at twelve o'clock to-day, and I mean to take their advice as to what should be done if you will come there too, and meet them." "And if I refuse?" said Saurin. "In that case I shall go to Dr Jolliffe, and put the matter in _his_ hands," replied Crawley. "Well, I do not mind coming to hear what cock-and-bull story you have trumped up," muttered Saurin, turning away. He feared lest an unguarded word should betray him. His anxiety was terrible. What did Crawley know? What was mere conjecture? Of course Edwards had put him on the track; but had he done so distinctly, or had this suspicion been aroused by his wandering talk when delirious? Everything might depend on his exercising calm judgment just now, but his head was in a whirl and he could not collect his wits. Should he make a bolt? Oh, no! that would be confessing himself guilty. Should he defy Crawley? That would bring about a trial, in which he might be found guilty. It seemed safest to go to Crawley's room at twelve and hear what he had to say. So he went. Robarts and Gould sat on the two chairs with which the room was supplied, Buller perched himself on the table, Smith on a box--all full of curiosity and expectation. Crawley and Saurin remained standing. The door was closed and a mat placed against it, to prevent any sudden entry without warning. "I am not going to beat about the bush," said Crawley. "I accuse Saurin there of having come to this house, one Saturday when we were all out; of having gone into my room, taken my keys out of the pocket of a coat lying there, opened the cricket and football japanned box, and abstracted four pounds twelve shillings from a purse inside it. Then I assert that he put the keys back in the coat-pocket, having first locked the box and put it back in its place, and ran back to his tutor's house, where he changed and went out to play at football. The motive of this theft was that he had been gambling at Slam's yard, lost all the money he had or could raise; went on playing on credit, lost again, and was threatened with exposure unless he paid up. He had meant to borrow the money he wanted of you, Gould, and came to the house with that intention. But as you were not in, he got it the other way." "It is all a pack of lies!" cried Saurin. "At least about robbing, I mean; for it is true that I lost money playing roulette, and that I meant to borrow of Gould, only I squared matters with the man without." "What day did you come to apply to me for that loan?" asked Gould. "I don't know exactly; it was not on a Saturday I am not sure that I came at all," replied Saurin, who could not for the life of him help stammering. "It's all lies; though appearances might be got up against me." "They certainly are so already," said Crawley, "or I should not have accused you. Of course, if you can prove your innocence, or even if you are convinced that no one can prove your guilt, you will prefer to stand a trial. Otherwise you might prefer to pay back the money and leave Weston quietly. What do you say?" he added, turning to the others. "Would it not be best for the credit of the school?" "Yes, yes," said Robarts; "let us wash our dirty linen at home." "But how am I to leave?" asked Saurin with a groan. "I don't know; tell your guardian the truth if you like, you must manage that. Only, if you come back next term I shall lay the whole matter before the head-master. And if you leave, and the money does not come, I shall give information to the police." "That's fair enough," said Buller; "take the chance, Saurin, if you are not a fool." And the others assented. Not one of them had any doubt as to Saurin's guilt: his confusion and equivocation condemned him. "What a cool fish you were to suggest that Crawley might have spent the money himself!" said Gould. "You regularly humbugged me." "You are assuming a good deal, I think," said Saurin bitterly; "making yourselves accusers, juries, judges, executioners, and all. And I am very much in your power, for if this came to a trial, though I should certainly be found innocent of robbery, yet I cannot deny the gambling and having gone to Slam's yard, and I should be expelled for that. So I suppose I had better agree to your terms. I will not come back, and-- what sum did you say you demand as the price of your silence? Four pounds ten, or twelve, I think; you shall have it." And turning on his heel with an attempt at swagger which was not very successful, Saurin went out, kicking the mat aside, and banging the door after him. Of course Edwards had betrayed him, he said to himself; it was not for nothing that Crawley had been constantly with him since his accident. He longed to go to Edwards' room and upbraid him with his treachery, but he durst not trust himself. He was not out of the wood yet; the other three could be trusted, but Gould _must_ tattle, and if the story got abroad and reached one of the master's ears, it would no longer be in Crawley's power to hush it up. And then Edwards almost always had some one with him; but if not, and he saw him alone, could he keep his hands off his throat? From the throbbing of his temples when the idea occurred to him he thought it doubtful. No, he must not see him. "How on earth did you find it out?" cried the others to Crawley when Saurin's footstep died away on the staircase. "I have promised not to name my witnesses unless it is necessary to call them forward," replied Crawley. "I am very much obliged to you for coming here, and I feel that it is awfully bad not to take you into full confidence and give up names. But you see I have passed my word and cannot help myself. There's one thing I can tell you, Buller. Saurin was the poacher for whose moonlight excursion you were taken up." "By Jove!" exclaimed Buller. "Well, I should have imagined that he might have done that, but not such a dirty business as this." "I suppose he felt himself up a regular tree, poor beggar!" said Robarts. "Well, Gould," said Crawley, "I hope that your doubts as to my story of having been robbed are set at rest." "I don't know that I ever had any," replied Gould rather sullenly; "only when a thing like that happens, and nothing can be found out, one puts it in every possible light. Saurin said you were a careless fellow about money matters, and might have mixed up the club money with your own and paid it away without knowing, and then thought you had been robbed. Of course one sees now why he put the idea about; but at the time it looked just possible, and fellows discussed it, I amongst them." "Well, it was not pleasant for me, as you may easily understand," said Crawley. "However, that is all over, and we will say nothing more about it. And now, of course we will all keep our council about this business for some time. It would be breaking faith with Saurin if we let a word escape before he has left the school; because, if the doctor heard of it, he would insist on expelling him at any rate." "Yes; and we had better hold our tongues for our own sakes," observed Robarts. "My father's a lawyer, and I have heard him talk about something of the same kind. And I have a strong idea that we have just committed a crime, as that chap in the French play talked prose without knowing it." "What do you mean?" "Just this, that to make terms with a thief, by which you agree not to prosecute him, is a legal offence called `compounding a felony.'" This notion of Robarts, whether right or wrong, had the useful effect of sealing Gould's lips for some time to come. It only wanted a week to the holidays, so the struggle was not so very prolonged. Crawley went to see Edwards directly the council-board broke up, and found him nervous and depressed. "Perhaps I had no right to speak," he said. "It was not for me to tell. I wouldn't; only you thought yourself under suspicion, and you have been so good to me." Well, Crawley could not but thank him and tell him he was quite right; but he was not able for the life of him to say so in very cordial tones. "Look here!" persisted Edwards, noticing this, "tell me honestly; if you had been situated like me, would you have told of him?" "Not to save my life!" blurted out Crawley; "I mean," he added hastily, "I fear that I should not have had the moral courage." The week passed, and Weston School once more broke up. What story Saurin told to Sir Richard to induce him to take his name off the boards quietly I do not know, but it had the desired effect; and when the boys reassembled for the summer term Saurin's place was known no longer amongst them. The scandal about him soon began to leak out, and the story ran that but for Crawley's extreme generosity towards him he would have now been in penal servitude at Portland. Stubbs, too, went away that Easter vacation, taking Topper with him, and the pair went out to China together, Stubbs having lucrative employment in that country. Crawley returned, but that was his last term, and soon afterwards he succeeded in getting into Woolwich. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. EPILOGUE. A young man stood on the platform of the South-Western Railway pointing out his luggage to a porter. There was a good deal of it, and every package had _Serapis_ painted upon it. _Serapis_, however, was not the name of that young man; that was inscribed on another part of the trunk, and ran, "Vincent Crawley, RA." _Serapis_ indicated the ship into whose hold all these things were to go. They had other marks, for some were to go to the bottom--_absit omen_!--the bottom of the hold, I mean, not of the sea, and were to remain there till the end of the voyage. But one trunk was to lie atop, for it contained light clothing to be worn on entering the Red Sea. Minute were the printed directions about these matters which had been sent him directly he got his route. It is the fashion to cry out against red tape, but red tape is a first-rate thing if it only ties up the bundles properly. There is nothing like order, method--routine in short. By following it too closely on exceptional occasions absurd blunders may now and then be committed; but think of the utter confusion that would prevail every hour for the want of it. With a cold March wind blowing how should a young fellow who had never been out of his own country know that in a few days it would be so hot that his present clothes would be unbearable? Or how should he understand the way to meet the difficulty if he did know it? I am all for rules and regulations, and down with the grumblers. Mrs Crawley and the girls agreed with me, for the official directions saved them a world of trouble. They wanted to go down to Portsmouth in a body and see him off, but he begged them not. "I had sooner say good-bye here, Mother," he said, "if you don't mind. There's a detachment, and I shall have my men to look after, and if I am with you I shall be bothered. And, well, you know, parting is a melancholy sort of business, and it is better to get it over in private, don't you think?" Mrs Crawley saw wisdom in her son's words, and yielded with a sigh, for she yearned to see the very last of him. Ah! we do not half value the love of our mothers until we miss it, and the opportunity for making any return is gone for ever. It seems such a matter of course, like the sun shining, which no one troubles to be grateful for. But if the sun _went out_. Well, it was a painful business--a good deal worse than a visit to the dentist's--that morning's breakfast, with the table crowded with his favourite dainties, which he could not swallow. And then the final parting, when all the luggage was piled on the cab. It was a relief when it was over, and he found himself alone and trying to whistle. Even now, as he stowed the smaller articles in the carriage, he had a great lump in his throat. The guard began shutting the doors, so he got in, and as he had fellow- passengers it was necessary to look indifferent, and as if he were accustomed to long journeys. The train moved out of the station and he found several things to distract his thoughts. Presently on the right they passed the Wimbledon Lawn-tennis Grounds, and he thought of a wonderful rally he had seen there between Renshaw and Lawson. Then further on they came to Sandown on the left, where a steeple-chase was in progress. The horses were approaching the water jump, and the travellers put down their newspapers and crowded to the window. "Something in Tom Cannon's colours leading; he's over. That thing of Lord Marcus is pulling hard. By Jove he is down! No, he has picked him up again. Well ridden, sir!" "Who is it up?" "Why, Beresford himself. He will win, too, I think. Oh, hang it, I wish they would stop the train a moment!" Everybody laughed at this, though it was provoking not to see them over the next fence; but the engine gave a derisive scream, and away they rushed to Farnborough. "There's Aldershot, and the Long Valley, and that Cocked Hat Wood. British generals would beat creation if they might only let their left rest on Cocked Hat Wood." They were all army men in the carriage, and the conversation never flagged now it had been started. "Are you going by the _Serapis_?" asked a gentleman sitting opposite Crawley, seeing _cabin_ painted on his busby case in the net overhead. "Yes," replied Crawley. And then learning that he was bound for India the other inquired the presidency and the station, and it so happened that he had left that district only the year before, and was now settled in Hampshire, having been superannuated, at which he grumbled much, and indeed he was a hale young-looking man to be laid on the shelf. And so the time sped rapidly till they reached Portsmouth harbour, where a conspicuous white vessel, which was pointed out to Crawley as the _Serapis_, lay moored to a quay. Then he superintended the loading of his luggage in a cart, and, taking a cab, accompanied it through the dock-yard gates to a shed, where he saw it deposited as per regulation. Then he went to the "George," where he had secured a bed, and on entering the coffee-room heard his name uttered in a tone of pleased surprise: "Crawley!" "What, Buller! How are you, old fellow?" "All right. Are you going out in the _Serapis_?" "Yes; and you?" "Yes." "That is jolly. What regiment are you in?" "First Battalion Blankshire. Do you know I got into Sandhurst direct the first time I went up!" "Of course you did; you would be sure to do anything you really meant; I always said so. I must go and report myself now and see about my detachment, for there are some men going out with me; but we shall meet at dinner." They dined together at a small table by themselves, and had a long talk afterwards about the old Weston fellows, of whom Buller had recent information through Penryhn, who lived near his people at home. "I know about Robarts," said Crawley; "he is in the Oxford eleven; but there is your chum Penryhn, what is he doing?" "Oh, he is in a government office in Somerset House. Not a large income, but safe, and rounded off with a pension. Better than our line, so far as money goes anyhow." "I suppose so; but I should not like office work. And Smith, Old Algebra, have you heard of him?" "Yes, he is mathematical master at a big school." "And Gould?" "Why, don't you know? It was in all the papers. Gould's father smashed and died suddenly; did not leave his family a penny. Some friends got Lionel Gould a clerkship in some counting-house; his sister Clarissa, your old friend, you know, supports herself and her mother by the stage." "Dear, dear, I am sorry for them; it must be precious hard when they were used to such luxury. And that chap Edwards, have you ever heard of him?" "Oh, yes, he is at Cambridge, and intends to take orders when he gets his degree." "I hope it will keep him out of mischief; I always fancied he might come to grief, he was such a weak beggar." "Yes, he was, and is still, I hear. But he has had the luck to get into the clutches of a man who keeps him straight; a fellow as good as gold, and earnest enough to make all the Edwardses in the country believe in him." "Lucky for Edwards; if he marries a stiffish sort of wife with the same opinions he will live and die a saint. Saurin would have made the other thing of him. By the by, have you ever heard anything of that fellow?" "Not lately. He had a row with his uncle and guardian, and went to Australia, I believe; but I have heard nothing of him for years." They chatted late into the night, and when Crawley went to bed his heart smote him to remember how little he had thought of his mother. The _Serapis_ was to sail on the following day at noon, so when Crawley had seen his gunners safely embarked, and the two friends had reported themselves at the little office outside the saloon, had traversed that lofty palatial apartment (how different from the cabins of the old troop-ships!), carefully removing their caps as a placard directed them, had made acquaintance with the little cabin which they were to share together, and had stowed away their minor properties within it, they took a last turn on shore, principally to get one or two little comforts which they had forgotten till then. As they passed a low public-house on their way back to the ship, a remarkably smart corporal of marines came out of it, and since they were in uniform, saluted. But as he did so, he suddenly turned his head away and quickened his pace. Crawley and Buller looked at one another. "Did you recognise him?" "Yes." It was Saurin. THE END. 
54195	----	book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.) +-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ GRIT OR The Young Boatman of Pine Point BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "THE YOUNG ACROBAT," "THE STORE BOY," "THE TIN BOX," "TOM TRACY," "SAM'S CHANCE," "ONLY AN IRISH BOY," "JOE'S LUCK," AND FORTY-NINE OTHER RATTLING GOOD STORIES OF ADVENTURE PUBLISHED IN THE MEDAL LIBRARY NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS GRIT. CHAPTER I. GRIT. "Grit!" "Well, mother, what is it?" The speaker was a sturdy, thick-set boy of fifteen, rather short for his age, but strongly made. His eyes were clear and bright, his expression was pleasant, and his face attractive, but even a superficial observer could read in it unusual firmness and strength of will. He was evidently a boy whom it would not be easy to subdue or frighten. He was sure to make his way in the world, and maintain his rights against all aggression. It was the general recognition of this trait which had led to the nickname, "Grit," by which he was generally known. His real name was Harry Morris, but even his mother had fallen into the habit of calling him Grit, and his own name actually sounded strange to him. "Well, mother, what is it?" he asked again, as his mother continued to look at him in silence, with an expression of trouble on her face. "I had a letter this morning, Grit." "From--_him_?" "Yes, from your father." "Don't call him my father!" said the boy hastily. "He isn't my father." "He is your stepfather--and my husband," said Mrs. Morris soberly. "Yes, worse luck for you! Well, what does he say?" "He's coming home." An expression of dismay quickly gathered on the boy's face. "How can that be? His term isn't out." "It is shortened by good behavior, and so he comes out four months before his sentence would have expired." "I wouldn't have him here, mother," said Grit earnestly. "He will only worry and trouble you. We are getting on comfortably now without him." "Yes, thanks to my good, industrious boy." "Oh, don't talk about that," said Grit, who always felt embarrassed when openly praised. "But it is true, Grit. But for the money you make in your boat, I might have to go to the poorhouse." "You will never go while I live, mother," said Grit quickly. "No, Grit, I feel sure of that. It seems wicked to rejoice in your father's misfortune and disgrace----" "Not my father," interrupted Grit. "Mr. Brandon, then. As I was saying, it seems wicked to feel relieved by his imprisonment, but I can't help it." "Why should you try to help it? He has made you a bad husband, and only brought you unhappiness. How did you ever come to marry him, mother?" "I did it for the best, as I thought, Grit. I was left a widow when you were four years old. I had this cottage, to be sure, and about two thousand dollars, but the interest of that sum at six per cent. only amounted to a hundred and twenty dollars, and I was not brave and self-reliant like some, so when Mr. Brandon asked me to marry him, I did so, thinking that he would give us a good home, be a father to you, and save us from all pecuniary care or anxiety." "You were pretty soon undeceived, mother." "No, not soon. Your stepfather had a good mercantile position in Boston, and we occupied a comfortable cottage in Newton. For some years all went well, but then I began to see a change for the worse in him. He became fond of drink, was no longer attentive to business, picked up bad associates, and eventually lost his position. This was when you were ten years of age. Then he took possession of my little capital and went into business for himself. But his old habits clung to him, and of course there was small chance of success. He kept up for about a year, however, and then he failed, and the creditors took everything----" "Except this house, mother." "Yes, this house was fortunately settled upon me, so that my husband could not get hold of it. When we were turned out of our home in Newton, it proved a welcome refuge for us. It was small, plain, humble, but still it gave us a home." "It has been a happy home, mother--that is, ever since Mr. Brandon left us." "Yes; we have lived plainly, but I have had you, and you have always been a comfort to me. You were always a good boy, Grit." "I'm not quite an angel, mother. Ask Phil Courtney what he thinks about it," said Grit, smiling. "He is a bad, disagreeable boy," said Mrs. Brandon warmly. "So I think, mother; but Phil, on the other hand, thinks I am a low, vulgar boy, unworthy of associating with him." "I don't want you to associate with him, Grit." "I don't care to, mother; but we are getting away from the subject. How did Mr. Brandon behave after you moved here?" "He did nothing to earn money, but managed to obtain liquor at the tavern, and sometimes went off for three or four days or a week, leaving me in ignorance of his whereabouts. At last he did not come back at all, and I heard that he had been arrested for forgery, and was on trial. The trial was quickly over, and he was sentenced to imprisonment for a term of years. I saw him before he was carried to prison, but he treated me so rudely that I have not felt it my duty to visit him since. Gradually I resumed your father's name, and I have been known as Mrs. Morris, though my legal name of course is Brandon." "It is a pity you ever took the name, mother," said Grit hastily. "I agree with you, Grit; but I cannot undo the past." "The court ought to grant you a divorce from such a man." "Perhaps I might obtain one, but it would cost money, and we have no money to spend on such things." "If you had one," said Grit thoughtfully, "Mr. Brandon would no longer have any claim upon you." "That is true." "You said you had a letter from him. When did you receive it?" "While you were out, this morning. Mr. Wheeler saw it in the post-office, and brought it along, thinking we might not have occasion to call." "May I see the letter, mother?" "Certainly, Grit; I have no secrets from you." Mrs. Morris--to call her by the name she preferred--took from the pocket of her dress a letter in a yellow envelope, which, however, was directed in a neat, clerky hand, for Mr. Brandon had been carefully prepared for mercantile life, and had once been a bookkeeper, and wrote a handsome, flowing hand. "Here it is, Grit." Grit opened the letter, and read as follows: "'---- PRISON, May 10. "MY AFFECTIONATE WIFE: I have no doubt you will be overjoyed to hear that my long imprisonment is nearly over, and that on the fifteenth, probably, I shall be set free, and can leave these cursed walls behind me. Of course, I shall lose no time in seeking out my loving wife, who has not deigned for years to remember that she has a husband. You might at least have called now and then, to show some interest in me.' "Why should you?" ejaculated Grit indignantly. "He has only illtreated you, spent your money, and made you unhappy." "You think, then, I was right in staying away, Grit?" asked his mother. "Certainly I do. You don't pretend to love him?" "No, I only married him at his urgent request, thinking I was doing what was best for you. It was a bad day's work for me. I could have got along much better alone." "Of course you could, mother. Well, I will read the rest: "'However, you are my wife still, and owe me some reparation for your long neglect. I shall come to Pine Point as soon as I can, and it is hardly necessary to remind you that I shall be out of money, and shall want you to stir round and get me some, as I shall want to buy some clothes and other things." "How does he think you are to supply him with money, when he has left you to take care of yourself all these years?" again burst from Grit's indignant lips. He read on: "'How is the cub? Is he as independent and saucy as ever? I am afraid you have allowed him to do as he pleases. He needs a man's hand to hold him in check and train him up properly.'" "Heaven help you if Mr. Brandon is to have the training of you, Grit!" exclaimed his mother. "He'll have a tough job if he tries it!" said Grit. "He'll find me rather larger and stronger than when he went to prison." "Don't get into any conflict with him, Grit," said his mother, a new alarm seizing her. "I won't if I can help it, mother; but I don't mean to have him impose upon me." CHAPTER II. THE YOUNG BOATMAN. Pine Point was situated on the Kennebec River, and from its height overlooked it, so that a person standing on its crest could scan the river for a considerable distance up and down. There was a small grove of pine-trees at a little distance, and this had given the point its name. A hundred feet from the brink stood the old-fashioned cottage occupied by Mrs. Morris. It had belonged, in a former generation, to an uncle of hers, who, dying unmarried, had bequeathed it to her. Perhaps half an acre was attached to it. There had been more, but it had been sold off. When Grit and his mother came to Chester to live--it was in this township that Pine Point was situated--she had but little of her two thousand dollars' remaining, and when her husband was called to expiate his offense against the law in prison, there were but ten dollars in the house. Mrs. Morris was fortunate enough to secure a boarder, whose board-money paid nearly all their small household expenses for three years, the remainder being earned by her own skill as a dressmaker; but when the boarder went to California, never to return, Grit was already thirteen years old, and hit upon a way of earning money. On the opposite bank of the Kennebec was the village of Portville, but there was no bridge at that point. So Grit bought a boat for a few dollars, agreeing to pay for it in instalments, and established a private ferry between the two places. His ordinary charge for rowing a passenger across--the distance being half a mile--was ten cents; but if it were a child, or a poor person, he was willing to receive five, and he took parties of four at a reduction. It was an idea of his own, but it paid. Grit himself was rather surprised at the number of persons who availed themselves of his ferry. Sometimes he found at the end of the day that he had received in fares over a dollar, and one Fourth of July, when there was a special celebration in Portville, he actually made three dollars. Of course, he had to work pretty hard for it, but the young boatman's arms were strong, as was shown by his sturdy stroke. Grit was now fifteen, and he could reflect with pride that for two years he had been able to support his mother in a comfortable manner, so that she had wanted for nothing--that is, for nothing that could be classed as a comfort. Luxuries he had not been able to supply, but for them neither he nor his mother cared. They were content with their plain way of living. But if his stepfather were coming home, Grit felt that his income would no longer be adequate to maintain the household. Mr. Brandon ought to increase the family income, but, knowing what he and his mother did of his ways, he built no hope upon that. It looked as if their quiet home happiness was likely to be rudely broken in upon by the threatened invasion. "Well, mother," said Grit, "I must get to work." "You haven't finished your dinner, my son." "Your news has spoiled my appetite, mother. However, I dare say I'll make up for it at supper." "I'll save a piece of meat for you to eat then. You work so hard that you need meat to keep up your strength." "I haven't had to work much this morning, mother, worse luck! I only earned twenty cents. People don't seem inclined to travel to-day." "Never mind, Grit. I've got five dollars in the house." "Save it for a rainy day, mother. The day is only half over, and I may have good luck this afternoon." As Grit left the house with his quick, firm step, Mrs. Morris looked after him with blended affection and pride. "What a good boy he is!" she said to herself. "He is a boy that any mother might be proud of." And so he was. Our young hero was not only a strong, manly boy, but there was something very attractive in his clear eyes and frank smile, browned though his skin was by constant exposure to the sun and wind. He was a general favorite in the town, or, rather, in the two towns, for he was as well known in Portville as he was in Chester. I have said he was a general favorite, but there was one at least who disliked him. This was Phil Courtney, a boy about his own age, the son of an ex-president of the Chester bank, a boy who considered himself of great consequence, and socially far above the young boatman. He lived in a handsome house, and had a good supply of pocket-money, though he was always grumbling about his small allowance. It by no means follows that money makes a boy a snob, but if he has any tendency that way, it is likely to show itself under such circumstances. Now, it happened that Phil had a cousin staying at his house as a visitor, quite a pretty girl, in whose eyes he liked to appear to advantage. As Grit reached the shore, where he had tied his boat, they were seen approaching the same point. "I wonder if Phil is going to favor me with his patronage," thought Grit, as his eyes fell upon them. "Here, you boatman!" called out Phil, in a tone of authority. "We want to go over to Portville." Grit's eyes danced with merriment, as he answered gravely: "I have no objection to your going." The girl laughed merrily, but Phil frowned, for his dignity was wounded by Grit's flippancy. "I am not in the habit of considering whether you have any objection or not," he said haughtily. "Don't be a goose, Phil!" said his cousin. "The boy is in fun." "I would rather he would not make fun of me," said Phil. "I won't, then," said Grit, smiling. "Ahem! you may convey us across," said Phil. "If you please," added the young lady, with a smile. "She is very good-looking, and five times as polite as Phil," thought Grit, fixing his eyes admiringly upon the pretty face of Marion Clarke, as he afterward learned her name to be. "I shall be glad to have you as a passenger," said our hero, but he looked at Marion, not at Phil. "Thank you." "If you've got through with your compliments," said Phil impatiently, "we'd better start." "I am ready," said Grit. "May I help you in?" he asked of Marion. "Yes, thank you." "It is quite unnecessary. I can assist you," said Phil, advancing. But he was too late, for Marion had already availed herself of the young boatman's proffered aid. "Thank you," said Marion again, pleasantly, as she took her seat in the stern. "Why didn't you wait for me?" demanded Phil crossly, as he took his seat beside her. "I didn't want to be always troubling you, cousin Phil," said Marion, with a coquettish glance at Grit, which her cousin did not at all relish. "Don't notice him so much," he said, in a low voice. "He's only a poor boatman." "He is very good-looking, I think," said Marion. Grit's back was turned, but he heard both question and answer, and his cheeks glowed with pleasure at the young lady's speech, though it was answered by a contemptuous sniff from Phil. "I don't admire your taste, Marion," he said. "Hush, he'll hear you," she whispered. "What's his name?" By way of answering, Phil addressed Grit in a condescending tone. "Well, Grit, how is business to-day?" "Rather quiet, thank you." "You see, he earns his living by boating, explained Phil, with the manner of one who was speaking of a very inferior person. "How much have you earned now?" he asked further. "Only twenty cents," answered Grit; "but I suppose," he added, smiling, "I suppose you intend to pay me liberally." "I mean to pay you your regular fare," said Phil, who was not of a liberal disposition. "Thank you; I ask no more." "Do you row across often?" asked Marion. "Sometimes I make eight or ten trips in a day. On the Fourth of July I went fifteen times." "How strong you must be!" "Pooh! I could do more than that," said Phil loftily, unwilling that Grit should be admired for anything. "Oh, I know you're remarkable," said his cousin dryly. Just then the wind, which was unusually strong, took Phil's hat, and it blew off to a considerable distance. "My hat's off!" exclaimed Phil, in excitement. "Row after it, quick. It's a new Panama, and cost ten dollars." CHAPTER III. THE LOST HAT. Grit complied with the request of his passenger, and rowed after Phil's hat. But there was a strong current, and it was not without considerable trouble that he at last secured it. But, alas! the new hat, with its bright ribbon, was well soaked when it was fished out of the water. "It's mean," ejaculated Phil, lifting it with an air of disgust. "Just my luck." "Are you so unlucky, then?" asked his cousin Marion, with a half smile. "I should say so. What do you call this?" "A wet hat." "How am I ever to wear it? It will drip all over my clothes." "I think you had better buy a common one in Portville, and leave this one here to dry." "How am I going round Portville bareheaded?" inquired Phil crossly. "Shall I lend you my hat?" asked Marion. "Wouldn't I look like a fool, going round the streets with a girl's hat on?" "Well, you are the best judge of that," answered Marion demurely. Grit laughed, as the young lady glanced at him with a smile. "What are you laughing at, you boatman?" snarled Phil. "I beg your pardon," said Grit good-naturedly; "I know it must be provoking to have your hat wet. Can I help you in any way? If you will give me the money, and remain in the boat, I will run up to Davis, the hatter's, and get you a new hat." "How can you tell my size?" asked Phil, making no acknowledgment for the offer. "Then I will lend you my hat to go up yourself." Phil's lip curled, as if he considered that there would be contamination in such a plebeian hat. However, as Marion declared it would be the best thing to do, he suppressed his disdain, and, without a word of thanks, put Grit's hat on his head. "Come with me, Marion," he said. "No, Phil; I will remain here with Mr. ----," and she turned inquiringly toward the young boatman. "Grit," he suggested. "Mr. Grit," she said, finishing the sentence. "Just as you like. I admire your taste," said Phil, with a sneer. As he walked away, Marion turned to the young boatman. "Is your name really Grit?" she asked. "No; people call me so." "I can understand why," she answered with a smile. "You look--gritty." "If I do, I hope it isn't anything disagreeable," responded our hero. "Oh, no," said Marion; "quite the contrary. I like to see boys that won't allow themselves to be imposed upon." "I don't generally allow myself to be imposed upon." "What is your real name?" "Harry Morris." "I suppose you and Phil know each other very well?" "We have known each other a long time, but we are not very intimate friends." "I don't think Phil has any intimate friends," said Marion thoughtfully. "He--I don't think he gets on very well with the other boys." "He wants to boss them," said Grit bluntly. "Yes; I expect that is it. He's my cousin, you know." "Is he? I don't think you are much alike." "Is that remark a compliment to me--or him?" asked Marion, laughing. "To you, decidedly." "Well, Phil can be very disagreeable when he sets out to be. I should not want to be that, you know." "You couldn't," said Grit, with an admiring glance. "That's a compliment," said Marion. "But you're mistaken. I can be disagreeable when I set out to be. I expect Phil finds me so sometimes." "I wouldn't." "You know how to flatter as well as to row, Mr. Grit. It's true. I tease Phil awfully sometimes." By this time Phil came back with a new hat on his head, holding Grit's in the tips of his fingers, as if it would contaminate him. He pitched it into Grit's lap, saying shortly: "There's your hat." "Upon my word, Phil, you're polite," said his cousin. "Can't you thank Mr. Grit?" "Mr. Grit!" repeated Phil contemptuously. "Of course I thank him." "You're welcome," answered Grit dryly. "Here's your fare!" said Phil, taking out two dimes, and offering them to the young boatman. "Thank you." "Phil, you ought to pay something extra for the loan of the hat," said Marion, "and the delay." With evident reluctance Phil took a nickel from his vest pocket, and offered it to Grit. "No, thank you!" said Grit, drawing back, "I wouldn't be willing to take anything for that. I've found it very agreeable to wait," and he glanced significantly at Marion. "I suppose I am to consider that another compliment," said the young lady, with a coquettish glance. "What, has he been complimenting you?" asked Phil jealously. "Yes, and it was very agreeable, as I got no compliments from you. Good afternoon, Mr. Grit. I hope you will row us back by and by." "I hope so, too," said the young boatman, bowing. "Look here, Marion," said Phil, as they walked away, "you take altogether too much notice of that fellow." "Why do I? I am sure he is a very nice boy." "He is a common working boy!" snapped Phil. "He lives with his mother in a poor hut upon the bluff, and makes his living by boating." "I am sure that is to his credit." "Oh, yes, I suppose it is. So's a ditch-digger engaged in a creditable employment, but you don't treat him as an equal." "I should be willing to treat Grit as an equal. He is very good-looking, don't you think so, Phil?" "Good-looking! So is a cow good-looking." "I've seen some cows that were very good-looking," answered Marion, with a mischievous smile. "I suppose Grit and you are well acquainted." "Oh, I know him to speak to him," returned Phil loftily. "Of course, I couldn't be intimate with such a boy." "I was thinking," said Marion, "it would be nice to invite him round to the house to play croquet with us." "Invite Grit Morris?" gasped Phil. "Yes, why not?" "A boy like him!" "Why, wouldn't he behave well?" "Oh, I suppose he would, but he isn't in our circle." "Then it's a pity he isn't. He's the most agreeable boy I have met in Chester." "You say that only to provoke me." "No, I don't. I mean it." "I won't invite him," said Phil doggedly. "I am surprised that you should think of such a thing." "Propriety, Miss Marion, propriety!" said the young lady, in a tone of mock dignity, turning up the whites of her eyes. "That's just the way my governess used to talk. It's well I've got so experienced a young gentleman to look after me, and see that I don't stumble into any impropriety." Meanwhile, Grit sat in his boat, waiting for a return passenger, and as he waited he thought of the young lady he had just ferried over. "I can't see how such a fellow as Phil Courtney can have such a nice cousin," he said to himself. "She's very pretty, too! She isn't stuck-up, like him. I hope I shall get the chance of rowing them back." He waited about ten minutes, when he saw a gentleman and a little boy approaching the river. "Are you the ferry-boy?" asked the gentleman. "Yes, sir." "I heard there was a boy who would row me across. I want to go to Chester with my little boy. Can you take us over?" "Yes, sir; I shall be happy to do so." "Are you ready to start?" "Yes, sir, just as soon as you get into the boat." "Come, Willie," said the gentleman, addressing his little boy, "won't you like to ride over in the boat?" "Oh, yes, papa," answered Willie eagerly. "I hope you are well acquainted with rowing, and careful," said Mr. Jackson, for this was his name. "I am rather timid about the water, for I can't swim." "Yes, sir, I am as much at home on the water as on the land. I've been rowing every day for the last three years." The gentleman and his little boy sat down, and Grit bent to his oars. CHAPTER IV. A BOY IN THE WATER. Mr. Jackson was a slender, dark-complexioned man of forty, or thereabouts. He was fashionably dressed, and had the air of one who lives in a city. He had an affable manner, and seemed inclined to be social. "Is this your business, ferrying passengers across the river?" he asked of Grit. "Yes, sir," answered the young boatman. "Does it pay?" was the next inquiry--an important one in the eyes of a city man. "Yes, sir; I make more in this way than I could in any other." "How much, for instance?" "From five to seven dollars. Once--it was Fourth of July week--I made nearly ten dollars." "That is a great deal more than I made at your age," said Mr. Jackson. "You look as if you made more now," said Grit, smiling. "Yes," said the passenger, with an answering smile. "I am afraid I couldn't get along on that sum now." "Do you live in the city?" asked Grit, with a sudden impulse. "Yes, I live in what I regard as the city. I mean New York." "It must be a fine place," said the young boatman thoughtfully. "Yes, it is a fine place, if you have money enough to live handsomely. Did you ever hear of Wall Street?" "Yes, sir." "I am a Wall Street broker. I commenced as a boy in a broker's office. I don't think I was any better off than you at your age--certainly I did not earn so much money." "But you didn't have a mother to take care of, did you, sir?" "No; do you?" "Yes, sir." "You are a good boy to work for your mother. My poor boy has no mother;" and the gentleman looked sad. "What is your name?" "Grit." "Is that your real name?" "No, sir, but everybody calls me so." "For a good reason, probably. Willie, do you like to ride in the boat?" "Yes, papa," answered the little boy, his bright eyes and eager manner showing that he spoke the truth. "Grit," said Mr. Jackson, "I see we are nearly across the river. Unless you are due there at a specified time, you may stay out, and we will row here and there, prolonging our trip. Of course, I will increase your pay." "I shall be very willing, sir," said Grit. "My boat is my own, and my time also, and I have no fixed hours for starting from either side." "Good! Then we can continue our conversation. Is there a good hotel in Chester?" "Quite a good one, sir. They keep summer boarders." "That was the point I wished to inquire about. Willie and I have been staying with friends in Portville, but they are expecting other visitors, and I have a fancy for staying a while on your side of the river--that is, if you live in Chester." "Yes, sir; our cottage is on yonder bluff--Pine Point, it is called." "Then I think I will call at the hotel, and see whether I can obtain satisfactory accommodations." "Are you taking a vacation?" asked Grit, with curiosity. "Yes; the summer is a dull time in Wall Street, and my partner attends to everything. By and by I shall return, and give him a chance to go away." "Do people make a great deal of money in Wall Street?" asked Grit. "Sometimes, and sometimes they lose a great deal. I have known a man who kept his span of horses one summer reduced to accept a small clerkship the next. If a broker does not speculate, he is not so liable to such changes of fortune. What is your real name, since Grit is only a nickname?" "My real name is Harry Morris." "Have you any brothers or sisters?" "No, sir; I am an only child." "Were you born here?" "No, sir; I was born in Boston." "Have you formed any plans for the future? You won't be a boatman all your life, I presume?" "I hope not, sir. It will do well enough for the present, and I am glad to have such a chance of earning a living for my mother and myself; but when I grow up I should like to go to the city, and get into business there." "All the country boys are anxious to seek their fortune in the city. In many cases they would do better to stay at home." "Were you born in the city, sir?" asked Grit shrewdly. "No; I was born in the country." "But you didn't stay there." "No; you have got me there. I suppose it was better for me to go to the city, and perhaps it may be for you; but there is no hurry. You wouldn't have a chance to earn six dollars a week in the city, as you say you do here. Besides, it would cost much more for you and your mother to live." "I suppose so, sir. I am contented to remain where I am at present." "Is your father dead?" "Yes, sir." "It is a great loss. Then your mother is a widow?" "I wish she were," said Grit hastily. "But she must be, if your father is dead," said Mr. Jackson. "No, sir; she married again." "Oh, there is a stepfather, then? Don't you and he get along well together?" "There has been no chance to quarrel for nearly five years." "Why?" "Because he has been in prison." "Excuse me if I have forced upon you a disagreeable topic," said the passenger, in a tone of sympathy. "His term of confinement will expire, and then he can return to you." "That is just what troubles me, sir," said Grit bluntly. "We are expecting him in a day or two, and then our quiet life will be at an end." "Will he make things disagreeable for you?" "Yes, sir." "At least, you will not have to work so hard." "Yes, sir. I shall have to work harder, for I shall have to support him, too." "Won't he be willing to work?" "No, sir, he is very lazy, and if he can live without work, he will." "That is certainly unfortunate." "It is worse than having no father at all," said Grit bluntly. "I don't care to have him remain in prison, if he will only keep away from us, but I should be glad if I could never set eyes upon him again." "Well, my boy, you must bear the trial as well as you can. We all have our trials, and yours comes in the shape of a disagreeable stepfather----" He did not finish the sentence, for there was a startling interruption. Mr. Jackson and Grit had been so much engaged in their conversation that they had not watched the little boy. Willie had amused himself in bending over the side of the boat, and dipping his little fingers in the rippling water. With childish imprudence he leaned too far, and fell head first into the swift stream. A splash told the startled father what had happened. "Good Heaven!" he exclaimed, "my boy is overboard, and I cannot swim." He had scarcely got the words out of his mouth than Grit was in the water, swimming for the spot where the boy went down, now a rod or two distant, for the boat had been borne onward by the impulse of the oars. The young boatman was an expert swimmer. It would naturally have been expected, since so much of his time had been spent on the river. He had often engaged in swimming-matches with his boy companions, and there was no one who could surpass him in speed or endurance. He struck out boldly, and, as Willie rose to the surface for the second time, he seized him by the arm, and, turning, struck out for the boat. The little boy struggled, and this made his task more difficulty but Grit was strong and wary, and, holding Willie in a strong grasp, he soon gained the boat. Mr. Jackson leaned over, and drew the boy, dripping, into its safe refuge. "Climb in, too, Grit!" he said. "No, I shall upset it. If you will row to the shore, I will swim there." "Very well." Mr. Jackson was not wholly a stranger to the use of oars, and the shore was very near. In three minutes the boat touched the bank, and almost at the same time Grit clambered on shore. "You have saved my boy's life," said Mr. Jackson, his voice betraying the strong emotion he felt. "I shall not forget it." "Willie is cold!" said the little boy. "Our house is close by," said Grit. "Let us take him there at once, and mother will take care of him, and dry his clothes." The suggestion was adopted, and Mr. Jackson and his two young companions were soon standing at the door of the plain cottage on the bluff. When his mother admitted them, Grit noticed that she looked disturbed, and he seized the first chance to ask her if anything were the matter. "Your stepfather has come!" she answered. CHAPTER V. THE STEPFATHER. Grit was disagreeably surprised at the news of Mr. Brandon's arrival, and he looked about him in the expectation of seeing his unwelcome figure, in vain. "Where is he, mother?" the boy inquired. "Gone to the tavern," she answered significantly. "Did you give him any money?" "I gave him a dollar," she replied sadly. "It is easy to tell how it will be spent." Grit had no time to inquire further at that time, for he was assisting his mother in necessary attentions to their guests, having hurriedly exchanged his own wet clothes for dry ones. Mr. Jackson seemed very grateful to Mrs. Morris for her attention to Willie. She found an old suit of Grit's, worn by him at the age of eight, and dressed Willie in it, while his own wet suit was being dried. The little boy presented a comical spectacle, the suit being three or four sizes too large for him. "I don't like it," he said. "It is too big." "So it is, Willie," said his father; "but you won't have to wear it long. You would catch your death of cold if you wore your wet clothes. How long will it take to dry his clothes, Mrs. Morris?" "Two or three hours at least," answered the widow. "I have a great mind to go back to Portville, and get a change of garments," said the father. "That would be the best thing, probably." "But I should have to burden you with Willie; for I should need to take Grit with me to ferry me across." "It will be no trouble, sir. I will take good care of him." "Willie, will you stay here while I go after your other clothes?" asked Mr. Jackson. Willie readily consented, especially after Grit had brought him a picture-book to look over. Then he accompanied the father to the river, and they started to go across. While they were gone, Mr. Brandon returned to the cottage. His flushed face and unsteady gait showed that he had been drinking. He lifted the latch, and went in. When he saw Willie sitting in a small chair beside his wife, he gazed at the child in astonishment. "Is that the cub?" he asked doubtfully. "Seems to me he's grown smaller since I saw him." "I ain't a cub," said Willie indignantly. "Oh! yer ain't a cub, hey?" repeated Brandon mockingly. "No, I ain't. My name is Willie Jackson, and my papa lives in New York." "What is the meaning of this, Mrs. Brandon?" asked the inebriate. "Where did you pick up this youngster?" His wife explained in a few words. "I thought it wasn't the cub," said Mr. Brandon indistinctly. "Where is he?" "He has gone to row Mr. Jackson over to Portville." "I say, Mrs. B., does he earn much money that way?" "He earns all the money that supports us," answered his wife coldly. "I must see to that," said Brandon unsteadily. "He must bring me his money every night--do you hear, Mrs. B.?--must bring me his money every night." "To spend for liquor, I suppose?" she responded bitterly. "I'm a gentleman. My money--that is, his money is my money. D'ye understand?" "I understand only too well, Mr. Brandon." "That's all right. I feel tired. Guess I'll go and lie down." To his wife's relief he went up-stairs, and was soon stretched out on the bed in a drunken sleep. "I am glad he is out of the way. I should be ashamed to have Mr. Jackson see him," thought Grit's mother, or Mrs. Brandon, as we must now call her. "Who is that man?" asked Willie anxiously. "His name is Brandon," answered Grit's mother. "He isn't a nice man. I don't like him." Mrs. Brandon said nothing. What could she say? If she had spoken as she felt, she would have been compelled to agree with the boy. Yet this man was her husband, and was likely to be to her a daily source of anxiety and annoyance. "I am afraid Grit and he won't agree," she thought anxiously. "Oh I why did he ever come back? For the last five years we have been happy. We have lived plainly and humbly, but our home has been peaceful. Now, Heaven knows what trouble is in store for us." Half an hour later Mr. Jackson and Grit returned. CHAPTER VI. GRIT'S RECOMPENSE. No time was lost in arraying Willie in clothes more suitable for him. The little boy was glad to lay aside Grit's old suit, which certainly was not very becoming to him. "Are we going now, papa?" asked the little boy. "Yes, Willie; but first I must express to this good lady my great thanks for her kindness." "I have done but little, sir," said Mrs. Brandon; "but that little I was very glad to do." "I am sure of that," said the visitor cordially. "If you remain in the neighborhood, I shall hope to see your little boy again, and yourself, also." "I will come," said Willie promptly. "He answers for himself," said his father, smiling, "and he will keep his promise. Now, Grit," he said, turning to the young boatman, "I will ask you to accompany me to the hotel." "Certainly, sir." When they had passed from the cottage, Mr. Jackson turned to the boy and grasped his hand. "I have not yet expressed to you my obligations," he said, with emotion, "for the great service you have done me--the greatest in the power of any man, or boy." "Don't speak of it, sir," said Grit modestly. "But I must. You have saved the life of my darling boy." "I don't know, sir." "But I do. I cannot swim a stroke, and but for your prompt bravery, he would have drowned before my eyes." Grit could not well contradict this statement, for it was incontestably true. "It was lucky I could swim," he answered. "Yes, it was. It seems providential that I should have had with me so brave a boy, when Willie's life was in peril. It will be something that you will remember with satisfaction to the end of your own life." "Yes, sir, there is no doubt of that," answered Grit sincerely. "I shudder to think what a sad blank my own life would have been if I had lost my dear boy. He is my only child, and for this reason I should have missed him the more. Your brave act is one that I cannot fitly reward----" "I don't need any reward, Mr. Jackson," said Grit hastily. "I am sure you do not. You do not look like a mercenary boy. But, for all that, I owe it to myself to see that so great a favor does not go unacknowledged. My brave boy, accept this wallet and what it contains, not as the payment of a debt, but as the first in the series of my acknowledgments to you." As he spoke, he put into the hand of the young boatman a wallet. "I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Jackson," said Grit, "but I am not sure that I ought to take this." "Then let me decide for you," said the broker, smiling. "I am older, and may be presumed to have more judgment." "It will seem as if I took pay for saving Willie from drowning." "If you did, it would be perfectly proper. But you forget that I have had the use of your boat and your own services for the greater part of the afternoon." "I presume you have paid me more than I ask for such services." "Very likely," answered Mr. Jackson. "In fact, outside of my obligations to you, I have formed a good opinion of a boy who works hard and faithfully to support his mother. I was a poor boy once, and I have not forgotten how to sympathize with those who are beginning the conflict with narrow means. Mind, Grit, I don't condole with you. You have good health and strong hands, and in our favored country there is no reason why, when you reach my age, you may not be equally well off." "I wish I might--for mother's sake," said Grit, his face lighting up with hope. "I shall see more of you while I am here, but I may as well say now that I mean to bear you in mind, and wish you to come to me, either here or in the city, when you stand in need of advice or assistance." Grit expressed his gratitude. Mr. Jackson selected a room at the hotel, and promised to take up his quarters there the next day. Then Grit once more took up his oars and ferried Willie and his father across the river. It was not for some time, therefore, that he had a chance to examine the wallet which had been given him. CHAPTER VII. GRIT ASTONISHES PHIL. Grit was not wholly without curiosity, and, as was natural, he speculated as to the amount which the wallet contained. When Mr. Jackson and Willie had left him, he took it out of his pocket and opened it. He extracted a roll of bills and counted them over. There were ten five-dollar bills, and ten dollars in notes of a smaller denomination. "Sixty dollars!" ejaculated Grit, with a thrill of pleasure. "I never was so rich in all my life." He felt that the sum was too large for him to accept, and he was half tempted to run after Mr. Jackson and say so. But quick reflection satisfied him that the generous New Yorker wished him to retain it, and, modest though he was, he was conscious that in saving the little boy's life he had placed his passenger under an obligation which a much larger sum would not have overpaid. Besides, he saw two new passengers walking toward his boat, who doubtless wished to be ferried across the river. They were Phil Courtney and Marion Clarke. "We are just in time, Mr. Grit," said the young lady, smiling. "Yes, my good fellow," said Phil condescendingly, "we will employ you again." "You are very kind," answered Grit, with a smile of amusement. "I like to encourage you," continued Phil, who was not very quick to interpret the looks of others. Grit looked at Marion, and noticed that she, too, looked amused. "Have you had any passengers since we came over?" asked Phil, in a patronizing tone. He was quite ready to employ his old schoolmate, provided he would show proper gratitude, and be suitably impressed by his condescension. "I have been across several times," answered Grit briefly. "And how much have you made now?" asked Phil, with what he intended to pass for benevolent interest. If Phil had been his friend, Grit would not have minded telling him; but he had the pride of self-respect, and he objected to being patronized or condescended to. "I haven't counted up," he answered. "I might have brought my own boat," said Phil, "but I like to encourage you." "Really, Phil, you are appearing in a new character," said Marion. "I never should have taken you for a philanthropist before. I thought you told your mother it would be too much bother to row over in your own boat." "That was one reason," said Phil, looking slightly embarrassed. "Besides, I didn't want to interfere with Grit's business. He is poor, and has to support his mother out of his earnings." This was in bad taste, and Grit chafed against it. "That is true," he said, "but I don't ask any sympathy. I am prosperous enough." "Oh, yes; you are doing well enough for one in your position, I don't doubt. How much would you give, now, to have as much money as I carry in this pocketbook?" asked Phil boastfully. He had just passed his birthday, and had received a present of ten dollars from his father, and five dollars each from his mother and an aunt. He had spent a part of it for a hat and in other ways, but still he had seventeen dollars left. "Perhaps I have as much money," answered Grit quietly. "Oho! That's a good joke," said Phil. "No joke at all," said Grit. "I don't know how much money you have in your pocketbook, but I presume I can show more." Phil's face grew red with anger. He was one of those disagreeable boys who are purse-proud, and he was provoked at hearing such a ridiculous assertion from a poor boy who had to earn his own living. Even Marion regarded Grit with some wonder, for she happened to know how much money her cousin carried, and it seemed to her very improbable that the young boatman should have as much in his possession. "Don't make a fool of yourself, Grit!" said Phil sharply. "Thank you; I don't propose to." "But you are doing it." "How?" "Didn't you say you had more money than I?" "I think I have." "Hear him talk!" said Phil, with a glance of derision. By this time the young boatman's grit was up, if I may use the expression, and he resolved to surprise and mortify his young adversary. "If you are not afraid to test it," he said, "I will leave it to the young lady to decide. Let her count the money in your pocketbook, and I will then give her my wallet for the same purpose." "Done!" said Phil promptly. Marion, wondering a little at Grit's confidence, took her cousin's pocketbook, and counted the contents. "Well, Marion, how much is there?" said Phil exultingly. "Seventeen dollars and thirty-seven cents," was the announcement of the fair umpire. Phil smiled triumphantly. "You didn't think I had so much--eh, Grit?" he said. "No, I didn't," Grit admitted. "Now hand over your wallet." "With pleasure, if Miss Marion will take the trouble," answered the young boatman, with a polite bow. When Marion opened the wallet, and saw the roll of bills, both she and Phil looked astonished. She proceeded to count the bills, however, and in a tone of serious surprise announced: "I find sixty dollars here." "That is right," said Grit quietly, as he received back his wallet, and thrust it into his pocket. Phil hardly knew whether he was more surprised or mortified at this unexpected result. But a thought struck him. "Whose money is that?" he demanded abruptly. "It is mine." "I don't believe it. You are carrying it over to some one in Chester." "Perhaps I am; but, if so, that some one is my mother." "You don't mean to say that you have sixty dollars of your own?" "Yes, I do. You didn't think I had so much money--eh, Phil?" he retorted, with a smile. "I don't believe a word of it," returned Phil crossly. "It is ridiculous that a boy like you should have so much money. It can't be yours." "Do you doubt it, Miss Marion?" asked Grit, turning to the young lady. "No; I believe that it is yours since you say so." "Thank you." "If it is yours, where did you get it?" asked Phil, whose curiosity overcame his mortification sufficiently to induce him to ask the question. "I don't feel called upon to tell you," answered Grit. "Then I can guess." "Very well. If you guess right, I will admit it." "You found it, and won't be long before finding the owner." "You are wrong. The money is mine, and was paid me in the course of business." Phil did not know what to say, but Marion said pleasantly: "Allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Grit, on being so well off. You are richer than either of your passengers. I never had sixty dollars of my own in my life." By this time they had reached the other side of the river, and the two passengers disembarked. "Well, Phil, you came off second best," said his cousin. "I can't understand how the boy came into possession of such a sum of money," said Phil, frowning. "Nor I; but I am sure of one thing." "What is that?" "That he came by it honestly." "Don't be too sure of that," said Phil, shaking his head. "Phil, you are too bad," said Marion warmly. "You seem to have taken an unaccountable prejudice against Grit. I am sure he seems to me a very nice boy." "You're welcome to the young boatman's society," said Phil, with a sneer. "You seem to be fond of low company." "If you call him low company, then perhaps I am. I never met Grit before this morning, but he seems a very polite, spirited boy, and it is certainly to his credit that he supports his mother." "I can tell you something about him that may chill your ardor? His father is in jail." "I heard that it was his stepfather." "Oh, well, it doesn't matter which." "In one sense, no. The boy isn't to blame for it." "No, but it shows of what stock he comes." Meanwhile, Grit, having fastened his boat, made his way to the cottage on the bluff. He wanted to tell his mother of his good fortune. CHAPTER VIII. GRIT PUTS HIS MONEY AWAY. "You seem to be in good spirits, Grit," said his mother, as our hero opened the outside door and entered the room where she sat sewing. "Yes, mother, I have reason to be. Is--is Mr. Brandon home?" "Yes; he is up-stairs lying down," answered Mrs. Brandon, with a sigh. Grit rose and closed the door. "I don't want him to hear what I'm going to tell you," he said. "Mother, I have been very lucky to-day." "I suppose Mr. Jackson was liberal." "I should say he was. Guess how much money I have in this wallet, mother." "Five dollars." "Multiply that by twelve." "You don't mean to say that he gave you sixty dollars?" inquired his mother quickly. "Yes, I do. See here," and Grit displayed the roll of bills. "You are, indeed, in luck, Grit. How much good this money will do us. But I forgot," she added, her expression changing to one of anxious solicitude. "What did you forget, mother?" "That your father--that Mr. Brandon had returned." "What difference will that make, mother? I suppose, of course, it will increase our expenses." "If that were all, Grit." "What is it, then, you fear, mother?" "That he will take this money away from you." "I should like to see him try it," exclaimed Grit, compressing his lips. "He will try it, Grit. He said only an hour ago that you would have to account to him for your daily earnings." "Doesn't he mean to do any work himself?" "I fear not. You know what sort of a man he is, Grit. He probably means to live on what we can earn, and spend his time and what money he can get hold of at the tavern." "And he calls himself a man!" said Grit disdainfully. "I am afraid our quiet, happy life is at an end, Grit," sighed his mother. Grit did not answer for a moment, but he looked stern and determined. Finally, he answered: "I don't want to make any disturbance, mother, or to act improperly, but I feel sure that we ought not to submit to such treatment." "What can we do, Grit?" "If Mr. Brandon cares to stay here we will provide him a home, give him his board, but, as to supplying him with money, we ought not to do it." "I agree with you, Grit, but I don't see how we can help it. Mr. Brandon is a man, and you are only a boy. I don't want you to quarrel with him." "I won't if I can help it. By the way, mother, I don't think it will be prudent to leave all this money in the house." "What can we do with it?" "I will put it out of my hands. Perhaps I had better not tell you what I am going to do with it, for Mr. Brandon might ask you, and it is better that you should be able to tell him that you don't know." "You are right, Grit." "I will attend to that matter at once, mother. I will be back in half or three-quarters of an hour," and the young boatman hurried from the house. He bent his steps to the house of his particular friend, Fred Lawrence, the son of a lawyer in the village. Mr. Lawrence was rated as wealthy by the people in the village, and lived in a house quite as good as Mr. Courtney's, but his son Fred was a very different style of boy. He had no purse-pride, and it never occurred to him that Grit was unfit to associate with, simply because he was poor, and had to earn a living for himself and his mother by ferrying passengers across the Kennebec. In fact, he regarded Grit as his most intimate friend, and spent as much time in his company as their differing engagements would allow. Phil Courtney, though he condescended to Grit, regarded Fred as his social equal, and wished to be intimate with him; but Fred did not fancy Phil, and the latter saw, with no little annoyance, that the young boatman's company was preferred to his. It displayed shocking bad taste on the part of Fred, but he did not venture to express himself to the lawyer's son as he would not scruple to do to the young ferryman. Naturally, when Grit felt the need of advice, he thought of his most intimate friend, and sought the lawyer's house. He met Fred on the way. "Hello, Grit!" said Fred cordially. "Where are you going?" "I was going to your house." "Then turn round, and we will go there." "I can talk with you in the street. I want your advice and help." "My advice is probably very valuable," said Fred, smiling, "considering my age and experience. However, my help you can rely upon, if I can give it." "Did you hear that Mr. Brandon had got home?" asked Grit abruptly. "Your stepfather?" "Yes; I am sorry to say that there is that tie between us. I presume you know where he has spent the last five years?" "Yes," answered Fred. "Of course, I am glad for his sake that he is free; but I am afraid he is going to give us trouble." "How does he appear?" "I have not seen him yet." "How's that?" "He only arrived to-day, and I was absent when he reached home." "Does he mean to live here?" "I am afraid so; and, what is more, I am afraid he means that mother and I shall pay his expenses. He has already told mother that he shall require me to account to him for my daily earnings." "That will be hard on you." "Yes; I need all I can make to pay our daily expenses, and I don't feel like letting mother suffer for the necessaries of life in order to supply Mr. Brandon with money for drink." "You are right there, Grit. I sympathize with you; but how can I help it?" "That is what I am coming to. I want to deposit my money with you--that is, what I don't need to use." "I suppose you haven't much. It might not be well to trust me too far," said Fred, smiling. "I have sixty dollars here, which I would like to put in your hands--that is, all but two dollars." "Sixty dollars! Where on earth did you get so much money, Grit?" asked his friend, opening his eyes wide in astonishment. Grit told the story briefly, and received the warm congratulations of his friend. "You deserve it all, Grit," he said, "for your brave deed." "Don't flatter me, Fred, or I may put on airs like Phil Courtney. But, to come back to business--will you do me this favor?" "Of course, I will. Father has a safe in his office, and I will put the money in there. Whenever you want any of it, you have only to ask me." "Thank you. That will suit me. I shan't break in upon it unless I am obliged to, as I would like to have it in reserve to fall back upon." "Come and take supper with us, Grit, won't you?" asked Fred cordially. "Thank you, Fred; not to-night. I haven't seen Mr. Brandon yet, and I may as well get over the first interview as soon as possible. We shall have to come to an understanding, and it is better not to delay it." "Good night, then; I shall see you to-morrow, for I am going to Portville, and I shall go over in your boat." "Then we can have a chat together. Good night." Meanwhile, Mr. Brandon, having slept off his debauch, had come down-stairs. "Where's the cub?" he asked. "I wish you wouldn't call him by that name," said his wife. "He wouldn't like it." "I shall call him what I please. Hasn't he been in?" "Yes, Grit has been in." "Grit?" "That's a nickname the boys have given him, and as everybody calls him so, I have got into that way." "Oh, well, call him what you like. Has he been in?" "Yes." "Where is he now?" "He went out for a short time. I expect him in every minute." "Did he leave his day's earnings with you?" "No," answered Mrs. Brandon, with a troubled look. "He has the best right to that himself." "Has he, hey? We'll see about that. I, as his stepfather and legal guardian, shall have something to say to that." Mrs. Brandon was not called upon to reply, for the door opened just then, and the young boatman stood in the presence of his worthy stepfather. CHAPTER IX. A LITTLE DISCUSSION. Grit was only ten years old when his stepfather began to serve out his sentence at the penitentiary, and the two had not seen each other since. Instead of the small boy he remembered, Brandon saw before him a boy large and strong for his age, of well-knit frame and sturdy look. Five years had made him quite a different boy. His daily exercise in rowing had strengthened his muscles and developed his chest, so that he seemed almost a young man. Brandon stared in surprise at the boy. "Is that--the cub?" he asked. "I object to that name, Mr. Brandon," said Grit quietly. "You've grown!" said Brandon, still regarding him with curiosity. "Yes, I ought to have grown some in five years." It occurred to Mr. Brandon that it might not be so easy as he had expected to bully his stepson. He resolved at first to be conciliatory. "I'm glad to see you," he said. "It's long since we met." "Yes," answered Grit. He was not prepared to return the compliment, and express pleasure at his stepfather's return. "I'm glad you and your mother have got along so well while I was away." Grit felt tempted to say that they had got along better during Mr. Brandon's absence than when he was with them, but he forbore. He did not want to precipitate a conflict, though, from what his mother had said, he foresaw that one would come soon enough. "Your mother tells me that you make money by your boat," continued Mr. Brandon. "Yes, sir." "That's a good plan. I approve it. How much money have you made to-day, now?" "I have a dollar or two in my pocket," answered Grit evasively. "Very good!" said Brandon, in a tone of satisfaction. "You may as well hand it to me." So the crisis had come! Mrs. Brandon looked at her son and her husband with anxiety, fearing there would be a quarrel, and perhaps something worse. She was tempted to say something in deprecation, but Grit said promptly: "Thank you, Mr. Brandon, but I would prefer to keep the money myself." Brandon was rather taken aback by the boy's perfect coolness and self-possession. "How old are you?" he asked, with a frown. "Fifteen." "Indeed!" sneered Brandon. "I thought, from the way you talked, you were twenty-one. You don't seem to be aware that I am your legal guardian." "No, sir, I was not aware of it." "Then it's time you knew it. Ain't I your stepfather?" "I suppose so," said Grit, with reluctance. "Ha, you admit that, do you? I'm the master of this house, and it's my place to give orders. Your wages belong to me, but if you are obedient and respectful, I will allow you a small sum daily, say five cents." "That arrangement is not satisfactory, Mr. Brandon," said Grit firmly. "Why isn't it?" demanded his stepfather, frowning. "I use my money to support the family." "Did I say anything against it? As the master of the house, the bills come to me to be paid, and therefore I require you to give me every night whatever you may have taken during the day." "Do you intend to earn anything yourself?" asked Grit pointedly; "or do you expect to live on us?" "Boy, you are impertinent," said Brandon, coloring. "Don't provoke Mr. Brandon," said Grit's mother timidly. "We may as well come to an understanding," said Grit boldly. "I am willing to do all I can for you, mother, but Mr. Brandon is able to take care of himself, and I cannot support him, too." "Is this the way you talk to your father, you impertinent boy?" exclaimed Brandon wrathfully. "You are not my father, Mr. Brandon," said Grit coldly. "It is all the same; I am your mother's husband." "That's a different thing." "Once more, are you going to give me the money you have in your pocket?" "No, sir." Brandon looked at Grit, and he felt that it would have given him pleasure to shake the rebellion out of his obstinate stepson, but supper was almost ready, and he felt hungry. He decided that it would be as well to postpone an open outbreak. Grit was in the house, and not likely to run away. "We'll speak of this another time," he said, waving his hand. "You will find, young man, that it is of no use opposing me. Mrs. Brandon, is supper almost ready?" "Nearly," answered his wife, glad to have the subject postponed. "Then serve it as soon as possible," he said, in a lordly tone. "I am to meet a gentleman on business directly afterward." Supper was on the table in fifteen minutes. Mr. Brandon ate with evident enjoyment. Indeed, it was so short a time since he had been restricted to prison fare that he relished the plain but well-cooked dishes which his wife prepared. "Another cup of tea, Mrs. Brandon," he said. "It seems pleasant to be at home again after my long absence." "I shouldn't think he would like to refer to his imprisonment," thought Grit. "I hope soon to be in business," continued Brandon, "and we shall then be able to live in better style. When that time comes I shall be willing to have Grit retain his small earnings, stipulating only that he shall buy his own clothes, and pay his mother, say a dollar and a quarter a week, for board." He said this with the air of a man who considered himself liberal, but neither Grit nor his mother expressed their sense of his generosity. "Of course, just at present," Mr. Brandon proceeded, "I have no money. The minions of the law took from me all I had when they unjustly thrust me into a foul dungeon. For a time, therefore, I shall be compelled to accept Grit's earnings, but it will not be for long." Grit said nothing to this hint, but all the same he determined, whether for a short or a long time, to resist the exactions of his stepfather. As for Brandon, his change of front was induced by the thought that he could accomplish by stratagem what he might have had some difficulty in securing by force. He still had twenty-five cents of the dollar which his wife had given him in the morning. When supper was over he rose, and, putting on his hat, said: "I am going to the village on business. I shall be home in good season. Are you going my way, Grit?" "Not just at present," answered Grit. Mother and son looked at each other when they were alone. "I suppose he's gone to the tavern," said Grit. "Yes, I presume so," said his mother, sighing. "Well, mother, I didn't give up the money." "No, Grit, but he means to have it yet." "He's welcome to it if he can get it," said the boy manfully. "You haven't got the sixty dollars with you?" said his mother anxiously. "No, they are safe. I have kept only two dollars, thinking you might need some groceries." "Yes, I do, Grit. They go off faster, now that we have another mouth to feed." "Suppose you make out a list of what you want, mother, and I will go up to the store this evening. I may as well save Mr. Brandon from temptation." His mother made a list, and Grit, putting it in his pocket, walked up to the village. The groceries, with a pound of steak, cost a dollar and ninety cents. As Grit took the bundles and walked homeward, he thought to himself. "Mr. Brandon wouldn't feel very well repaid for his trouble if he should take all I have left. He ought to be satisfied with free board, without expecting us to supply him with pocket-money besides. I wonder what he would say if he knew how much money I have deposited with Fred Lawrence?" Grit congratulated himself that his stepfather was not likely to make this discovery, but in this he reckoned without his host. Mr. Brandon made the discovery that same evening. How it came about will appear in the next chapter. CHAPTER X. BRANDON LEARNS GRIT'S SECRET. "I had no idea the boy had grown so much," said Brandon to himself, as he directed his course toward the tavern. "I thought he was a little kid, but he's almost as big as I am. He's kind of obstinate, too, but he'll find out who's master before long. It's ridiculous, his expectin' to have the handlin' of all the money that comes into the house. Just as if he had any judgment--a boy of his age." The chances are that Grit's judgment in the matter would have proved better than Brandon's, since the latter proposed to spend a large portion of the money for drink. "I expect the boy makes a good thing out of his boating," resumed Mr. Brandon. "He owned up that he had almost two dollars, and it's likely he earned it all to-day." Presently Brandon reached the tavern, and entered the barroom. He called for whisky, and swallowed it with gusto. "You may charge it to me," said he carelessly; "I'll pay once a week." "We don't care to do business that way," said the barkeeper. "You ain't afraid I won't pay you?" said Brandon, in a tone of affected indignation. "I don't know whether you would or not, but our terms are cash." "Oh, well, if you're so strict as that, take it out of this quarter," said Brandon, throwing his sole remaining coin on the counter. Fifteen cents were returned to him, and in half an hour that sum was also expended at the bar. It might have been supposed that Brandon would be satisfied, but he was not. He made an attempt to obtain another drink on credit, but the barkeeper proved obdurate. Then he engaged in a game of cards, and about half-past nine set out to go home, in a better condition than if he had had more money to spend. "This will never do!" he muttered, in a discontented tone; "I can't be kept so short as this. It is humiliating to think of me, a grown man, going round without a cent in my pocket, while my stepson is reveling in money. I won't have it, and I'll let him understand it." A few feet in front of Brandon two boys were walking. One of them was Phil Courtney, and the other Dick Graham, a poor boy, who, by proper subserviency, had earned a position as chief favorite with his companion. Brandon could not help hearing their conversation. He heard Grit's name mentioned, and this made him listen attentively. "I can't understand where Grit got his money," Phil was saying. "How much did you say he had?" inquired Dick. "Sixty dollars!" "Whew!" Brandon felt like saying "Whew!" too, for his amazement was great, but he wanted to hear more, and remained silent. "Are you sure there were sixty dollars?" "Yes; my cousin Marion counted it." "How did Grit happen to show his money?" "He was boasting that he had more money than I, and I challenged him to show his money." "I suppose he did show more?" "Yes, I had only seventeen dollars. But what I can't understand is, where did a common boatman pick up so much money?" "Perhaps he has been saving for a long time." "Perhaps so, but I don't believe he could save so much," answered Phil. "Perhaps he stole it." Phil didn't believe this, but he would like to have believed it true. "I shouldn't wonder if he did, though I don't know where he could get the chance." "I wonder if he'd lend me five dollars," thought Dick Graham, though he did not care to let Phil know his thought. He resolved to be more attentive to Grit, in the hope of pecuniary favors. Meanwhile, he did not forget that Phil also was well provided. "You were pretty well fixed, too," he said. "I wonder how I'd feel if I had seventeen dollars." "What do I care about seventeen dollars?" said Phil discontentedly, "when a boy like Grit Morris can show more than three times as much." "Oh, well, he'll have to spend it. He won't keep it long. By the way, Phil, will you do me a favor?" "What is it?" asked Phil cautiously. "Won't you lend me two dollars? I want it the worst way. I haven't got a cent to my name." "I can't spare it," said Phil curtly. "It will leave you fifteen----" "I'm going to use it all. Besides, it would be the same as giving it----" "No, I'd pay you back in a week or two." "You've been owing me fifty cents for three months. If you'd paid that up punctually, perhaps I would have lent you. You'd better go to Grit." "He isn't my friend, and I thought you might not like my going to him." "Oh, you can borrow as much as you like of him--the more, the better!" returned Phil, with a laugh. "I'll try it, then. I shall have to pretend to be his friend." "All right. The faster he gets rid of his money, the better it will suit me." Brandon heard no more of the conversation, for the boys turned down a side street. But he had heard enough to surprise him. "Grit got sixty dollars!" he repeated to himself. "Why, the artful young villain! Who'd have thought it? And he coolly refuses to let his father have a cent. He's actually rolling in riches, while I haven't got a penny in my purse. And his mother aids and abets him in it, I'll be bound. It's the blackest ingratitude I ever heard of." What Grit had to be grateful to him for Mr. Brandon might have found it difficult to instance, but he actually managed to work himself into a fit of indignation because Grit declined to commit his money to his custody. Brandon felt very much like a man who has suddenly been informed that a pot of gold was concealed in his back yard. Actually, a member of his family possessed the handsome sum of sixty dollars. How was he to get it into his own hands? That was easier to ask than to answer. As he had said, Grit was a stout, strong boy, nearly his equal in size and strength, and he had already had sufficient acquaintance with his firmness, or obstinacy, as he preferred to call it, to make sure that the boy would not give up the money without a struggle. If now he could get hold of the money by stratagem, it would be easier, and make less disturbance. Where did Grit keep the money? "He may have given it to his mother," thought Brandon. "If so, I can find it in one of her bureau drawers. She always used to keep money there. But it is more likely that the boy keeps it in his own pocket. I know what I'll do. I'll get up in the night, when he and his mother are asleep, and search his pockets. Gad, how astonished he'll look in the morning when he searches for it, and finds it missing!" Brandon was very much amused by this thought, and he laughed aloud. "Sixty dollars'll set me on my feet again," he reflected. "Let me see. I'll go to Boston, and look round, and see if I can't pick up a job of some kind. There isn't anything to do here in this beastly hole. By the way, I wonder where the boy did get so much money. He must find boatin' more profitable than I had any idea of." At this point Brandon entered the little path that led to his wife's cottage. "Mrs. B. is sittin' up," he said, as he saw through the window the figure of his wife in a rocking-chair, apparently occupied with some kind of work. "I'll get her off to bed soon, so that I can have a clear field." Mrs. Brandon looked up when her husband entered, and noticed, with a feeling of relief, that he was sober. That, however, was not owing to any intentional moderation on his part, but to his lack of funds. "Sittin' up for me, Mrs. B.?" asked Brandon. "I generally sit up till past this hour," she answered. "I feel rather tired myself," said Brandon, succeeding in yawning. "It isn't on account of having done any work," thought his wife. "I've been walkin' round considerably, and got tired." "Do you come from the tavern?" asked Mrs. Brandon coldly. "Yes, Mrs. B., I expected to meet a gentleman there on business, but he disappointed me. Where's Grit?" "He has gone to bed. He has got to get up early in the morning, to help me, and then he spends the day in ferrying passengers across the river." "That's a bright idea of Grit's. I approve it. He makes considerable money, doesn't he?" "Considerable for a boy. I don't know what I should do if it were not for Grit." "Just so. But now I'm home, and shall soon get into business. Then you won't need to depend on him. Of course, I shall need a little money to start with." Mrs. Brandon did not reply to this obvious hint. She prepared for bed. An hour later, Brandon, having ascertained that his wife was asleep, left the room cautiously, and stole into Grit's chamber. CHAPTER XI. THE MIDNIGHT VISIT. Grit was not aware that Brandon had discovered his secret, but still was not unprepared for a night visit. As we already know, he had but ten cents left of the two dollars he had reserved, and this coin he put into a small leather purse, which he usually carried. "If Mr. Brandon searches for money, he will be disappointed," he said to himself, with a quiet smile. "He won't find enough to pay him for his trouble." Grit was not anxious enough about his money to keep awake. When, therefore, his stepfather entered his chamber, he was fast asleep. Brandon listened for a moment to the deep breathing of the boy, and felt that there was no need of caution. He therefore boldly advanced, candle in hand, to the bedside. The candle he set on the bureau, and then took up Grit's clothes, which hung over a chair, and proceeded to examine the pockets. His countenance changed as he continued the search. At last he came to the purse, but it felt empty, and he did not open it with much confidence. Thrusting in his finger, he drew out the solitary dime which it contained. "Only ten cents!" he exclaimed, with intense disappointment. "It isn't worth taking. On second thoughts, I'll take it, though, for it will pay for a drink." He pocketed the coin, and resumed his search. "The boy must have a pocketbook somewhere," he muttered. "He wouldn't carry bank-bills in a purse. Where can he keep it?" Once more he explored the pockets of his stepson, but he met with no greater success than before. It is a curious circumstance that sometimes in profound sleep a person seems vaguely aware of the presence of an intruder, and the feeling is frequently strong enough to disturb slumber. Grit was a sound sleeper, but, however we may account for it, whether it was the instinctive feeling I have mentioned, or the glare of the candle, he woke up, and his glance rested on the kneeling figure of his stepfather rummaging his pockets. Instantly Grit realized the situation, and he felt more amused than indignant, knowing how poorly the searcher would be rewarded. Brandon's back was turned to him, and our hero felt inclined to try the effect of a practical joke. In a deep, sepulchral voice, he called out: "What are you doing there?" Brandon, taken by surprise, started as if he had been shot, and sprang to his feet in confusion. Turning to the bed, he saw Grit surveying him calmly. Then his natural hardihood restored his self-possession. "Where do you keep your money, you young cub?" he demanded. "Where do I keep it? I suspect you know well enough. Haven't you looked into my purse?" "Yes, and I only found ten cents." "Did you take it?" asked Grit. "Yes." "Then it's lucky I had no more in it." "Where is the rest of your money?" demanded Brandon. "What do you mean by the rest of my money?" "I mean the sixty dollars you had with you to-day." Grit whistled. "So you heard I had sixty dollars?" he said. "Yes." "It is in a safe place." "Ha! You own that you had so much money. You wanted to keep it from me, did you?" demanded Brandon, with a frown. "Yes, I did," admitted Grit. "Did Phil Courtney tell you I had it?" "No matter how I heard. I know that you are trying to conceal a large sum of money, which ought to be in my hands." "Indeed! How do you make that out?" "I am your stepfather and natural guardian. I am the best person to take care of your money." "I don't think so, and I propose to keep it myself," said Grit firmly. "Do you defy me?" demanded Brandon angrily. "If you call my refusing to give you my own money by that name, then I do." "Boy, you don't know me!" said Brandon, in a tone intended to strike terror into the heart of his stepson. "Hitherto you have had only your mother to look after you, and she has been foolishly indulgent. Now you have a man to deal with. Once more, will you hand me that money?" "I decline," said Grit firmly. "Then on your head be the consequences," said Brandon. "You will hear from me again, and soon." So saying, he stalked majestically from the chamber. "I wonder what he means to do?" thought Grit. But the thought did not keep him awake. CHAPTER XII. GRIT'S MISFORTUNE. The next morning Grit came down to breakfast nearly an hour later than usual. It might have been because he was unusually fatigued, or it may have been on account of his slumbers having been interrupted. When he came down-stairs, he looked at the clock, and realized that he had overslept himself. "I am nearly an hour late, mother," he said. "Why didn't you call me?" "I thought you were tired, Grit, and needed sleep." "Where is Mr. Brandon? I suppose he has not got up!" "Yes, he has had his breakfast and gone out." "He is in a great hurry to spend my ten cents," said Grit, laughing. "What do you mean, Grit?" "I had a visit from him last night," Grit explained. "He rummaged my pockets, and was successful in finding a dime." "Is it possible?" "Why should you be surprised, mother? I was not." "Did he say anything to you?" "Yes; he has found out somehow about the sixty dollars, and he asked me to give it to him." "Oh, Grit, I am afraid there will be trouble," said Mrs. Brandon anxiously. "He won't rest till he gets the money." "Then he won't rest at all," said Grit firmly. "I am afraid you will have to give it to him, Grit." "Not if I know what I am about. No, mother, the money is safe, where he won't find it. I won't tell you, for he might annoy you till you told him." "No, Grit; don't tell me. I would rather not know. How happy we were before he came, and how rich we should feel if this money had come to you before Mr. Brandon came home!" "That is true, mother. It's a shame that he should come home to give us so much trouble." "I can't see how it's all going to end," murmured Mrs. Brandon sadly. "Nor I; but I mean to resist Mr. Brandon till he finds it's of no use trying to appropriate my money. When he finds he can't get anything out of us except a bare living, he may become disgusted and leave us." "He won't do it while he has any hope left. What do you think he has been trying to persuade me to do, Grit?" "I don't know." "He wants me to mortgage this cottage, and give him the money." "Just like him, mother. I hope you were firm?" "Yes, Grit. I told him I would not consent. It is all we have. I cannot part with our home and the roof that shelters us." "Of course not, mother. You would be very foolish if you did. Did he mention any one that wanted to buy it?" "Yes, he said that Mr. Green would be willing to advance money upon it." "Mr. Green--the landlord of the hotel? I don't doubt it. He knows that Brandon would pay back the whole for drink in a short time." "I am afraid that would be the case." "Mother," said Grit, with energy, "promise me that you will never consent to this wicked plan." "No, Grit, I won't. I consider that the house is as much yours as mine, and I am not willing to leave you without a home." "I don't so much mind that, for I could shift for myself somehow, but I want you to keep it in your own hands, and I am not willing that Mr. Brandon should sacrifice it for drink." "I agree with you, Grit. Whatever it may cost me, I won't consent." "The sooner he becomes convinced that he has nothing to hope from either of us, the sooner he will leave us," said Grit. "If I thought he would go away and never come back, I would be willing to let him have the sixty dollars, but it would only make him stay, in the hope of getting more." By this time Grit had finished his breakfast. "I must get to work, mother," he said. "I'll be home to dinner at the usual time, if I can." "If not, I will save something for you, Grit." The young boatman made his way to the river. Here an unpleasant surprise awaited him. His boat was not where he had left it. He looked in all directions, but it had disappeared. "What can have become of it?" thought Grit, in perplexity. CHAPTER XIII. GRIT'S BOAT IS SOLD. Brandon was not usually an early riser, and would not on this occasion have got up so soon if a bright idea had not occurred to him likely to bring money to his purse. It was certainly vexatious that Grit so obstinately refused to pay into his hands the money he had managed in some way unknown to his stepfather to accumulate. Perhaps some way of forcing the boy to do so might suggest itself, but meanwhile he was penniless; that is, with the exception of the dime he had abstracted during the night. Possibly his wife might have some money. He proceeded to sound her on the subject. "Mrs. B.," said he, "I shall have to trouble you for a little money." "I gave you a dollar yesterday," said Mrs. Brandon. "What's a dollar? I have none of it left now." "Did you spend it at the tavern?" asked his wife gravely. "I am not willing to be catechized upon that point," returned Brandon, in a tone of lofty dignity. "It is quite impossible to supply you with money for such a purpose," continued Mrs. Brandon. "What money Grit earns is wanted for necessary expenses." "I am not so easily deceived," said her husband, nodding sagaciously. "It is quite true." "I won't argue the point, Mrs. B. Have you any change now? That is the question." "No, I have not." "Be it so. I have only to remark that you and your son will have occasion to regret the unfriendly and suspicious manner in which you see fit to treat me." So saying, Mr. Brandon sat down to his breakfast, which he ate with an appetite such as is usually earned by honest toil. When he rose from the table, he left the cottage without a word. "How it all this to end?" thought Mrs. Brandon, following his retreating form with an anxious glance. "He has not been here twenty-four hours yet, and he has spent a dollar of Grit's hard earnings, and is dissatisfied because we will not give him more. Besides, he has already broached the subject of mortgaging the house, and all to gratify his insatiable thirst for strong drink." Certainly the prospects were not very bright, and Mrs. Brandon might well be excused for feeling anxious. Though Brandon had ten cents in his pocket, the price of a glass of whisky, he did not go at once to the tavern, as might have been expected. Instead of this, he bent his steps toward the river. He knew about where Grit kept his boat, and went directly to it. "Ha! a very good boat!" he said, after surveying it critically. "It ought to be worth ten dollars, at least, though I suppose I can't get over five for it. Well, five dollars will be a lift to me, and if Grit wants another boat he's got the money to buy one. I can get even with him this way, at least. He'd better have treated me well and saved his boat." The boat was tied fast, but this presented no insurmountable difficulty. Brandon pulled a jack-knife out of his pocket, and after awhile--for it was very dull--succeeded in severing the rope. Then he jumped into the boat and began to row out into the stream. He was a little at a loss at first as to where he would be most likely to find a purchaser. In his five years' absence from the neighborhood he had lost his former acquaintances, and there had been, besides, changes in the population. As he was rowing at random, he chanced to look back to the shore he had left, and noticed that a boy was signaling to him. He recognized him as the boy whom he had heard speaking of Grit's treasure, and, being desirous of hearing more on the subject, he at once began to pull back to the river bank. The boy, as the reader will surmise, was Phil Courtney. "Hello, there!" said Phil; "isn't that Grit Morris' boat?" "No, it's mine." "It is the same Grit usually rows in," said Phil, beginning to suspect Brandon of theft. "That may be, but the boat is mine." "Did he sell it to you?" "No." "Who are you, then?" "I am Mr. Brandon, Grit's stepfather." Phil whistled. "Oh, it's you, is it?" he said, surveying Brandon, not over respectfully, for he knew where he had spent the last five years. "So you've come home?" "Yes, but I might as well have stayed away." "How is that?" asked Phil, regarding the man before him with curiosity. Brandon was not too proud to speak of his domestic grievances, as he regarded them, to a stranger. "My wife and son treat me like a stranger," he said. "Instead of giving me a warm welcome after my long absence, they seem to be sorry to see me." "I don't wonder much," thought Phil, but he did not say so, not being averse to drawing Brandon out on this subject. "And that reminds me, young gentleman; I was walking behind you last evening, and I heard you say something about Grit's having a large sum of money." "Yes; he showed me sixty dollars yesterday." "Are you sure there was as much as that?" inquired Brandon eagerly. "Yes, I am sure, for my cousin counted it in my presence." "It might have belonged to some one else," suggested Brandon. "No; I thought so myself, but Grit said it belonged to him." "Did he say where he got it?" "No; he's mighty close about his affairs. I couldn't help wondering myself, and asked him, but he wouldn't tell me." "If he's got as much money as that, he ought to give it to me to take care of." "Why don't you make him give it to you?" suggested Phil maliciously. "I did ask him, but he refused. A boy of his age ought not to carry about so much money. Did he carry it in a roll of bills, or in a pocketbook?" "He had it in a wallet." "I didn't see the wallet," thought Brandon. "I only found the purse. The boy must have hidden it somewhere. I must look for it." "What are you going to do about it?" asked Phil. "Are you going to let him keep it?" "Not if I can find it. I will take it away from him if I get the chance." "I wish he would," thought Phil. "It would soon go for drink, and then Master Grit wouldn't put on so many airs." "May I ask your name?" asked Brandon. "I am Phil Courtney, the son of Squire Courtney, the president of the bank," answered Phil pompously. "You don't say so!" exclaimed Brandon, in a tone of flattering deference. "I am proud to know you. You come of a fine family." "Yes, my father stands pretty high," remarked Phil complacently. "Really," thought he, "this man has very good manners, even if he has just come from the penitentiary. He treats me with a good deal more respect than Grit does. If I could help him to get the money I would." "Not a man in town stands higher," said Brandon emphatically. "Are you a friend of my stepson?" "Well, hardly," answered Phil, shrugging his shoulders. "You must excuse my saying so, but Grit hasn't very good manners, and, though I patronize him by riding in his boat, I cannot regard him as a fitting associate." "You are entirely right, young gentleman," said Brandon. "Though Grit is my stepson, I am not blind to his faults. He has behaved very badly to me already, and I shall be obliged to require him to treat me with more respect. If he would only copy you, I should be very glad." "You are very polite, Mr. Brandon," said Phil, flattered. "I hope, for your sake, that Grit will improve." "By the way, Mr. Courtney"--Phil swelled with conscious pride at this designation--"do you know any one who would like to buy a boat?" "What boat do you refer to?" asked Phil. "This boat." "But I thought it was Grit's." "I am his stepfather, and have decided to sell it." "What'll you take?" asked Phil, not unwilling to buy a good boat, especially as he knew it would annoy Grit. "It is worth ten dollars, but I will sell it for six dollars cash." "Say five, and I'll take it." "Very well, Mr. Courtney, seeing it's you, I will say five." "It's a bargain." Phil had his money in his pocket, and he lost no time in binding the bargain by paying the money. "I think I'll take a row myself," he said. He jumped into the boat, and Brandon, with five dollars in his pocket, took the nearest road to the tavern. CHAPTER XIV. THE BILL OF SALE. A sudden thought struck Phil, and he called back Brandon. "What's wanted now?" asked the latter impatiently. "I want you to give me a bill of sale of the boat," said Phil. "What's the use of that?" "I don't want Grit to charge me with taking his boat without leave." "Oh, bother! it's all right. I haven't got any paper," said Brandon, who was anxious to reach the tavern, and take his morning dram. "I have," said Phil promptly, as he drew out a small note-book and tore out a leaf, which he handed, with a pencil, to Brandon. "What do you want me to write?" asked the latter. Phil dictated a form, which Brandon wrote down and signed. "Will that do?" he asked. "Yes, that will do. Now I am all right, and the boat is mine in spite of all Grit may say." "I have made a good bargain," said Phil, to himself, complacently. "This boat is worth at least twice what I have paid for it. I will get it painted, and a new name for it, and it will pass for a new boat. Won't Grit be mad when he hears what his stepfather has done?" This was, on the whole, the pleasantest reflection connected with the purchase. It was not creditable to Phil to cherish such malice against a boy, simply because he would not treat him with as much deference as he expected; but human nature is often betrayed into petty meannesses, and Phil was a very human boy, so far, at least, as such traits were concerned. We now come back to Grit, who stood on the river's bank in perplexity, when he discovered that his boat had been abstracted. "Who can have taken it?" he thought. Here he felt quite at a loss. It did not occur to him that his stepfather had had anything to do with his boat, for he could not understand of what advantage it would be to him. He did not comprehend fully, however, how serious the loss was likely to prove, since it took away his means of living. He stooped over and examined the rope. Clearly, it had been cut, and this showed that the boat had been taken by some unauthorized person. "I can't understand who would serve me such a trick," thought Grit. "I don't know that I have any enemies." But at this point he could not help thinking of Phil Courtney, who, if not an enemy, was certainly not a friend. "Is it possible that Phil would play me such a trick?" he asked himself. "No; he would think too much of himself. He would not condescend to do such a thing." Grit walked up and down along the river bank, looking here and there to see if anywhere he could descry his boat. At length he saw a boat, but the boat was not his. It belonged to Jesse Burns, the son of the postmaster, and was of about the same size and build as his own. "Jesse!" he called out, putting his hands to his mouth to increase the volume of sound. Jesse heard the call, and rowed toward where Grit was standing. "What is it, Grit?" "My boat has been taken, and I don't know what has become of it." "Is that so?" asked Jesse, in surprise. "Why, I saw Phil Courtney out on the river with it. I passed him only fifteen minutes since. I thought you had let it to him." "Phil Courtney!" exclaimed Grit, angry and surprised. "I didn't think he would take it without leave." "Did he?" "Yes, I found the rope cut." "That doesn't seem like Phil. He's mean enough to do anything, but I didn't think he would do that." "Nor I. I'll give him a good piece of my mind when we meet. Where did you meet him?" "Just above Glen Cove." "Do me a favor, Jesse. Take me into your boat, and row me up there, so that I may meet him, and recover my boat." "All right, Grit. I'm very glad to do you a favor." "Are you sure it is my boat Phil had?" asked Grit, still unwilling to believe that Phil had deliberately taken his boat. "Yes, I know your boat as well as my own. Besides, there was the name, _Water Lily_, on it, as plain as day. There is no doubt about it." "Well," said Grit, closing his lips firmly, "all I can say is, I'll make him pay for the use of the boat, or there'll be trouble." "You won't challenge him, will you, Grit?" asked Jesse, smiling. "That's just what I will do. I should be justified in thrashing him, without notice, but I will give him a chance to defend himself." "If you want a second, call on me," said Jesse. "I don't like Phil any better than you do, and I shan't object to seeing his pride humbled. It's bad for your business, having the boat taken." "Yes, I shall lose the chance of two passengers who wanted to go across to Portville an hour from now." "You may use my boat for that, Grit." "Thank you, Jesse; I should like to, if I don't get back my own. Did you speak to Phil?" "No. I said 'good morning,' but, with his usual politeness, he only gave a slight nod, and did not answer. I wanted to ask him how it happened that he was using your boat so early in the morning, but, you see, I got no chance." "It is queer. I can't guess what he will have to say for himself." "There he is now!" said Jesse suddenly, looking up the river. "Where?" "Don't you see? He is rowing this way. His back is turned, and he hasn't seen us yet." Yes, it was Phil. He had enjoyed a good row, and now was on his return course. He was rowing slowly and lazily, as if fatigued. "You will soon hear what he has to say, Grit," said Jesse. At that moment Phil chanced to turn round, and he saw and recognized the boys that were approaching him. He did not, however, seem confused or embarrassed; neither did he change his course. He merely smiled, and continued to row toward his pursuers. "He sees us, and still he comes on. There's cheek for you!" ejaculated Jesse. Grit said nothing, but his mouth closed firmly, and his eyes sparkled with anger. He waited till Phil was within earshot, and then he demanded sternly: "What are you doing there with my boat, Phil Courtney?" Phil would have resented Grit's tone, but he gloated over the triumphant answer he was able to make, and thought he would tantalize Grit a little. "To what boat do you allude?" he asked, in a nonchalant tone. "To what boat do I allude?" repeated Grit, provoked. "I allude to my boat, in which you are rowing." "You are mistaken," said Phil composedly. "I am rowing in my own boat." "Isn't that the _Water Lily_?" asked Jesse, coming to the help of his friend. "It is at present. I shall change the name for one I like better." "Look here, Phil Courtney!" said Grit indignantly, "this is carrying the joke a little too far. You have taken my boat without leave or license from me, and now you actually claim it as your own. Do you mean to say that isn't the boat I have been rowing on this river for the last year?" "I never said it wasn't." "Isn't it the boat in which I carried you across the river yesterday?" "Of course." "Then what business had you to cut the rope and carry it off?" "I didn't." "Then how did you come by it?" "I bought it!" "Bought it!" exclaimed Grit and Jesse simultaneously. "Yes, I bought it, and it is mine," continued Phil, with a smile of triumph. "It's just as much mine to-day as it was yours yesterday." "I never sold it to you," said Grit, perplexed. "No, but your stepfather, Mr. Brandon, did. If the rope was cut, he cut it." "Can you prove this, Phil Courtney?" asked Grit. "If you will row up alongside, I will satisfy your curiosity." Jesse pulled his boat alongside, and Phil drew from his vest pocket a paper and handed it to Grit. "Read that," he said. Grit read as follows: "In consideration of five dollars, to me paid, I make over and sell the boat called the _Water Lily_ to Philip Courtney. NATHAN BRANDON." "There!" said Philip triumphantly, "what have you to say now?" CHAPTER XV. GRIT ENGAGES ANOTHER BOAT. When Phil displayed the bill of sale, made out in due form by Brandon, Grit was for the moment taken aback. "Whose boat is it now?" continued Phil triumphantly. "It is mine," answered Grit quietly; "for Mr. Brandon had no right to sell it." "I have nothing to do with that," said Phil. "He is your stepfather--you ought to feel proud of having a jail-bird in the family--and he told me the boat was his." "I shall not contest your claim at present," said Grit. "As long as it passes out of my hands, you may as well have it as any one." "I'll sell it back for ten dollars," said Phil, who had a keen scent for a bargain. "Thank you, I don't care to buy back my own property. Besides, Mr. Brandon would be ready to sell it again to-morrow. As to what you say of him, I shan't undertake to defend him. I am not particularly proud of the relationship." "What are you going to do for a boat to ferry your passengers?" asked Phil. "I don't know." "I'll let you this for fifty cents a day." "That would be about half of my receipts, and you would get your money back in ten days. I don't care about making such a bargain as that." "You'll have to give up your business, then," said Phil. "No, he won't," said Jesse Burns. "I will give him the use of mine, and won't charge him a cent." "Thank you, Jesse. You are a true friend," said Grit warmly. "You are doing me a great favor." "And I am glad to do it. Suppose we pull to land? There are three persons at the landing who look as if they wanted to be ferried across." Grit seized the oars and impelled the boat to land. As Jesse had said, there were three persons waiting, a gentleman and two ladies, who at once engaged the services of the young boatman. For this service he received thirty cents, and, finding two persons at the other end who wished to come to Chester, the first hour in his new boat brought him fifty cents. Grit's spirits rose. His misfortune was not irremediable, after all. He had feared that his means of living were taken away, and though he had money enough to buy a new boat, he did not dare to do so, lest Brandon should also sell that. "I'll give him a piece of my mind," he thought. "It's contemptible to come home and live on us, and then to take away my means of living." Meanwhile, Brandon had gone to the tavern, which he entered with a swagger, and immediately called for a glass of whisky. The barkeeper hesitated. "My orders are not to sell on credit," he said. "Who wants you to sell on credit?" asked Brandon haughtily. "You had no money last night." "I've got some now. What do you say to that?" and he displayed the five-dollar bill he had received from Phil Courtney. "That alters the case," said the barkeeper complaisantly. "Your money is as good as anybody's." "I should say so. Give me another." When Brandon left the barroom, he had spent a dollar, having drunk himself and treated others. "Wonder if Grit has found out about his boat?" he said to himself, with a waggish smile, as he walked homeward with unsteady steps. "Serves the boy right for treating me so disrespectfully." It was not much out of his way to go down to the margin of the river, and he did so. It happened that, as he reached it, Grit had just arrived from Portville with a second load of passengers. Fortune, as if to compensate him for his loss of a boat, had brought him an unusual number of passengers, so that he had already earned a dollar. When Brandon saw Grit engaged in his usual avocation, he opened wide his eyes in surprise. "Has the boy got his boat back again?" he asked himself. He was not familiar with the appearance of the boat, and the name had slipped from his recollection. Then, also, Jesse's boat looked very much like Grit's. When the passengers had walked away Brandon took measures to gratify his curiosity. "Where did you get that boat, Grit?" he asked. "Ah, it's you, is it?" said Grit, seeing his stepfather for the first time. "What business had you to sell my boat, Mr. Brandon?" "Ain't I your stepfather, I'd like to know?" retorted Brandon. "I am sorry to say you are," answered Grit; "but that doesn't give you any authority to steal and sell my boat." "Don't you dare to charge me with stealin', you--you young puppy!" exclaimed Brandon, indignantly. "If you had behaved as you ought to me, I wouldn't have meddled with your boat." "I understand you, Mr. Brandon. Because I wouldn't give you the money that I need to support my mother, you meanly and maliciously plot to take away my means of living." "You wouldn't give me your money to take care of for you." "You take care of my money for me!" returned Grit disdainfully. "I know very well how you would take care of it. You've already spent a part of the five dollars you received for stolen property at the tavern, and the result is that you can't walk straight." "You lie! I can walk as straight as you!" said Brandon, and proceeded to prove it by falling against a tree, and recovering his equilibrium with difficulty. "I see you can," said Grit sarcastically. "Of course I can. Where did you get that boat? Is it the same----" "The same you stole from me? No, it isn't." "Have you bought it?" inquired Brandon, with a cunning look. "No, I haven't, and I don't intend to buy another boat for you to sell. I have borrowed it of my friend, Jesse Burns." Mr. Brandon looked disappointed. He had thought the new boat would prove a second bonanza, and he was already considering whether he could find another purchaser for it. "Have you made much money this mornin', Grit?" next inquired Brandon, changing the conversation. "I decline to tell you," answered Grit shortly. "Grit, you don't seem to reflect that I am your stepfather, and set in authority over you." "I am not very likely to forget that I have a stepfather I am ashamed of," said Grit. "This is unkind, Grit," said Brandon, in a voice tremulous with maudlin sentiment. "Because I've been unfortunate, and have been shut out from all enjoyment for five years, you mock and insult me when I get home and pine for domestic happiness." "If you would behave decently, you wouldn't be reminded of the past," said Grit. "But how is it? You haven't been home but twenty-four hours, and have already borrowed all the money mother had, and have sold my boat, to gratify your taste for rum. There may be more contemptible men in the world, but I never met with one." "Grit, if you talk to me in that way," said Brandon, with attempted dignity, "I shall be under the necessity of flogging you." "You'd better not try it, Mr. Brandon. I wouldn't stand still while you were doing it. I promise you that." Just then two gentlemen came down to Phil's pier, and one asked: "Can you take us across to Portville?" "Yes, sir," answered Grit promptly. The two gentlemen got in, and Grit was about to push off, when Brandon said: "Stop, Grit; I'll go, too." "You'll have to wait, Mr. Brandon," said Grit coolly, and a determined push sent the boat out into the stream, and frustrated the design of his stepfather. "You don't want any more passengers, I see," said one of the gentlemen, smiling. "Not of that kind," answered Grit. "You are right. The man had evidently been drinking, and his presence would have been disagreeable to us." When the boat reached the opposite shore, the gentleman who had engaged him handed Grit half a dollar. Grit was about to offer change, but the passenger said: "No, keep the change, my lad. You'll find a use for it, I make no doubt." "After all," thought Grit, who did not forget to thank his liberal patron, "this isn't going to be so bad a day for me." Five minutes later a man with a heavy black beard and rather shabbily attired presented himself as a passenger. "I say, boy," said he, "do you know a man named Brandon that has recently gone to Chester?" "Yes," answered Grit. "All right. When we get over on the other side, you can just point out to me where he lives." CHAPTER XVI. MR. BRANDON'S FRIEND. It was clear that Grit's new passenger was a stranger in the neighborhood. Had he been a resident of Chester or Portville, the young boatman would have known him. It must be confessed, however, that the appearance of the newcomer was not such as to render any one anxious to make his acquaintance. He was a black-haired, low-browed man, with a cunning, crafty look, and, to sum up, with the general appearance of a tramp. He seated himself comfortably, and scanned the young boatman critically. "Where do you live?" he asked abruptly. "In Chester," answered Grit briefly. "That's where my friend Brandon lives, isn't it?" "Yes." "Do you know him?" "Yes." Grit felt reluctant to admit that any tie existed between himself and the returned convict. "Brandon's wife is living, isn't she?" "Yes." "There's a kid, isn't there?" "Mrs. Brandon has a son, if that's what you mean," said Grit. "Of course, that's what I mean. Mrs. Brandon got any property?" Grit was getting provoked. He did not fancy discussing his mother's affairs with a man of this stamp. "You seem to feel considerable interest in the family," he could not help saying. "S'pose I do! That's my business, isn't it?" "I suppose so," answered Grit. "Well, why don't you answer my question?" demanded the passenger impatiently. "I haven't agreed to answer your questions; I have engaged to row you across the river, and I am doing it." "Look here, boy!" said the passenger, bending his brows, "I don't want you to talk back to me--do you hear?" "Yes, I hear; but if you ask me questions I shall answer as I please." "You will, hey? I've a great mind to throw you into the river." "That wouldn't do you any good. You wouldn't get over any quicker, and, besides, you would find yourself under arrest before night." "And you would drown." "Not if I could help it. I can swim across the river easily." "You're a cool hand. Then you are not willing to answer my questions?" "I will, if you will answer mine." "Go ahead. I'll see about it." "Where did you meet Mr. Brandon?" "Where? Well, let that pass." It so happened that the two had first met as fellow prisoners--a confession the passenger did not care to make. Grit inferred this from the reluctance displayed in giving the answer. "What is your name?" "Thomas Travers," answered the passenger, rather slowly. "What is yours?" "Harry Morris." This answer revealed nothing, since Travers did not know the name of Brandon's wife before marriage. "Do you make much, ferrying passengers across the river?" "I do pretty well." "What is your fare?" "Ten cents." "Pretty good. I'd do it for that myself." "There's a chance to run opposition to me," said Grit, smiling. "I've got more important business on hand. So you know Brandon, do you?" "Yes, I know him." "Do you know his wife?" "Yes." "Has she property?" "She owns the small cottage she lives in." "Good!" said Travers, nodding. "That's luck for Brandon." "How is it?" asked Grit, desirous of drawing out Travers, as he probably knew Mr. Brandon's intentions, and it was important that these should be understood. "It's a good thing to have property in the family. My friend Brandon is short of funds, and he can sell the house, or raise money on it." "Without his wife's consent?" "Oh, she'll have to give in," said Travers nonchalantly. "We'll see about that," said Grit to himself, but he did not utter his thoughts aloud. By this time they had reached the opposite shore of the river, and Travers stepped out of the boat. He felt in his vest pocket, as a matter of form, but did not succeed in finding anything there. "I've got no change, boy," he said. "I'll get some from Brandon, and pay you to-morrow." "Mr. Brandon's credit isn't good with me," said Grit. "Ha, does he owe you money?" "I refused to take him across the river this morning," answered Grit. "Look here, young fellow, that isn't the way to carry on business. When you insult my friend Brandon, you insult me. I've a great mind never to ride across on your boat again." "I don't mind losing your patronage," repeated Grit. "It doesn't pay." "We'll discuss that another time. Where does my friend Brandon live?" "You can inquire," returned Grit, by no means anxious to point out the way to his mother's house to this objectionable stranger. "You're the most impudent boy I've met lately," said Travers angrily. "I'll settle you yet." "Better settle with me first, Mr. Travers," said Grit coolly, and he pushed his boat back into the stream. "I wonder who he is," thought Travers, as he walked away from the boat landing. "I must ask Brandon. I wish I could meet him. I'm precious short of funds, and I depend on him to take care of me for a few days." Thomas Travers passed by the little cottage on the bluff, quite unaware that it was the house he was in search of. He kept on his way toward the village, not meeting any one of whom he could ask the proper direction. At length, greatly to his relief, he espied in the distance the familiar figure of Brandon, walking, or, more properly, reeling, toward him. "That's he--that's my friend Brandon!" he exclaimed joyfully. "Now I'm all right. Say, old fellow, how are you?" "Is it you, Travers?" said Brandon, trying to steady himself. "Yes, it's I--Tom Travers." "When did you get out?" "Sh! Don't speak too loud!" said Travers, looking about him cautiously. "I got out two days after you." "What are you doing here?" "Just come. Come to see you, old boy. I can stay with you, can't I?" Brandon looked dubious. "I don't know what Mrs. B. will say," he answered slowly. "You're boss in your own house, ain't you?" "Well, that's where it is! It isn't my own house. It belongs to Mrs. B." "Same thing, I take it." "No, it isn't. The old lady's bound to keep it in her own hands." "Can't you sell or mortgage it?" "She won't let me." "Bah! Can't you control a woman?" returned Travers disdainfully. "I might, but for the cub." "The boy?" "Yes. He's the most obstinate, perverse, independent young kid you ever saw." "You don't say so!" "Fact! It's pretty hard on me." "Then he'll make a pretty good match for the boy I met this morning." "Where?" "The boy that ferried me across the river. He's as sassy a young kid as I ever saw." "Why, that's him--that's Grit." "Grit! He told me his name was Harry Morris." "So it is, and his mother was Mrs. Morris before I married her." "You don't mean to say that boy is your stepson?" "Yes, he is." "Whew!" whistled Travers. "Well, he doesn't seem to admire you very much," continued the visitor. "No, doesn't treat me with any respect. If it wasn't for him, I could manage his mother. He sets her against me, and gets her to stand out against anything I propose. It's hard, Travers," continued Brandon, showing an inclination to indulge in maudlin tears. "Then why do you submit to it, Brandon? Ain't you a match for a boy like that? Why, you ain't half the man I thought you was." "Ain't I? I was too much for Grit this morning, anyway," said Brandon, with a cunning smile. "What did you do?" "I sold his boat before he was up, and he had to borrow another." "Good!" exclaimed Travers, delighted. "You're a trump. Have you got any of the money left?" "A little." "Then steer for the tavern, old fellow. I'm awfully thirsty." The next hour was spent in the barroom, and then the worthy and well-matched pair bent their steps toward the little cottage, Travers supporting his friend Brandon as well as he could. CHAPTER XVII. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. Mrs. Brandon was laying the cloth for dinner when she heard a scuffling sound, as of footsteps, in the entry. "Who is with Mr. Brandon?" she thought. "It can't be Grit. They wouldn't be likely to come home together." Her uncertainty was soon at an end, for the door was opened, and her husband reeled in, sinking into the nearest chair, of necessity, for his limbs refused to support him. Just behind him was Mr. Thomas Travers, who was also under the influence of his recent potations, but not to the same extent as his companion. "How do, Mrs. B.?" said her liege lord. "Mrs. B., I have the pleasure of introducin' my frien' Travers. Come in, Travers." Mrs. Brandon surveyed the two with a look of disgust, and did not speak. "I hope I see you well, ma'am," said Travers, rather awkwardly, endeavoring, with some difficulty, to maintain an erect attitude. "Sorry to intrude, but my old friend Brandon insisted." "You can come in if you like," said Mrs. Brandon coldly. "I say, Mrs. B., is dinner almost ready? My frien', Mr. Travers, is hungry, an' so'm I." "Dinner is nearly ready. I suppose, Mr. Brandon, you have just come from the tavern." "Yes, Mrs. B., I've come from the tavern," hiccoughed Brandon. "Have you anything to say against it?" "I would say something if it would do any good," said his wife despondently. "If you think--hic--that I've been drinking Mrs. B., you're mistaken; ain't she, Travers?" "You didn't drink enough to hurt you, Brandon," said his companion, coming to his assistance. Mrs. Brandon looked at Travers, but did not deign to answer him. It was clear that his assurance possessed no value in her eyes. She continued her preparations, and laid the dinner on the table. Then she went to the door, and, shading her eyes, looked out, hoping to see Grit on his way home. But she looked in vain. Just as he was about fastening his boat, or, rather, the boat he had borrowed, two passengers came up and wished to be conveyed across the river. "My dinner can wait," thought Grit. "I must not disappoint passengers." So his coming home was delayed, and Brandon and his friend had the field to themselves. When dinner was ready, Brandon staggered to the table and seated himself. "Sit down, Travers," he said. "You're in my house, and you must make yourself at home." He said this a little defiantly, for he saw by Mrs. Brandon's expression that she was not pleased with his friend's presence. "I'm glad to hear it," said Travers, with a knowing smile. "I was told that the house belonged to your wife." "It's the same thing, isn't it, Mrs. B.?" returned Brandon. "Not quite," answered his wife bitterly. "If it were, we should not have a roof over our heads." "There you go again!" said Brandon fiercely, pounding the table with the handle of his knife. "Don't let me hear no more such talk. I'm master here, d'ye hear that?" "That's the talk, Brandon!" said Travers approvingly. "I like to hear a man show proper independence. Of course you're master here." Mrs. Brandon was of a gentle nature, but she was roused to resentment by this rudeness. Turning to Travers, she said: "I don't know who you are, sir, but your remarks are offensive and displeasing." "I'm the friend of my friend Brandon," said Travers insolently, "and as long as he don't complain of my remarks, I shall remark what I please. What d'ye say, Brandon?" "Quite right, Travers, old boy! You're in my house, and I expect you to be treated accordingly. Mrs. B., you will be kind enough to remember that this gen'leman is a frien' of mine," and Brandon closed the sentence with a drunken hiccough. "I think it necessary to say that this house belongs to me," said Mrs. Brandon, "and that no one is welcome here who does not treat me with respect." "Spunky, eh?" said Travers, laughing rudely. "Yes, she's spunky," said Brandon, "but we'll cure her of that, eh, Travers?--the same way as I cured that boy of hers." "That was good!" laughed Travers. "He's an impudent young rascal." Mrs. Brandon was alarmed. What did they mean by these references? What had been done to Grit, and how had he been served? Was it possible that Brandon had dared to use violence to the boy? The very thought hardened her, and gave her courage. "Mr. Brandon," she said, with flashing eyes, "what do you mean? What have you done to Grit? Have you dared to illtreat him? If you have, it will be a bad day's work for you." "Ha! She threatens you, Brandon. Now, brace up, man, and show your spunk," said Travers, enjoying the scene. "I'm not accountable to you, Mrs. B.," stammered Brandon, in what he essayed to make a dignified tone. "Grit is my stepson, and I'm his natural guardian." "Mr. Brandon, what have you done to Grit?" persisted his wife, with flashing eyes. "Have you dared to lay a finger upon him?" "I'll lay two fingers, three fingers, on him, if I like," said Brandon doggedly. "He's a sassy puppy, Mrs. B." Mrs. Brandon became more and more anxious. Generally, Grit was home by this time, and his failure to appear led the anxious mother to conclude that he had been injured by her husband. "Where is Grit?" she asked, with startling emphasis. "He's all right," stammered Brandon. "He's all right, but he isn't happy," said Travers, laughing. "That was a good move of yours, selling his boat." "Did you sell Grit's boat, Mr. Brandon?" demanded his wife quickly. "Yes, I did, Mrs. B. Have you got anything to say against it?" "I say that it was a mean, contemptible, dishonest act!" said Mrs. Brandon warmly. "You have taken away the poor boy's means of living, in order to gratify your love of drink. The food which you are eating was bought with his earnings. How do you expect to live, now that you have taken away his boat?" "He'll get along; he's got sixty dollars," said Brandon thickly. "Sixty dollars won't last forever. To whom did you sell the boat?" "Phil Courtney." "He was just the boy to buy it. Little he cared for the harm he was doing my poor Grit. How much did he pay you?" "Five dollars." "And how much of the money have you got left?" Brandon drew out two silver half-dollars from his pocket. "That's all I've got left," he said. "And you have actually squandered four dollars on liquor, you and your friend!" said Mrs. Brandon--"nearly the whole sum you received for my poor boy's boat!" "Hush up, Mrs. B.! It's none of your business," said Brandon. "That's the way to talk, Brandon!" said Travers, surveying the scene with boorish delight. "I like to see a man show the proper spirit of a man. I like to see a man master in his own house." "You would not insult me so if Grit were here!" said Mrs. Brandon, with a red spot on either cheek. "Mr. Brandon, I tolerate your presence here, because I was foolish enough to accept you as my husband. As for this man whom you have brought here, he is unwelcome. He has dared to insult me while sitting at my table, and I ask him in your presence to leave the house." "Travers is my frien'; he will stay here, Mrs. B., and don't you forget it!" Brandon pounded the table as he spoke, and nodded his head vigorously. "Sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Brandon," said Travers impudently, "but when my friend Brandon tells me to stay, stay I must. If you don't enjoy my being here, let me suggest to you, in the politest manner, to go and take a walk. Eh, Brandon?" "Yes, go take a walk!" said Brandon, echoing his friend's remark. "I'll have you to know, Mrs. B., that this is my house, an' I am master here. My frien' Travers will stay here as long as he pleases." "That's the talk, Brandon. I knew you weren't under petticoat government. You're too much of a man for that." "Yesh, I'm too much of a man for that," said Brandon sleepily. Travers took from his pocket a clay pipe, and, deliberately filling the bowl with tobacco, began to smoke. As he leaned back in his chair, winking insolently at Mrs. Brandon, the poor woman cried: "Will no one relieve me from this insolent intruder?" The words caught the ears of Grit, who entered at this moment. He looked from one to the other of the two men who sat at his mother's table, and his eyes flashed, and his boyish form dilated with passion. CHAPTER XVIII. A STORMY TIME. "What does this mean?" demanded Grit, in a stern voice. "What have these men been doing?" "Oh, Grit, I am glad you are here!" said his mother. "Mr. Brandon has brought this man here against my will, and he has treated me rudely." Travers looked round and saw the boy. "Hello, my young friend!" he said. "You didn't tell me that my friend Brandon was your stepfather." "Because I was ashamed of it," answered Grit promptly. "D'ye hear that, Brandon?" said Travers. "The boy says he is ashamed of you." "I'll settle with him when I feel better," said Brandon, who realized that he was not in a condition even to deal with a boy. "He's a bad-mannered cub, an' deserves a floggin'." "You won't give it to me!" said Grit contemptuously. "What is the name of this man you have brought into the house?" "He's my frien' Travers," answered Brandon. "My frien' Travers is a gen'l'man." "A gentleman isn't insolent to ladies," retorted Grit. "Mr. Travers, if that is your name, my mother wishes you to leave the house." "Couldn't do it," said Travers, leering. "My frien' Brandon wants me to stay--don't you, Brandon?" "Certainly, Travers. This is my house, an' I'm master of the house. Don't you mind what Mrs. B. or this cub says. Just stay where you are, and stand by me." "I'll do it with pleasure," said Travers. "My friend Brandon is the master of this house, and what he says I will do." "Mr. Travers," said Grit firmly, "you shall not stay here. This house belongs to my mother, and she wishes you to go. I suppose you can understand that?" "My dear boy, you may as well shut up. I shan't go." "You won't!" said Grit menacingly. "Oh, Grit, don't get into any difficulty," said his mother, becoming alarmed. Travers puffed away at his pipe, surveying Grit with an insulting smile. "Listen to your mother, boy!" he said. "She talks sense." "Mother," said Grit quietly, "will you be kind enough to go up-stairs for five minutes? I will deal with these men." "I will go if you think it best, Grit; but do be cautious. I am sure Mr. Travers will see the impropriety of his remaining here against my wishes." "I may see it in a few days," said Travers insolently. "Don't trouble yourself, ma'am. The law is on my side, and I am the guest of my friend Brandon. Isn't that so, Brandon?" "To be sure, Travers," said Brandon, in a drowsy tone. "Mr. Brandon's friends are not welcome here," said Grit, "nor is he himself welcome." "That's an unkind thing for your own boy to say," said Brandon, in a tone which he tried to make pathetic. "Because I've been unfortunate, my own family turn against me." "If you had behaved decently, Mr. Brandon, we would have tolerated your presence," said Grit; "but during the short time you have been here, you have annoyed and robbed my mother and myself, and spent the money you stole at the tavern. We have had enough of you!" "Do you hear that, Travers?" asked Brandon, by a ludicrous transition shedding maudlin tears. "Do you hear that ungrateful boy?" Meanwhile, Mrs. Brandon, in accordance with Grit's request, had left the room. Grit felt that the time had come for decisive measures. He was not a quarrelsome boy, nor was he given to fighting, but he had plenty of spirit, and he was deeply moved and provoked by the insolence of Travers. Some consideration he perhaps owed to his mother's husband; but to his disreputable companion, none whatever. "Mr. Travers," he said, with cool determination, turning toward the intruder, "did you hear me say that my mother desired you to leave the house?" "I don't care that for your mother!" said Travers, snapping his fingers. "My friend Brandon----" He did not complete the sentence. Grit could not restrain himself when he heard this insolent defiance of his mother, and, without a moment's hesitation, he approached Travers, with one sweep of his arm dashed the pipe he was smoking into a hundred pieces, and, seizing the astonished visitor by the shoulders, pushed him forcibly to the door and thrust him out. Travers was so astonished that he was quite unable to resist, nor indeed was he a match for the strong and muscular boy in his present condition. "Well, that beats all I ever heard of!" he muttered, as he stumbled into a sitting position on the door-step. Brandon stared at Grit and his summary proceeding in a dazed manner. "Wha--what's all this, Grit?" he asked, trying to rise from his chair. "How dare you treat my friend Travers so rudely?" Grit's blood was up. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled with resentment. "Mr. Brandon," he said, "we have borne with you, my mother and I, but this has got to stop. When you bring one of your disreputable friends here to insult my mother, you've got me to deal with. Don't you dare bring that man here again!" This was, I admit, rather a singular tone for a boy of Grit's age to assume, but it must be considered what provocation he had. Circumstances had made him feel older than he really was. For nearly five years he had been his mother's adviser, protector, and dependence, and he felt indignant through and through at the mean and dastardly course of his stepfather. "Don't be sassy, Grit," said Brandon, slipping back into his chair. "I'm the master of this house." "That is where you are mistaken, Mr. Brandon," said Grit. "Perhaps you are," retorted Brandon, with mild sarcasm. "This house has no master. My mother is the mistress and owner," said Grit. "I'm goin' to flog you, Grit, when I feel better." "I'm willing to wait," said Grit calmly. Here there was an interruption. The ejected guest rose from his sitting posture on the steps, and essayed to lift the latch and gain fresh admittance. He failed, for Grit, foreseeing the attempt, had bolted the door. Finding he could not open the door, Travers rattled the latch and called out: "Open the door, Brandon, and let me in!" "Open the door, Grit," said his stepfather, not finding it convenient to rise. "I refuse to do so, Mr. Brandon," said Grit, in a firm tone. "Why don't you let me in?" was heard from the outside, as Travers rattled the latch once more. "I'll have to open it myself," said Brandon, half rising and trying to steady himself. The attempt was vain, for he had already drunk more than was good for him when he met Travers, and had drunk several glasses on top of that. Instead of going to the door, he sank helpless and miserable on the floor. "That disposes of him," said Grit, eying the prostrate form with a glance of disgust and contempt. "I shall be able to manage the other one now with less trouble." "Let me in, Brandon!" repeated Travers, beginning to pound on the door. Grit went to a window on a line with the door, and, raising it, looked out at the besieging force. "Mr. Travers," he said, "you may as well go away; you won't get back into the house." "My friend Brandon will let me in. You're only a boy. My friend Brandon is the master of the house. He will let me in." "Your friend Brandon is lying on the floor, drunk, and doesn't hear you," said Grit. "Then I'll let myself in!" said Travers, with an oath. He picked up a rock, and began to pound the door, to the imminent danger of breaking the panels. "There's more than one way to get in. When I get in, I'll mash you!" The time had come for decisive action. Drunk as he was, Travers would sooner or later break down the door, and then there would be trouble. Grit seized an old pistol which lay on the mantel-piece. It had long been disused, and was so rusty that it was very doubtful whether any use could have been made of it. Still it presented a formidable appearance, as the young boatman pointed it at Travers. "Stop pounding that door, or I fire!" Grit exclaimed, in a commanding tone. Travers turned quickly at the word, and as he saw the rusty weapon pointed at him, his small stock of courage left him, and he turned pale, for he was a coward at heart. "For the Lord's sake, don't fire!" he cried hastily. CHAPTER XIX. TRAVERS PICKS UP A FRIEND. Travers looked the picture of fright as he beheld the rusty pistol which Grit pointed at him. "Don't fire, for the Lord's sake!" he repeated, in alarm. "Will you go away, then, and give up troubling us?" demanded the young boatman sternly. "Yes, yes, I'll go," said Travers hurriedly. "Lower that pistol. It might go off." Grit lowered the weapon, as desired, seeing that Travers was likely to keep his word. "Tell Brandon I want to see him. I will be at the tavern this afternoon at four o'clock." "I'll tell him," said Grit, who preferred that his stepfather should be anywhere rather than at home. Having got rid of Travers, Grit turned to survey his stepfather, who was lying on the floor, breathing heavily. His eyes were closed, and he seemed in a drunken stupor. "How long have we got to submit to this?" thought Grit. "I must go up and consult with mother about what is to be done." He went up-stairs, and found his mother seated in her chamber, nervously awaiting the issue of the interview between Grit and the worthy pair below. "Are they gone, Grit?" she asked quickly. "Travers is gone, mother. I turned him out of the house." "Did you have any trouble with him?" "I should have had, but he was too weak to resist me, on account of having drunk too much." "I thought I heard him pounding on the door." "So he did, but I frightened him away with the old pistol," and Grit laughed at the remembrance. "He thought it was loaded." "He may come back again," said Mrs. Brandon apprehensively. "Yes, he may. Brandon is likely to draw such company. I wish we could get rid of him, too." "What a fatal mistake I made in marrying that man!" said Mrs. Brandon mournfully. "That is true, mother but it can't be helped now. The question is, what shall we do?" "Where is he?" "Lying on the floor, drunk," said Grit, in a tone of disgust. "We may as well leave him there for the present." "He has hardly been home twenty-four hours, yet how he has changed our quiet life. If he would only reform!" "Not much chance of that, mother." "What shall we do, Grit?" asked Mrs. Brandon, who was wont to come to Grit, young as he was, for advice. "I have thought of two ways. I might buy him a ticket for Boston, if I thought he would use it. It would be of no use to give him the money, or he would spend it at the tavern instead." "If he would only leave us to ourselves, it would a blessing." "If he won't hear of that, there is another way." "What is it?" "I could engage board for you and myself at the house of one of our neighbors for a week." "What good would that do, Grit?" "You would prepare no meals at home, and Mr. Brandon would be starved out. While he can live upon us, and raise money to buy liquor at the tavern, there is little chance of getting rid of him." "I don't know, Grit. It seems a harsh thing to do." "But consider the circumstances, mother. We can't allow him to continue annoying us as he has done." "Do as you think best, Grit." "Then I will go over to Mrs. Sprague's and ask if she will take us for a few days. That will probably be sufficient." Going down-stairs, Grit saw his stepfather still lying on the floor. Grit's step aroused him, and he lifted his head. "'S'that you Grit?" he asked, in thick accents. "Yes, sir." "Where's my frien' Travers?" "He's gone." "Where's he gone?" "To the tavern. He said he would meet you there at four o'clock." "What time is it?" asked Brandon, trying to get up. "Two o'clock." "I'll be there. You tell him so, Grit." "I will if I see him." Grit went on his way to Mrs. Sprague's, and had no difficulty in making the arrangement he desired for his mother and himself, when she learned that Mr. Brandon was not to come, too. "I feel for your mother, Grit," she said. "If I can help her in this trial, I certainly will." "Thank you, Mrs. Sprague. I will return and tell her. Perhaps she may come over by the middle of the afternoon. I don't like to leave her alone in the house with Mr. Brandon." "She will be welcome whenever she comes, Grit." "You had better go over at once, mother," said Grit, on his return. "A drunken man is not fit company for you." Mrs. Brandon was easily persuaded to take the step recommended, and her husband was left in the house alone. Meanwhile, Travers went on his way to the tavern. It was rather a serious thing for him to be turned out of his friend's house, for he had but a scanty supply of money, and his appearance was not likely to give him credit. "Confound that boy!" he muttered. "He's just reckless enough to shoot me, if I don't give up to him. I pity Brandon, having such a son as that." It would have been more in order to pity Grit for having such a stepfather, but Travers looked upon the matter from his own point of view, which, it is needless to say, was influenced by his own interests. "Will they take me at the tavern?" he thought to himself. "If they won't, I shall have to sleep out, and that would be hard for a gentleman like me." When we are in a tight place, help often comes from unexpected quarters, and this to those who hardly deserve such a favor. So it happened in the case of Travers. As he was walking slowly along, his face wrinkled with perplexity, he attracted the attention of a tall man, dressed in black, who might readily have passed for a clergyman, so far as his externals went. He crossed the street, and accosted Travers. "My friend," he said, "you appear to be in trouble." "So I am," answered Travers readily. "Of what nature?" "I've just been turned out of the house of the only friend I have in the village, and I don't know where to go." "Go to the tavern." "So I would if I had money enough to pay my score. You haven't got five dollars to spare, have you?" Travers had no expectation of being answered in the affirmative, and he was surprised, as well as gratified, when the stranger drew out his wallet, and, taking therefrom a five-dollar bill, put it into his hand. "There," said he. "Well!" exclaimed the astonished Travers, "you're a gentleman if ever there was one. May I know the name of such an--an ornament to his species?" The stranger smiled. "I am glad you appreciate my little favor," he said. "As to my name, you may call me Colonel Johnson." "Proud to know you, colonel," said Travers, clasping the hand of his new acquaintance warmly. "What is your name?" asked Johnson. "Thomas Travers." "I am glad to know you, Mr. Travers," said the colonel. "Let me drop you a hint. There's more money where that came from." "You couldn't lend me any more, could you?" asked Travers eagerly. "Well, not exactly lend, Mr. Travers, but perhaps we can enter into a little business arrangement." "All right, colonel," said Travers briskly. "I'm out of business. Fact is, I've been in seclusion lately--confined to the house in fact, and haven't been able to earn anything." "Just so. Suppose we take a walk in yonder field, and I will tell you what I have in view." They got over a fence, and walked slowly along a path that led a quarter of a mile farther on into the woods. Here they sat down under a tree, and Colonel Johnson, producing a couple of cigars and a match, said: "I can always talk better when I am smoking. Have one, Travers." "You're a man after my own heart, colonel," said Travers enthusiastically. "Now, if I only had a nip I should be in clover." "Take one, then," said the colonel, producing a pocket-flask of brandy. Travers was by no means bashful in accepting this invitation. CHAPTER XX. A PROMISING PLAN. The conference between Colonel Johnson and Travers was apparently of great interest to the latter. It is important that the reader should be made acquainted with its nature. "I take it for granted, Mr. Travers," said the colonel, after their potation, "that you are ready to undertake a job if there is money in it." "That's as true as you live," said Travers emphatically. "Am I also right in concluding that you are not squeamish as to how the money is earned? You are not overburdened with conscientious scruples, eh?" "Not much! They're all nonsense," returned Travers. "Good! I see you are the sort of a man I took you for. Now you must, to begin with, promise that you will regard as confidential what I am about to say to you." "Tom Travers can be relied upon, colonel. He's safe every time." "Good again! Then I shall not hesitate to unfold to you my little plan. I believe you have a bank in the village?" "Yes; but, colonel, I am a stranger here. I only know one person here--my friend Brandon." "Is he--the same kind of a man as yourself?" inquired Johnson. "The same identical kind, colonel. What is it Shakespeare, or some other poet, says: "'Two flowers upon a single stalk, Two hearts that beat as one.'" "I compliment you on your knowledge of poetry, Mr. Travers. I didn't think it was in you." Travers looked complimented. "I've had an education, colonel," he said complacently, "though circumstances have been against me for the last four years. As for my friend Brandon, he's one you can rely upon." "I shall probably require his services as well as yours," said Johnson. "Now let me proceed. You agree with me that bank capitalists are grasping monopolists, that they grind down the poor man, and live in luxury at the expense of the poor laborer." "Just my notion, colonel!" "And whatever we can get out of them is what they richly deserve to lose?" "Just so!" "Well and good! I see you agree with me. And now, friend Travers, I will tell you what I have in view, and why it is that I need the services of two gentlemen like you and your friend. The fact is"--here Johnson dropped the mask, being assured of the character of his listener--"there's a good haul to be made within three days--a haul which, if successful, will make all three of us easy in our circumstances for years to come." "Go ahead, colonel. I'm with you, and my friend Brandon, too. I'll answer for him. We both need a lift mightily." "I learn--no matter how"--said Johnson, lowering his voice, "that a messenger from the bank goes to Boston day after to-morrow with a package of thirty thousand dollars in government bonds. He's to carry them to the Merchant's National Bank in Boston. These bonds are not registered, but coupon bonds, and can easily be sold. They are at a premium of fifteen or sixteen per cent., which would bring up the value to nearly or quite thirty-five thousand dollars." Travers listened with eager interest. He began to understand the service that was expected of him, but it did not apparently shock him. "Well?" he said. "My plan," continued Colonel Johnson, "is for you and your friend to follow this bank messenger, and between here and Boston to relieve him of this package. You will meet me at a spot agreed upon in or near the city, and I will take the package." "You will take the package?" repeated Travers blankly. "Yes, but I will reward you liberally for your service. You and Brandon will each receive from me, in case the affair succeeds, the sum of five thousand dollars." "I thought we would share and share alike," said Travers, in a tone of disappointment. "Nonsense, man! Isn't it my plan? Am I to reap no benefit from my own conception? Besides, shall I not have the care and responsibility of disposing of the bonds? This will involve danger." "So will our part involve danger," objected Travers. "That is true, but your hazard is small. There will be two of you to one bank messenger. Besides, I take it for granted that you will be adroit enough to relieve the messenger without his knowing anything about it. When he discovers his loss you will be out of sight. It strikes me you will be rewarded very handsomely for the small labor imposed upon you." Travers made a further effort to secure better terms, but his new acquaintance was firm in refusing them. The result was, that Travers unconditionally accepted for himself and Brandon. "When shall you see your friend Brandon, as you call him?" inquired the colonel. "This very afternoon," answered Travers promptly. "Good! I like your promptness." "That is, if I can," continued Travers, a shade doubtfully, for he remembered the summary manner in which he had been ejected from the house of his congenial companion and friend. "Very well. Then we will postpone further debate till you have done so. I shall stay at the tavern here, and you can readily find me." "I will stay there, too. I was staying with my friend Brandon, but his wife and her son did not treat me well, and I left them. They want to separate us--old friends as we are." "They are jealous of you," suggested Johnson, smiling. "Just so, but I'll euchre them yet." The two walked together to the road, and there they separated, Johnson suggesting that it might be prudent for them not to be seen together too much. Travers assented, and turned back in the direction of the house he had recently left under rather mortifying circumstances. "The boy'll be gone to his boat," he thought, "and I don't care for the old lady. She doesn't like me, but I can stand that. I must see my friend Brandon, if I can." Although Travers decided that Grit had returned to his boat, he approached the house cautiously. He thought it possible that Grit might still be on guard with the formidable pistol which he had pointed at him an hour or more earlier, and he did not like the looks of the weapon. "It might go off!" he thought. "That plaguy boy is awfully reckless, and he wouldn't mind shooting a gentleman, if he felt like it. I'd like to pitch him into the water, pistol and all," he ejaculated fervently, in conclusion. As I have said, Travers approached the little cottage with cautious steps. Drawing near, he listened to see if he could hear any sound of voices that would betray the presence of the boy he wished to avoid. All was still. Nothing was to be heard but the deep breathing of Brandon, who still lay on the floor in a stupor. Grit was back at his boat, and Mrs. Brandon had already left the house and gone to spend the remainder of the afternoon with her neighbor. Brandon was, therefore, the only occupant of the cottage. "I hear my friend Brandon," said Travers to himself. "I can hear nothing of the boy. He must be away." By way of ascertaining definitely, Travers moved round to the window and peered in. He caught sight of the prostrate figure of Brandon, but could see no one else. "It's all right," he said to himself, in a satisfied tone. He tried the door, and found it unlocked. He entered, and stooping over, seized Brandon by the shoulder, and called him loudly by name. "I say, Brandon, wake up!" "Go away, Grit," said Brandon drowsily. "It isn't Grit. It's I--your friend Travers," said that gentleman. "Thought my friend Travers was gone," muttered Brandon, opening his eyes. "So I did go, but I've come back. I want to see you on important business." "'Portant business?" repeated Brandon. "Yes, very important business. Do you want to earn five thousand dollars?" "Five thousand dollars!" said Brandon, roused by this startling inquiry. "'Course I do." "Then rouse yourself, and I'll tell you all about it. Here, let me bring you some water, and you can dip your face in it. It will bring you to yourself sooner than anything else." Brandon acceded to the proposal, and was soon in a clearer state of mind. Travers proceeded to unfold his plan, after learning that Mrs. Brandon was out; but he had a listener he did not know of. Grit had come home for something he had forgotten, and, with his ear to the keyhole, heard the whole plot. He listened attentively. When all was told, he said to himself: "I'll foil them, or my name isn't Grit!" CHAPTER XXI. MR. BRANDON LOSES HIS SUPPER. When Brandon and Travers had discussed the plan, and decided to accept the terms offered by Colonel Johnson, the latter, looking cautiously about, inquired: "Where's the boy?" "Out with the boat, I expect," said Brandon. "He's a little ruffian. I never saw such a desperate boy of his age." "He managed you neatly," said Brandon, with a smile. "Pooh!" returned Travers, who did not like the allusion. "I didn't want to hurt the boy." "He didn't want to harm you," said Brandon, with an exasperating smile. "I could wind him round my finger," said Travers disdainfully. "You don't think I'm afraid of that half-grown cub, I hope." Grit heard this, and smiled to himself at the evident annoyance of Travers. "As to winding me round his finger," thought the young boatman, "I may have something to say about that." Brandon did not continue his raillery, not wishing to provoke the friend who had secured him participation in so profitable a job. "Where's the old lady?" asked Travers, with a glance toward the staircase. "I believe she's gone out, but I'll see." Brandon went to the foot of the stairs, and called: "Mrs. B.!" There was no response. "Yes, she's gone, and the coast is clear. Where are you staying, Travers?" "I s'pose I'll have to stay at the hotel, unless you can provide for me here." "You'd better go to the tavern, for there might be trouble about keepin' you here. Mrs. B. and the boy don't like you." "I thought you were master of the house," said Travers, with mild sarcasm. "So I am," answered Brandon, a little embarrassed, "but I don't want to be in hot water all the time." "You don't want me to stay to supper, I reckon." "Well, I guess not to-night. Fact is, I don't know when we shall have supper. Mrs. B. ought to be here gettin' it ready." "Come out and have a walk, Brandon. I will introduce you to Colonel Johnson, and we can talk this thing over." "All right. That'll take up the time till supper." The two men walked over to the tavern, and Colonel Johnson walked out with them. They had a conference together, but it is not necessary to give the details here. A little after six o'clock Brandon directed his steps homeward. "I'll be a little late to supper," he said to himself, "but Mrs. B. will save some for me. I feel confoundedly hungry. Must be in the air. There's nothing like country air to give a man a good appetite." Brandon opened the door of the cottage, and went in. All was quiet and solitary, as he had left it. "Well. I'll be blowed!" he ejaculated. "What does all this mean? Where's Mrs. B., and where's supper?" He sat down, and looked about him in surprise and bewilderment. "What has become of Mrs. B.?" he thought. "She hasn't gone and left me, just when I've come home after an absence of five years? That boy can't have carried her off, can he?" Brandon did not have long to debate this question in his own mind, for the door opened, and Grit and his mother entered. Brandon was relieved, but he could not forbear expressing his vexation. "Well, Mrs. B.," he said, "this I call pretty goings on. Are you aware that it is nearly seven o'clock, ma'am?" "I supposed it was," answered his wife quietly. "And you've left me to starve here, ma'am! This is a strange time for supper." "We've had supper," answered Grit coolly. "Had supper!" ejaculated Brandon, looking about him. "I don't see any signs of supper." "You won't see any signs of it here," continued Grit. "What do you mean?" "I mean that mother and I have engaged board at Mrs. Sprague's. We have just had supper there." "You have! Well, that's a new start. It doesn't matter much, though. I'll go over and get mine." "We haven't made any arrangements for you," said Grit. "I shall pay for mother's board and mine. You can make any bargain you like for your board." "Well, if that isn't the meanest treatment I ever received!" exclaimed Brandon, in wrath and disgust. "You actually begrudge me the little I eat, and turn me adrift in the cold world!" "That's one way of looking at it, Mr. Brandon," said Grit. "Here's the other: You are a strong man, in good health, and able to work. Most men in your position expect to support a family, but you come to live upon my earnings, and expect me not only to provide you with board, but with money for the purpose of drink. That isn't all! You bring home one of your disreputable companions, and expect us to provide for him, too. Now, I am willing to work for mother, and consider it a privilege to do so, but I can't do any more. If you don't choose to contribute to the support of the family, you must at least take care of yourself. I am not going to do it." "How hard and unfeeling you are, Grit!" said Brandon, in the tone of a martyr. "After all I have suffered in the last five years you treat me like this." "As to the last five years, Mr. Brandon," said Grit, "I should think you would hardly care to refer to them. It was certainly your own fault that you were not as free as I am." "I was a victim of circumstances," whined Brandon. "We won't discuss that," said Grit. "You had a fair trial, and were sentenced to five years' imprisonment. About the unkindness. I should like to know what you think of a man who deliberately takes away the means of earning a living from his stepson, who is filling his place, and supporting his family, in order to gratify his miserable love of drink." "You drove me to it, Grit." "How did I drive you to it?" "You would not give me from your overflowing hoards, when I felt sick and in need of a mild stimulus. You had sixty dollars, and would not spare me one." "So you sold my boat for half price, and squandered nearly the whole proceeds in one forenoon!" exclaimed Grit scornfully. "Mr. Brandon, your reasoning is altogether too thin. We have decided to leave you to support yourself as you can." Here the glowing prospects offered by the plan suggested by Colonel Johnson occurred to Brandon, and his tone changed. "You may find you have made a mistake, Grit, you and Mrs. B.," said Brandon pompously. "You have snubbed and illtreated me because you looked upon me as a poor, destitute, friendless man. It's the way of the world! But you may regret it, and that very soon. What will you say when I tell you that I have a chance to earn five thousand dollars in the next five days, eh?" Mrs. Brandon looked surprised, for Grit had not thought it wise to confide to his mother what he had heard of the conversation between Travers and his stepfather. Grit, on the other hand, was immediately interested, for the compensation offered was one of the things he had not overheard. "Five thousand dollars!" he repeated, appearing to be surprised. "Yes, five thousand dollars!" repeated Brandon complacently. "That's a thousand dollars a day! Perhaps you won't be so anxious to get rid of me when I am worth my thousands." "That's pretty good pay," said Grit quietly. "What have you got to do?" "That would be telling," said Brandon cunningly. "It's a joint speculation of my friend Travers and myself--my friend Travers, whom you treated so badly. It's he that's brought me this fine offer, and you insult and order him out of the house. You were just as bad as Grit, Mrs. B." "You are welcome to all you make, Mr. Brandon," said Grit. "Neither my mother nor myself will ask a penny of the handsome sum you expect to make. You can spend it all on yourself if you like. All we ask is, that you will take care of yourself, and leave us alone." "I mean to do so," said Brandon independently, "but, as I shan't get the money for three or four days, I should like to borrow five dollars, and I'll repay you double within a week." "That's a very generous offer," said Grit, "but I don't lend without better security." "Isn't there anything to eat in the house, Mrs. B.?" asked Brandon, changing the subject. "I'm famished." "You will find some cold meat, and bread, and butter in the pantry." Brandon went to the pantry, and satisfied his appetite as well as he could. He then went out, and Grit soon followed. "Mother," he said, "I have an important call to make, but will be back soon." It will be remembered that Mr. Courtney had formerly been president of the bank, but proving unpopular in consequence of his disposition to manage it in his own interest, Mr. Philo Graves, a manufacturer, was put in his place. To the house of Mr. Graves Grit directed his steps. CHAPTER XXII. BANK OFFICIALS IN COUNCIL. Mr. Graves was at home, but he was not alone. Mr. Courtney had dropped in, and as he was still a director of the bank, it was natural that the conversation should turn upon affairs of the bank in which he and Mr. Graves had a common interest. Though no longer president, Mr. Courtney was still anxious to control the affairs of the bank, and to make it of as much service to himself as possible. He had recently become interested in certain speculative securities, through a firm of Wall Street brokers, and finding himself rather cramped for money, desired to obtain a loan on them from the bank. To this end he had sought a preliminary interview with Mr. Graves, previous to making a formal application to the full board of directors. "You are aware, Mr. Courtney," said the president, "that to grant your request would be contrary to the general usage of the bank." "I ought to know the usage of the bank, having served as president for three years," said Mr. Courtney. "In my time such loans were made." Mr. Graves was aware of this, but he was also aware that such loans had been made on the former president's sole authority, and either to himself or some one of his friends, and that it was on account of this very circumstance that he had been removed from office. "I know that such loans were made, but I am equally certain that such a course would not meet the approval of the directors." "But," insinuated Mr. Courtney, "if you openly favored it, and my vote as director was given, we could probably influence enough other votes to accomplish our object." "I cannot say whether this would or would not follow," said Mr. Graves, "but I am bound to say for myself that I cannot recommend, or vote for, granting such a loan." "Perhaps you think I am not responsible," said Mr. Courtney, irritated. "I presume you are, but that ought not to be considered, when the question is about violating our fixed usage." "It seems to me, considering my official connection with the bank, that a point might be strained in my favor." "That is not my view, Mr. Courtney; although I am now president, I should not care to ask any special favor of the bank. I prefer to be treated like any other customer." Mr. Courtney mentally voted Graves slow and behind the times. In his views, one great advantage of holding a high financial position was to favor himself and his own interests, without special regard to the welfare of the corporation or stockholders. "You wouldn't find many bank presidents agree with you, Mr. Graves," said Courtney impatiently. "I am sorry to hear it," returned the president gravely. "It seems to me that I owe a duty to the stockholders of the bank which ought to override any personal considerations." "You are very quixotic in your ideas," said Courtney coldly. "I am sure I am right, at any rate," returned Graves firmly. "I consider your refusal unfriendly--nay, more, I think it is calculated to throw suspicion on my financial position." "Not at all. I have no reason to doubt your financial stability, and as to the unkindness, when I distinctly state that I would not ask such a favor for myself, you will see that I am disposed to treat you as well as myself." "It may be so," sneered Courtney, "but I presume you are not at present in need of a personal loan, and--circumstances alter cases, you know." "If you mean that I shall at any future time ask favors for myself, which, I am not disposed to grant to you, you are mistaken," said the president. "My financial position is as strong as yours," said Courtney rather irrelevantly. "Very probably you are a richer man than I am, but as I said, that is not in question." At this point a servant entered, and said to the president: "Mr. Graves, there is a boy outside who says he wants to see you." "What boy is it?" "Grit Morris." "Very well; you can bring him in." "The young boatman," said Courtney contemptuously. "I wouldn't allow a boy like that to take up my time." "He may have something of importance to communicate. Besides, I don't set so high a value on my time." This will illustrate the difference between the two men. Mr. Graves was pleasant and affable to all, while Mr. Courtney was stiff, and apparently always possessed of a high idea of his own importance and dignity. In this respect, his son Phil was his counterpart. Into the presence of these two gentlemen Grit was admitted. "Good morning, Grit," said the president pleasantly. "Take a seat. Margaret tells me you wish to see me." "Yes, sir, I wish to see you on a matter of importance." "Perhaps he wants a loan from the bank," suggested Mr. Courtney scornfully. "If Grit wanted a loan, he would not need to apply to the bank," said Mr. Graves, in a friendly manner. "I would lend him, myself." "Thank you, Mr. Graves," said Grit gratefully, "but I don't wish any loan for myself. My business relates to the bank, however." Both gentlemen were rather surprised to hear this. They could not understand what business Grit could have with the bank. "Go on, Grit," said Mr. Graves. "Mr. Courtney is one of our directors, so that you may speak freely before him." "I understand," commenced Grit, coming at once to the point, "that you are intending to send up thirty thousand dollars in government bonds to the Merchants' Bank, in Boston." Mr. Graves and Mr. Courtney looked at each other in surprise. This was a bank secret, and such matters were generally kept very close with them. "How did you learn this?" asked the president, in surprise, "and if so, what can you have to say in regard to it?" "Perhaps he wants to be the messenger," said Mr. Courtney, with a derisive smile. Grit took no notice of this, for his mind was occupied with the plan of the would-be robbers. "I will tell you at once," he said. "There is a plan to waylay the messenger, and relieve him of the bonds." Here was a fresh surprise. Mr. Graves began to find Grit's communication of absorbing interest. "How do you know this?" he asked cautiously. "Because I overheard the robbers discussing their plan." "You say the robbers. Then there are more than one?" "Yes, there are two." "Are you willing to tell me who they are, Grit?" "That is what I came to tell you. I am sorry to say that one is my stepfather, as I am obliged to call him, Mr. Brandon." "Mr. Brandon? I thought he was----" Here Mr. Graves paused, out of delicacy. "He has been in prison until a few days since," said Grit, understanding what the president of the bank intended to say, "but now he is free." "And where is he?" "He is living at our house. Since he got back, he has given my mother and myself a great deal of trouble. Not content with living on us, he has spent what money he could get at the tavern, and because I would give him no more, he sold my boat without my knowledge." "That was bad, Grit. To whom did he sell it?" asked Mr. Graves. "To Mr. Courtney's son Phil!" answered Grit. "My son's name is Philip," said Mr. Courtney stiffly. "We boys generally call him Phil," said Grit, smiling. "However, that doesn't matter." "My son had a right to purchase the boat," said Mr. Courtney. "I have nothing to say as to that, at any rate now," returned Grit. "I only mention it to show how Mr. Brandon has treated us." "Who was the other conspirator, Grit?" asked Graves. "A companion of Mr. Brandon's, named Travers. I understand they are to be employed by a third person, now staying at the hotel, a man named Johnson." "One thing more, Grit, how did you come to hear of their plan?" Grit answered this question fully. He related how he had overheard the conference between his stepfather and Travers in the afternoon. "This information is of great importance, Grit," said the president. "If, as you say, there are three conspirators, there would be a very good chance of their succeeding in overpowering any messenger, and abstracting the bonds. As it happens, the bonds do not belong to the bank, but to an individual depositor, but it would be very unpleasant and mortifying to have them taken from our messenger. It might lead to a supposition on the part of some that we didn't keep our secrets well, but suffered a matter as important as this to become known outside. Mr. Courtney, what would you advise to be done in such an emergency?" Courtney always looked important when his advice was asked, and answered promptly: "It is a very simple matter. Put the messenger on his guard. Supply him with a revolver, if need be, and if he is on the watch he can't be robbed." Mr. Graves looked thoughtful, and appeared to be turning over this advice in his mind. "If Mr. Courtney will excuse me," Grit said, "I think there is a better plan than that." Courtney's lip curled. "Ask the boy's advice, by all means, Mr. Graves," he said, with a palpable sneer. "It must be very valuable, considering his experience and knowledge of the world." CHAPTER XXIII. GRIT GIVES IMPORTANT ADVICE. "Let me hear your idea, Grit," said Mr. Graves courteously. "I have little experience or knowledge of the world," said Grit, "as Mr. Courtney says, or means to say, but it occurs to me to ask whether you have full confidence in your messenger?" "Of course we have," said Mr. Courtney. "What foolish idea have you got in your head?" "Tell me why this question occurs to you, Grit?" asked the president. "I thought it possible that this Colonel Johnson, who employs the conspirators, as you call them, may have learned from the messenger that he was to be entrusted with a valuable package of bonds." "Why on earth should the messenger reveal this news to a stranger?" demanded Mr. Courtney sharply. "Because," said Grit quietly, not allowing himself to be disturbed by the sneering tone of the ex-president, "he might be well paid for doing so." "Nonsense!" said Mr. Courtney, but the president of the bank said thoughtfully: "There may be something in that." "I am sure the messenger is faithful," asserted Mr. Courtney positively, but it may be remarked that his confidence sprang rather from a desire to discredit Grit's suggestion than from any real belief in the integrity of the bank messenger. "It isn't best to take this integrity for granted in a matter where a mistake would subject us to serious loss," observed President Graves. "I hope he is reliable, but I do not shut my eyes to the fact that such a price as he might demand for conniving with these conspirators would be a strong temptation to a poor man like Ephraim Carver." "What are you going to do about it?" asked Courtney. "For my part I am free to confess that I attach very little importance to the astounding discovery of this young man, who knows a good deal more, I presume, about managing a boat than managing a bank." "You are right there, Mr. Courtney," said Grit good-naturedly. "I don't want Mr. Graves to attach any more importance to my suggestion than he thinks it deserves." "Whatever your suggestion may be worth, Grit," said the president of the bank, "there can be no doubt that you have brought me news of great importance. I shall not forget the obligation the bank is under to you." Mr. Courtney shrugged his shoulders. "The story looks to me very improbable," he said. "If I were still president of the bank, I should probably dismiss it as an idle fabrication." "Then, Mr. Courtney," said Mr. Graves emphatically, "permit me to say that you would be wanting in your duty to the bank and its interests." "I understand the duties of a bank president at least as well as you, Mr. Graves," said Mr. Courtney stiffly. "After that remark you will not be surprised if I bid you good evening." "Good evening!" said the president quietly, not attempting to call back or placate the offended director. "Perhaps I had better go, too," said Grit, rising from his chair. "No, Grit, stay a few minutes longer; I wish to inquire further into this affair." "Certainly, Mr. Graves, I will stay, with pleasure." Mr. Courtney heard this fragment of conversation, and it led him to say with pointed sarcasm, as he stood with the knob of the door in his hand: "Perhaps I had better resign my position, and suggest this young boatman as bank director in my place." "I doubt whether Grit would consider himself competent to discharge the duties of a director," said Mr. Graves, smiling. "It may come in time." Mr. Courtney shut the door hastily, and left the room. "Mr. Courtney is rather a peculiar man; you needn't mind him, Grit," said Mr. Graves, when the ruffled director was gone. "He doesn't like me very much, nor Phil, either," said Grit. "It is lucky you are president of the bank now, and not he, for there is no humbug about the news I bring you." "I consider it highly important," said Mr. Graves, "as I have already stated. I am a little puzzled as to what I ought to do in the matter. As you say, the messenger himself may be in the plot. By the way, what put that idea into your head?" "I didn't know how otherwise Colonel Johnson could have learned about the bonds being sent up to Boston." "Frequently the messenger himself is ignorant of the service he is to render, but in this particular instance it happened that I told Mr. Carver that I should have occasion to send him to Boston this week, and for what purpose." "I am sorry that one who is in any way connected with our family should be concerned in such a plot," said Grit. "Of course; that is natural. Still, you did your duty in telling me of it. Whatever consequences may follow, you have done right." "I can't take much credit to myself for that," said Grit, "since I don't like Mr. Brandon, and it would be a great relief both to my mother and myself if he were away." "As I have already consulted you on this matter, Grit," said the bank president, after a pause, "I am disposed to consult you further. Have you any advice to offer as to the best course to pursue?" "Yes, sir," answered Grit. "As long as you don't think it presumption in me, I will tell you of a plan I thought of as I was coming here. In the first place, I would send the messenger as usual, without letting him know that he was suspected." "But that would involve risks, wouldn't it Grit," objected Mr. Graves. "We can't afford to lose the bonds." "I did not intend that he should carry the bonds," continued Grit. "I would make up a parcel, filled with old papers, of about the same size, and let him think he was carrying the bonds." "So far, so good, but what of the bonds? They would still be here, when we want them delivered in Boston." "I have thought of that," said Grit promptly. "Either a little before or a little afterward, I would send them by another messenger." "Good, Grit! You're a trump!" said the banker, his face lighting up. "It's a capital plan. But one thing you have forgotten. We shall not in this way ascertain whether the messenger is in collusion with the conspirators--that is, not necessarily." "I think you can, sir. As I understand, this is the way in which the theft will be accomplished: The conspirators will make up a bundle of the same shape as the messenger's, and slyly substitute it at some point on the route. They will not openly rob him, for there will be no chance of doing so without attracting attention." "If the messenger is careful, they could not easily substitute a false for the true package." "That is true, and that is the reason why I think the messenger is in league with them. If he is careless, the change can easily be made. I understand Brandon and Travers are to receive five thousand dollars each for their services, and Colonel Johnson may, perhaps, have offered the same sum to Mr. Carver." "It would be a great temptation to a man employed on a small salary like Carver," said Mr. Graves thoughtfully. "What do you think of my plan, Mr. Graves?" asked Grit. "I think it a capital one. I shall adopt it in every detail. The only thing that remains is to decide whom to employ to carry the genuine package of bonds to Boston. Do you think of any one?" Grit shook his head. "No, sir, I don't know of any one." "I do," said the president. "Who is it?" asked Grit, with considerable curiosity. "I mean to send you!" answered Mr. Graves. CHAPTER XXIV. WHAT GRIT OVERHEARD BEHIND THE ELM-TREE. Grit listened with incredulous amazement to the words of the bank president. "You mean to send me?" he ejaculated. "Yes," answered Mr. Graves, nodding. "But I am only a boy!" "That is true; but you have shown a sagacity and good judgment which justify me in selecting you, young as you are. Of course, I shall take care that you are paid for your time. Now, are you willing to go?" Willing to go to Boston, where he had not been for five years? Grit did not take long to consider. "Yes," he answered promptly. "If you are willing to trust me, I am willing to go." "That is well," said the president. "I need hardly caution you to keep your errand a profound secret." "You must not even tell your mother," continued Mr. Graves. "But she will feel anxious if I go away without a word to her." "You mistake me. I would not for the world have you give her unnecessary anxiety. You may tell her that you are employed on an errand which may detain you from home a day or two, and ask her not to question you till you return." "Yes, I can say that," returned Grit. "Mother will very likely think Mr. Jackson has employed me." "Mr. Jackson?" "A gentleman now staying at the hotel. He has already been very kind to me." If Grit had been boastful or vainglorious, he would have given the particulars of his rescue of little Willie Jackson from drowning. As it was, he said no more than I have recorded above. "Very well," answered the president. "Your mother will not, at any rate, think you are in any mischief, as she knows you too well for that." "When do you want me to go, sir?" asked Grit. "Let me see. To-day is Wednesday, and Friday is the day when we had decided to send the messenger. He was to go by the morning train. I think I will send you off in advance by the evening train of Thursday. Then the bonds will be in the bank at Boston, while the regular messenger is still on the way." "That will suit me very well, sir." "The train starts at ten o'clock. You can be at the train at half-past nine. I will be there at the same hour, and will have the bonds with me. I will at the same time provide you with money for the journey." "All right, sir. Do you want to see me any time to-morrow?" "No. I think it best that we should not be too much together. Even then, I don't think any one would suspect that I would employ you on such an errand. Still, it will be most prudent not to do anything to arouse suspicion." "Then, Mr. Graves, I will bid you good night," said Grit, rising. "I thank you very much for the confidence you are going to repose in me. I will do my best, so that you may not have occasion to repent it." "I don't expect to repent it," said Mr. Graves, shaking hands with Grit in a friendly manner. When the young boatman left the house of the bank president, it was natural that he should feel a thrill of pride as the thought of the important mission on which he was to be sent. Then again, it was exhilarating to reflect that he was about to visit Boston. He had lived at Chester for five years and more, and during that time he had once visited Portland. That was an exciting day for him; but Boston he knew was a great deal larger than the beautiful city of which Maine people are pardonably proud, and contained possibilities of pleasure and excitement which filled him with eager anticipations. But Grit knew that his journey was undertaken not for his own enjoyment, but was to be an important business mission, and he resolved that he would do his duty, even if he did not have a bit of fun. As he thought over the business on which he was to be employed, his thoughts reverted to Ephraim Carver, the bank messenger, and the more he thought of him, the more he suspected that he was implicated in the projected robbery. It was perhaps this thought that led him to make a detour so that he could pass the house of the messenger. It was a small cottage-house, standing back from the street, from which a narrow lane led to it. Connected with it were four or five acres of land, which might have yielded quite an addition to his income, but Mr. Carver was not very fond of working on land, and he let it lie fallow, making scarcely any use of it. Until he obtained the position of bank messenger he had a hard time getting a living, and was generally regarded as rather a shiftless man. He was connected with the wife of one of the directors, and that was the way in which he secured his position. Now he received a small salary, but one on which he might have lived comfortably in a cheap place like Chester. But in spite of this he was dissatisfied, and on many occasions complained of the difficulty he experienced in making both ends meet. Grit turned down the lane and approached the house. He hardly knew why he did so. He had no expectation of learning anything that would throw light on the question whether Carver was or was not implicated in the conspiracy. Still, he was drawn toward the house. The night was quite dark, but Grit knew every step of the way, and he walked slowly up the lane, which was probably two hundred feet long. He had gone, perhaps, half the distance, when he saw the front door of Carver's house open. Mr. Carver himself could be seen in the doorway with a kerosene-lamp in his hand, and at his side was a person whom with a thrill of surprise Grit recognized as the man staying at the hotel under the name of Colonel Johnson. "That looks suspicious," thought Grit. "I am afraid the messenger is guilty." He reflected that it would not do for either of them to see him, as it might render them suspicious. He took advantage of the darkness, and the fact that the two were not looking his way, to jump over the stone wall and hide behind the broad trunk of the lofty elm which stood just in that spot. "I wish I could hear what they are saying," thought Grit. "Then I should know for certain if my suspicions are well founded." The two men stood at the door for the space of a minute or more, and then the stranger departed, but not alone. Ephraim Carver took his hat and accompanied him, both walking slowly up the lane toward the main road. By a piece of good luck, as Grit considered it, they halted beneath the very elm-tree behind which he lay concealed. These were the first words Grit heard spoken: "My dear friend," said Johnson, in bland, persuasive accents, "there isn't a particle of danger in it. You have only to follow my directions, and all will be well." "I shall find it hard to explain how it happened that I lost the package," said Carver. "Not at all! You will have a facsimile in your possession--one so like that no one need wonder that you mistook it for the original. Undoubtedly you will be charged with negligence, but they can't prove anything more against you. You can stand being found fault with for five thousand dollars, can't you?" "If that is all, I won't mind. I shall probably lose my situation." "Suppose you do; it brings you in only six hundred dollars a year, while we pay you in one lump five thousand dollars--over eight times as much. Why, man, the interest of this sum at six per cent. will yield half as much as your annual salary." "The bank people ought to pay me more," said Carver. "Two months since I asked them to raise me to eight hundred a year, but they wouldn't. There was only one of the directors in favor of it--the man who married my wife's cousin." "They don't appreciate you, friend Carver," said Johnson. "How can they expect you to be honest, when they treat you in so niggardly a manner?" "Just so," said Carver, eager to find some justification for his intended treachery. "If they paid me a living salary, I wouldn't do this thing you ask of me." "As it is, they have only themselves to blame," said Colonel Johnson. "That's the way I look at it," said the bank messenger. "And quite right, too! I shouldn't be surprised if you managed to keep your place, after all. They won't suspect you of anything more than carelessness." "That would be splendid!" returned Carver. "With my salary and the interest of five thousand dollars, I could live as comfortably as I wanted to. How soon shall I receive the money?" "As soon as we can dispose of the bonds safely. It won't be long." Here the two men parted, and Carver returned to his house. Grit crept out from behind the elm-tree when the coast was clear, and made his way home. He had learned a most important secret, but resolved to communicate it only to Mr. Graves. CHAPTER XXV. MRS. BRANDON IS MYSTIFIED. When Grit explained to his mother that he was going away for a day or two on a journey, she was naturally surprised, and asked for particulars. "I should like to tell you, mother," said the young boatman, "but there are reasons why I cannot. It is a secret mission, and the secret is not mine." "That is perfectly satisfactory, Grit," said Mrs. Brandon. "I have full confidence in you, and know I can trust you." "After I return I shall probably be able to tell you all," said Grit. "Meanwhile, I shall, no doubt, be paid better than if I were ferrying passengers across the river." "At any rate, I shall be glad to see you back. We have not been separated for a night for years, or, indeed, since you were born." The next day, Mr. Brandon, taught by experience that he need not look for his meals at home, went over to the tavern to breakfast. He felt unusually independent and elated, for he had money in his pocket, obtained from Colonel Johnson, and he expected soon to receive the handsome sum of five thousand dollars. A shrewder man, in order to avert suspicion, would have held his tongue, at least until he had performed the service for which he was to be so liberally paid; but Brandon could not forego the opportunity to boast a little. "It is quite possible, Mrs. B.," he said, in the morning, "that I may leave you in a day or two, to be gone a considerable time." Mrs. B. did not show the expected curiosity, but received the communication in silence. "You don't inquire where I am going," said Brandon. "Where do you propose to go?" asked his wife, whose chief feeling was that she and Grit would now be left to their old quiet and peace. "I may go to Europe," said Mr. Brandon, in an important tone. "Isn't this a new plan?" asked Mrs. Brandon, really surprised. "Yes, it is new. I shall go on business, Mrs. B. My friend Travers and I will probably go together. You and Grit made a great mistake when you treated him with rudeness. It is through him that I am offered most remunerative employment." "I don't enjoy the society of your friend," said Mrs. Brandon. "If he is likely to give you a chance to earn something, I am glad, but that does not excuse the rudeness with which he treated me." "My friend Travers is a gentleman, Mrs. B., a high-toned gentleman, and if you had treated him with the respect which is his due, you would have had nothing to complain of. As it is, you may soon discover that you have made a mistake, and lost a great pleasure. I had not intended to tell you, but I am tempted to do so, that but for your impoliteness to Travers, I might have taken you and Grit with me on a European tour." Mr. Brandon watched his wife, to see if she exhibited severe disappointment at the dazzling prospect which was no sooner shown than withdrawn, but she showed her usual equanimity. "Grit and I will be quite as happy at home," she answered. "Sour grapes!" thought Brandon, but he was wrong. A tour of Europe taken in his company would have no attractions for his wife. "Very well," said Brandon. "You and Grit are welcome to the charms of Pine Point. As for me, it is too small and contracted for a man of my business capacity." "I wonder whether there is any truth in what he says," thought Mrs. Brandon, puzzled. "Your business seems a profitable one," she ventured to remark. "It is, Mrs. B.," answered her husband. "It is of an unusually delicate nature, and requires business talents of a high order." "Your friend Travers does not impress one as a man possessed of a high order of business talent," said Mrs. Brandon. "That is where you fail to appreciate him, but I cannot say more. My business is secret, and cannot be revealed." So saying, Brandon took his hat, and with a jaunty step walked to the hotel. "More secrecy!" thought Mrs. Brandon. "Grit tells me that his mission is a secret one, and now Mr. Brandon says he, too, is engaged in something that cannot be revealed. I know that it is all right with Grit, but I do not feel so sure about Mr. Brandon." The day passed as usual. Grit plied his boat on the river, and did a fair day's work. But about four o'clock he came home. "You are home early, Grit," said his mother. "Yes, for I must get ready to go." He had not yet mentioned to his mother when he was to start. "Do you go to-morrow morning?" asked Mrs. Brandon. "I go to-night, and may be away for a couple of days, mother." Mrs. Brandon uttered an exclamation of surprise. "I suppose I must not ask you where you are going," said his mother. "I cannot tell, for it is somebody else's secret. One thing more, will you take care to say as little as possible about my going away? I would rather Mr. Brandon should not know of it." "I will do as you wish, Grit. By the way, Mr. Brandon tells me he is soon going to Europe." Grit smiled. He knew where the money was to come from, which his stepfather depended upon to defray the expenses of a foreign journey. "I don't feel sure about his going, mother," he answered. "He said he would have taken you and me if we had treated his friend Travers more politely." "Well, mother, we must reconcile ourselves as well as we can to staying at home." "Home will be happy while I have you with me, Grit." "And Mr. Brandon away," added the young boatman. "Yes; I can't help hoping that he will be able to carry out his purpose, and go to Europe, or somewhere else as far off." "I think it very likely we sha'n't see him again for some time," said Grit, "though I don't think he will be traveling in Europe." "As you and Mr. Brandon are both to be engaged in business of a secret nature," said Mrs. Brandon, smiling, "I don't know but I ought to follow your example." "I have full confidence in you, mother, whatever you undertake," said Grit, with a laugh, repeating his mother's own words. Evening came on, and Grit stole out of the house early, lest his stepfather might by some chance return home, and suspect something from his unusual journey. He need not have been alarmed, for Brandon did not leave the tavern till ten o'clock, though he, too, expected to leave town the next morning. When he returned he didn't inquire for Grit, whom he supposed to be abed and asleep. "Mrs. B.," he said, "I must trouble you to wake me at seven o'clock to-morrow morning. I am going to take the early train to Portland." "Very well." "And as it will be rather inconvenient for me to go out to breakfast, I would be glad if you would give me some breakfast before I go." "I will do so," said his wife. "It may be some time before I see you again, as I am to go away on business." "I hope you may be successful," said Mrs. Brandon. Brandon laughed queerly. "If the old lady knew that I was going to steal some government bonds, she would hesitate a little before she wished me success," he thought, but he said: "Thank you, Mrs. B., your good wishes are appreciated, and I may hereafter be able to show my appreciation in a substantial way. I suppose Grit is asleep." Mrs. Brandon did not answer, finding the question an embarrassing one. The next morning Brandon, contrary to his wont, showed considerable alacrity in dressing, and did justice to the breakfast his wife had set before him. "Well, good-bye, Mrs. B.," he said, as he took his hat and prepared to leave the house. "Perhaps I had better go up-stairs and bid good-by to Grit, as I may not see him again for some time." "Grit is out," said Mrs. Brandon hastily, for she did not wish her husband to go up to Grit's room, as he would discover that his bed had not been slept in. "Out already?" said Brandon. "He's made an early start. Well, bid him good-by for me." "It's very strange," repeated Mrs. Brandon, as she cleared away the breakfast dishes; "there's Grit gone, I don't know where, and now Mr. Brandon has started off on some mysterious business. What can it all mean?" CHAPTER XXVI. THE FALL RIVER MANUFACTURER. Grit lost no time in prosecuting his journey. In Portland he found that he should need to stay over a few hours, and repaired to the United States Hotel. He left word to be called early, as he wished to take a morning train to Boston. At the breakfast-table he found himself sitting next to a man of swarthy complexion and bushy black whiskers. "Good morning, my young friend," said the stranger, after a scrutinizing glance. "Good morning, sir," said Grit politely. "Are you stopping at this hotel?" "For the present, yes," answered the young boatman. "Are you going farther?" "I think of it," said Grit cautiously. "Perhaps you are going to Boston," proceeded the stranger. "I may do so," Grit admitted. "I am glad of it, for I am going, too. If agreeable, we will travel in company." "I suppose we shall go on the same train?" said Grit evasively. "Just so. I am going to Boston on business. You, I suppose, are too young to have business of any importance?" "Boys of my age seldom have business of importance," said Grit, resolved to baffle the evident curiosity of the stranger. "Exactly. I suppose you have relations in Boston?" "I once lived in that neighborhood," said Grit. "Just so. Are you going to stay long in the city?" "That depends on circumstances?" "Do you live in this State?" "At present I do." The man looked a little annoyed, for he saw that Grit was determined to say as little about himself as possible. He decided to set the boy an example of frankness. "I do not live in Maine," he said; "I am a manufacturer in Fall River, Mass. I suppose you have heard of Fall River?" "Oh, yes!" "It is a right smart place, as a Philadelphian would say. You never heard of Townsend's Woolen Mill, I dare say?" "No, I never have." "It is one of the largest mills in Fall River. I own a controlling interest in it. I assure you I wouldn't take a hundred thousand dollars for my interest in it." "You ought to be in very easy circumstances," said Grit politely, though it did occur to him to wonder why the owner of a controlling interest in a large woolen mill should be attired in such a rusty suit. "I am," said the stranger complacently. "Daniel Townsend's income--I am Daniel T., at your service--for last year was twelve thousand three hundred and sixty-nine dollars." "This gentleman seems very communicative," thought Grit. "Your income was rather larger than mine," he said. "Ho, ho! I should say so," laughed Mr. Townsend. "Are you in any business, my young friend?" "I am connected with navigation," said Grit. "Indeed?" observed Townsend, appearing puzzled. "Do you find it a paying business?" "Tolerably so, but I presume woolen manufacturing is better?" "Just so," assented Townsend, rather absently. At this point Grit rose from the table, having finished his breakfast. "Mr. Townsend seems very social," thought our hero, "but I think he is given to romancing. I don't believe he has anything more to do with a woolen mill in Fall River than I have." Grit reached the station in time, and took his seat in the train. He bought a morning paper, and began to read. "Ah, here you are, my young friend!" fell on his ears just after they passed Saco, and Grit, looking up, saw his breakfast companion. "Is the seat beside you taken?" asked Mr. Daniel Townsend. Grit would like to have said "yes," but he was compelled to admit that it was unengaged. "So much the better for me," said the woolen manufacturer, and he sat down beside our hero. He had with him a small, well-worn valise, which looked as if in some remote period it had seen better days. He laid it down, and, looking keenly about, observed Grit's parcel, which, though commonplace in appearance, contained, as we know, thirty thousand dollars in government bonds. "It is rather a long ride to Boston," said Mr. Townsend. "Yes; but it seems shorter when you have something to read," answered Grit, looking wistfully at his paper, which he would have preferred reading to listening to the conversation of his neighbor. "I never care to read on the cars," said Mr. Townsend. "I think it is injurious to the eyes. Do you ever find it so?" "I have not traveled enough to be able to judge," said Grit. "Very likely. At your age I had traveled a good deal. My father was a rich merchant, and as I was fond of roving, he sent me on a voyage to the Mediterranean on one of his vessels. I was sixteen at that time." "I wonder whether this is true, or not," thought Grit. "I enjoyed the trip, though I was seasick on the Mediterranean. It is really more trying than the ocean, though you might not imagine it. Don't you think you would enjoy a trip of that sort?" "Yes; I am sure I would," said Grit, with interest. "Just so; most boys of your age are fond of traveling. Perhaps I might find it in my way to gratify your wishes. Our corporation is thinking of sending a traveler to Europe. You are rather young, but still I might be able to get it for you." "You know so little about me," said Grit sensibly, "that I wonder you should think of me in any such connection." "That is true. I don't know anything of you, except what you have told me." "That isn't much," thought Grit. "And it may be necessary for me to know more. I will ask you a few questions, and report your answers to our directors at their meeting next week." "Thank you, sir; but I think we will postpone discussing the matter this morning." "Is any time better than the present?" inquired Townsend. Grit did not care to say much about himself until after he had fulfilled his errand in the city. He justly felt that with such an important charge it was necessary for him to use the greatest caution and circumspection. Still, there was a bare possibility that the man beside him was really what he claimed to be, and might have it in his power to give him a business commission which he would enjoy. "If you will call on me at the Parker House this evening," said Grit, "I will speak with you on the subject." "Whom shall I inquire for?" asked the Fall River manufacturer. "You need not inquire for any one. You will find me in the reading-room at eight o'clock." "Very well," answered Mr. Townsend, appearing satisfied. The conversation drifted along till they reached Exeter. Then Mr. Townsend rose in haste, and, seizing Grit's bundle instead of his own, hurried toward the door. Grit sprang after him and snatched the precious package. "You have made a mistake, Mr. Townsend," he said, eyeing his late seat companion with distrust. "Why, so I have!" ejaculated Townsend, in apparent surprise. "By Jove! it's lucky you noticed it. That little satchel of mine contains some papers and certificates of great value." "In that case I would advise you to be more careful," said Grit, who did not believe one word of the last statement. "So I will," said Townsend, taking the satchel. "I am going into the smoking-car. Won't you go with me?" "No, thank you." "I have a spare cigar," urged Townsend. "Thank you again, but I don't smoke." "Oh, well, you're right, no doubt, but it's an old habit of mine. I began to smoke when I was twelve years old. My wife often tells me I am injuring my health, and perhaps I am. Take the advice of a man old enough to be your father, and don't smoke." "That's good advice, sir, and I shall probably follow it." "Well, good day, if we don't meet again," said Townsend. Mr. Townsend, instead of passing into the smoking-car, got off the train. Grit observed this, and was puzzled to account for it, particularly as the train started on, leaving him standing on the platform. A few minutes later the conductor passed through the train, calling for tickets. Grit looked in vain for his, and, deciding that he should have to pay the fare over again, he felt for his pocketbook, but that, too, was missing. He began to understand why Mr. Townsend left the train at Exeter. CHAPTER XXVII. A FRIEND IN NEED. The conductor waited while Grit was searching for his ticket. He was not the same one who started with the train, so that he could not know whether our hero had shown a ticket earlier in the journey. "I can't find my ticket or my money," said Grit, perplexed. "Then you will have to leave the train at the next station," said the conductor suspiciously. "It is very important that I should proceed on my journey," pleaded Grit. "I will give you my name, and send you the money." "That won't do, youngster," said the conductor roughly. "I have heard of that game before. It won't go down." "There is no game about it," said Grit. "My ticket and pocketbook have been stolen." "Of course," sneered the conductor. "Perhaps you can point out the thief." "No, I can't, for he has left the train. He got out at Exeter." "Very likely. You can take the next train back and find him." "Do you doubt that I had a ticket?" asked Grit, nettled by the conductor's evident incredulity. "Yes, I do, if you want the truth. You want to steal a ride; that's what's the matter." "That is not true," said Grit. "I am sure some of these passengers have seen me show my ticket. Didn't you, sir?" He addressed this question to a stout old gentleman who sat in the seat behind him. "Really, I couldn't say," answered the old gentleman addressed. "I was reading my paper, and didn't take notice." The conductor looked more incredulous than ever. "I can't waste any more time with you, young man," he said. "At the next station you must get out." Grit was very much disturbed. It was not pleasant to be left penniless at a small station, but if he had been left alone he would not have cared so much. But to have the custody of thirty thousand dollars' worth of government bonds, under such circumstances, was certainly embarrassing. He could not get along without money, and for a tramp without money to be in charge of such a treasure was ample cause of suspicion. What could he do? The train was already going slower, and it was evident that the next station was near at hand. Grit was trying in vain to think of some way of securing a continuation of his journey, when a stout, good-looking lady of middle age, who sat just opposite, rose from her seat and seated herself beside him. "You seem to be in trouble," she said kindly. "Yes, ma'am," answered Grit. "My ticket and money have been stolen, and the conductor threatens to put me off the train." "So I heard. Who do you think robbed you?" "The man who sat beside me and got out at Exeter." "I noticed him. I wonder you didn't detect him in the act of robbing you." "So do I," answered Grit. "He must be a professional. All the same, I am ashamed of being so taken in." "I heard you say it was important for you to reach Boston." "It is," said Grit. He was about to explain why, when it occurred to him that it would not be prudent in a crowded car, which might contain suspicious and unprincipled persons, to draw attention to the nature of his packet. "I can't explain why just at present," he said; "but if any one would lend me money to keep on my journey I would willingly repay the loan two for one." At this point the train came to a stop, and the conductor, passing through the car, addressed Grit: "Young man, you must get out at this station." "No, he needn't," said the stout lady decidedly. "Here, my young friend, pay your fare out of this," and she drew from a pearl portemonnaie a ten-dollar bill. Grit's heart leaped for joy. It was such an intense relief. "How can I ever thank you?" he said gratefully, as he offered the change to his new friend. "No," she said; "keep the whole. You will need it, and you can repay me whenever you find it convenient." "That will be as soon as I get home," said Grit promptly. "I have the money there." "That will be entirely satisfactory." "Let me know your name and address, madam," said Grit, taking out a small memorandum-book, "so that I may know where to send." "Mrs. Jane Bancroft, No. 37 Mount Vernon Street," said the lady. Grit noted it down. "Let me tell you mine," he said. "My name is Harry Morris, and I live in the town of Chester, in Maine." "Chester? I know that place. I have a cousin living there, or, rather, I should say, a cousin of my late husband." "Who is it, Mrs. Bancroft?" asked Grit. "I know almost everybody in the village." "Mr. Courtney. I believe he has something to do with the bank." "Yes, he is a director. He was once president." "Exactly. Do you know him?" "Yes, ma'am. I saw him only a day or two before I left." "I presume you know his son Philip, also." "Oh, yes, I know Phil," said Grit. "Is he a friend of yours?" asked the lady curiously. "No, I can't say that. We don't care much for each other." "And whose fault is that?" asked the lady, smiling. "I don't think it is mine. I have always treated Phil well enough, but he doesn't think me a suitable associate for him." "Why?" "Because I am poor, while he is the son of a rich man." "That is as it may be," said the lady, shrugging her shoulders. "Money sometimes has wings. So you are not rich?" "I have to work for a living." "What do you do?" "I ferry passengers across the Kennebec, and in that way earn a living for my mother and myself." "Do you make it pay?" "I earn from seven to ten dollars a week." "That is doing very well for a boy of your age. What sort of a boy is Phil? Is he popular?" "I don't think he is." "Why?" "He is your nephew, Mrs. Bancroft, and I don't like to criticize him." "Never mind that. Speak freely." "He puts on too many airs to be popular. If he would just forget that his father is a rich man, and meet the rest of the boys on an equality, I think we should like him well enough." "That is just the opinion I have formed of him. Last winter he came to make me a visit, but I found him hard to please. He wanted a great deal of attention, and seemed disposed to order my servants about, till I was obliged to check him." "I remember hearing him say he was going to visit a rich relative in Boston," said Grit. Mrs. Bancroft smiled. "It was all for his own gratification, no doubt," she said. "So your name is Harry Morris?" "Yes, but I am usually called Grit." "A good omen. It is a good thing for any boy--especially a poor boy--to possess grit. Most of our successful men were poor boys, and most of them possessed this quality." "You encourage me, Mrs. Bancroft," said our hero. "I want to succeed in life, for my mother's sake especially." "I think you will; I have little knowledge of you, but you seem like one born to prosper. How long are you going to stay in Boston?" "Till to-morrow, at any rate." "You will be in the city overnight, then. Where did you think of staying?" "At the Parker House." "It is an expensive hotel. You had better stay at my house." "At your house?" exclaimed Grit, surprised. "Yes; I may want to ask more questions about Chester. We have tea at half-past six. That will give you plenty of time to attend to your business. I shall be at home any time after half-past five. Will you come?" "With pleasure," said Grit politely. "Then I will expect you." Mrs. Bancroft returned to her seat. Our hero mentally congratulated himself on making so agreeable and serviceable a friend. "What will Phil say when he learns that I have been the guest of his fashionable relatives in Boston?" thought he. In due time the train reached Boston, and Grit lost no time in repairing to the bank. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE TRAIN ROBBERY. When Grit had delivered the bonds at the bank, a great load seemed to be lifted from his shoulders. Especially after he had been robbed on the train, he realized the degree of risk and responsibility involved in the custody of so valuable a packet. The officials at the bank seemed surprised at the youth of the messenger, but Grit felt at liberty to explain why he was selected as a substitute for the regular messenger. Leaving our hero for a time, we go back to Chester to speak of other characters in our story. Ephraim Carver, the bank messenger, went to the bank at the hour of opening to receive the package of bonds which he expected to convey to Boston. He had no suspicion that his negotiations of a previous evening had been overheard and reported to the president. He felt somewhat nervous, it is true, for he felt that a few hours would make him a rich man. Then the risk involved, though he did not consider it to be great, was yet sufficient to excite him. He was admitted into the president's room, as usual. Mr. Graves was already in his office, but his manner was his ordinary one, and the messenger did not dream that the quiet official read him through and through and understood him thoroughly. "You know, I suppose, Mr. Carver," said President Graves, "that you are to go to Boston by the next train." "Yes, sir." "The packet you will carry is of unusual value, and requires an unusual degree of care and caution." "Yes, sir." "It contains thirty thousand dollars in government bonds," said the president, laying his hand on the prepared packet, which was in the usual form. "That is a fortune in itself," he added, closely scrutinizing the face of the messenger. He thought he detected a transient gleam of exultation in the eyes of the bank messenger. "Of course," he proceeded, "if it were known that you carried a packet of such value, there would be great danger of your being robbed. Indeed, you might be in some personal danger." "Yes, sir." "But as it is only known to you and the officers of the bank, there is no special danger. Still, I advise you to be more than usually vigilant, on account of the value of your charge." "Oh, yes, sir, I shall take good care of it," answered Carver, reaching out his hand for the packet. "Let me see, how long have you been in the employ of the bank?" asked the president. "Nearly three years, sir." "You have found it a light, easy position, have you not?" "Yes, sir, though, if you will allow me to say so, the salary is small." "True; but the expenses of living in Chester are small, also. However, we will not discuss that question now. Possibly at the end of the year, if they continue satisfied with you, the directors may increase your salary slightly. There cannot be a large increase." "I may not need an increase then," thought Carver. "With five thousand dollars to fall back upon, I shall feel independent." "You will report to me when you return," said Mr. Graves, as the messenger left the bank parlor. "Yes, sir, directly." The president fixed his eyes upon the vanishing figure of the messenger, and said to himself: "My friend, you have deliberately planned your own downfall. Greed of money has made you dishonest, but your plans are destined to miscarry, as this time to-morrow you and your confederates will be made aware." "Now," thought the bank messenger, as he bent his steps toward the railway station, "the path is clear. Here is what will completely change my fortunes, and lift me from an humble dependent to a comfortable position in life." Then he thought, with some dissatisfaction, that he was to receive but one-sixth of the value of the bonds, and that the man who employed him to betray his trust would be much more richly paid. However, in his case, there would be no risk of being personally implicated. No one could prove that he had allowed himself to be robbed. Even if suspicion fastened upon him, nothing could be proved. So, on the whole, perhaps it was better to be content with one-sixth than to incur greater risk, and the dread penalty of imprisonment for a term of years. On the railroad platform Carver glanced furtively about him. He easily recognized Brandon and Travers, who stood side by side, each having provided himself with a ticket. They on their side also glanced swiftly at him, and then turned away with a look of indifference. But they had not failed to notice the important packet which the bank messenger carried in his hand. "It is all right!" was the thought that passed through their minds. There was another passenger waiting for the train, whom they did not notice. He was a small, quiet, unpretentious-looking man, attired in a suit of pepper and salt, and looked like a retail merchant in a small way, going to Portland or Boston, to order goods. They would have been very much startled had they known that it was a Boston detective, who had been telegraphed for by Mr. Graves, and that his special business was to follow them and observe their actions. When the train reached the station Carver got in, and took a seat by himself in the second car. Just behind him sat the two confederates, Brandon and Travers, and in line with them, on the opposite side of the car, sat the quiet man, whom we will call Denton. Ten minutes before the train reached Portland Ephraim Carver left his seat, and very singularly forgot to take the parcel, of which he had special custody, with him. It was a remarkable piece of forgetfulness, truly. But his oversight was not unobserved. Travers sprang from his seat, took the parcel, and following the messenger overtook him at the door of the car. He tapped Carver on the shoulder, and the latter turned round. "I beg pardon," said Travers, "but you left this on the seat." As he spoke he handed a packet to Carver. "A thousand thanks!" said the messenger hurriedly. "I was very careless. I am very much indebted to you." "I thought the packet might contain something valuable," said Travers. "At any rate, I should not like to lose it," said the messenger, who appeared to be properly on his guard. "Oh, don't mention it," said Travers politely, and he walked back and resumed his seat beside Brandon. The quiet man, to whom we have already referred, noted this little piece of acting with a smile of enjoyment. "Very well done, good people," he said to himself. "It ought to succeed, but it won't." His sharp eyes had detected what the other passengers had not--that Travers had skilfully substituted another package for the one he had picked up from the seat vacated by Carver. Carver passed on into the next car, and Denton now concentrated his attention upon Brandon and Travers. He noticed in both traces of joyful excitement, for which he could easily account. They thought they had succeeded, and each mentally congratulated himself on the acquisition of a neat little fortune. "They will get out at Portland," thought Denton, "and take account of their booty. I should like to be there to see, but I am instructed to follow my friend the bank messenger to Boston, and must, therefore, forego the pleasure." At Portland, Brandon and Travers got out of the cars, and took a hack to the Falmouth Hotel. They went to the office, and, calling for the hotel register, carefully scanned the list of arrivals. The afternoon previous they found entered the name of Colonel Johnson. "Is Colonel Johnson in?" asked Brandon. "We will ascertain," was the reply. The bell-boy who was despatched to inquire returned with the message that Colonel Johnson would see the gentlemen. They followed the attendant to a room on the third floor, where they found their employer pacing the room in visible excitement. "Give me the parcel," he said, in a peremptory tone. He cut the strings, and hastily opened the coveted prize. But his eager look was succeeded by black disappointment, as, instead of the bonds, he saw a package of blank paper of about the same shape and size. "Confusion!" he ejaculated; "what does all this mean? What devil's mess have you made of the business?" CHAPTER XXIX. THE CONSPIRATORS ARE PERPLEXED. Johnson's hasty exclamation was heard with blank amazement by his two confederates. "What do you mean, Colonel? Ain't the bonds there?" asked Travers. "Do you call these bonds?" demanded Johnson savagely, as he pointed to the neatly folded brown paper. "You must have brought back your own parcel, and left the genuine one with the bank messenger." "No," said Travers, shaking his head; "our package was filled with old newspapers. This is different." "It is evidently only a dummy. Was it the only parcel Carver had?" "Yes, it was the only one." "Is it possible the villain has fooled us?" said Johnson, frowning ominously. "If he has, we'll get even with him--I swear it!" "I don't know what to think, colonel," said Travers. "You can tell better than I, for you saw him about this business." "He didn't seem like it, for he caught at my suggestion greedily. There's another possibility," added Johnson, after a pause, with a searching glance at his two confederates. "How do I know but you two have secured the bonds, and palmed off this dummy upon me?" Both men hastily disclaimed doing anything of the kind, and Johnson was forced to believe them, not from any confidence he felt in them, but from his conviction that they were not astute enough to think of any such treachery. "This must be looked into," he said slowly. "There has been treachery somewhere. It lies between you and the messenger, though I did not dream that either would be up to such a thing." "You don't think the bank people did it, do you?" suggested Brandon. "I don't know," said Johnson slowly. "I can't understand how they could learn what was in the wind, unless one of you three blabbed." Of course, Travers and Brandon asseverated stoutly that they had not breathed a word to any third party. Johnson was deeply perplexed, and remained silent for five minutes. At length he announced his decision. "We can do nothing, and decide upon nothing," he said, "till we see Carver. He went on to Boston, I conclude?" "Yes, sir." "He will be back to-morrow. We must watch the trains, and intercept him." Leaving this worthy trio in Portland, we follow Ephraim Carver to Boston. As the cars sped on their way, he felt an uneasy excitement as he thought of his treachery, and he feared he should look embarrassed when he was called to account by the Boston bank officials. But there was a balm in the thought of the substantial sum he was to receive as the reward of his wrongdoing. That, he thought, would well repay him for the bad quarter of an hour he would pass in Boston. "Five thousand dollars! Five thousand dollars!" This was the burden of his thoughts as he considered the matter. "It will make me independent. If I can keep my post, I will, and I can then afford to be faithful to the bank. If they discharge me, I will move away, for my living without work, and having money to spend, would attract suspicion if I continued to live in Chester. Somewhere else I can go into business for myself. I might stock a small dry-goods store, for instance. I must inquire into the chances of making a living at that business." So, in spite of his treachery, Ephraim Carver, on the whole, indulged in pleasing reflections, so that the railroad journey seemed short. Arrived in Boston, he found that he had just time to go to the bank and deliver his parcel within banking hours. "I may as well do it, and have it over with," he said to himself. So, with a return of nervousness, which he tried to conceal by outward indifference, he made his way to the bank to which he was commissioned. He had been there before, and was recognized when he entered. He was at once conducted into the presence of the president. To him he delivered the parcel of bonds. "That will do, Mr. Carver," said the president. "You may go outside while I examine them." He was ushered into the ordinary room, and waited five minutes. He was trying to brace himself for an outburst of surprise, perhaps of stormy indignation, and searching cross-examination, when the president presented himself at the door of his private office. "That will do," he said. "You can go, Mr. Carver." Carver stared at him in blank amazement. This was precisely what he did not expect. "Have you examined the bonds?" he asked. "Of course," answered the president. "And you find them all right?" continued the messenger, with irrepressible surprise. "I suppose so," answered the president. "I will examine more carefully presently." "Then you don't wish me to stay?" inquired Carver. "No; there is no occasion to do so." Ephraim Carver left the bank in a state of stupefaction. "What can it all mean?" he asked himself. "The man must be blind as a bat if he didn't discover that the package contained no bonds. I don't believe he opened it at all." So Carver was left in a state of uncertainty. On the whole he wished that the substitution had been discovered, so that the president could have had it out with him. Now he felt that a sword was impending over his head, which might fall at any time. This was unpleasant, for he did not know what to expect. He went back to Portland by a late train, however, as he had arranged to do. At the depot he met Colonel Johnson. He was puzzled to find that Johnson did not look as jubilant as he anticipated, now that their plot had succeeded. On the other hand, he looked grave and stern. "Well, colonel, how goes it?" he asked. "That is for you to say," returned Johnson. "You have seen Brandon and Travers, I suppose?" "Yes, I have seen them." "Then it's all right, and the parcel is in your hands." "He takes it pretty coolly," thought Johnson. "I can't understand what it means. I must get to the bottom of this thing. Well, how did they take it at the bank?" he added, aloud. "Did they make any fuss?" "No," answered the bank messenger. Johnson was surprised. "They didn't question you about the parcel you brought them?" "No; they told me it was all right, and let me go." "Then they must have got the bonds," said Johnson hastily. "What! haven't you got them?" asked the messenger, in genuine surprise. "No," said Johnson bitterly. "The fools brought me a package stuffed with sheets of brown paper." Carver stared at him in open-mouthed amazement. "I don't understand it," he said. "I can't account for any parcel of the kind." "They couldn't have made the exchange at all. This must have been their own parcel." "No," said Carver; "theirs was stuffed with old newspapers." "That was what they said." "They told the truth. I helped them make up the parcel myself." "Then it must have been their parcel that is now in the hands of the bank." "It seems likely." "Then where are the bonds?" demanded Johnson sternly. "That is more than I can tell," said the bank messenger, in evident perplexity. "It's enough to make a man tear his hair to have such a promising scheme miscarry," said Johnson gloomily. "I wish I could lay my finger on the man that's responsible for it." "I can't understand it at all, colonel. We followed out your instructions to the letter. Everything went off smoothly." "Can you tell me where are the bonds?" interrupted Johnson harshly. "No, I can't." "Then you may as well be silent." "I will follow your directions," said Carver submissively. "What do you wish me to do?" Johnson reflected a moment. Finally he said: "Take the earliest morning train to Chester. I will stay here. So will the other two men." "Anything further?" "Only this: Keep your eyes and ears open when you get home. If you hear anything that will throw light on this affair, write or telegraph, or send a special messenger, so that I may act promptly on your information. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir. Your directions shall be followed. I am as anxious as you are to find out why we failed." CHAPTER XXX. GRIT IS BETRAYED. In sending Grit to Boston instead of the regular messenger, President Graves had acted on his own responsibility, as he had a right to do, since it was a matter to be decided by the executive. He might, indeed, have consulted the directors, but that would have created delay, and might have endangered the needful secrecy. When, however, Grit returned and reported to him that his mission had been satisfactorily accomplished, he informed the directors of what had been done at a special meeting summoned at his own house. All approved the action except Mr. Courtney, who was prejudiced against Grit, and, moreover, felt offended because his own counsel had not been asked or regarded. "It seems to me," he said, with some heat, "that our president has acted in a very rash manner." "How do you make that out, Mr. Courtney?" interrogated that official. "It was actually foolhardy to trust a boy like Grit Morris with a package of such value." "Why?" inquired Graves. "Why? He is only a common boy, who makes a living by ferrying passengers across the river." "Does that prevent his being honest?" "A valuable package like that would be a powerful temptation to a boy like that," asserted Courtney. "The package was promptly delivered," said Mr. Graves dryly. "He says so," sneered Courtney. "Pardon me, Mr. Courtney, I have had advice to that effect from the Boston bank," said the president blandly. "Well, I'm glad the danger has been averted," said Courtney, rather discomfited. "All the same, I blame your course as hazardous and injudicious. I suppose the boy was afraid to appropriate property of so much value." "I think, Mr. Courtney, you do injustice to Grit," said Mr. Saunders, another director. "I am satisfied that he is strictly honest." "Perhaps you'd be in favor of appointing him regular bank messenger," said Courtney, with a sneer. "I should certainly prefer him to Ephraim Carver." "I consider Carver an honest man." "And I have positive proof that he is not honest," said the president. "I have proof, moreover, that he was actually in league with the man who plotted to rob the bank." This statement made a sensation, and the president proceeded: "Indeed, I have called this extra meeting partly to suggest the necessity of appointing in Carver's place a man in whom we can repose confidence." Here he detailed briefly the conversation which Grit overheard between the bank messenger and Colonel Johnson. It impressed all, except Mr. Courtney. "All a fabrication of that boy, I'll be bound," he declared. "I am surprised, Mr. Graves, that you should have been humbugged by such a palpable invention." "What could have been the boy's object in inventing such a story, allow me to ask, Mr. Courtney?" "Oh, he wanted to worm himself into our confidence," said Courtney. "Very likely he wished to be appointed bank messenger, though that would, of course, be preposterous." "Gentlemen," said President Graves, "as my course does not seem to command entire approval, I will ask those of you who think I acted with discretion to signify it." All voted in the affirmative except Mr. Courtney. "I regret, Mr. Courtney, that you disapprove my course," said the president; "but I continue to think it wise, and am glad that your fellow directors side with me." Soon after the meeting dissolved, and Mr. Courtney went home very much dissatisfied. Nothing was done about the appointment of a new messenger, the matter being postponed for three days. When Mr. Courtney went home he did a very unwise thing. He inveighed in the presence of his family against the course of President Graves, though it was a matter that should have been kept secret. He found one to sympathize with him--his son Phil. "You don't mean to say," exclaimed that young man, "that Grit Morris was sent to Boston in charge of thirty thousand dollars in bonds?" "Yes, I do. That is just what was done." "It's a wonder he didn't steal them and make himself scarce." "That is in substance what I said at the meeting of the directors, my son." "I wish they'd sent me," said Phil. "I should have enjoyed the trip." "It would certainly have been more appropriate," said Mr. Courtney, "as you are the son of one of the directors, and not the least influential or prominent, I flatter myself." "To take a common boatman!" said Phil scornfully. "Why, Mr. Graves must be crazy!" "He is certainly a very injudicious man," said his father. "Do you believe Carver to be dishonest, father?" "No, I don't, though Graves does, on some evidence trumped up by the boy Grit. He wants to supersede him, and it would not at all surprise me if he should be in favor of appointing Grit." "How ridiculous! What is the pay?" asked Phil. "Six hundred dollars a year, I believe," said Courtney. "Can't you get it for me?" asked Phil eagerly. "I don't think it would be suitable to appoint a boy," returned Courtney. "That is my objection to Grit." "Surely I would be a better messenger than a common boy like that." "Of course, you come of a very different family. Still, I prefer a man, and indeed I am in favor of retaining Ephraim Carver." Phil would really have liked the office of bank messenger. He was tired of studying, and would have found it very agreeable to have an income of his own. He got considerable sums from his father, but not sufficient for his needs, or, rather, his wishes. Besides, like most boys of his age, he enjoyed traveling about, and considered the office a light and pleasant one. "What a fool Graves must be," he said to himself, "to think of a common boatman for such a place! He'd better stick to his boat, it's all he's qualified for. I'd like to put a spoke in his wheel." He left the house, and a short distance up the street he met Ephraim Carver, who had come back to town in obedience to Colonel Johnson's suggestion, to learn what he could about the mysterious package. "I'll see what I can learn from him," thought Phil. "Good morning, Mr. Carver," he said. "Good morning, Philip." "You've been to Boston lately, haven't you?" "I wonder whether he has heard anything about the matter from his father," thought Carver. "Yes," he answered. "You didn't happen to meet Grit Morris there, did you?" asked Phil. "Grit Morris!" exclaimed Carver, in genuine surprise. "Yes, didn't you know he had been to Boston?" "No; what business had he in Boston?" asked the messenger. "None of his own," answered Phil significantly. "Did any one send him?" "You had better ask Mr. Graves," said Phil, telling more than he intended to. "Why didn't Mr. Graves get me to attend to his business?" asked Carver, still in the dark. "I didn't say Graves had any business of his own. He is president of the bank, you know." "But I attend to the bank business. I am the messenger." "Perhaps you don't attend to all of it," said Phil, telling considerably more than he intended when the conversation commenced. "Tell me what you know, Phil, about this matter. It is important for me to know," said Carver coaxingly. "I know you don't like Grit, neither do I. If he is trying to curry favor with Mr. Graves, I want to know it, so as to circumvent him." Before Phil quite knew what he was saying, he had revealed everything to Carver, adding that Grit was after his place. The bank messenger now understood why the package entrusted to him was a dummy, and who carried the real package. He lost no time in sending information to Colonel Johnson, in Portland. The gentleman was very much excited when he learned in what way he had been circumvented. "So it was a boy, was it?" he said savagely. "That boy must be looked after. He may find that he has made a mistake in meddling with affairs that don't concern him." CHAPTER XXXI. NEW PLANS. When Grit returned he found his mother naturally curious to know where he had been and on what errand. "I should like to tell you everything, mother," he said, "but it may not be prudent just yet." "It's nothing wrong, I hope, Grit?" "You may be sure of that, mother; I wouldn't engage in anything that I thought wrong. I feel justified in telling you confidentially that I was sent by Mr. Graves." "What! the president of the bank?" "Yes." "Then it's all right," said Mrs. Brandon, with an air of relief. "My time wasn't wasted, mother," said Grit cheerfully, as he displayed a ten-dollar note, new and crisp, which Mr. Graves had given him, besides paying the expenses of his trip. "I've only been gone two days, and ten dollars will pay me very well. It's better than boating, at any rate." "Yes, but it isn't a steady employment." "No; don't suppose I have any idea of giving up boating, because I have been paid five dollars a day for my trip. It's a help, though." "Did you see anything of Mr. Brandon while you were gone?" asked his mother apprehensively. "No, mother. I can't say I was disappointed, either." "When he went away he spoke mysteriously of some good fortune that was coming to him. He expected to earn a large sum of money, and talked of going to Europe." "He is welcome to do so," said Grit, smiling. "I hope he will, and then we can resume our old life. I tell you, mother, I feel more sure than ever of getting along. I am certain I can earn considerably more next year than I have ever done before," and the boy's cheeks glowed and his eyes sparkled with cheerful hope. "I am sure you deserve to, Grit, for you've always been a good son." "I ought to be, for I've got a good mother," said the boy, with a glance of affection at his mother. "He pays me for all," thought Mrs. Brandon, as she watched with pride and a mother's love the form of her boy as he walked down to the river. "As long as he lives, I have reason to be grateful to God. Mr. Brandon is a heavy cross to me, but I can bear it while I have Grit." Mr. Brandon, however, did not show himself. He was at Portland, subject to the orders of Colonel Johnson, who thought it not prudent that he or Travers should return just at present, lest, under the influence of liquor, they might become talkative and betray more than he desired. It was at this point that he learned from Ephraim Carver that Grit had been sent to Boston in the place of the regular bank messenger. "It looks as if somebody suspected something," he reflected anxiously. "Is it possible that any part of our plan has leaked out? And if so, how? Then why should a boy like that be selected for so responsible a duty? He must have had some agency in the discovery. Ha! I have it! He is the stepson of this Brandon. I must question Brandon." "Brandon," he said abruptly, summoning that worthy to his presence, "you have a son named Grit, have you not?" "Yes--curse the brat!" answered Brandon, in a tone by no means paternal. "What kind of a boy is he?" "Impudent and undutiful," said Brandon. "He doesn't treat me with any kind of respect." "I don't blame him for that," thought Johnson, surveying his instrument with a glance that did not indicate the highest esteem. "Did you tell him anything of our plans?" he asked searchingly. "Tell him! He's the last person I'd tell!" returned Brandon, with emphasis. "He didn't overhear you and Travers speaking of the matter, did he?" "Certainly not. What makes you ask me that, colonel?" "Because it was he who carried the genuine package of bonds to Boston--that's all." "Grit--carried--the bonds!" Brandon ejaculated, in amazement. "Yes." "How did you find out?" "Carver found out. I have just had a despatch from him." "Well, that beats me!" muttered Brandon. "I can't understand it at all." "It looks as if Carver were distrusted. I shall find out presently. In the meanwhile, I must see that boy of yours." "I'll go and bring him here," said Brandon. "Don't trouble yourself. I can manage the matter better by myself. I shall go to Boston this afternoon." "Are Travers and I to go, too?" "No; you can stay here. I'll direct you to a cheap boarding-house, where you can await my orders. I may take Travers with me." This arrangement did not suit Brandon very well, though it might had he been entrusted with a liberal sum of money. But Colonel Johnson, having lost the valuable prize for which he had striven, was in no mood to be generous. He agreed to be responsible for Brandon's board, but only gave him two dollars for outside expenses, thus enforcing a degree of temperance which was very disagreeable to Brandon. CHAPTER XXXII. GRIT RECEIVES A BUSINESS LETTER. Grit returned to his old business, but I am obliged to confess that he was not as well contented with it as he had been a week previous. The incidents of the past four days had broadened his views, and given him thoughts of a career which would suit him better. He earned a dollar and a quarter during the day, and this made a very good average. Multiply it by six, and it stood for an income of seven dollars and a half per week. This, to be sure, was not a large sum, but it was quite sufficient to maintain the little household in a degree of comfort which left nothing to be desired. "It's all very well now," thought Grit, "but it won't lead to anything. I'm so old now"--he was not quite sixteen--"that I ought to be getting hold of some business that I can follow when I am a man. I don't mean to be a boatman when I am twenty-five years old." There was something in this, no doubt. Still Grit need not have felt in such a hurry. He was young enough to wait. Waiting, however, is a very bad thing for boys of his age. I only want to show how his mind was affected, in order that the reader may understand how it happened that he fell unsuspiciously into a trap which Colonel Johnson prepared for him. After supper--it was two days later--Grit prepared to go to the village. He had a little errand of his own, and besides, his mother wanted a few articles at the grocery-store. Our hero, unlike some boys that I know, was always ready to do any errands for his mother, so that she was spared the trouble of exacting unwilling service. Grit had done all his business, when he chanced to meet his friend Jesse Burns, who, as I have already said, was the son of the postmaster. "How are you, Jesse?" said Grit. "All right, Grit. Have you got your letter?" "My letter!" returned Grit, in surprise. "Yes; there's a letter for you in the post-office." "I wonder who it can be from?" "Perhaps it's from your affectionate stepfather," suggested Jesse, smiling. "I hope not, I don't want to see or hear from him." "Well, you can easily solve the problem. You have only to take the letter out." "That's good advice, Jesse. I'll follow it." Grit called for his letter, and noticed, with some surprise, that it was addressed to him, not under his real name, but under that familiar name by which we know him. "Grit Morris," said Jesse, scanning the envelope. "Who can it be from?" The letter was postmarked Boston, and was addressed in a bold, business hand. Grit opened the envelope, read it through hastily, and with a look of evident pleasure. "What's it all about, Grit?" asked Jesse. "Read it for yourself, Jesse," said the young boatman, handing the letter to his friend. This was the letter: "DEAR SIR: I need a young person on whom I can rely to travel for me at the West. I don't know you personally, but you have been recommended to me as likely to suit my purpose. I am willing to pay twelve dollars per week and traveling expenses. If this will suit your views, come to Boston at once, and call upon me at my private residence, No. ----, Essex Street. "Yours truly, "SOLOMON WEAVER." "What are you going to do about it, Grit?" asked Jesse, when he had finished reading the letter. "I shall go to Boston to-morrow morning," answered Grit promptly. CHAPTER XXXIII. GRIT LEAVES PINE POINT. "It does seem to be a good offer," said Jesse thoughtfully. "I should think it was--twelve dollars a week and traveling expenses," said Grit enthusiastically. "I wonder how this Mr. Weaver came to hear of you?" "I can't think. That's what puzzles me," said Grit. "He says that you have been recommended to him, I see." "Yes. At any rate, I am very much obliged to the one who recommended me." "What will your mother say?" "She won't want to part with me; but when I tell her how good the offer is, she will get reconciled to it." When Grit went home and read the letter to his mother, it was a shock to the good woman. "How can I part from you, Grit?" she said, with a troubled look. "It won't be for long, mother," said Grit hopefully. "I shall soon be able to send for you, and we can settle down somewhere near Boston. I've got tired of this place, haven't you?" "No, Grit. I think Pine Point is very pleasant, as long as I can keep you with me. When you are gone, of course, it will seem very different. I don't see how I am going to stand it." "It won't be for long, mother; and you'll know I am doing well." "You can make a living with your boat, Grit." "Yes, mother; but it isn't going to lead to anything. It's all very well now, but half a dozen years from now I ought to be established in some good business." "Can't you put off going for a year, Grit?" "A year hence there may be no such chance as this, mother." "That is true." "You'll give your consent, then, mother?" "If you really think it is best, Grit--that is, if you've set your heart on it." "I have, mother," said Grit earnestly. "I was getting tired of boating before this letter came, but I kept at it because there didn't seem to be anything else. Now it would seem worse than ever, and I'm afraid I should be very discontented." "I wish you would call on your friend Mr. Jackson, at the hotel, and see what he thinks of it," said Mrs. Brandon. "He is an experienced man of business, and his judgment will be better than ours." "I will do as you say, mother. I am sure he will recommend me to go." Grit went to the hotel, arriving there about eight o'clock, and inquired for Mr. Jackson. He was told that that gentleman had started in the morning for Augusta, and would not return for a day or two. The young boatman was not, on the whole, sorry to hear this, for it was possible that the broker might not think favorably of the plan proposed, and he felt unwilling, even in that case, to give it up. He returned, and acquainted his mother with the result of his visit. "Can't you wait till Mr. Jackson returns?" asked his mother. "No, mother; I should run the risk of losing the chance." The evening was spent in getting ready to go. Grit left in his mother's hands all the money he had, except the ten dollars he had last received, and gave an order for the sixty dollars in the hands of Mr. Lawrence, the lawyer, so that even if this Western journey were prolonged for three months, his mother would have enough to provide for her wants. "Now, mother, I can leave home without any anxiety," he said. "You will write me often, Grit?" said Mrs. Brandon anxiously. "Oh, yes, mother; there is no danger I shall forget that." "Your letters will be all I shall have to think of, you know, Grit." "I won't forget it, mother." Grit kissed his mother good-by, and bent his steps toward the railway station. On the way he met Ephraim Carver. "Where are you going, Grit?" asked the bank messenger. "I am going to Boston." "It seems to me you have a good deal of business in Boston." "I hope to have." "You ain't going to stay, are you?" "I expect to stay. I've got an offer from a party there." "Of what sort?" "That letter will tell you." Ephraim Carver looked over the letter, and he smiled to himself, for he recognized the handwriting of Colonel Johnson, though the letter was signed by another name. "You're walking into the lion's den, young man," he thought; but he only said: "It seems to be a good offer. Why, you will be paid as much as I get. How old are you?" "Almost sixteen." "Boys get on more rapidly now than they did when I was of your age. Why, I'm more'n twenty years older than you are, and I haven't got any higher than twelve dollars a week yet." Mr. Carver laughed in what seemed to be an entirely uncalled-for manner. "I don't believe you'll keep your place long," thought the young boatman; but he, too, was not disposed to tell all he knew. So the two parted, each possessed of a secret in regard to the other. Mr. Carver, however, was destined to receive the first disagreeable surprise. After parting from Grit he met Mr. Graves in the street. "Good morning, Mr. Graves," he said, in his usual deferential manner, for he was a worldly-wise man, though he had committed one fatal mistake. "Good morning, Mr. Carver," said the president of the bank gravely. "Shall you have any errand for me this week?" "I have something to say to you, Mr. Carver," said Mr. Graves, "and I may as well take the present opportunity to do so. We have concluded to dispense with your services, and you are at liberty to look elsewhere for employment." "You are going to dispense with my services!" repeated Carver, in dismay. "Such is the determination of the directors, Mr. Carver." "But, sir, that is very hard on me. How am I to get along?" "I hope you may find something else to do. We shall pay you a month's salary in advance, to give you an opportunity of looking about." "But, Mr. Graves, why am I treated so harshly? Can't you intercede for me? I am a poor man." "I feel for your situation, Mr. Carver, but I am compelled to say that I do not feel disposed to intercede for you." "Haven't I always served the bank faithfully?" "I advise you to ask yourself that question, Mr. Carver," said the president significantly. "You can answer it to your own conscience better than I or any one else can do for you." "What does he mean?" thought Carver, startled. Then it occurred to the messenger that nothing had been discovered, but that Mr. Graves, who had recently shown such partiality to Grit, wished to create a vacancy for him. "Are you going to put Grit Morris in my place?" he asked angrily. "What makes you think so?" asked Mr. Graves keenly. "I knew you were partial to him," answered Carver, who reflected that it would not do to give the source of his information. "I will at any rate answer your question, Mr. Carver. There is no intention of putting Grit in your place. We have every confidence in his fidelity and capacity, but consider him too young for the position." "I was only going to say that Grit has another chance in Boston, so that there will be no need to provide for him." "Grit has a chance in Boston!" said Mr. Graves, in surprise. "Yes; he has just started for the city." "What sort of a chance is it?" "He has received an offer to travel at the West, with a salary of twelve dollars a week and expenses." "That is strange." "It is true. He showed me the letter." "From whom did it come?" "I don't remember." Carver did remember, but for obvious reasons did not think it best to acquaint Mr. Graves. "That is remarkable," thought Mr. Graves, as he walked home. "Grit is a smart boy, but such offers are not often made by strangers to a boy of fifteen. I must speak to Clark about it." He found Mr. Clark at his house. He was the quiet man who had been employed by the bank as a detective, and who had come to report to the president. There was a look of intelligence as he listened to the news about Grit. "I tell you what I think of it," he said. "The rascals have found out the part which Grit took in circumventing them, and this letter is part of a plot. They mean the boy mischief." "I hope not," said Mr. Graves anxiously. "I am attached to Grit, and I wouldn't have harm come to him for a good deal." "Leave the matter in my hands. I will take the next train for Boston, and follow this clue. It may enable me to get hold of this Johnson, who is a dangerous rascal, because he has brains." "Do so, and I will see you paid, if necessary, out of my own pocket." CHAPTER XXXIV. GRIT REACHES BOSTON. Full of hope and joyful anticipation, Grit left home and pursued his journey to Boston. He had occasion to stop a couple of hours at Portland, and improved it by strolling down to the pier of the little steamers that make periodical trips to the islands in the harbor. Just outside a low saloon he unexpectedly ran across his stepfather. "How are you, Grit?" said Brandon affably. There was a flush on Brandon's face, and an unsteadiness of gait which indicated that he had succeeded in evading what is known as the Maine law. To Grit it was not a welcome apparition. Still, he felt it due to himself to be ordinarily polite. "I am well," he answered briefly. "And how's your mother?" asked Brandon. "Quite well, thank you," Grit answered, as formally as if the question had been asked by a stranger. "Does she miss me much?" asked his stepfather, with a smile. "She has not mentioned it," responded our hero coldly. "I am sorry that circumstances compel me to be absent from her for a time," continued Brandon. "Oh, don't disturb yourself," said Grit. "She is quite used to being alone. I think she mentioned that you talked of going to Europe." Brandon frowned, and his bitter disappointment was thus recalled to his mind. "I don't know whether I shall or not," he answered. "It depends upon whether my--speculation turns out well. Where are you going?" Grit hesitated as to whether he should answer correctly. He was not anxious to have Brandon looking him up in Boston, but it occurred to him that he should be traveling at the West, and, therefore, he answered: "I have heard of a chance in Boston, and am going to see about it." "All right, Grit!" said Brandon. "You have my consent." It occurred to Grit that he did not stand in need of his stepfather's approval, but he did not say so. "Yes, Grit, I send you forth with a father's blessing," said Brandon paternally. "By the way, have you a quarter about you?" Grit thought that a quarter was rather a high price to pay for Brandon's blessing, but he was in good spirits, and this made him good-natured. Accordingly, he drew a quarter from his pocket and handed it to his stepfather. "Thank you, Grit," said Brandon briskly, for he had felt uncertain as to the success of his application. "I like to see you respectful and dutiful. I will drink your good health, and success to your plans." "You had better drink it in cold water, Mr. Brandon." "That's all right," said Brandon. "Good-by!" He disappeared in the direction of the nearest saloon, and Grit returned to the depot to take the train for Boston. "I don't know that I ought to have given him any money," thought Grit, "but I was so glad to get rid of him that I couldn't refuse." He reached Boston without further adventure, arriving at the Boston and Maine depot in Haymarket Square about four o'clock. "I wonder whether it is too late to call on Mr. Weaver to-night," thought Grit. He decided that it was not. Even if it were too late for an interview, he thought it would be wise to let his prospective employer understand that he had met his appointment punctually. "Carriage, sir?" asked a hackman. Grit answered in the negative, feeling that to one in his circumstances it would be foolish extravagance to spend money for a carriage. But this was succeeded by the thought that time was valuable, and as he did not know where Essex Street was, it might consume so much to find out the place indicated in the letter that he might miss the opportunity of seeing Mr. Weaver. "How far is Essex Street from here?" he asked. "Three or four miles," promptly answered the hackman. "Is there any street-car line that goes there?" "Oh, bless you, no." Neither of these answers was correct, but Grit did not know this. "How much will you charge to take me to No. ---- Essex Street?" "Seein' it's you, I'll take you for a dollar and a quarter." Grit was about to accept this offer, when a quiet-looking man beside him said: "The regular fare is fifty cents." "Is it any of your business?" demanded the hackman angrily. "Do you want to take the bread out of a poor man's mouth?" "Yes, if the poor man undertakes to cheat a boy!" answered the quiet man keenly. "It's ridiculous expectin' to pay fifty cents for a ride of three or four miles," grumbled the hackman. "The distance isn't over a mile and a quarter, and you are not allowed to ask over fifty cents. My boy, I advise you to call another hack." "Jump in," said the hackman, fearful of losing his fare. "I think I will get in, too, as I am going to that part of the city," said the small man, in whom my readers will probably recognize the detective already referred to. "That'll be extra." "Of course," said the detective. "I understand that, and I understand how much extra," said the stranger significantly. As the man and boy rattled through the streets, they fell into a conversation, and Grit, feeling that he was with a friend, told his plan. "Humph!" said the detective. "May I see this letter?" "Certainly, sir." "Do you know who recommended you to Mr. Weaver?" asked Grit's new friend. "No, sir." "And can't guess?" "No, sir." "Doesn't it strike you as a little singular that such an offer should come from a stranger?" "Yes, sir; that did occur to me. Don't you think it genuine?" asked Grit anxiously. "I don't know. I could tell better if I should see this Mr. Weaver." "Won't you go in with me?" "No; it might seem odd, and the proposal may be genuine. I'll tell you what to do, my boy. That is, if you feel confidence in me." "I do, and shall be glad of your advice." "Come to the Parker House after your interview, and inquire for Benjamin Baker." "I will, sir, and thank you." When the hack drew up in front of No. ---- Essex Street, the stranger got out with Grit. "I am calling close by," he said, "and won't ride any farther. Here is the fare for both." "But, sir," said Grit, "it is not right that you should pay my fare for me." "It is all right," said Mr. Baker. "I have more money than you, probably, my young friend. Besides, meeting with you has saved me some trouble." This speech puzzled Grit, but he did not feel like asking any explanation. He glanced with some interest at the house where he was to meet Mr. Weaver. It was a three-story brick house, with a swell front, such as used to be very popular in Boston thirty or forty years since. It was very quiet in appearance, and there was nothing to distinguish it from its neighbors on either side. "Good afternoon, Mr. Baker," said Grit, as he ascended the steps to ring the bell. "Good afternoon. Remember to call upon me at the Parker House." "Thank you, sir." Benjamin Baker turned down a side street, and Grit rang the bell. It was opened by a tall, gaunt woman, with a cast in her eye. "What's wanted?" she asked abruptly. "I called to see Mr. Weaver--Mr. Solomon Weaver," said Grit. "Oh, yes," said the woman, with a curious smile. "Come in." The hall which Grit entered was dark and shabby in its general appearance. Our hero followed his guide to a rear room, the door of which was thrown open, revealing a small apartment, with a shabby collection of furniture. There was no carpet on the floor, but one or two rugs relieved the large expanse of floor. "Take a seat, and I'll call Mr. Weaver," said the woman. Somehow Grit's courage was dampened by the unpromising look of the house and its interior. He had pictured to himself Mr. Weaver as a pleasant, prosperous-looking man, who lived in good style, and was liberally disposed. He sat down in an armchair in the center of the room. He had but five minutes to wait. Then the door opened, and to Grit's amazement the man whom he had known as Colonel Johnson entered the room, and coolly locked the door after him. CHAPTER XXXV. CROSS-EXAMINED. Grit's face showed the astonishment he felt at the unexpected appearance of a man whom he knew to be the prime instigator of the attempt to rob the bank at Chester. Colonel Johnson smiled grimly as he saw the effect produced by his presence. "You didn't expect to see me?" he said. "No, sir," answered Grit. "I flatter myself you had done me the honor to call upon me," said Johnson, seating himself at a little distance from our hero. "I came to see Mr. Solomon Weaver, from whom I received a letter," explained Grit. "If this is your house I may have made a mistake in the number." "Not at all," answered Johnson. "Mr. Weaver is a friend of mine." "Does he live here?" "Oh, yes," said Johnson, smiling. "He wrote me that he wished to send me on a Western trip." "That's all right." "Then the letter was genuine," said Grit, hoping that things might turn out right after all. Could it be possible, he thought, that Colonel Johnson was the friend who had recommended him? It did not seem at all probable, but in his bewilderment he did not know what to think. "Can I see Mr. Weaver?" asked Grit, desirous of putting an end to his uncertainty. "Presently," answered Colonel Johnson. "He is busy just at present, but he deputed me to speak with you." This was all very surprising, but would probably soon be explained. "I shall be glad to answer any questions," said Grit. "I suppose you can present good recommendations, as the position is a responsible one," said Johnson, with a half smile. "Yes, sir." "Whom, for instance?" "Mr. Graves, president of the Chester Bank," said Grit. Knowing what he did of Colonel Johnson's attempt upon the bank, it was perhaps a rather odd choice to make, but the young boatman thought it might help him to discover whether Johnson knew anything of his recent employment by the bank. "I have heard of Mr. Graves," said Johnson. "Has he ever employed you?" "Yes, sir." "In what capacity?" demanded Johnson searchingly. "He sent me to this city with a package." "What did the package contain?" "I think it contained bonds." "Haven't they a regular bank messenger?" "Yes, sir." "What's his name?" "Ephraim Carver." "Why was he not employed? Why should you be sent in his place?" "I think you had better ask Mr. Graves," said Grit independently. "Why? Don't you know?" "Even if I did I should consider that I had no right to tell." "You are a very conscientious and honorable young man," said Johnson sneeringly. "Thank you, sir," returned Grit, choosing not to show that he understood the sneer. "Where is your stepfather?" inquired Johnson, changing the subject abruptly. "In Portland." "How do you know?" "I met him in the street while on my way through the city." "Did you speak with him?" "Yes, sir." "What did he say?" asked Johnson suspiciously. "He wished to borrow twenty-five cents," answered Grit, with a smile. "Did you lend it to him?" "Yes." "Very dutiful, on my word!" "I have no feeling of that sort for Mr. Brandon," said Grit frankly. "I thought it the easiest way to get rid of him." Johnson changed the subject again. "Is Ephraim Carver likely to lose his situation as bank messenger?" he asked. "I think you had better ask Mr. Graves," said Grit, on his guard. Johnson frowned, for he did not like Grit's independence. "It is reported that you are intriguing for his position," he continued. "That is not true." "Do you think there is any likelihood of your being appointed in his place?" "No, sir; I never dreamed of it." "Yet there is a possibility of it. Don't suppose that I am particularly interested in this Carver. So far as I am concerned, I should not object to your succeeding him." "What does all this mean?" thought Grit. "If you should do so, I might have a proposal to make to you that would be to your advantage." Knowing what he did, Grit very well understood what was meant. Johnson, no doubt, wished to hire him to betray the confidence reposed in him by the bank, and deliver up any valuable package entrusted to him for a money consideration. Like any right-minded and honorable boy, Grit felt that the very hint of such a thing was an insult to him, and his face flushed with indignation. For the moment he forgot his prudence. "I don't think there is the least chance of my getting such a position," he said; "but even if I did, it would not do you any good to make me a proposal." "How do you know what sort of a proposal I should make?" demanded Johnson keenly. "I don't know," answered Grit, emphasizing the last word. "It appears to me, young man, that you are a little ahead of time," said Johnson. "You shouldn't crow too soon." "I think I will bid you good evening," said Grit, rising. "Why so soon? You haven't seen Mr. Weaver." "On the whole, I don't think I should wish to engage with him." Our hero felt that if Mr. Weaver were a friend of the man before him, it would be safest to have nothing to do with him. On the principle that a man is known by the company he keeps, the friend of Colonel Johnson could hardly be a desirable person to serve. "You seem to be in a hurry, especially as you have not seen my friend Weaver." "You will be kind enough to explain to him that I have changed my plans," said Grit. "Resume your seat for five minutes," said Johnson, "and I will call Weaver. You had better see him for yourself." "Very well, sir." He reflected that merely seeing Mr. Weaver would not commit him to anything. Colonel Johnson rose to his feet, and placed his foot firmly on a particular spot in the floor. To Grit's dismay, the floor seemed to sink beneath him, and chair and all were lowered a dozen feet into a subterranean cavity, too quickly for him to help himself. He realized that the chair so conveniently placed in the center of the apartment rested on a trap-door. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE BOY DANIEL. Though Grit was not hurt by his sudden descent into the dark cavity under the room in which he had been seated, he was, nevertheless, somewhat startled. Indeed, it was enough to startle a person much older. For the first time it dawned upon him that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and Mr. Weaver was either an imaginary person, or his offer was not genuine. It was clear, also, from the tenor of Johnson's questions that he fully understood, or at least suspected, that his plan had been known in advance to the bank officials. The young boatman understood how to manage a boat, but in the present case he found that he was out of his element. The tricks, traps, and devices of a great city he knew very little about. He had, indeed, read about trap-doors and subterranean chambers in certain sensational stories which had come into his possession, but he looked upon them as mere figments of the imagination, and did not believe they really existed. Now, here was he himself made an unexpected victim by a conspiracy of the same class familiar to him in novels. Naturally, the first thing to do was to take a survey of his new quarters, and obtain some idea of his position. At first everything seemed involved in thick darkness, but as his eye became accustomed to it, he could see that he was in a cellar of about the same size as the room above, though there was a door leading into another. He felt his way to it, and tried to open it, but found that it was fastened, probably by a bolt on the other side. There was no other door. "I am like a rat in a trap," thought Grit. "What are they going to do with me, I wonder?" While it was unpleasant enough to be where he was, he did not allow himself to despond or give way to unmanly fears. There was no reason, he thought, to apprehend serious peril or physical violence. Colonel Johnson probably intended to frighten him, with a view of securing his compliance with the demands of the conspirators. "He will find he has made a mistake," thought Grit. "I am not a baby, and don't mean to act like one." He heard a noise, and, looking round, discovered the armchair in which he had descended being drawn up toward the trap-door. The door was opened by some agency, the chair disappeared, and again he was in darkness. "They don't mean to keep me here in luxury," thought Grit. "If I sit down anywhere, it will have to be on the floor." It was late in the afternoon, as we know, and it seemed likely that our hero would have to remain in the subterranean chamber all night. As there was no bed, he would have to lie down on the ground. Grit kneeled down, and ascertained that the floor was cemented, and not a damp earthen flooring as he had feared. He congratulated himself, for he was bound to make the best of the situation. There was another source of discomfort, however. It was already past Grit's ordinary supper hour, and, except a very slight lunch, consisting of a sandwich bought in the cars, our hero had had nothing to eat since breakfast, and an early breakfast at that. Now, Grit was not one of those delicate boys who are satisfied with a few mouthfuls, but he had what is called a "healthy appetite," such as belongs to most boys who have good stomachs and spend considerable time in the open air. He began to feel an aching void in the region of his stomach, and thought, with a sigh, of the plain but hearty supper he should have had at home. "I hope Colonel Johnson isn't going to starve me," he thought. "That is carrying the joke too far. It seems to me I never felt so hungry in all my life before." Half an hour passed, and poor Grit's reflections became decidedly gloomy as his stomach became more and more troublesome. However, he was perfectly helpless, and must wait till the man, or men, who had him in their clutches, saw fit to provide for him. Under these circumstances it may well be imagined that his heart leaped for joy when he heard the bolt of the only door, already referred to, slowly withdrawn with a rasping sound, as if it did not slide easily in its socket. He turned his eyes eagerly toward the door. It was opened, and a tall, overgrown youth entered with a small basket in his hand, which he set down on the floor while he carefully closed the door. "Hello, there! Where are you?" he asked, for his eyes were not used to the darkness. "Here I am," answered Grit. "I hope you've brought me some supper." "Right you are!" said the youth. "Oh, now I see you." The speaker was tall and overgrown, as I have said. He was also painfully thin, and his clothes were two or three sizes too small for him, so that his long, bony arms protruded from his coat-sleeves, and his legs appeared to have outgrown his pants. His face was long, and his cheeky were hollow. "He reminds me of Smike, in 'Nicholas Nickleby,'" thought Grit. "Take your supper, young one, and eat it quick," said the youth, for he was not more than eighteen. Grit needed no second invitation. He quickly explored the contents of the basket. The supper consisted of cold meat and slices of bread and butter, with a mug of tea. To Grit everything tasted delicious, and he did not leave a crumb. "My! haven't you got an appetite?" said the youth. "I haven't had anything to eat since morning," said Grit apologetically--"that is, only a sandwich." "Say, what are you here for?" asked the youth curiously. "I don't know," answered Grit. "Honor bright?" "Yes, honor bright. Do you live here?" "Yes," answered the youth soberly. "Is this man--Colonel Johnson--any relation of yours?" "No." "Where are your folks?" "Haven't got any. Never had any as I know of." "Have you always lived here?" "Always lived with him," answered the boy, jerking his thumb in an upward direction. "Sometimes here, sometimes in New York." "Do you like to be with--him?" "No." "Why don't you run away?" "Run away!" repeated the other, looking around him nervously. "He'd get me back, and half kill me." "There's some mystery about this boy," thought Grit. "Do you think he will keep me here long?" he asked, in some anxiety. "Can't say--maybe." "What's your name?" "Daniel." "What's your other name?" "Haven't got any." "Daniel," said Grit, a thought striking him. "Do you ever go out--about the city, I mean?" "Oh, yes; I go to the post-office and other places." "Will you carry a message for me to the Parker House?" "I darsn't," said Daniel, trembling. "No one will know it," pleaded Grit. "Besides, I'll give you--five dollars," he added, after a pause. "Have you got so much?" asked Daniel eagerly. "Yes." "Show it to me." Grit did so. "Yes, I'll do it," said the youth, after a pause; "but I must be careful so he won't know." "All right. When can you leave the house?" "In the morning." "That will suit me very well. Now, shall I see you again to-morrow morning?" "Yes, I shall bring you your breakfast." "Very well; I will write a note, and will describe the gentleman you are to hand it to." "You'll be sure to give me the money?" "Yes, I will give it to you before you go, if you will promise to do my errand faithfully." "I'll promise. I never had five dollars," continued Daniel. "There's many things I can buy for five dollars." "So you can," answered Grit, who began to perceive that this overgrown youth was rather deficient mentally. "You mustn't tell anybody that you are going to carry a message for me," said Grit, thinking the caution might be necessary. "Oh, no, I darsn't," said Daniel quickly, and Grit was satisfied. Our hero felt much more comfortable after he was left alone, partly in consequence of the plain supper he had eaten, partly because he thought he saw his way out of the trap into which he had been inveigled. "To-morrow I hope to be free," he said to himself, as he lay down on the floor and sought the refreshment of sleep. Fortunately for him, he was feeling pretty well fatigued, and though it was but eight o'clock, he soon lost consciousness of all that was disagreeable in his situation under the benignant influence of sleep. When Grit awoke, he had no idea what time it was, for there was no way for light to enter the dark chamber. "I hope it is almost breakfast-time," thought our hero, for he already felt the stirrings of appetite, and besides, all his hope centered in Daniel, whom he was then to see. After awhile he heard the welcome sound of the bolt drawn back. Then a sudden fear assailed him. It might be some one else, not Daniel, who would bring his breakfast. If so, all his hopes would be dashed to the ground, and he could fix no limit to his captivity. But his fears were dissipated when he saw the long, lank youth, with the same basket which he had brought the night before. "Good morning, Daniel," said Grit joyfully. "I am glad to see you." "You're hungry, I reckon," said the youth practically. "Yes; but I wanted to see you, so as to give you my message. Are you going out this morning?" "Yes; I'm goin' to market." "Can you go to the Parker House? You know where it is, don't you?" "Yes; it is on School Street." Grit was glad that Daniel knew, for he could not have told him. Grit had written a note in pencil on a sheet of paper which he fortunately had in his pocket. This he handed to Daniel, with full instructions as to the outward appearance of Mr. Benjamin Baker, to whom it was to be handed. "Now give me the money," said Daniel. "Here it is. Mind, Daniel, I expect you to serve me faithfully." "All right!" said, the lank youth, as he disappeared through the door, once more leaving Grit alone. CHAPTER XXXVII. DANIEL CALLS AT THE PARKER HOUSE. It was half-past nine o'clock in the forenoon, and Mr. Benjamin Baker, detective, sat smoking a cigar in the famous hotel on School Street, known as "Parker's." "I hope nothing has happened to the boy," he said to himself, uneasily, as he drew out his watch. "It is time he was here. Have I done rightly in leaving him in the clutches of a company of unprincipled men? Yet I don't know what else I could do. If I had accompanied him to the door, my appearance would have awakened suspicion. If through his means I can get authentic information as to the interior of this house, which I strongly suspect to be the headquarters of the gang, I shall have done a good thing. Yet perhaps I did wrong in not giving the boy a word of warning." Mr. Baker took the cigar from his mouth and strolled into the opposite room, where several of the hotel guests were either reading the morning papers or writing letters. He glanced quickly about him, but saw no one that resembled Grit. "Not here yet?" he said to himself, "perhaps he can't find the hotel. But he looks too smart to have any difficulty about that. Ha! whom have we here?" This question was elicited by a singular figure upon the sidewalk. It was a tall, overgrown boy, whose well-worn suit appeared to have been first put on when he was several years younger, and several inches shorter. The boy was standing still, with mouth and eyes wide open, staring in a bewildered way at the entrance of the hotel, as if he had some business therein, but did not know how to go about it. "That's an odd-looking boy," he thought. "Looks like one of Dickens' characters." Finally the boy, in an uncertain, puzzled way, ascended the steps into the main vestibule, and again began to stare helplessly in different directions. One of the employees of the hotel went up to him. "What do you want?" he demanded, rather roughly. "Be you Mr. Baker?" asked the boy. "No; I am not Mr. Baker." "Where is Mr. Baker?" "I don't know anything about Mr. Baker," answered the attendant impatiently. "The boy told me I would find him here," said Daniel, for of course my reader recognizes him. "Then the boy was playing a trick on you, most likely." By this time Mr. Baker thought it advisable to make himself known. "I am Mr. Benjamin Baker," he said, advancing. "Do you want to see me?" Daniel looked very much relieved. "I've got a note for you," he said. "Give it to me." Daniel did so, and was about to go out. "Wait a minute, my young friend, there may be an answer," said the detective. Mr. Baker read rapidly the following note: "I am in trouble. I think the letter I received was only meant to entrap me. I have not seen Mr. Weaver, but I have had an interview with Colonel Johnson, who planned the robbery of the bank at Chester. He seems to know that I had something to do with defeating his plans, and has sounded me as to whether I will help him in case I act again as bank messenger. On my refusing, he touched a spring, and let me down through a trap-door in the floor of the rear room to a cellar beneath, where I am kept in darkness. The boy who gives you this brings me my meals. He doesn't seem very bright, but I have agreed to pay him well if he will hand you this, and I hope he will succeed. I don't know what Colonel Johnson proposes to do with me, but I hope you will be able to help me. GRIT." Benjamin Baker nodded to himself while he was reading this note. "This confirms my suspicions," he said to himself. "If I am lucky I shall succeed in trapping the trappers. Hark you, my boy, when are you going back?" "As soon as I have been to the market." "Very well; what did the boy agree to give you for bringing this note?" "Five dollars," answered Daniel, his dull face lighting up, for he knew the power of money. "Would you like five dollars more?" "Wouldn't I?" was the eager response. "Then don't say a word to anybody about bringing this note." "No, I won't. He'd strap me if I did." "Shall you see the boy?" "Yes, at twelve o'clock, when I carry his dinner." "When you see him, tell him you've seen me, and it's all right. Do you understand?" Daniel nodded. "I may call up there some time this morning. If I do I want you to open the door and let me in." Daniel nodded again. "That will do. You can go." Mr. Baker left the hotel with a preoccupied air. CHAPTER XXXVIII. GRIT MAKES A DISCOVERY. Grit, left to himself, was subjected to the hardest trial, that of waiting for deliverance, and not knowing whether the expected help would come. "At any rate I have done the best I could," he said to himself. "Daniel is the best messenger I could obtain. He doesn't seem to be more than half-witted, but he ought to be intelligent enough to find Mr. Baker and deliver my note." The subterranean apartment, with its utter destitution of furniture, furnished absolutely no resources against ennui. Grit was fond of reading, and in spite of his anxiety might in an interesting paper or book have forgotten his captivity, but there was nothing to read, and even if there had been, it was too dark to avail himself of it. "I suppose I sha'n't see Daniel till noon," he reflected. "Till then I am left in suspense." He sat down in a corner and began to think over his position and future prospects. He was not wholly cast down, for he refused to believe that he was in any real peril. In fact, though a captive, he had never felt more hopeful, or more self-reliant than now. But he was an active boy, and accustomed to exercise, and he grew tired of sitting down. "I will walk a little," he decided, and proceeded to pace up and down his limited apartment. Then it occurred to him to ascertain the dimensions of the room, by pacing. As he did so, he ran his hand along the side wall. A most remarkable thing occurred. A door flew open, which had appeared like the rest of the wall, and a narrow passageway was revealed, leading Grit could not tell where. "I must have touched some spring," he thought. "This house is a regular trap. I wonder where this passageway leads?" Grit stooped down, for the passage was but about four feet in height, and tried to peer through the darkness. But he could see nothing. "Shall I explore it?" he thought. He hesitated a moment, not knowing whether it would be prudent, but finally curiosity overruled prudence, and he decided to do so. Stooping over, he felt his way for possibly fifty feet, when he came to a solid wall. Here seemed to be the end of the passage. He began to feel slowly with his hand, when another small door, only about twelve inches square, flew open, and he looked through it into another subterranean apartment. It did not appear to be occupied, but on a small wooden table was a candle, and by the light of the candle Grit could see a variety of articles, including several trunks, one open, revealing its contents to be plate. "What does it mean?" thought Grit. Then the thought came to him, for, though he was a country boy, his wits had been sharpened by his recent experiences. "It must be a storehouse of stolen goods." This supposition seemed in harmony with the character of the man who had lured him here, and now held him captive. "If I were only outside," thought Grit, "I would tell Mr. Baker of this. The police ought to know it." Just then he heard his name called, and, turning suddenly, distinguished by the faint light which the candle threw into the passage the stern and menacing countenance of Colonel Johnson. "Come out here, boy!" he called, in an angry tone. "I have an account to settle with you." CHAPTER XXXIX. AN UNPLEASANT INTERVIEW. There was nothing to do but to obey. Judging by his own interpretation of the discovery our hero was not surprised that his captor should be incensed. He retraced his steps, and found himself once more in the subterranean chamber facing an angry man. "What took you in there?" demanded Colonel Johnson. "Curiosity, I suppose," answered Grit composedly. He felt that he was in a scrape, but he was not a boy to show fear or confusion. "How did you happen to discover the entrance?" "It was quite accidental. I was pacing the floor to see how wide the room was, when my hand touched the spring." "Why did you want to know the width of the room?" asked Johnson suspiciously. "I didn't care much to know, but the time hung heavily on my hands, and that was one way of filling it up." Colonel Johnson eyed the boy attentively. He was at a loss to know whether Grit really suspected the nature and meaning of his discovery, or not. If not, he didn't wish to excite suspicion in the boy's mind. He decided to insinuate an explanation. "I suppose you were surprised to find the passageway," he remarked. "Yes, sir." "As you have always lived in the country, that is natural. Such arrangements are common enough in the city." "I wonder whether trap doors are common," thought Grit, but he did not give expression to his thought. "The room into which you looked is under the house of my brother-in-law, and the passage affords an easy mode of entrance." "I should think it would be easier going into the street," thought Grit. "Still I am annoyed at your meddlesome curiosity, and shall take measures to prevent your gratifying it again. I had a great mind when I first saw you to shut you up in the passage. I fancy you wouldn't enjoy that." "I certainly shouldn't," said Grit, smiling. "I will have some consideration for you, and put a stop to your wanderings in another way." As he spoke he drew from his pocket a thick, stout cord, and directing Grit to hold his hands together, proceeded to tie his wrists. This our hero naturally regarded as distasteful. "You need not do this," he said. "I will promise not to go into the passage." "Humph! Will you promise not to attempt to escape?" "No, sir, I can't promise that." "Ha! you mean, then, to attempt to escape?" "Of course!" answered Grit. "I should be a fool to stay here if any chance offered of getting away." "You are candid, young man," returned Johnson. "There is no earthly chance of your escaping. Still, I may as well make sure. Put out your feet." "You are not going to tie my feet, too, are you?" asked Grit, in some dismay. "To be sure I am. I can't trust you after what you have done this morning." It was of no use to resist, for Colonel Johnson was a powerful man, and Grit, though strong, only a boy of sixteen. "This doesn't look much like escaping," thought Grit. "I hope he won't search my pockets and discover my knife. If I can get hold of that, I may be able to release myself." Colonel Johnson had just completed tying the last knot when the door, which had been left unbolted, was seen to open, and the half-witted boy, Daniel, entered hastily. "How now, idiot!" said Johnson harshly. "What brings you here?" "There's a gentleman up-stairs wants to see you, master," said Daniel, with the scared look with which he always regarded his tyrant. "A gentleman!" repeated Johnson hastily. "Who let him in?" "I did, sir." "You did!" thundered Johnson. "How often have I told you to let in nobody? Do you want me to choke you?" "I--forgot," faltered the boy. "Besides, he said he wanted to see you particular." "All the more reason why I don't want to see him. What does he look like?" "He's a small man, sir." "Humph! Where did you leave him?" "Room above, sir." "I'll go up and see him. If it's somebody I don't want to see, I'll choke you." "Yes, sir," said Daniel humbly. As Johnson went out, Daniel lingered a moment, and, in a hoarse whisper, said to Grit: "It's him." "Who is it?" asked Grit puzzled. "It's the man you sent me to." "Good! You're a trump, Daniel," said Grit joyfully. A minute after a confused noise was heard in the room above. Daniel turned pale. "Tell him where I am, Daniel," said Grit, as the boy timidly left the room. CHAPTER XL. COLONEL JOHNSON COMES TO GRIEF. We must now follow Johnson up-stairs. In the room above, sitting down tranquilly in an arm-chair, but not in that in the center of the room, was a small, wiry man of unpretending exterior. "What is your business here, sir?" demanded Johnson rudely. "Are you the owner of this house?" asked Benjamin Baker coolly. "Yes. That does not explain your presence here, however." "I am in search of a quiet home, and it struck me that this was about the sort of a house I would like," answered Baker. "Then, sir, you have wasted your time in coming here. This house is not for sale." "Indeed! Perhaps I may offer you enough to make it worth your while to sell it to me." "Quite impossible, sir. This is my house, and I don't want to sell." "I am sorry to hear it. Perhaps you would be kind enough to show me over the house to let me see its arrangements, as I may wish to copy them if I build." "It strikes me, sir, you are very curious, whoever you are," said Johnson angrily. "You intrude yourself into the house of a quiet citizen, and wish to pry into his private arrangements." "I really beg your pardon, Mr. ---- I really forget your name." "Because you never heard it. The name is of no consequence." "I was about to say, if you have anything to conceal, I won't press my request." "Who told you I had anything to conceal?" said Johnson suspiciously. "I inferred it from your evident reluctance to let me go over your house." "Then, sir, I have only to say that you are mistaken. Because I resent your impertinent intrusion, you jump to the conclusion that I have something to conceal." "Just so. There might, for example, be a trap-door in this very room----" Colonel Johnson sprang to his feet and advanced toward his unwelcome guest. "Tell me what you mean," he said savagely. "I am not the man to be bearded in my own house. You will yet repent your temerity in thrusting yourself here." Benjamin Baker also rose to his feet, and, putting a whistle to his mouth, whistled shrilly. Instantly two stalwart policemen sprang into the apartment from the hall outside. "Seize that man!" said the detective. "What does this mean?" asked Johnson, struggling, but ineffectually. "It means, Colonel Johnson, alias Robert Kidd, that you are arrested on a charge of being implicated in the attempt to steal a parcel of bonds belonging to the National Bank of Chester, Maine." "I don't know anything about it," said Johnson sullenly. "You've got the wrong man." "Possibly. If so, you'll be released, especially as there are other charges against you. Guard him, men, while I search the house." "Here, boy, show me where my young friend is concealed," said Baker to Daniel, who was timidly peeping in at the door. A minute later and Baker cut the cords that confined the hands and feet of Grit. "Now," said he quickly, "have you discovered anything that will be of service to me?" Grit opened for him the dark passage. The detective walked to the end, and saw the room into which it opened. "Do you know, Grit," he said, on his return, "you have done a splendid day's work? With your help I have discovered the headquarters of a bold and desperate gang of thieves, which has long baffled the efforts of the Boston police. There is a standing reward of two thousand dollars for their discovery, to which you will be entitled." "No, sir; it belongs to you," said Grit modestly. "I could have done nothing without you." "Nor I without your information. But we can discuss this hereafter." Johnson ground his teeth when Grit was brought upstairs, free, to see him handcuffed and helpless. "I believe you are at the bottom of this, you young rascal!" he said. "You are right," said the detective. "We have received very valuable information from this boy, whom you supposed to be in your power." "I wish I had killed him!" said Johnson furiously. "Fortunately, you were saved that crime, and need expect nothing worse than a long term of imprisonment. Officers, take him along." CHAPTER XLI. CONCLUSION. The Boston and Portland papers of the next morning contained full accounts of the discovery of the rendezvous of a gang of robbers whose operations had been extensive in and near Boston, together with the arrest of their chief. In the account full credit was given to our young hero, Grit, for his agency in the affair, and it was announced that the prize offered would be divided between Grit and the famous detective, Benjamin Baker. It may readily be supposed that this account created great excitement in Chester. Most of the villagers were heartily pleased by the good fortune and sudden renown of the young boatman; but there was at least one household to which the news brought no satisfaction. This was the home of Phil Courtney. "What a fuss the papers make about that boy!" exclaimed Phil, in disgust. "I suppose he will put on no end of airs when he gets home." "Very likely," said Mr. Courtney. "He seems to have had good luck, that's all." "It's pretty good luck to get a thousand dollars," said Phil enviously. "Papa, will you do me a favor?" "What is it?" "Can't you put a thousand dollars in the bank for me, so that the boatman can't crow over me?" "Money is very scarce with me just now, Philip," said his father. "It will do just as well to tell him you have a thousand dollars in my hands." "I would rather have it in a bank," said Philip. "Then you'll have to wait till it is convenient for me," said his father shortly. It was true that money was scarce with Mr. Courtney. I have already stated that he had been speculating in Wall Street heavily, and with by no means unvarying success. In fact, the same evening he received a letter from his brother, stating that the market was so heavily against him that he must at once forward five thousand dollars to protect his margin, or the stocks carried on his account must be sold. As Mr. Courtney was unable to meet this demand, the stocks were sold, involving a loss of ten thousand dollars. This, in addition to previous losses, so far crippled Mr. Courtney that he was compelled materially to change his way of living, and Phil had to come down in the social scale, much to his mortification. But the star of the young boatman was in the ascendant. On his return to Pine Point he found Mr. Jackson, the New York broker, about to leave the hotel for a return to the city. He congratulated Grit on his success as an amateur detective, and then asked: "What are your plans, Grit? Probably you won't care to remain a boatman?" "No, sir; I have decided to give up that business, at any rate." "Have you anything in view?" "I thought I might get a situation of some kind in Boston. The prize-money will keep us going till I can earn a good salary." "Will your mother move from Pine Point?" "Yes, sir; she would be lonely here without me." "I have an amendment to offer to your plans, Grit." "What is that, sir?" "Come to New York instead of Boston." "I have no objection, sir, if there is any opening there for me." "There is, and in my office. Do you think you would like to enter my office?" "I should like it very much," said Grit eagerly. "Then I will engage you at a salary of twelve dollars per week--for the first year." "Twelve dollars!" exclaimed Grit, overwhelmed. "I had no idea a green hand could get such pay." "Nor can they," answered Mr. Jackson, smiling; "but you remember that there is an unsettled account between us. I have not forgotten that you saved the life of my boy." "I don't want any reward for that, sir." "I appreciate your delicacy, but I shall feel better satisfied to recognize it in my own way. I have another proposal to make to you. It is this: Place in my hands as much of your thousand dollars as you can spare, and I will invest it carefully for your advantage in stock operations, and hope materially to increase it." "I shall be delighted if you will do so, Mr. Jackson, and think myself very fortunate that you take this trouble for me." "Now, how soon can you go to New York?" "When you think best, sir?" "I advise you to go on with me, and select a home for your mother. Then you can come back for her, and settle yourself down to work." * * * * * * * * A year later, in a pleasant cottage on Staten Island, Grit and his mother sat in a neatly furnished sitting-room. Our young hero was taller, as befitted his increased age, but there was the same pleasant, frank expression which had characterized him as a boy. "Mother," said he, "I have some news for you." "What is it, Grit?" "Mr. Jackson has raised my pay to twenty dollars a week." "That is excellent news, Grit." "He has besides rendered an account of the eight hundred dollars he took from me to operate with. How much do you think it amounts to now?" "Perhaps a thousand." "Between four and five thousand!" answered Grit, in exultation. "How can that be possible?" exclaimed Mrs. Morris, in astonishment. "He used it as a margin to buy stocks which advanced greatly in a short time. This being repeated once or twice, has made me almost rich." "I can hardly believe it, Grit. It is too good to be true." "But it is true, mother. Now we can change our mode of living." "Wait till you are worth ten thousand dollars, Grit--then I will consent. But, I, too, have some news for you." "What is it?" "I had a letter from Chester to-day. Our old neighbor, Mr. Courtney, has lost everything--or almost everything--and has been compelled to accept the post of bank messenger, at a salary of fifty dollars per month." "That is indeed a change," said Grit. "What will Phil do?" "He has gone into a store in Chester, on a salary of three dollars a week." "Poor fellow!" said Grit. "I pity him. It must be hard for a boy with his high notions to come down in the world so. I would rather begin small and rise, than be reared in affluence only to sink into poverty afterward." It was quite true. The result of his rash speculations was to reduce Mr. Courtney to poverty, and make him for the balance of his life a soured, discontented man. As for Phil, he is still young, and adversity may teach him a valuable lesson. Still, I hardly think he will ever look with satisfaction upon the growing success and prosperity of the young boatman. I must note another change. It will be observed that I have referred to Grit's mother as Mrs. Morris. Mr. Brandon was accidentally drowned in Portland Harbor, having undertaken, while under the influence of liquor, to row to Peake's Island, some two miles distant. His wife and Grit were shocked by his sudden death, but they could hardly be expected to mourn for him. His widow resumed the name of her former husband, and could now lay aside all anxiety as to the quiet tenor of her life being broken in upon by her ill-chosen second husband. It looks as if Grit's prosperity had come to stay. I am privately informed that Mr. Jackson intends next year to make him junior partner, and this will give him a high position in business circles. I am sure my young readers will feel that his prosperity has been well earned, and will rejoice heartily in the brilliant success of the young boatman of Pine Point. THE END. 
55098	----	generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 55098-h.htm or 55098-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/55098/55098-h/55098-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/55098/55098-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/strongsteadyorpa00alge STRONG AND STEADY * * * * * * HORATIO ALGER'S Successful Juvenile Books RAGGED DICK SERIES. _Complete in Six Volumes._ TATTERED TOM SERIES. A Continuation of the Ragged Dick Series. _FIRST SERIES, in Four Volumes, now ready._ _SECOND SERIES, in Four Volumes, preparing._ LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES. _FIRST SERIES, in Four Volumes, now ready._ _SECOND SERIES, in Four Volumes, preparing._ CAMPAIGN SERIES. _Complete in Three Volumes._ Each Volume is sold, separate. RAGGED DICK SERIES. _Complete in Six Volumes--in a Box._ I. RAGGED DICK; or, Street Life in New York. II. FAME AND FORTUNE; or, The Progress of Richard Hunter. III. MARK, THE MATCH BOY. IV. ROUGH AND READY; or, Life Among New York Newsboys. V. BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY; or, Among the Wharves. VI. RUFUS AND ROSE; or, The Fortunes of Rough and Ready. _Price, $1.25 per volume._ _TATTERED TOM SERIES._ First Series _in Four Volumes_--_in Box_. I. TATTERED TOM; or, The Story of a Street Arab. II. PAUL, THE PEDDLER; or, The Adventures of a Young Street Merchant. III. PHIL, THE FIDDLER; or, The Young Street Musician. IV. SLOW AND SURE; or, From the Sidewalk to the Shop. _Price, $1.25 per volume._ SECOND SERIES. I. JULIUS; or, The Street Boy out West. II. THE YOUNG OUTLAW; A Story of the Street,--Oct., '74. _LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES._ First Series _in Four Volumes_--_in Box_. I. LUCK AND PLUCK; or, John Oakley's Inheritance. II. SINK OR SWIM; or, Harry Raymond's Resolve. III. STRONG AND STEADY; or, Paddle your own Canoe. IV. STRIVE AND SUCCEED; or, The Progress of Walter Conrad. _Price, $1.50 per volume._ SECOND SERIES. I. TRY AND TRUST; or, The Story of a Bound Boy. II. BOUND TO RISE; or, How Harry Walton rose in the World. III. UP THE LADDER; or Harry Walton's Success, in Oct, '74. _CAMPAIGN SERIES._ I. FRANK'S CAMPAIGN. II. PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE. III. CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE. _Price, $1.25 per volume._ * * * * * * [Illustration] LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES. by HORATIO ALGER, JR. LUCK and PLUCK. STRONG AND STEADY; Or, Paddle Your Own Canoe. by HORATIO ALGER, JR. Author of "Ragged Dick Series," "Tattered Tom Series," "Luck and Pluck Series," "Campaign Series," etc. Loring, Publisher, Cor. Bromfield and Washington Streets, Boston. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by A. K. Loring, In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Stereotyped and Printed by Rockwell & Churchill, Boston. To MY YOUNG FRIENDS, WASHINGTON AND JEFFERSON, _IN THE HOPE THAT THEY MAY EMULATE THE VIRTUES OF THE DISTINGUISHED MEN WHOSE NAMES THEY BEAR_, This Volume IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. PREFACE. "STRONG AND STEADY" is the third volume of the "Luck and Pluck Series." Though the story is quite distinct from its predecessors, it is intended to illustrate the same general principle. Walter Conrad, the hero, is unexpectedly reduced from affluence to poverty, and compelled to fight his own way in life. Undaunted by misfortune, he makes up his mind to "paddle his own canoe," and, declining the offers of friends, sets to work with a resolute will and persistent energy, which command success in the end. Hoping that Walter's adventures may prove of interest to his young readers, and win the same favorable verdict which has been pronounced upon his previous books, the author takes his leave for the present, with many thanks for the generous welcome so often accorded to him. OCTOBER 15, 1871. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE ESSEX CLASSICAL INSTITUTE. 9 II. IN THE CARS. 18 III. AT HOME. 28 IV. JACOB DRUMMOND, OF STAPLETON. 33 V. JACOB DRUMMOND�CONTINUED. 38 VI. FUTURE PLANS. 48 VII. MR. DRUMMOND'S HUMBLE ROOF. 58 VIII. WALTER MAKES A REVELATION. 68 IX. HOW MR. DRUMMOND TOOK THE NEWS. 78 X. MR. DRUMMOND'S STORE. 88 XI. JOSHUA STIRS UP THE WRONG CUSTOMER. 98 XII. AFTER THE BATTLE. 108 XIII. THE ARROW AND THE PIONEER. 117 XIV. A BRILLIANT SCHEME. 127 XV. WAYS AND MEANS. 137 XVI. JOSHUA TRIES KEEPING STORE. 146 XVII. JOSHUA'S DISAPPOINTMENT. 155 XVIII. WALTER FINDS HIMSELF IN HOT WATER. 165 XIX. THE TABLES ARE TURNED. 175 XX. IN WHICH JOSHUA COMES TO GRIEF. 185 XXI. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 195 XXII. MESSRS. FLINT AND PUSHER. 206 XXIII. WALTER LOSES HIS MONEY. 216 XXIV. SLIPPERY DICK. 226 XXV. A HARD CUSTOMER. 236 XXVI. BUSINESS EXPERIENCES. 246 XXVII. A CABIN IN THE WOODS. 256 XXVIII. STRANGE ACQUAINTANCES. 266 XXIX. DANGER THREATENS. 276 XXX. THE ROBBER WALKS INTO A TRAP. 286 XXXI. WALTER'S ESCAPE. 296 XXXII. A STRANGE HIDING-PLACE. 306 XXXIII. WALTER SHOWS STRATEGY. 317 XXXIV. DELIVERANCE. 326 XXXV. THE LAST OF JACK MANGUM. 335 XXXVI. JOSHUA BIDS GOOD-BY TO STAPLETON. 345 XXXVII. CONCLUSION. 355 STRONG AND STEADY; OR, PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE. CHAPTER I. THE ESSEX CLASSICAL INSTITUTE. "You've got a nice room here, Walter." "Yes, you know I am to stay here two years, and I might as well be comfortable." "It's ever so much better than my room--twice as big, to begin with. Then, my carpet looks as if it had come down through several generations. I'll bet the old lady had it when she was first married. As for a mirror, I've got a seven-by-nine looking-glass that I have to look into twice before I can see my whole face. As for the bedstead, it creaks so when I jump into it that I expect every night it'll fall to pieces like the 'one hoss shay,' and spill me on the floor. Now your room is splendidly furnished." "Yes, it is now, but father furnished it at his own expense. He said he was willing to lay out a little money to make me comfortable." "That's more than my father said. He told me it wouldn't do me any harm to rough it." "I don't know but he is right," said Walter. "Of course I don't object to the new carpet and furniture,"--and he looked with pleasure at the handsome carpet with its bright tints, the black walnut bookcase with its glass doors, and the tasteful chamber furniture,--"but I shouldn't consider it any hardship if I had to rough it, as you call it." "Wouldn't you? Then I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll change rooms. You can go round and board at Mrs. Glenn's, and I'll come here. What do you say?" "I am not sure how my father would look on that arrangement," said Walter, smiling. "I thought you'd find some way out," said Lemuel. "For my part, I don't believe you'd fancy roughing it any better than I." "I don't know," said Walter; "I've sometimes thought I shouldn't be very sorry to be a poor boy, and have to work my own way." "That's very well to say, considering you are the son of a rich man." "So are you." "Yes, but I don't get the benefit of it, and you do. What would you do now if you were a poor boy?" "I can't say, of course, now, but I would go to work at something. I am sure I could earn my own living." "I suppose I could, but I shouldn't want to." "You're lazy, Lem, that's what's the matter with you." "I know I am," said Lemuel, good-naturedly. "Some people are born lazy, don't you think so?" "Perhaps you are right," answered Walter, with a smile. "Now suppose we open our Cæsar." "I suppose we might as well. Here's another speech. I wish those old fellows hadn't been so fond of speech-making. I like the accounts of battles well enough, but the speeches are a bother." "I like to puzzle them out, Lem." "So don't I. How much have we got for a lesson?" "Two sections." While the boys are at work reading these two sections, two-thirds of the work being done by Walter, whose head is clearer and whose knowledge greater than his companion's, a little explanation shall be given, in order that we may better understand the position and prospects of the two boys introduced. Of Lemuel Warner, it need only be said that he was a pleasant-looking boy of fourteen, the son of a prosperous merchant in New York. Walter Conrad was from a small inland town, where his father was the wealthiest and most prominent and influential citizen, having a handsome mansion-house, surrounded by extensive grounds. How rich he was, was a matter of conjecture; but he was generally rated as high as two hundred thousand dollars. Mrs. Conrad had been dead for five years, so that Walter, who was an only child, had no immediate relation except his father. It was for this reason, perhaps, that he had been sent to the Essex Classical Institute, of which we find him a member at the opening of our story. Being a boy of talent, and well grounded in Latin, he was easily able to take a high rank in his class. Lemuel Warner had become his intimate friend, being in the same class, but considerably inferior to him in scholarship. They usually got their Latin lessons together, and it was owing to this circumstance that Lemuel made a better figure in his recitations than before Walter became a member of the school. "There, that job's done," said Lemuel, closing his book with an air of satisfaction. "Now we can rest." "You forget the Latin exercise." "Oh, bother the Latin exercise! I don't see what's the use of writing Latin any way. English composition is hard enough. What's to be done?" "You know the doctor expects each boy to write a letter in Latin, addressed to his father, not less than twelve lines in length." "It isn't to be sent home, is it? Mr. Warner senior, I reckon, would stare a little when he got his. He wouldn't know Latin from Cherokee." "Possibly your Latin won't differ much from Cherokee, Lem." "What's the use of being sarcastic on a fellow, and hurting his feelings?" said Lem, laughing in a way to show that his feelings were not very seriously hurt. "I say, couldn't one crib a little from Cæsar?" "Not very well, considering the doctor is slightly familiar with that author." "I wonder whether Cæsar used to write home to his father when he was at boarding-school. If he did, I should like to get hold of some of his letters." "They would probably have to be altered considerably to adapt them to the present time." "Well, give me a sheet of paper and I'll begin." The boys undertook their new task, and finished it by nine o'clock. I should be glad to furnish a copy of Lemuel's letter, which was written with brilliant disregard of grammatical rules; but unfortunately the original, afterwards considerably revised in accordance with suggestions from Walter, has not been preserved. "I've a great mind to send my letter home, Walter," said Lemuel. "Father expects me to write home every week, and this would save me some trouble. Besides, he'd think I was getting on famously, to write home in Latin." "Yes, if he didn't find out the mistakes." "That's the rub. He'd show it to the minister the first time he called, and then my blunders would be detected. I guess I'd better wait till it comes back from the doctor corrected." "I expect to hear from home to-morrow," said Walter. "Why to-morrow in particular? Do you generally get letters Thursday?" "No, my letters generally come on Saturday, and I answer them Sunday. But to-morrow is my birthday." "Is it? Let me be the first to congratulate you. How venerable will you be?" "As venerable as most boys of fifteen, Lem." "You're three months older than I am, then. Do you expect a present?" "I haven't thought much about it, but I don't believe father will forget me." "Can't you guess what you are likely to get?" "I can guess, but I may not be right. Father promised to give me a gold watch-chain some time. You know I have a gold watch already." "Yes, and a regular little beauty." "So it wouldn't surprise me much to get a chain for a present." "You're a lucky boy. My watch is silver, and only cost twenty dollars." "I dare say I should be just as happy with a silver watch, Lem." "I suppose you wouldn't like to buy, would you? If so, I'll give you the chance. A fair exchange is no robbery." "No, I suppose not; but it wouldn't do to exchange a gift." "Perhaps, if my watch were gold and yours silver, you wouldn't have any objections." "I don't think that would alter the case with me. A gift is a gift, whether it is more or less valuable." "How long have you had your watch, Walter?" "Ever since my thirteenth birthday." "I have had mine a year. I broke the crystal and one of the hands the very first day." "That was pretty hard usage, Lem." "The watch had a pretty good constitution, so it has survived to the present day. But I'm getting sleepy, Walter. It's the hard study, I suppose, that's done it. I must be getting back to Ma'am Glenn's. Good-night." "Good-night, Lem." Lemuel Warner gathered up his books, and left the room. Walter poked the fire, putting some ashes on, so that it would keep till the next morning, and commenced undressing. He had scarcely commenced, however, when a heavy step was heard on the stairs, and directly afterwards a knock resounded upon his door. Wondering who his late visitor could be, Walter stepped to the door, and opened it. CHAPTER II. IN THE CARS. If Walter was surprised at receiving a visit at so late an hour, he was still more surprised to recognize in the visitor Dr. Porter, the principal of the Institute. "Good-evening, Conrad," said the doctor. "I am rather a late visitor. I was not sure but you might be in bed." "I was just getting ready to go to bed, sir. Won't you walk in?" "I will come in for five minutes only." "Take the rocking-chair, sir." All the while Walter was wondering what could be the doctor's object in calling. He was not conscious of having violated any of the regulations of the Institute, and even had he done so, it would be unusual for the principal to call upon him at such an hour. So he watched the doctor with a puzzled glance, and waited to hear him state his errand. "Have you heard from home lately, Conrad?" asked the doctor. "Yes, sir, I received a letter a few days since." "Did your father speak of being unwell?" "No, sir," said Walter, taking instant alarm. "Have--have you heard anything?" "Yes, my boy; and that is my reason for calling upon you at this unusual hour. I received this telegram twenty minutes since." Walter took the telegram, with trembling fingers, and read the following message:-- "DR. PORTER:--Please send Walter Conrad home by the first train. His father is very sick. "NANCY FORBES." "Do you think there is any danger, Dr. Porter?" asked Walter, with a pale face. "I cannot tell, my boy; this telegram furnishes all the information I possess. Who is Nancy Forbes?" "She is the house-keeper. I can't realize that father is so sick. He did not say anything about it when he wrote." "Let us hope it is only a brief sickness. I think you had better go home by the first train to-morrow morning." "Yes, sir." "I believe it starts at half-past seven." "I shall be ready, sir." "By the way, are you provided with sufficient money to pay your railway fare? If not, I will advance you the necessary sum." "Thank you, sir, I have five dollars by me, and that will be more than sufficient." "Then I believe I need not stay any longer," and the doctor rose. "Don't think too much of your father's sickness, but try to get a good night's sleep. I hope we shall soon have you coming back with good news." The principal shook hands with Walter and withdrew. When his tall form had vanished, Walter sat down and tried to realize the fact of his father's sickness; but this he found difficult. Mr. Conrad had never been sick within his remembrance, and the thought that he might become so had never occurred to Walter. Besides, the telegram spoke of him as _very_ sick. Could there be danger? That was a point which he could not decide, and all that remained was to go to bed. It was a long time before he got to sleep, but at length he did sleep, waking in time only for a hasty preparation for the homeward journey. He was so occupied with thoughts of his father that it was not till the journey was half finished, that it occurred to him that this was his fifteenth birthday, to which he had been looking forward for some time. The seat in front of our hero was for some time vacant; but at the Woodville station two gentlemen got in who commenced an animated conversation. Walter did not at first pay any attention to it. He was looking out of the window listlessly, unable to fix his mind upon anything except his father's sickness. But at length his attention was caught by some remarks, made by one of the gentlemen in front, and from this point he listened languidly. "I suspected him to be a swindler when he first came to me," said the gentleman sitting next the window. "He hadn't an honest look, and I was determined not to have anything to do with his scheme." "He was very plausible." "Yes, he made everything look right on paper. That is easy enough. But mining companies are risky things always. I once got taken in to the tune of five thousand dollars, but it taught me a lesson. So I was not particularly impressed with the brilliant prospectus of the Great Metropolitan Mining Company, in spite of its high-sounding name, and its promised dividend of thirty per cent. Depend upon it, James Wall and his confederates will pocket all the dividends that are made." "Very likely you are right. But it may be that Wall really believed there is a good chance of making money." "Of course he did, but he was determined to make the money for himself, and not for the stockholders." "I might have been tempted to invest, but all my money was locked up at the time, and I could not have done so without borrowing the money, and that I was resolved not to do." "It was fortunate for you that you didn't, for the bubble has already burst." "Is it possible? I was not aware of that." "I thought you knew it. The news is in this morning's paper. There will be many losers. By the way, I hear that Mr. Conrad, of Willoughby, was largely interested." "Then, of course, he is a heavy loser. Can he stand it?" "I am in doubt on that point. He is a rich man, but for all that he may have gone in beyond his means." "I am sorry for him, but that was reckless." "Yes, he was completely taken in by Wall. He's a smooth fellow." Walter had listened with languid attention; still, however, gathering the meaning of what was said until the mention of his father's name roused him, and then he listened eagerly, and with a sudden quickening of the pulse. He instantly connected the idea of what he had heard with his father's sudden illness, and naturally associated the two together. "My father has heard of the failure of the company, and that has made him sick," he thought. Though this implied a double misfortune, it relieved his anxiety a little. It supplied a cause for his father's illness. He had been afraid that his father had met with some accident, perhaps of a fatal nature. But if he had become ill in consequence of heavy losses, it was not likely that the illness was a very severe one. He thought of speaking to the gentlemen, and making some further inquiries about the Mining Company and Mr. James Wall, but it occurred to him that his father might not like to have him pry into his affairs, and he therefore refrained. When the gentlemen left the cars, he saw one of them had left a morning paper lying in the seat. He picked it up, and examined the columns until his eyes fell upon the following paragraph:-- "The failure of the Great Metropolitan Mining Company proves to be a disastrous one. The assets will not be sufficient to pay more than five per cent. of the amount of the sums invested by the stockholders, possibly not that. There must have been gross mismanagement somewhere, or such a result could hardly have been reached. We understand that the affairs of the company are in the hands of assignees who are empowered to wind them up. The stockholders in this vicinity will await the result with anxiety." "That looks rather discouraging, to be sure," thought Walter. "I suppose father will lose a good deal. But I'll tell him he needn't worry about me. I shan't mind being poor, even if it comes to that. As long as he is left to me, I won't complain." Walter became comparatively cheerful. He felt convinced that loss of property was all that was to be apprehended, and with the elastic spirits of youth he easily reconciled himself to that. He had never had occasion to think much about money. All his wants had been provided for with a lavish hand. He had, of course, seen poor people, but he did not realize what poverty meant. He had even thought at times that it must be rather a pleasant thing to earn one's own living. Still he did not apprehend that he would have to do this. His father might have lost heavily, but probably not to such an extent as to render this necessary. So the time passed until, about half-past eleven o'clock, the cars stopped at Willoughby station. The station was in rather a lonely spot,--that is, no houses were very near. Walter did not stop to speak to anybody, but, on leaving the cars, carpet-bag in hand, jumped over a fence, and took his way across the fields to his father's house. By the road it would have been a mile, but it was scarcely more than half a mile by the foot-path. So it happened that he reached home without meeting a single person. He went up the door-way to the front door and rang the bell. The door was opened by Nancy Forbes, the house-keeper, whose name was appended to the telegram. "So it's you, Master Walter," she said. "I am glad you are home, but it's a sad home you're come to." "Is father _very_ sick, then?" asked Walter, turning pale. "Didn't anybody tell you, then?" "Tell me what?" "My dear child, your father died at eight o'clock this morning." CHAPTER III. AT HOME. It was a terrible shock to Walter,--this sudden announcement of his father's death. When he had left home, Mr. Conrad seemed in his usual health, and he could not realize that he was dead. The news stunned him, and he stood, pale and motionless, looking into the house-keeper's face. "Come in, Master Walter, come in, and have a cup of hot tea. It'll make you feel better." A cup of hot tea was Nancy's invariable remedy for all troubles, physical or mental. "Tell me about it, Nancy; I--I can't think it's true. It's so sudden." "That's the way I feel too, Master Walter. And only yesterday morning, too, he looked just as usual. Little did I think what was to be." "When was he first taken sick?" Walter had seated himself on a chair in the hall, and waited anxiously for an answer. "I didn't notice nothing till last night just after supper. Richard went to the post-office and got your father's letters. When they came he took 'em into the library, and began to read them. There was three, I remember. It was about an hour before I went into the room to tell him the carpenter had called about repairing the carriage-house. When I came in, there lay your poor father on the carpet, senseless. He held a letter tight in his hand. I screamed for help. Mr. Brier, the carpenter, and Richard came in and helped me to lift up your poor father, and we sent right off for the doctor." "What did the doctor say?" "He said it was a paralytic stroke,--a very bad one,--and ordered him to be put to bed directly. But it was of no use. He never recovered, but breathed his last this morning at eight o'clock. The doctor told me I must telegraph to your teacher; and so I did." "Nancy, have you got that letter which my father was reading?" "Yes, Master Walter, I put it in my pocket without reading. I think there must have been bad news in it." She drew from her pocket a letter, which she placed in Walter's hands. He read it hastily, and it confirmed his suspicions. It was from a lawyer Mr. Conrad had asked to make inquiries respecting the Great Metropolitan Mining Company, and was as follows:-- "WILLIAM CONRAD, ESQ. "Dear Sir:--I have, at your request, taken pains to inform myself of the present management and condition of the Great Metropolitan Mining Company. The task has been less difficult than I anticipated, since the failure of the company has just been made public. The management has been in the hands of dishonest and unscrupulous men, and it is doubtful whether the stockholders will be able to recover anything. "Hoping you are not largely interested, I remain, "Yours, very respectfully, "ANDREW HOLMES." Walter re-folded the letter, and put it into his pocket. He felt that this letter had cost his father his life, and in the midst of his grief he could not help thinking bitterly of the unscrupulous man who had led his father to ruin. Had it been merely the loss of property, he could have forgiven him, but he had been deprived of the kindest and most indulgent of fathers. "I should like to see my father," he said. We will not accompany him into the dark chamber where his father lay, unobservant, for the first time, of his presence. Such a scene is too sacred to be described. An hour later he came out of the chamber, pale but composed. He seemed older and more thoughtful than when he entered. A great and sudden sorrow often has this effect upon the young. "Nancy," he said, "have any arrangements been made about the funeral?" "No, Walter, we waited till you came. Mr. Edson will be here in a few minutes, and you can speak with him about it." Mr. Edson, though not a professional undertaker, usually acted as such whenever there was occasion for his services. When he arrived, Walter requested him to take entire charge of the funeral. "Are there any directions you would like to give, Walter?" asked Mr. Edson, who, like most of the villagers, had known Walter from his birth. "No, Mr. Edson, I leave all to you." "What relations are there to be invited?" "My father had no near relatives. There is a cousin, Jacob Drummond, who lives in Stapleton. It will be necessary to let him know." "Would a letter reach him in time?" "It will be best to telegraph. Stapleton is forty miles distant, and it is doubtful if a letter would reach there in time." "If you will write the telegram, Walter, I'll see that it's sent right off." "I won't trouble you, Mr. Edson; you will have enough to attend to, and I can send Richard to the telegraph office, or go myself. I shall feel better for the exercise." "Very well, Walter, I will do whatever else is necessary." CHAPTER IV. JACOB DRUMMOND, OF STAPLETON. Jacob Drummond kept a dry-goods store in the village of Stapleton. As the village was of considerable size, and he had no competitors, he drove a flourishing trade, and had already acquired quite a comfortable property. In fact, even had he been less favorably situated, he was pretty sure to thrive. He knew how to save money better, even, than to earn it, being considered, and with justice, a very mean man. He carried his meanness not only into his business, but into his household, and there was not a poor mechanic in Stapleton, and scarcely a poor laborer, who did not live better than Mr. Drummond, who was the rich man of the place. No one, to look at Jacob Drummond, would have been likely to mistake his character. All the lines of his face, the expression of his thin lips, his cold gray eyes, all bespoke his meanness. Poor Mrs. Drummond, his wife, could have testified to it, had she dared; but in this house, at least, the husband was master, and she dared not express the opinions she secretly entertained of the man to whom she was bound for life. At five o'clock on the afternoon of the day after Mr. Conrad's death, Mr. Drummond entered the house, which was on the opposite side of the street from the store. This was the supper hour, and supper was ready upon the table. A single glance was sufficient to show that Mr. Drummond was not a man to indulge in luxurious living. There was a plate of white bread, cut in thin slices, a small plate of butter, half a pie, and a plate of cake. A small pitcher of milk, a bowl of coarse brown sugar, and a pot of the cheapest kind of tea completed the preparations for the evening meal. Certainly there was nothing extravagant about these preparations; but Mr. Drummond thought otherwise. His attention was at once drawn to the cake, and instantly a frown gathered upon his face. "Are we going to have company to-night, Mrs. Drummond?" he asked. "Not that I know of," answered his wife, in some surprise. "Then why is it that you have put both pie and cake on the table?" "There was only half a pie, Mr. Drummond," said she, nervously. "Well, there are but three of us. You can get three good-sized pieces from half a pie. That will be one for each of us. What would you have more?" "The cake is a cheap kind." "No cake is cheap, Mrs. Drummond. I take it you used eggs, butter, and sugar in making it." "Yes, but--" "No buts, if you please, Mrs. Drummond. You are probably not aware that all these articles are very dear at present. Until they get lower we need not have cake, except when company is present." That being the case, Mr. Drummond was not likely to be put to much expense on this score. They seldom had company, and those who came once were not anxious to come again. For even on such occasions Mr. Drummond could not forget his ruling principle. The overflowing hospitality which even in the humblest village households crowns the board with plenty when visitors are present, was never to be found there; and, besides, the visitors could not help having an uneasy suspicion that their host grudged them the niggardly entertainment he did provide. So for three years the Stapleton Sewing Circle had met but once at the Drummonds', and there was no immediate prospect of their meeting there for another three years. It may be supposed that Mr. Drummond was not fond of good eating. This, however, would be quite a mistake. When he dined or took tea out, he always did full justice to the different dainties which were provided, and quite seemed to enjoy them as long as they were furnished at the expense of another. "Take away the cake, if you please, Mrs. Drummond," continued her husband. "You can save it for Sunday evening." "I am afraid it will be dried up by that time." "If it is dry, you can steam it." "That spoils cake." "You seem very contrary to-night, Mrs. Drummond. I have continually to check you in your extravagant tastes. Cake and pie, indeed! If you had your way, you would double my household expenses." Mrs. Drummond rose from the table, and meekly removed the offending cake. Just then the third and only other member of the family entered. This was Joshua Drummond, the only son, now eighteen years of age, though he looked scarcely more than sixteen. He inherited his father's meanness, but not his frugality. He was more self-indulgent, and, though he grudged spending money for others, was perfectly ready to spend as much as he could get hold of for himself. CHAPTER V. JACOB DRUMMOND--CONTINUED. Over Joshua Mr. Drummond had less control than over his wife. The latter gave way meekly to his unreasonable requisitions; but Joshua did not hesitate to make opposition, being as selfish and self-willed as his father, for whom he entertained neither respect nor affection. Joshua looked around him disdainfully. "Is this Fast Day?" he asked. "You know very well that Fast Day comes in April," said his father. "I only judged from the looks of the table," said Joshua, not very respectfully. "You don't mean that we shall any of us suffer from the gout." "Bread and butter and pie are good enough for anybody," said Mr. Drummond, stiffly. "I don't see any pie. Excuse me, there is a little,--so little that I did not at first see it." This was too much for Mr. Drummond's temper. "Unmannerly boy!" he exclaimed; "if you are dissatisfied with the fare you get at home, you can engage board elsewhere." "I would like to," muttered Joshua, in a low voice, which his father chose not to hear. In silence he helped himself to bread and butter, and in due time accepted a piece of pie, which Mrs. Drummond made larger at the expense of her own share. Harmony thus being restored, Mr. Drummond remarked, "I've had a telegram to-day from Willoughby." "From Willoughby?" repeated his wife. "Isn't that where your cousin William Conrad lives?" "He doesn't live there any longer. He's dead." "Dead! When did he die?" "I don't know. Yesterday, I suppose. The funeral is to be day after to-morrow." "Shall you go?" "Yes. It will cost me considerable; as much as five dollars or more; but he was my cousin, and it is my duty to go," said Mr. Drummond, with the air of a man who was making a great sacrifice. "He was rich, wasn't he?" asked Joshua, becoming interested. "Probably worth a hundred thousand dollars," said his father, complacently. "I should think he might have left me something," said Joshua. "He never saw you, Joshua," said his mother. "Joshua stands a better chance of getting a legacy from one who doesn't know him, than from one who does," said Mr. Drummond, with grim pleasantry. "He leaves children, doesn't he, Mr. Drummond?" "One child--a boy. Let me see, he must be fifteen by this time." "And his mother isn't living?" "No." "Poor boy!" "He'll be a rich boy, Mrs. Drummond, and I'll tell you what, I shouldn't wonder if we had a good chance to know him." "How so?" "It's likely I will be appointed his guardian. I'm the nearest relative, so that will be the most proper course." "Will he come here, then?" asked Joshua. "Very probably." "Then I hope you'll live better, or he won't stand it." "When I require any advice from you, Joshua, I will apply for it," said his father. Joshua inwardly hoped that his father would be appointed guardian, as it might make a difference in the family living; and, besides, if his cousin were rich, he meant to wheedle himself into his confidence, in the hope of future advantage. "When shall you set out?" asked Mrs. Drummond. "To-morrow morning, I think," said her husband. "It will be hard to leave, but it's due to my cousin's memory." Mr. Drummond had become very punctilious all at once, considering that for the last dozen years Mr. Conrad, who had by no means admired him, had had little or no communication with him. But then he had died rich, and who knows what sort of a will he had left? At any rate, Jacob began to feel a strong interest in him now. He might have put off going to Willoughby till the morning train on the day of the funeral, for two o'clock was the hour fixed for the last ceremony; but he was in a hurry to learn all he could about the property, and secure, if possible, the guardianship for himself. This was the secret of his willingness to sacrifice time and money out of regard to his cousin's memory. The next day, therefore, he started, taking with him in his valise a lunch of bread and meat tied up in a piece of brown paper. He didn't intend to spend any more money than was absolutely necessary on tavern bills. Shortly after his arrival, he called at the house of mourning. "I am Jacob Drummond, of Stapleton, the cousin of the deceased," he explained to Nancy, who opened the door to admit him. "Is my young relative, Mr. Conrad's son, at home?" "Yes, sir," said Nancy, taking an inventory of his features, and deciding that he was a very disagreeable looking man. "Will you mention my name to him, and say that I should like to see him?" Mr. Drummond was ushered into the parlor, where he had a little chance to look around him before Walter appeared. "It's all nonsense wasting so much money on furniture," he mentally ejaculated. "The money spent is a dead loss when it might be drawing handsome interest." Walter did not long keep him waiting. Mr. Drummond rose at his entrance. "I suppose you don't know me," he said; "but I was your father's nearest living relation." "Mr. Drummond, I believe." "Yes, Jacob Drummond, of Stapleton. You have probably heard your father speak of me?" "Yes, sir," said Walter. "I came as soon as I could after getting the telegram. I left my business to take care of itself. I wanted to offer you my sympathy on your sad loss." Mr. Drummond's words were kind, though the reference to his sacrifice in leaving his business might have been as well left out. Still Walter could not feel as grateful as he wanted to do. Somehow he didn't fancy Mr. Drummond. "You are very kind," he said. "I mean to be. You know I'm your nearest relation now. I truly feel for you in your desolate condition, and though it may not be the right time to say it, I must tell you that I hope, when the funeral is over, you will accompany me home, and share our humble hospitality. Mrs. Drummond joins with me in the invitation." Mrs. Drummond had not been consulted in the matter, but her husband thought it would sound well to say so. "I have not had time to think of future arrangements," said Walter; "but I thank you for your invitation." Walter did not know the motives which induced Mr. Drummond to extend this invitation, but supposed it to be meant in kindness, and so acknowledged it. "My son Joshua, too," said Mr. Drummond, "is longing to make your acquaintance. He is older than you, but not much larger. How old are you?" "I am fifteen." "You are well grown of your age; Joshua is eighteen, but he will make a very pleasant companion for you. Let me hope that you will accept my invitation." "Thank you, Mr. Drummond; I will consult my friends about it." "I wonder how much board I could venture to ask," thought Mr. Drummond. "If I am his guardian, I can fix that to suit myself. A hundred thousand dollars would make me a rich man. That is, I could make money from it, without injuring the boy." Mr. Drummond asked a few more questions about Mr. Conrad's sickness and death. Walter answered them, but did not think it necessary to speak of his losses by the Mining Company. Mr. Drummond was a stranger, and not a man to inspire confidence. So Walter told as little as he could. At length the visitor, having exhausted inquiries, rose. "I shall be here to-morrow," he said. "I am stopping at the tavern. I shall return to Stapleton after the ceremony. I hope you will make up your mind to go back with me." "I could not be ready so soon," answered Walter, doubtfully. "I can wait till the next day." "That will not be necessary, Mr. Drummond. I shall have no difficulty in making the journey alone, if I conclude to accept your kind invitation." Mr. Drummond shook our hero's hand sympathetically, and at length withdrew. As he went down the avenue, he took a backward glance at the handsome mansion in which his cousin had lived. "That boy owns all that property," he said, half enviously, "and never worked a day for it. I've had to work for all my money. But it was foolish to spend so much money on a house. A third the sum would have built a comfortable house, and the rest might have been put at interest. If it turns out that I am the boy's guardian, I think I shall sell it. That'll be the best course." With these reflections Mr. Drummond pursued his way back to the village tavern, where he had taken the precaution to ascertain that he should be charged but a dollar and a quarter a day. He considered that a dollar would have been sufficient, but still it was proper to make some sacrifice to his cousin's memory. Mr. Conrad's mining speculation was not generally known in the village as yet, so that Mr. Drummond did not hear a word as to his loss of property. CHAPTER VI. FUTURE PLANS. The funeral was over. Mr. Drummond, as indeed his relationship permitted, was one of the principal mourners. Considering that he had not seen Mr. Conrad for five years preceding his death, nor during that time communicated with him in any way, he appeared to be very much overcome by grief. He kept his eyes covered with a large white handkerchief, and his movements indicated suppressed agitation. He felt that this was a tribute due to a cousin who had left over one hundred thousand dollars. When they had returned from the grave, Mr. Drummond managed to have a word with Walter. "Have you decided to accept my offer, and make your home beneath my humble roof?" he asked. "There has been no time to consult with my friends here, Mr. Drummond. I will let you know next week. I thank you at any rate for your kindness." "Do come, Walter," said his cousin, twisting his mean features into an affectionate smile. "With you beneath my humble roof, I shall want nothing to complete my happiness." Walter thanked him again, wondering at the same time why Mr. Drummond's kindness did not affect him more sensibly. So Jacob Drummond went back to Stapleton, still ignorant of the state of Mr. Conrad's affairs, and still regarding Walter as a boy of great wealth. When the will was opened it was found to bear date two years back, before Mr. Conrad had plunged into the speculation which had proved so disastrous to him. He bequeathed all the property which he did possess to Walter, with the exception of five hundred dollars, which were left as a legacy to his faithful house-keeper, Nancy Forbes. At the time the will was made, its provisions made Walter heir to a large fortune. Now it was quite uncertain how things would turn out. Clement Shaw, the village lawyer, an honest and upright man, was made executor, being an old and tried friend of the deceased. With him Walter had a long and confidential conversation, imparting to him what he knew of his father's mining speculation and its disastrous result, with its probable effect in accelerating his death. "I knew something of this before, Walter," said Mr. Shaw. "Your father spoke to me of being largely interested in the Great Metropolitan Mining Company; but of the company itself and the extent to which he was involved I knew nothing." "I think my father must have been very seriously involved," said Walter. "It may, perhaps, swallow up the whole property." "Let us hope not. Indeed, I can hardly believe that your father would have ventured in so deep as that." "He had every confidence in the company; he thought he was going to double his money. If only a part of his property was threatened, I don't think it would have had such an effect upon him." "I will thoroughly examine into the affair," said Mr. Shaw. "Meanwhile, Walter, hope for the best! It can hardly be that the whole property is lost. Do not be too anxious." "Do not fear for me on that account," said Walter. "I always looked forward to being rich, it is true, but I can bear poverty. If the worst comes, and I am penniless, I am strong, and can work. I can get along as well as thousands of other boys, who have to support themselves." Walter did not speak boastfully, but in a calm, confident way, that argued a consciousness of power. "Yes," said the lawyer, regarding him attentively, "I think you are right there. You are just the boy who can make his own way; but I hope you will not be obliged to do so." "There is one thing I want to say, Mr. Shaw," said Walter, "and that is about the money my father leaves in his will to Nancy." "The circumstances were different. She will not expect it now; that is, of course, unless things turn out more favorably than we fear." "That is not what I mean. Nancy must have the money, if there is so much left after settling the estate." "But suppose only five hundred dollars are left? Of course I hope it will be much more, but we must think of all contingencies." "If only five hundred dollars are left, let Nancy have them." "But, Walter, consider yourself." "I am young and strong. Nancy has spent her best years in my father's service, and she is no longer young. It is right that she should have some provision. Besides, my father meant her to have it, and I want to carry out his wishes." "This is all very generous, Walter; but I am afraid it is inconsiderate. It would not be your father's wish to provide even for Nancy, however faithful she may have been, at the expense of his son." "It is right," said Walter. "Besides, Mr. Shaw, I find that Nancy had laid up six hundred dollars, which she had deposited in my father's hands. That also must be paid, if there is enough to pay it; if not, I will take it upon myself to pay whenever I am able." "You're an excellent boy, Walter," said Mr. Shaw. "I always had a good opinion of you, and I find it is more than deserved. I honor you for the resolution you have expressed, though I cannot quite agree with you about the five hundred dollars. As to the debt, that must be paid, if there is money enough to pay it. But we can leave the further discussion of this question for the present. Now let us consider what is to become of you in the mean time. You were at the Essex Classical Institute, I believe?" "Yes, sir." "You would like to go back again, I suppose." "No, Mr. Shaw. It is an expensive school, and while it is uncertain how my father's affairs will come out, I should not feel justified in going there." "Perhaps you are right. Of course you cannot stay here, and keep house by yourself. I would invite you to my own house, but my wife is an invalid, and I have to consider her in the matter." "Thank you, Mr. Shaw; but I think perhaps I had better accept the offer of Mr. Drummond, of Stapleton. He invites me to make my home at his house, and, for the present, perhaps, that will be the best arrangement." "I am not acquainted with Mr. Drummond. He is a relation, I believe." "Yes, he is my father's cousin, and so, of course, my second cousin." "I think I saw him at the funeral." "Yes, he was present." Mr. Shaw had seen Jacob Drummond, and had not been very favorably impressed by his appearance. Still, his offer was not one to be hastily rejected, for no better reason than a little prejudice, which might prove unfounded. Accordingly he said, "Well, Walter, as you say, I am not sure whether this may not be the best arrangement for you, that is, for the present. If you don't like to stay at Stapleton, you can write me, and I will see what I can do for you." "Thank you, Mr. Shaw." Nancy was much troubled at the thought of parting from Walter, whom she had known from his infancy; but a situation was immediately offered her in the village, and Walter promised to take her as his house-keeper whenever he had a home of his own, and this comforted her, although it was likely to be a long time first, since our hero was at present but fifteen. "Your six hundred dollars shall be paid, Nancy," said Walter, "as soon as father's affairs are settled." "Don't bother yourself about that, Master Walter," said Nancy. "I've got fifty dollars in my trunk, and I don't need the other at all. I can wait for it five years." "It won't be necessary to wait as long as that, Nancy." "And so you are going to that Mr. Drummond's? I'm sorry for it. I don't like the man's looks at all." "He may be a good man. He was kind to invite me." "He isn't a good man," said Nancy, positively. "He's got a mean sort of look to his face." "You mustn't try to prejudice me before I go to him, Nancy." "You'll think as I do before you've been there a week," said Nancy, shaking her head. "I took a good look at him when he was here, and I didn't like his looks." "He isn't very handsome," said Walter, smiling; "but everybody can't be handsome." Secretly he did not wonder much at Nancy's prejudice. Mr. Drummond certainly was a mean-looking man. How he could be so nearly related to his father, who was a generous, open-handed, and open-hearted man, was surprising. Still Walter was just enough to reserve his judgment until his opportunities of judging were greater than at present. He wrote a brief letter to Stapleton, to the following effect:-- "MR. DRUMMOND:-- "Dear Sir:--I will accept the invitation you were kind enough to extend to me, for the present, at least, and will come to Stapleton about the middle of next week. You are the only relation of my father that I know of, and I think it would be his wish that I should go to you. If it should be inconvenient for you to receive me at that time, please write me at once. "Yours, respectfully, "WALTER CONRAD." In return, Walter received a letter couched in the most cordial terms, in which Mr. Drummond signed himself, "Your affectionate cousin." He was delighted, he said, to think that he was about to receive, under his humble roof, the son of his revered and lamented cousin. CHAPTER VII. MR. DRUMMOND'S HUMBLE ROOF. "Mrs. Drummond," said her husband, "young Mr. Conrad will be here by four o'clock this afternoon. You will have a nice supper ready at five." "Shall I have cake and pie both?" inquired Mrs. Drummond, doubtfully. "Certainly. Indeed, it may be as well to have two kinds of pie, say apple and pumpkin; and, as we have not had hot biscuit for some time, you may bake some." Mrs. Drummond looked at her husband as if she had doubts as to his sanity. Such a luxurious meal was quite unheard of in the Drummond household. "Cake, two kinds of pie, and hot biscuit!" she repeated. "Yes," he replied. "I am not in general in favor of such extra living, but it is well to pay some respect to the memory of my deceased kinsman in the person of his son. Being the son of a rich man, he has been accustomed to rich living, and I wish him, on his advent into our family, to feel at home." Mrs. Drummond prepared to obey her husband's directions with alacrity. "Joshua will get a good supper for once," she thought, thinking more of her son than of the stranger who was to enter the family. "How surprised he will be to see such a variety on the table!" Not that Joshua was strictly confined to the spare diet of his father's table. Through his mother's connivance there was generally an extra piece of pie or cake in the pantry laid aside for him. Had Mr. Drummond suspected this, he would have been very angry; but, being at the store the greater portion of the time, he was not aware of the extra indulgence. Mr. Drummond himself met Walter at the depot. "I am delighted to welcome you to Stapleton, my young friend," he said, shaking his hand cordially. "In the affliction which has come upon you, let me hope that you will find a haven of rest beneath my humble roof." "I wonder why he always speaks of his 'humble roof,'" thought Walter. "Does he live in a shanty, I wonder?" He made suitable acknowledgments, and proceeded to walk beside Mr. Drummond to the house which he termed humble. It did not deserve that name, being a substantial two-story house, rather ugly architecturally, but comfortable enough in appearance. "That is my humble dwelling," said Mr. Drummond, pointing it out. "It is not equal to the splendid mansion in which you have been accustomed to live, for my worldly circumstances differ widely from those of your late lamented parent; but I trust that in our humble way we shall be enabled to make you comfortable." "Thank you, Mr. Drummond; I have no doubt of that. Your house looks very comfortable." "Yes, it is plain and humble, but comfortable. We are plain people. We are not surrounded by the appliances of wealth, but we manage, in our humble way, to get through life. That is my son Joshua, who is looking out of the front window. I hope you may become good friends, considering how nearly you are related." Walter raised his eyes, and saw Joshua, whose small, mean features, closely resembling his father's, expressed considerable curiosity. Walter secretly doubted whether he should like him; but this doubt he kept to himself. Mr. Drummond opened the outer door, and led the way in. "This is my wife, Mrs. Drummond," he said, as she approached, and kindly welcomed the young stranger. "I think I shall like her," thought Walter, suffering his glance to rest for a moment on her mild, placid features; "she is evidently quite superior to her husband." "Joshua, come here and welcome Mr. Conrad," said his father. Joshua came forward awkwardly, and held out his hand with the stiffness of a pump-handle. "How dy do?" he said. "Just come?" "Yes," said Walter, accepting the hand, and shaking it slightly. "Are you tired with your journey, Mr. Conrad?" asked Mrs. Drummond. "Perhaps you would like to be shown to your room." "Thank you," said Walter. "I will go up for a few minutes." "Where are you going to put our young friend, Mrs. Drummond?" "In the spare chamber." "That is right. You will find some difference, Mr. Conrad, between our humble accommodations and the sumptuous elegance of your own home; but we will try and make it up by a hearty welcome." "I wish he wouldn't use the word _humble_ so much," thought Walter. Walter went upstairs, preceded by Mr. Drummond, who insisted on carrying his carpet-bag, for his trunk would not arrive till the next day, having been forwarded by express. "I say, mother," remarked Joshua, "the old man's awfully polite to this young fellow." "You shouldn't speak of your father in that way, Joshua." "Oh, what's the odds? He is an old man, isn't he? I just wish he'd be as polite to me. I say, I hope he'll like his boarding-place. What are you going to have for supper?" "Hot biscuit, cake, and two kinds of pie." "Whew! won't the old man look like a thundercloud?" "That's what he told me to get. You do your father injustice, Joshua." Mrs. Drummond knew in her secret heart that her husband was intensely mean; but she was one of those who like to think as well as possible of every one, and was glad of an opportunity to prove that he could, on rare occasions, be more generous. "Father's brain must be softening," said Joshua, after recovering in a measure from his astonishment. "I hope it will be permanent. Isn't supper most ready?" "At five o'clock, Joshua." "This young chap's got a lot of money, I suppose, and the governor's after some of it. That explains the matter." "I wish you wouldn't speak so disrespectfully of your father, Joshua." "I won't if he'll keep on as he's begun. I'm glad this young Conrad has come to board here. I'm going to get thick with him." "He seems like a very nice boy," said Mrs. Drummond. "I don't care what sort of a boy he is, as long as he's got the tin. I'm going to make him treat." "You must be considerate of his feelings, Joshua. Remember that he has just lost his father." "Suppose he has, there's no need of looking glum about it." Had Jacob Drummond died, Joshua would have borne the loss with the greatest fortitude. Of that there was no doubt. Indeed, he would rather have hailed the event with joy, if, as he expressed it, the "old man did the right thing," and left him the bulk of his property. Though such feelings did not do Joshua much credit, it must be said in extenuation that his father was far from being a man to inspire affection in any one, however nearly related. At five o'clock they sat down to supper. "I hope, Mr. Conrad," said Jacob, "you will be able to relish our humble repast." "Humble again!" thought Walter. He was about to say that everything looked very nice, when Joshua broke in. "If you call this humble, I don't know what you'd say to the suppers we commonly have." Mr. Drummond, who desired, for this day, at least, to keep up appearances, frowned with vexation. "Joshua," he said, "I desire that you will act in a more gentlemanly way, or else leave the table." As leaving the table on the present occasion would have been, indeed, a deprivation, Joshua thought it wise not to provoke his father too far, at any rate until after he had made sure of his supper. He therefore left most of the conversation to his father. "Have you ever been in Stapleton before, Mr. Conrad?" asked Mr. Drummond. "No, sir; never." "It is not a large place, but it is growing; the people are plain, but they have kind hearts. I hope you may like the town after a while." "Thank you, sir; I have no doubt I shall." "If you feel inclined for a walk, Joshua will go out with you after supper, and show you the mill-dam, the church, and the school-house. He will also point out the store--it is only across the way--where, in my humble way, I try to earn a living. I shall be very glad if you will come in and take a look inside. I may be busy, for work has accumulated during my absence, but Joshua will show you around." "Thank you, sir." "Will you have another cup of tea, Mr. Conrad?" asked Mrs. Drummond. "Thank you." "May I ask, Mr. Conrad,--excuse my intruding the question,--who is left executor of your father's estate?" "Mr. Shaw, the lawyer in our village." "Is he? Do you have confidence in him?" "He is an excellent man, very honest and upright. He was an intimate friend of my father." "Ah, indeed! I am glad of it. Then he will consult your interests." "Yes, sir, I feel quite safe in his hands." "I am so glad to hear you say so. So many lawyers, you know, are tricky." "Mr. Shaw is not tricky." "We have no lawyer here," pursued Mr. Drummond. "You will perhaps be surprised to hear it, but my humble services are frequently called into requisition, in administering and settling estates." "Indeed, sir." "Yes; but I am glad you have got a man you can trust. Mrs. Drummond, I think Mr. Conrad will have another piece of pie." Supper was over at length, and Walter, by invitation, went out to walk with Joshua. CHAPTER VIII. WALTER MAKES A REVELATION. Walter did not anticipate a very pleasant walk with Joshua. The little he had seen of that young man did not prepossess him in his favor. However, having no other way of spending his time, he had no objection to the walk. "That's the old man's store just across the street," said Joshua, as they emerged from the house. "Your father's?" "Of course. Don't you see the name on the sign?" Walter did see it, but never having been accustomed to speak of his own father as "the old man," he was not quite sure he apprehended Joshua's meaning. "You were an only child, weren't you?" said Joshua. "Yes," said Walter, soberly. [Illustration] He could not help thinking what a comfort it would have been to him to have either brother or sister. He would have felt less alone in the world. "So am I," said Joshua; adding, complacently, "Between you and I, the old man has laid up quite a snug sum. Of course it'll all come to me some day." "I am glad to hear it," said Walter, rather wondering that Joshua should have made such a communication to a comparative stranger. "To hear the old man talk," pursued Joshua, "you'd think he was awful poor. He's stingy enough about everything in the house. There isn't a family in town that don't live better than we do." "I thought we had a very good supper," said Walter, who experienced not a little disgust at Joshua's charges against his father. "That was because you were with us. The old man laid himself out for the occasion." "I am sorry if any difference was made on my account." "Well, I aint. It's the first decent supper I've eaten at home since the Sewing Circle met at our house three years ago." "Is that the church?" asked Walter, desirous of diverting the conversation into another channel. "Yes, that's the old meeting-house. I hate to go there. The minister's an old fogy." "What is that I see through the trees? Is it a river?" "No, it's a pond." "Do you ever go out on it?" "Not very often. I tried to get the old man to buy me a boat, but he wouldn't do it. He's too stingy." "I wouldn't talk so about your father." "Why not?" "Because he is entitled to your respect." "I don't know about that. If he'd treat me as he ought to, I'd treat him accordingly. He never gives me a cent if he can help it. Now how much do you think he allows me a week for spending money?" "I can't tell." "Only fifty cents, and I'm eighteen years old. Isn't that mean?" "It isn't a very large sum." "Of course not. He ought to give me five dollars a week, and then I'd buy my own clothes. Now I have to take up with what I can get. He wanted to have his old overcoat, that he'd worn three winters, made over for me; but I wouldn't stand it. I told him I'd go without first." Though these communications did not raise Joshua in the estimation of Walter, the latter could not help thinking that there was probably some foundation for what was said, and the prejudice against Mr. Drummond, for which he had blamed himself as without cause, began to find some extenuation. "When I talk to the old man about his stinting me so," continued Joshua, "he tells me to go to work and earn some money." "Why don't you do it?" "He wants me to go into his store, but he wouldn't pay me anything. He offered me a dollar and a half a week; but I wasn't going to work ten or twelve hours a day for no such sum. If I could get a light, easy place in the city, say at ten dollars a week, I'd go. There aint any chance in Stapleton for a young man of enterprise." "I've thought sometimes," said Walter, "that I should like to get a place in the city; but I suppose I couldn't get enough at first to pay my board." "You get a place!" exclaimed Joshua, in astonishment. "I thought you was going to college." "Father intended I should; but his death will probably change my plans." "I don't see why." "It is expensive passing through college; I cannot afford it." "Oh, that's all humbug. You're talking like the old man." "How do you know that it is humbug?" demanded Walter, not very well pleased with his companion's tone. "Why, you're rich. The old man told me that your father left a hundred thousand dollars. You're the only son; you told me so yourself." "Your father is mistaken." "What, wasn't your father rich?" asked Joshua, opening his small eyes in amazement. "My father was unfortunate enough to get involved in a speculation, by which he lost heavily. I can't tell how his affairs stand till they are settled. I may be left penniless." "Do you mean that?" asked Joshua, stopping short and facing his companion. "I generally mean what I say," said Walter, rather stiffly. Joshua's answer was a low whistle of amazement. "Whew!" he said. "That's the biggest joke I've heard of lately;" and he followed up this remark by a burst of merriment. Walter surveyed him with surprise. He certainly did not know what to make of Joshua's conduct. "I don't see any joke about it," he said. "I don't complain of being poor, for I think I can earn my own living; but it doesn't strike me as a thing to laugh at." "I was laughing to think how the old man is taken in. It's rich!" Joshua burst into another fit of boisterous laughter. "How is he taken in?" "He thinks you're worth a hundred thousand dollars," said Joshua, going off in another peal of merriment. "Well, he is mistaken, that's all. I don't see how he is taken in." "He's been doing the polite, and treating you as if you was a prince of the blood. That's the reason he told the old woman to get up such a nice supper, he expected to get you to take him for a guardian, and then he'd have the handling of your money. Won't he be mad when he finds out how he's been taken in? Giving you the best room too! Are you sure that none of the property will be left?" "Probably not much." That Walter listened with mortification and disgust to what Joshua had told him about his father's selfish designs, is only what might be expected. It is always disagreeable to find out the meanness of those whom you have supposed kind to you for your own sake. This, to Walter, who had been accustomed to an atmosphere of kindness, was a painful discovery. It was his first experience of the coldness and hollowness of the world, and to the sensitive nature of youth this first revelation is very painful and very bitter. "I am sorry to think that your father made such a mistake," he said, coldly. "I will take care to undeceive him." "What! You're not going to tell him, are you?" "Certainly. I meant to do so; but I did not suppose he invited me just because he thought I was rich." "What for, then?" "Being my father's cousin and nearest relation, it didn't seem very strange that he should have invited me on that account." "The old man's a shrewd one," said Joshua, rather admiringly. "He knows which way his bread is buttered. He don't lay himself out for no poor relations, not if he knows it." "I am sorry if he has laid himself out for me under a mistake." "I aint. It's a good joke on the old man. Besides, we all got a better supper by it. Don't you tell him about it till to-morrow." "Why not?" "Because, if you do, we'll have a mean breakfast as usual. I just want him to think you're rich a little while longer, so we can have something decent for once." "I don't feel willing to deceive your father any longer. I have not willingly deceived him at all." "You're a fool then!" "Look here," said Walter, flushing a little, "I don't allow anybody to call me by that name." "No offence," said Joshua, whose physical courage was not very great. "I didn't mean anything, of course, except that it was foolish to blurt it all out to-night, when there isn't any need of it. There isn't such an awful hurry, is there?" "I would rather your father knew at once." "To-morrow will be soon enough." "At any rate I shall tell him to-morrow, then. But I've got tired walking. Suppose we go back." "Just as you say." They went back together. Mr. Drummond was in the store, but Mrs. Drummond was at home. "You didn't go far," she said. "But I suppose you were tired, Mr. Conrad." "A little," answered Walter. "I wonder," thought our hero, "whether she will change as soon as she finds out that I am poor?" Somehow he felt that she would not. She seemed very different from her husband and son, and Walter was inclined to like her better. Joshua went out again soon, not having much taste for staying at home; and, as Walter retired early, he did not see either him or his father again till the next morning at breakfast. CHAPTER IX. HOW MR. DRUMMOND TOOK THE NEWS. Joshua's anticipations of a good breakfast were realized. As he entered the room where the table was set, he saw a dish of beefsteak, another of fried potatoes, and some hot biscuit. This with coffee was very much better than the breakfast usually provided in the Drummond household. Joshua burst into a fresh fit of laughter, thinking how his father had been taken in. "What's the matter, Joshua?" asked his mother, who was the only one in the room besides himself. "Oh, it's the richest joke, mother!" "What is?" asked Mrs. Drummond, perplexed. "I can't tell you now, but you'll find out pretty soon. Ho, ho!" And Joshua commenced to laugh again. "Has Mr. Conrad come downstairs?" "I haven't seen Mr. Conrad this morning," answered Joshua, imitating his mother's tone in repeating the name. Just then Walter entered, and said "Good-morning." "Good-morning, Mr. Conrad," said Mrs. Drummond. "I hope you slept well." "Very well, thank you," said Walter. Mr. Drummond here entered from the street, having been for an hour in the store opposite. "Good-morning, Mr. Conrad," he said. "I trust you rested well, and can do justice to our humble repast. I have been in the store an hour. We who are not endowed with the gifts of Fortune must be early astir." Joshua tried to suppress a laugh, but not with entire success. "What are you snickering at, Joshua?" demanded Mr. Drummond, in a displeased tone. "I don't know what Mr. Conrad will think of your manners." "You'll excuse them, won't you, Mr. Conrad?" asked Joshua, beginning to chuckle again. Knowing very well the source of his amusement, and feeling his own position to be an awkward one, Walter was all the more resolved to impart to Mr. Drummond without delay the posture of his father's affairs. He did not answer Joshua's appeal. "I don't see what has got into you this morning, Joshua," said Mrs. Drummond, mildly. "You seem in very good spirits." "So I am," said Joshua, with a grin. His father suspected that the unusual excellence of the breakfast had something to do with Joshua's mirth, and was afraid he would let out something about it. This made him a little nervous, as he wanted to keep up appearances before his young guest. Walter's appetite was not very good. His father's death weighed heavily upon him, and Joshua's revelation of the night before was not calculated to cheer him. It was mortifying to think that Mr. Drummond's gracious manner was entirely owing to his supposed wealth; but of this he entertained little doubt. He was anxious to have the truth known, no matter how unfavorably it might affect his position with the Drummonds. There were some, he knew, whose kindness did not depend on his reputed wealth. "You have a poor appetite, Mr. Conrad," said Mr. Drummond. "Let me give you another piece of steak." "No, I thank you," said Walter. "I'll take another piece, father," said Joshua. "I have already helped you twice," said his father, frowning. "I'm hungry this morning," said Joshua, who, knowing that he could not expect another as good breakfast, determined to do full justice to this. "If you are, you need not overeat yourself," said Mr. Drummond, depositing on his son's outstretched plate a square inch of meat. Joshua coolly helped himself to fried potatoes, and appropriated a hot biscuit, much to his father's annoyance. He resolved to give Joshua a private hint that he must be more sparing in his eating. He did not like to speak before Walter, desiring to keep up with him the character of a liberal man. Joshua understood his father's feelings, and it contributed to the enjoyment which he felt at the thought of how richly his father was sold. At length breakfast was over. "I must go back to the store," said Mr. Drummond. "Joshua will look after you, Mr. Conrad. I hope you will be able to pass the time pleasantly." "If you can spare me five minutes, Mr. Drummond, I should like to speak to you in private," said Walter, determined to put an end to the misunderstanding at once. "Certainly. I can spare five or ten minutes, or more, Mr. Conrad. Won't you walk into the parlor?" The parlor was a very dreary-looking room, dark, cold, and cheerless. A carpet, of an ugly pattern, covered the floor; there was a centre-table in the middle of the room with a few books that were never opened resting upon it. Half-a-dozen cane-bottomed chairs stood about the room, and there were besides a few of the stock articles usually to be found in country parlors, including a very hard, inhospitable-looking sofa. As the Drummonds did not have much company, this room was very seldom used. "Take a seat, Mr. Conrad," said Mr. Drummond, seating himself. Mr. Drummond was far from anticipating the nature of Walter's communication. Indeed, he cherished a hope that our hero was about to ask his assistance in settling up the estate,--a request with which, it is needless to say, he would gladly have complied. "I don't suppose you know how I am situated," Walter commenced. "I mean in relation to my father's estate." "I suppose it was all left to you, and very properly. I congratulate you on starting in the world under such good auspices. I don't, of course, know how much your father left, but--" "It is not certain that my father left anything," said Walter, thinking it best to reveal every thing at once. "_What!_" exclaimed Mr. Drummond, his lower jaw falling, and looking very blank. "My father made some investments recently that turned out badly." "But he was worth a very large property,--it can't all be lost." "I am afraid there will be very little left, if anything. He lost heavily by some mining stock, which he bought at a high figure, and which ran down to almost nothing." "There's the house left, at any rate." "My father borrowed its value, I understand; I am afraid that must go too." Now, at length, it flashed upon Mr. Drummond how he had been taken in. He thought of the attentions he had lavished upon Walter, of the extra expense he had incurred, and all as it appeared for a boy likely to prove penniless. He might even expect to live upon him. These thoughts, which rapidly succeeded each other, mortified and made him angry. "Why didn't you tell me this before, young man?" he demanded with asperity. His change of tone and manner showed Walter that Joshua was entirely right in his estimate of his father's motives, and he in turn became indignant. "When did you expect me to tell you, Mr. Drummond?" he said quickly. "I only arrived yesterday afternoon, and I tell you this morning. I would have told you last night, if you had been in the house." "Why didn't you tell me when I was at Willoughby?" "I had other things to think of," said Walter, shortly. "The thought of my father's death and of my loss shut out everything else." "Well, what are you going to do?" asked Mr. Drummond, in a hard tone. "I shall have to earn my own living," said Walter. "I am well and strong, and am not afraid." "That is a good plan," said Mr. Drummond, who knew Walter so little as to fear that he wanted to become dependent upon him. "When I was of your age I had my own living to earn. What do you propose to do?" "Have you a vacancy for me in your store? Joshua told me you wished him to go in." "You couldn't earn much, for you don't know anything of the business." "I should not expect to. I am perfectly willing to work for my board until I find out how my father's affairs are going to turn out." This proposal struck Mr. Drummond favorably. He judged that Walter would prove a valuable assistant when he was broken in, for it was easy to see that he had energy. Besides, it was desirable to keep him near until it was decided whether Mr. Conrad's affairs were really in as bad a state as his son represented. Even if a few thousand dollars were left, Mr. Drummond would like the handling of that sum. Then, again, no one knew better than Mr. Drummond that Walter's board would cost him very little; for, of course, he would at once return to his usual frugal fare. "Very well," he said; "you can go into the store on those terms. As you say, you've got your own living to earn, and the sooner you begin the better." Walter had not said this, but he agreed with Mr. Drummond. It may be thought strange that our hero should have been willing to enter the employment of such a mean man; but he thought it wisest to remain in the neighborhood until he could learn something definite about his father's affairs. He prepared to go to work at once, partly because he didn't wish to be dependent, partly because he foresaw that he should be happier if employed. When Mr. Drummond and Walter came out of the parlor, Joshua was waiting in the next room, and looked up eagerly to see how his father bore the communication. He was disappointed when he saw that Mr. Drummond looked much as usual. "Conrad has been telling me," said Mr. Drummond, "that his father lost a good deal of money by speculation, and it is doubtful whether he has left any property." "I am very sorry," said Mrs. Drummond; and Walter saw and appreciated her look of sympathy. "As he will probably have to work for a living, he has asked for a place in my store," pursued Mr. Drummond, "and I have agreed to take him on trial. Conrad, you may get your hat and come over at once." Joshua whistled in sheer amazement. The affair had by no means terminated as he anticipated. CHAPTER X. MR. DRUMMOND'S STORE. Mr. Drummond's store was of fair size, and contained a considerable and varied stock of dry goods. Not only the people of Stapleton, but a considerable number of persons living outside the town limits, but within a radius of half-a-dozen miles, came there to purchase goods. Besides Mr. Drummond there was a single salesman, a young man of twenty-two, who wore a cravat of immense size, and ostentatiously displayed in his bosom a mammoth breastpin, with a glass imitation diamond, which, had it been real, would have been equal in value to the entire contents of the store. This young man, whose name was Nichols, received from Mr. Drummond the munificent salary of four hundred dollars per annum. Having a taste for dress, he patronized the village tailor to the extent of his means, and considerably beyond, being at this moment thirty dollars in debt for the suit he wore. Besides this young man, there had formerly been a younger clerk, receiving a salary of four dollars weekly. He had been dismissed for asking to have his pay raised to five dollars a week, and since then Mr. Drummond had got along with but one salesman. As, however, the business really required more assistance, he was quite willing to employ Walter on board wages, which he estimated would not cost him, at the most, more than two dollars a week. "Mr. Nichols," said Mr. Drummond, "I have brought you some help. This is Walter Conrad, a distant relative." (Had Walter been rich, he would have been a near relative.) "He knows nothing of the business. You can take him in charge, and give him some idea about prices, and so forth." "Yes, sir," said the young man, in an important tone. "I'll soon break him in." Mr. Nichols, who gave up what little mind he had to the subject of clothes, began to inspect Walter's raiment. He had sufficient knowledge to perceive that our hero's suit was of fine fabric, and tastefully made. That being the case, he concluded to pay him some attention. "I'm glad you've come," he said. "I have to work like a dog. I'm pretty well used up to-day. I was up till two o'clock dancing." "Were you?" "Yes. There was a ball over to Crampton. I go to all the balls within ten miles. They can't do without me." "Can't they?" asked Walter, not knowing what else to say. "No. You see there isn't much style at these country balls,--I mean among the young men. They don't know how to dress. Now I give my mind to it, and they try to imitate me. I don't trust any tailor entirely. I just tell him what I want, and how I want it. Higgins, the tailor here, has improved a good deal since he began to make clothes for me." "Indeed!" "Where do you have your clothes made?" "In Willoughby. That's where I have always lived till I came here." "Is there a good tailor there?" "I think so; but then I am not much of a judge." Just then a customer came in, and Mr. Nichols was drawn away from his dissertation on dress. "Just notice how I manage," he said in a low voice. Accordingly Walter stood by and listened. "Have you any calicoes that you can recommend?" asked the woman, who appeared to be poor. "Yes, ma'am, we've got some of the best in the market,--some that will be sure to suit you." He took from the shelves and displayed a very ugly pattern. "I don't think I like that," she said. "Haven't you got some with a smaller figure?" "The large figures are all the rage just now, ma'am. Everybody wears them." "Is that so?" asked the woman, irresolutely. "Fact, I assure you." "How much is it a yard?" "Fifteen cents only." "Are you sure it will wash?" "Certainly." "I should like to look at something else." "I'll show you something else, but this is the thing for you." He brought out a piece still uglier; and finally, after some hesitation, his customer ordered ten yards from the first piece. He measured it with an air, and, folding it up, handed it to the customer, receiving in return a two-dollar bill, which the poor woman sighed as she rendered in, for she had worked hard for it. "Is there anything more, ma'am?" "A spool of cotton, No. 100." When the customer had left the store, Nichols turned complacently to Walter. "How did you like that calico?" he asked. "It seemed to me very ugly." "Wasn't it, though? It's been in the store five years. I didn't know as we should ever get rid of it." "I thought you said it was all the rage." "That's all gammon, of course." "Haven't you got any prettier patterns?" "Plenty." "Why didn't you show them?" "I wanted to get off the old rubbish first. It isn't everybody that would buy it; but she swallowed everything I said." "She seemed like a poor woman, who couldn't afford to buy a dress very often." "No, she doesn't come more than twice a year." "I think you ought to have given her the best bargain you could." "You don't understand the business, Walter," said Nichols, complacently. "Mr. Drummond," he said, going up to his employer, "I've just sold ten yards of those old-style calicoes." "Very good," said Mr. Drummond, approvingly. "Shove them off whenever you get a chance." "If that is the way they do business, I shan't like it," thought Walter. "You can fold up those goods on the counter, and put them back on the shelves," said Nichols. "Customers put us to a great deal of trouble that way sometimes. Mrs. Captain Walker was in yesterday afternoon, and I didn't know but I should have to get down all the stock we had before we could suit her." "Why didn't you pick out something, and tell her it was all the rage?" said Walter, smiling. "That wouldn't go down with her. She's rich and she's proud. We have to be careful how we manage with such customers as she is. That reminds me that her bundle hasn't gone home yet. I'll get you to carry it up right away." "I don't know where she lives." "It's a large, square white house, about a quarter of a mile down the road, at the left hand. You can't miss it." The bundle was produced, and Walter set off in the direction indicated. He had only gone a few rods when he overtook Joshua, who was sauntering along with a fishing-pole in his hand. "Where are you going with that big bundle?" asked Joshua. "To Mrs. Captain Walker's." "I'll show you where it is. I'm going that way." Joshua's manner was considerably less deferential than the day before, when he supposed Walter to be rich. Now he looked upon him as his father's hired boy. "Isn't that bundle heavy?" he asked. "Yes, rather heavy." "I wouldn't be seen carrying such a bundle." "Why not?" "I feel above it." "I don't." "It's different with you--now I mean. My father's worth money, and I suppose you will be poor." "I don't mean to be poor all my life, but I shall have to work for all the money I am worth." "It'll take a good while to get rich that way. If your father hadn't lost his money, you could have fine times." "I don't know about that. I never cared so much about inheriting money." They were passing the village school-house. Through the open windows floated the strain of a song which the children were singing. This was the verse which the boys heard:-- "It's all very well to depend on a friend,-- That is, if you've proved him true; But you'll find it better by far in the end To paddle your own canoe. To 'borrow' is dearer by far than to 'buy,'-- A maxim, though old, still true; You never will sigh, if you only will try To paddle your own canoe!" "That is going to be my motto," said Walter. "What?" "'Paddle your own canoe.' I'm going to depend upon myself, and I mean to succeed." "That's all very well, if you've got to do it; but I expect the old man will leave me twenty-five thousand dollars, and that's a good deal better than paddling my own canoe." "Suppose your father should fail?" "There isn't any danger. He'll take good care of his money, I'll warrant that. I wish he wasn't so mighty stingy, for I'd like a little now. But there's Captain Walker's. I'll wait here, while you go and leave the bundle." Walter performed his errand, and rejoined Joshua, who had seated himself on the fence. "I'm going a-fishing," said Joshua. "If you didn't have to work you could go with me." "I must hurry back to the store." So the two parted company. "I wish he'd been rich," thought Joshua. "I'd have borrowed some money of him. It won't pay to be polite to him, now it turns out he isn't worth a cent." Walter went back to the store with a lighter heart than before. There was something in the song he had heard which gave him new strength and hopefulness, and he kept repeating over to himself at intervals, "Paddle your own canoe!" CHAPTER XI. JOSHUA STIRS UP THE WRONG CUSTOMER. When Walter went into the house to dinner, the appearance of the table indicated the truth of what Joshua had told him. Since Mr. Drummond had ascertained the pecuniary position of his visitor, he no longer felt it incumbent upon him to keep up appearances. Corned beef and potatoes, and bread without butter, constituted the mid-day meal. This certainly differed considerably from the supper and breakfast of which Walter had partaken. "Sit right down, Conrad," said Mr. Drummond. "Eat your dinner as fast as you can, and go back to the store." It did not take Walter long to eat his dinner. Corned beef he had never liked, though now, having no choice, he managed to eat a little. "If you're through, you needn't wait for me," said Mr. Drummond. "We don't stand on ceremony here. Tell Nichols he may go to his dinner. I'll be right over; so, if there are any customers you can't wait on, ask them to wait." In the evening Walter found that his carpet-bag had been removed from the spare chamber to a small, uncarpeted back room, furnished with the barest necessaries. He smiled to himself. "I shan't be in danger of forgetting my change of circumstances," he said to himself. He was tired, however, and, though the bed was harder than he had ever before slept on, he managed to sleep soundly. He was waked up early by Mr. Drummond. "Hurry up, Conrad!" said that gentleman, unceremoniously. "I want you to be up within fifteen minutes to open the store." Walter jumped out of bed and hurriedly dressed. His position was so new that he did not at first realize it. When he did reflect that he was working for his board in a country store, he hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry. He had begun to earn his living, and this was satisfactory; but he was working for a man whom he could neither like nor respect, and his pay was very poor of its kind. That was not so agreeable. Walter was not a glutton, nor inordinately fond of good living, but he had the appetite of a healthy boy, and when he entered the room where breakfast was spread (this was after he had been in the store an hour), he did wish that there had been something on the table besides the remains of the corned beef and a plate of bread and butter. "Do you take sugar and milk in your tea, Walter?" asked Mrs. Drummond. "If you please." "I don't take either," remarked Mr. Drummond. "It's only a habit, and an expensive one. If you'd try going without for a week, you would cure yourself of the habit." "How intolerably mean he is!" thought Walter, for he understood very well that the only consideration in Mr. Drummond's mind was the expense. "I don't think I shall ever learn to go without milk and sugar," said Walter, quietly, not feeling disposed to humor his employer in this little meanness. "There isn't anything fit to eat on the table," grumbled Joshua, looking about him discontentedly. "You are always complaining," said his father, sharply. "If you earned your breakfast, you wouldn't be so particular." "Why can't you have beefsteak once in a while, instead of corned beef? I'm sick to death of corned beef." "We shall have some beefsteak on Sunday morning, and not till then. I don't mean to pamper your appetite." "That's so!" said Joshua. "Not much danger of that." "If you are not satisfied, you can go without." "I will, then," said Joshua, rising from the table. He knew very well that as soon as his father had gone to the store he could get something better from his mother. It had been a considerable disappointment to Joshua to find that Walter was poor instead of rich, for he had proposed to make as free use of Walter's purse as the latter would permit. Even now it occurred to him that Walter might have a supply of ready money, a part of which he might borrow. He accordingly took an opportunity during the day to sound our hero on this subject. "Walter, have you a couple of dollars about you to lend me for a day or two?" he asked, in a tone of assumed carelessness. "Yes, I have that amount of money, but I am afraid I must decline lending." "Why shouldn't you lend me? It's only for a day or two." But Walter knew very well Joshua's small allowance, and that he would not be able to return a loan of that amount, even if he were desirous of so doing, and he judged Joshua so well that he doubted whether he would have any such desire. "You know my circumstances, Joshua," he said, "and that I am in no position to lend anybody money." "Two dollars isn't much. You said you had it." "Yes, I have it; but I must take care of what little I have. I am working for my board, as you know, and have got to provide for all my other expenses myself; therefore I shall need all my money." "You talk as if I wanted you to _give_ me the money. I only asked you to lend it." "That's about the same thing," thought Walter; but he only said, "Why don't you ask your father for the money?" "Because he wouldn't give it to me. He's as mean as dirt." "Then where would you get the money to repay me in case I lent it to you?" "You're just as mean as he is," exclaimed Joshua, angrily, not caring to answer this question. "A mighty fuss you make about lending a fellow a couple of dollars!" "It makes no particular difference to me whether you think me mean or not," said Walter. "I have got to be richer than I am now before I lend money." Joshua stalked away in a fret, angry that Walter would not permit himself to be swindled. From that time he cherished a dislike to our hero, and this he showed by various little slights and annoyances, of which Walter took little notice. He thoroughly despised Joshua for his meanness and selfishness, and it mattered very little to him what such a boy thought of him. This forbearance Joshua utterly misinterpreted. He decided that Walter was deficient in courage and spirit, and it encouraged him to persevere in his system of petty annoyances until they might almost be called bullying. Though Walter kept quiet under these provocations, there was often a warning flash of the eye which showed that it would not be safe to go too far. But this Joshua did not notice, and persisted. "Joshua," said his mother one day, "I really think you don't treat Walter right. You are not polite to him." "Why should I be? What is he but a beggar?" "He is not that, for he works for his living." "At any rate he's a mean fellow, and I shall treat him as I please." But one day matters came to a climax. One afternoon there were a few young fellows standing on the piazza in front of Mr. Drummond's store. Joshua was one of them, and there being no customers to wait upon, Walter also had joined the company. They were discussing plans for a picnic to be held in the woods on the next Saturday afternoon. It was to be quite a general affair. "You will come, Walter, won't you?" asked one of the number. "No," said Joshua; "he can't come." "I didn't authorize you to speak for me," said Walter, quietly. "You didn't authorize me to speak for you?" repeated Joshua, in a mocking tone. "Big words for a beggar!" "What do you mean by calling me a beggar?" demanded Walter, quietly, but with rising color. "I don't choose to give you any explanation," said Joshua, scornfully. "You're only my father's hired boy, working for your board." "That may be true, but I am not a beggar, and I advise you not to call me one again." Walter's tone was still quiet, and Joshua wholly misunderstood him; otherwise, being a coward at heart, he would have desisted. "I'll say it as often as I please," he repeated. "You're a beggar, and if we hadn't taken pity on you, you'd have had to go to the poor-house." Walter was not quarrelsome; but this last insult, in presence of half-a-dozen boys between his own age and Joshua's, roused him. "Joshua Drummond," he said, "you've insulted me long enough, and I've stood it, for I didn't want to quarrel; but I will stand it no longer." He walked up to Joshua, and struck him in the face, not a hard blow, but still a blow. Joshua turned white with passion, and advanced upon our hero furiously, with the intention of giving him, as he expressed it, the worst whipping he ever had. Walter parried his blow, and put in another, this time sharp and stinging. Joshua was an inch or two taller, but Walter was more than a match for him. Joshua threw out his arms, delivering his blows at random, and most of them failed of effect. Indeed, he was so blinded with rage, that Walter, who kept cool, had from this cause alone a great advantage over him. Joshua at length seized him, and he was compelled to throw him down. As Joshua lay prostrate, with Walter's knee upon his breast, Mr. Drummond, who had gone over to his own house, appeared upon the scene. "What's all this?" he demanded in mingled surprise and anger. "Conrad, what means this outrageous conduct?" Walter rose, and, turning to his employer, said, manfully, "Joshua insulted me, sir, and I have punished him. That's all!" CHAPTER XII. AFTER THE BATTLE. Without waiting to hear Mr. Drummond's reply to his explanation, Walter re-entered the store. He had no disposition to discuss the subject in presence of the boys who were standing on the piazza. Mr. Drummond followed him into the store, and Joshua accompanied him. He was terribly angry with Walter, and determined to get revenged upon him through his father. "Are you going to let that beggar pitch into me like that?" he demanded. "He wouldn't have got me down, only he took me at disadvantage." "Conrad," said Mr. Drummond, "I demand an explanation of your conduct. I come from my house, and find you fighting like a street rowdy, instead of attending to your duties in the store." "I have already given you an explanation, Mr. Drummond," said Walter, firmly. "Joshua chose to insult me before all the boys, and I don't allow myself to be insulted if I can help it. As to being out of the store, there was no customer to wait upon, and I went to the door for a breath of fresh air. I have never been accustomed to such confinement before." "You say Joshua insulted you. How did he insult you?" "I was asked if I would go to the picnic on Saturday afternoon. He didn't wait for me to answer, but said at once that I couldn't come." "Was that all?" "On my objecting to his answering for me, he charged me with being a beggar, and said that but for you I would have been obliged to go to the poor-house. If this had been the first time he had annoyed me, I might have passed it over, but it is far from being the first; so I knocked him down." Mr. Drummond was by no means a partisan of Walter, but in the month that our hero had been in his employ he had found him a very efficient clerk. Whatever Walter undertook to do he did well, and he had mastered the details of the retail dry-goods trade in a remarkably short time, so that his services were already nearly as valuable as those of young Nichols, who received eight dollars a week. Therefore Mr. Drummond was disposed to smooth over matters, for the sake of retaining the services which he obtained so cheap. He resolved, therefore, to temporize. "You are both of you wrong," he said. "Joshua, you should not have called Conrad a beggar, for he earns his living. You, Conrad, should not have been so violent. You should have told me, and I would have spoken to Joshua." "Excuse me, Mr. Drummond, but I don't like tale-bearing. I did the only thing I could." "Ahem!" said Mr. Drummond, "you were too violent. I would suggest that you should each beg the other's pardon, shake hands, and have done with it." "Catch me begging pardon of my father's hired boy!" exclaimed Joshua scornfully. "I haven't got quite so low as that." "As for me," said Walter, "if I thought I had been in the wrong, I would beg Joshua's pardon without any hesitation. I am not too proud for that, but I think I acted right under the circumstances, and therefore I cannot do it. As for being a hired boy, I admit that such is my position, and I don't see anything to be ashamed of in it." "You are right there," said Mr. Drummond; for this assertion chimed in with his own views and wishes. "Well, it seems to me you are about even, and you may as well drop the quarrel here." "I am ready to do so," said Walter, promptly. "If Joshua treats me well, I will treat him well." "You're mighty accommodating," sneered Joshua. "You seem to think you're on an equality with me." "I am willing to treat you as an equal," answered Walter, purposely misinterpreting Joshua's remark. "Oh, you are, are you?" retorted Joshua, with a vicious snap of the eyes. "Do you think you, a hired boy, are equal to me, who am a gentleman?" "I am glad to hear that you consider yourself a gentleman, and hope you will take care to act like one." "I'll give you the worst licking you ever had!" exclaimed Joshua, clenching his fists furiously. "If it isn't any worse than you gave me just now, I can stand it," said Walter. He was a little angry, also, and this prompted him to speak thus. Joshua was maddened by this remark, and might have renewed the battle if his father had not imperatively ordered him to leave the store. "Conrad," said Mr. Drummond, "you have behaved badly. I did not think you were so quarrelsome." "I don't think I am, sir; but I cannot stand Joshua's treatment." "Will you promise not to quarrel with him again?" "That depends on whether he provokes me." "Of course I can't have you fighting with my son." "I don't care about doing it. If I find he won't let me alone, I have made up my mind what to do." "What?" "I will leave the store, and go back to Willoughby; then I will decide what to do. I know that I have got to earn my own living, but I would rather earn it somewhere where I can be at peace." "Humph!" said Mr. Drummond, who did not fancy this determination; "don't be too hasty. I will speak to Joshua, and see that he doesn't annoy you again." With this assurance Walter felt satisfied. He felt that he had won the victory and maintained his self-respect. There was one thing more he desired, and that was to go to the picnic. He would not have urged the request, but that he was well aware that Joshua would report that he was kept at home by his desire. "It won't be very convenient for you to be away Saturday afternoon," said Mr. Drummond, who was principled against allowing clerks any privileges. "You know we have more trade than usual on Saturday afternoon." "I don't think we shall have next Saturday," said Walter; "everybody will be gone to the picnic." "If you insist upon going," said Mr. Drummond, reluctantly, "I must try to let you go." Walter felt no scruples about insisting. He knew that he earned his limited pay twice over, and that his absence would do his employer no harm. He answered, therefore, "Thank you, sir; I will be home at six o'clock, so as to be in the store all Saturday evening." Meanwhile Joshua went home in a very unhappy frame of mind. He had not succeeded in humiliating Walter as he intended, but had an unpleasant feeling that Walter had got the better of him. He was very angry with his father for not taking his part, and was not slow in making his feelings known to his mother. "What's the matter, Joshua?" asked Mrs. Drummond, observing the scowl upon his face. "Matter enough! That beggar has been insulting me." "What beggar? I haven't seen any beggar about," answered Mrs. Drummond. "You know who I mean,--that upstart, Conrad." "What's he been doing? I'm sure he's a very gentlemanly young man." "Oh, yes, that's just the way. You take his part against your own son," said Joshua, bitterly. "What's he been doing? You haven't told me." "He pitched into me, and tried to knock me over." "What for? I am surprised to hear it, he seems so polite and well-bred." "Nothing at all. He sprung at me like a tiger, and all for nothing. He took me by surprise, so at first he got the advantage; but I soon gave him as good as he sent." "I am really sorry to hear this," said Mrs. Drummond, distressed. "Are you sure you didn't say something to provoke him?" "I only said, when he was invited to go to the picnic Saturday afternoon, that he wouldn't be able to leave the store." "I am afraid you said it in such a way as to offend him." "Seems to me you think a good sight more of him than of me in the matter," grumbled Joshua. "That's just the way with father. He wanted us both to beg each other's pardon. Catch me begging pardon of a beggarly hired boy!" "He isn't any worse because your father hires him, Joshua." "Oh, yes, of course you stand up for him," said Joshua, sneering. "Now, Joshua, you know I always take your part when you are right." So Joshua continued to scold, and Mrs. Drummond to soothe him, until she found a more effectual way, by placing at his disposal half an apple-pie which was in the cupboard. In the evening she told Walter that she was sorry there had been any difficulty between him and Joshua. "So am I," said Walter, frankly, for he was grateful for her gentle kindness. "I am sorry, if only for your sake, Mrs. Drummond." "I know he's provoking; but he don't mean what he says, Mr. Conrad." "I'll try to keep on good terms with him, Mrs. Drummond," said Walter, earnestly, "if only in return for his mother's kindness." "I am sure Joshua was hasty, and misjudged Walter," said the mother to herself, trying to find an excuse for her son. CHAPTER XIII. THE ARROW AND THE PIONEER. After this Joshua was more careful about annoying Walter. Though he was older, and a little taller than our hero, he had found to his cost that he was not a match for him in strength. He had also made the unwelcome discovery that Walter did not intend to be imposed upon. So, though he ventured to sneer at times, he thought it best to stop short of open insult. There was also another motive which influenced him. His father forbade him in tones more decided than usual to interfere with Walter, whose services he was anxious to retain in the store. Mr. Drummond also had another reason for this command. He thought that Walter might be mistaken as to the state of his father's affairs, and that a few thousand dollars might be rescued by his executor from the ruin. In that case, there would be a chance of his obtaining control of Walter's property during his minority. The picnic came off on Saturday afternoon. The weather, which often throws a wet blanket upon the festivities of such occasions, was highly propitious, and several hundred persons, young and middle-aged, turned out _en masse_. The place selected for the picnic was a field of several acres, bordering upon a pond. This had been fitted up by the proprietor with swings, and a roofed building without sides, under which were placed rough board tables for the reception of provisions. A number of oak trees with their broad branches furnished shelter. Besides these arrangements for enjoyment, there were two boats confined by iron chains, which were thrown around trees near the brink of the water. After enjoying the swing for a time, there was a proposition to go out in the boats. The boats could comfortably accommodate eight persons each. This number had been obtained, when Joshua came up. "I'm going," he said unceremoniously. "You will have to wait till next time," said Ralph Morse. "We've got the full number." "No, I'm going this time," said Joshua, rudely. "I don't believe there's room. We have eight already." "There's room for nine. If there isn't you can wait till next time yourself. Besides, you want me to steer." "Do you know how to steer?" "Of course I do," said Joshua, boastfully. "I guess we can make room," said Mary Meyer, who was always in favor of peaceful measures. Joshua clambered in, and took his place as steersman. The other boat had already set off, and, as it happened, under the guidance of Walter Conrad, who had long been accustomed to managing a boat, having had one of his own at home. "They've got a great steerer on the other boat," said Joshua, sneering. "It's your cousin, isn't it? Doesn't he know how to steer?" "About as well as an old cat. He thinks he does, though." Attention was thus directed to the other boat, which was making easy progress through the water. "I don't see but he manages well enough," said Rudolph, after watching it for a moment. "Oh, it's easy enough steering here. Wait till we get out a little way." "Where are you steering, Joshua?" asked Ralph, suddenly, for the boat nearly half turned round. The fact was that Joshua himself knew very little about steering. In speaking of Walter's want of skill, he had precisely described himself. "I understand what I'm about," answered Joshua, suddenly reversing the direction, and overdoing the matter, so as to turn the boat half way round the other way. "I hope you do," said Ralph, "but it don't look much like it." "I was looking at the other boat," Joshua condescended to explain, "and the rudder slipped." Walter's boat kept the lead. His perfect steering made the task easier for the rowers, who got the full advantage of their efforts. Joshua, however, by his uncertain steering, hindered the progress of his boat. "Can't we beat the other boat?" asked Joseph Wheeler, who was rowing. "I can row as well as either of those fellows." "So can I," said Tom Barry; "let's try." The boats were about five lengths apart, the rowers in the foremost boat not having worked very hard, when Tom and Joe began to exert themselves. Their intention was soon manifest, and the spirit of rivalry was excited. "Do your best, boys!" said Walter. "They're trying to catch us. Don't let them do it." The rowers of the two boats were about evenly matched. If anything, however, Tom and Joe were superior, and, other things being equal, would sooner or later have won the race. But Joshua, by his original style of steering, which became under the influence of excitement even more unreliable, caused them to lose perceptibly. "Can't you steer straight by accident, Joshua?" asked Tom, in a tone of vexation. "I know more about steering than you do, Tom Barry," growled Joshua, getting red in the face, for he could not help seeing that he was not appearing to advantage. "Show it, then, if you do," was the reply. "If we had your cousin to steer us, we could soon get ahead." This was very mortifying to Joshua. He did not care to be outdone by any one, but to be outdone by Walter was particularly disagreeable. "It isn't the steering, it's the rowing," he said. "You don't row even." "Won't you try it, then," said Joe, "and show us what you can do?" "No, I'd rather steer." Joshua considered that the steersman's place was the place of honor, and he was not disposed to yield it. Meanwhile Walter, from his place in the first boat, watched the efforts of his rivals. He was determined to keep the lead which he had secured, and had little fear of losing it. "Give way, boys!" he cried; "we'll distance them, never fear!" Every moment increased the distance between the two boats, to the great satisfaction of those on board the "Arrow," for that was the name of the head boat. Just at the north-western corner of the pond there was an inlet of considerable length, but narrow. Here the water was shallower than in the remainder of the pond. "Shall we go in there?" asked Walter. "Yes, yes," said his fellow-passengers. Accordingly he steered in, and shortly afterwards the "Pioneer," Joshua's boat, also entered. At this time the distance between the two boats was quite two hundred feet. The "Arrow" pursued her way steadily to the head of the inlet, a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile; and then making a graceful turn, started on her homeward trip. The width of the inlet here was very much contracted. After making the turn the "Arrow" met the "Pioneer" after a little distance. There was abundant room for the boats to pass each other, if they had been properly managed. There was no fault in Walter's steering, but, by an awkward blunder of Joshua's, the "Pioneer" veered in her course so that the "Arrow" struck her, to use a nautical term, amidships. As she was being impelled rapidly at the time, the shock was considerable, and the fright still greater. The girls jumped to their feet screaming, and Joshua himself turned pale with fright, but recovered himself sufficiently to call out angrily, "What made you run into us, you fool?" "It's your own fault, Joshua," said Tom Barry, angrily. "You're the most stupid steerer I ever saw. What made you turn the boat?" "It's his fault," said Joshua, doggedly. "Let somebody else steer," said Joe Wheeler. "A baby could steer better than he." So a younger boy was put in Joshua's place, much to his mortification, and he was degraded, as he considered it, to the rank of a passenger. "I'm going ashore," he said sourly. "Let me out up here." "All right!" said Tom Barry. "I guess we can get along without you. Here, you fellows on the "Arrow," just wait a minute, till we've landed Joshua, and we'll race you back." True to his determination, Joshua jumped off at the head of the inlet, and the "Pioneer" was turned by her new pilot. The "Arrow" and the "Pioneer" took their places side by side, and the race commenced. The boats were similar, and thus neither had the advantage on this score. But the rowers on the "Pioneer" were on the whole stronger and more skilful than those on the "Arrow." On the other hand, Walter steered perfectly, while Joshua's successor, though he made no bad blunder, was a novice. The result was that the race was a clear one. Finally the "Arrow" came in a length ahead, and Walter felt with quiet satisfaction that the victory had been gained by his efforts. He thought once more of the song he had heard, and hoped that he would be as successful through life in paddling his own canoe. Joshua went home sulky, and was not seen again on the picnic grounds. CHAPTER XIV. A BRILLIANT SCHEME. One morning, a few days later, Joshua was walking moodily up the village road with his hands in his pockets. He was reflecting, in a spirit of great discontent, on the hardships of his situation. "Here am I," he said to himself, "eighteen years old, and father treats me like a boy of ten. I'm most a man, and all he gives me for pocket-money is twenty-five cents a week. There's Dick Storrs, whose father isn't a quarter as rich as mine, gets a dollar a week. He's only sixteen, too." One important difference between himself and Dick Storrs did not occur to Joshua. Dick worked in a shoe-shop, and it was out of his own wages that his father allowed him a dollar a week. Joshua earned nothing at all. "It's mean!" reflected Joshua. "There aint a boy of my age in Stapleton that's so meanly treated, and yet my father's the richest man in town. I wish I knew what to do to get a little money." At this moment he saw Sam Crawford approaching him. Sam was perhaps a year younger than Joshua. He had formerly lived in the village, but was now in a situation in New York, and was only in Stapleton for a few days. "How are you, Joshua?" said Sam. "Well enough," said Joshua. "Where are you going?" "I'm going round to the ice-cream saloon. Won't you come with me?" "Yes, if you'll treat. I haven't got any money." "You ought to have. The old man's got plenty." "That's so. But he's getting meaner every day. What do you think he allows me for spending money?" "I don't know. A dollar a week?" "A dollar! I should think myself lucky if I got anywhere near that. What do you say to twenty-five cents?" "You don't mean to say that's all he gives you?" "Yes, I do." "Why, I can't get along on ten times that. Why don't you ask for more?" "I have, fifty times; but that's all the good it does." "If my father treated me like that, I'd cut his acquaintance." "I don't know as that would do me any good," said Joshua, rather sensibly. "I wish I knew of any way of getting some money." "You might hire out to saw wood for the neighbors," said Sam. "I haven't got so low as that," said Joshua, haughtily. "Of course I meant that in joke; but you might get a place, and earn some money." This suggestion, however, did not suit Joshua, for it carried with it the idea of work, and he was as lazy as he was selfish; which is saying as much as can well be said on that point. "The old man ought to give me enough to spend, without work," he said. "He don't spend more than a third of his income." "He's saving it up for you." "I'm not likely to get it for a good many years," said Joshua, who actually seemed to be angry with his father for living so long. However, though it is doubtful whether Joshua would have been a dutiful or affectionate son under any circumstances, it must be admitted that Mr. Drummond had done very little to inspire filial affection. "Look here!" said Sam, suddenly, "I have an idea. Did you ever buy a lottery ticket?" "No," answered Joshua. "There's a fellow I know in New York that drew a prize of a thousand dollars, and how much do you think he paid for a ticket?" "I don't know." "Five dollars. How's that for high?" "How long ago is that?" asked Joshua, becoming interested. "Only two months ago." "Do you know him?" "Yes, I know him as well as I know you. He is clerk in a store just opposite ours. When he got the money he gave half a dozen of us a big dinner at Delmonico's. We had a jolly time." "A thousand dollars for five!" repeated Joshua. "He was awfully lucky. What lottery was it?" "It was one of the Delaware lotteries." "Do you know the name of it?" "No, but I'll tell you what I'll do. The fellow I was speaking of gets lottery papers regularly. I'll ask him for one, and send it to you as soon as I get back to the city." "I wish you would," said Joshua. "Wouldn't it be splendid if I could draw a prize of a thousand dollars?" "I'll bet it would. It would make you independent of the old man. You wouldn't care much for his twenty-five cents a week then?" "No, I'd tell him he might keep it till he got rich enough to afford me more." "He'd open his eyes a little at that, I reckon." "I guess he would. When are you going back to the city?" "The last of this month. My time will be up then." "You won't forget to send me the paper?" "No, I'll remember it. Come in and have an ice-cream. You can return the compliment when you've drawn a prize." "All right! Is a thousand dollars the highest prize?" "No, there are some of two, three, and five thousand. Then there are five-hundred-dollar prizes, and so along to five dollars. Five hundred wouldn't be so bad, eh?" "No, I should feel satisfied with that. I would come up to New York, and spend a week." "If you do, just step in upon me, and I'll show you round. I know the ropes." "I wish I could," said Joshua, enviously. "This is an awfully stupid place. I tried to get leave to go to the city last fall, but the old man wouldn't let me. He wasn't willing to spend the money." I hope none of my readers will so admire the character of Joshua Drummond as to imitate him in the disrespectful manner in which he speaks of his father. Yet I am aware that many boys and young men, who are not without respect and affection for their parents, have fallen into the very discreditable way of referring to them as "the old man" or "the old woman." They may be sure that such a habit will prejudice against them all persons of right feeling. Joshua and Sam went into the ice-cream saloon, which was kept, during the summer only, in a small candy store, by a maiden lady who eked out a scanty income by such limited patronage as the village could afford. Joshua plied his companion with further questions, to all of which he readily replied, though it is doubtful whether all the answers were quite correct. But Sam, having been in the city a few months, wished to be thought to have a very extensive acquaintance with it, and was unwilling to admit ignorance on any point. Early the next week Sam returned to his duties in the city, and Joshua awaited impatiently the promised lottery papers. Sam did not forget his promise. On the third day after his departure a paper came to the village post-office, directed. "Joshua Drummond, Esq., Stapleton." This was promptly taken from the office by Joshua, who had called on an average twice a day for this very paper. It proved to be printed on yellow paper, and fairly bristled with figures, indicating the large sums which were weekly distributed all over the country by the benevolent managers of the lottery. Here was a scheme in which the principal prize was but a thousand dollars. However, the tickets were but a dollar each, and a thousand dollars for one was certainly a handsome return for a small outlay. There were others, however, in which the principal prize was five thousand dollars, and the tickets were, in due proportion, five dollars each. Joshua went off to a somewhat secluded place, for he did not wish to be interrupted, and eagerly read the paper through from beginning to end. Certainly the representations made were of a very seductive character. One might suppose, from reading the paragraphs sandwiching the several schemes, that the chances were strongly in favor of every holder of a ticket drawing a prize, though a little calculation would have shown that the chances of drawing even the smallest prize were scarcely more than one in a hundred. Here, for instance, is one of the paragraphs:-- "A mechanic in a country town in New York State met with an accident which confined him to his home for three months. He had a large family of children, and had never been able to lay up any money. The consequence was, that the family was reduced to great distress, and he saw no resource except to try to borrow a little money, which would create a debt that he might be years in paying off. But fortunately, only a week before the accident, his wife had seen one of our advertisements. She had five dollars by her, which she had intended to appropriate to the purchase of a new dress. Instead of doing this, a happy impulse led her to send for one of our tickets. She concealed this from her husband, however, thinking that he would blame her. What was her joy, when they were reduced to their last dollar, to receive from us intelligence that she had drawn a prize of two thousand dollars! The joy of the poor family can better be imagined than described. They were enabled at once to purchase the house in which they lived, and thus to lay the foundation of permanent prosperity. Thus, as in numberless other cases, have we been the means of bringing joy to lucky households." Now, this story was probably manufactured out of whole cloth. At any rate, even if true, for every such fortunate household there were a hundred to which the lottery had carried disappointment and privation. But of course the lottery managers could not be expected to allude to these, nor did Joshua, as he greedily read such paragraphs, consider them. On the contrary, his imagination and cupidity were both excited, and he was foolish enough to suppose that his chances of success in case he invested would be very good indeed. CHAPTER XV. WAYS AND MEANS. Having decided to purchase a lottery ticket, the important question suggested itself, "Where was he to obtain the necessary five dollars?" To most boys or young men of eighteen this would not have been a difficult question to solve. But to Joshua it was a perplexing problem. If he saved his entire weekly allowance, it would take him twenty weeks to obtain the needed sum. This delay was not to be thought of. Was there any pretext on which he could ask his father for five dollars? He could think of none that would be likely to succeed. Had he been trusted with the purchase of his own clothes, he might have asked for a new coat and misapplied the money; but Mr. Drummond took care to order Joshua's clothes himself from the village tailor, and never did so without grumbling at the expense he was obliged to incur. Indeed, Joshua was not able to boast much of his clothes, for his father was not disposed to encourage extravagance in dress. "Perhaps mother may have the money," thought Joshua. "If she has, I'll get it out of her." He resolved at once to find out whether any help was to be obtained from this quarter, and with this object turned his steps at once homeward. Mrs. Drummond was engaged in the homely employment of darning stockings when Joshua entered the house. "You're home early, Joshua," she remarked, looking up. "Yes, mother. Have you got anything good to eat?" "I baked a small pie for you in a saucer. I thought that was the best way. The other evening your father noticed that a piece was gone from the half pie that was taken from the supper-table." "How awful mean he is!" "You shouldn't say that of your father, Joshua." "It's true, mother, and you know it. He's the meanest man in town." "I don't like to hear you talk in that way, Joshua. Don't forget that he is your father." "I wish he'd treat me like a father, then. I leave it to you, mother, if twenty-five cents a week isn't a miserable allowance for a fellow of my age." "It is rather small," said Mrs. Drummond, cautiously. "Small! I should think it was. It's just about right for a boy of ten. That's just the way he treats me." "Perhaps, if you would speak to your father about it, Joshua--" "I have spoken to him, and that's all the good it does. He blows me up for my extravagance. Extravagance on twenty-five cents a week!" "I'll speak to him myself, Joshua," said his mother;--a heroic resolve, for she knew that the request would bring anger upon herself. "He won't mind your talk any more than mine. But I'll tell you what you can do to oblige me, mother." "Well, Joshua?" "I know of a way to make considerable money, and all I need to go into it is five dollars. If you'll lend me that, I'll pay it back to you as soon as I can. I think it won't be more than a fortnight." "What is the plan you are thinking of, Joshua?" But upon this subject Joshua thought it best to preserve a discreet silence. He knew that the lottery scheme would not impress his mother favorably, and that she would not lend the money for any such purpose. He was aware in what light lotteries are generally regarded. Still his imagination had been inflamed by the stories he had read of other persons' luck, and he had succeeded in convincing himself that his own chance would be very good. Thus he referred to it, in speaking to his mother, as if he were sure of obtaining a large amount for his investment. "I can't tell you just at present, mother," he said; "the fact is, somebody else is concerned in it, and I am not allowed to tell." "I hope, Joshua, you have not allowed yourself to be imposed upon. You know you are not used to business." "I know what I'm about, mother. I'm not a baby. All I want is the money. Can you lend me five dollars?" "I wish I could; but you know your father doesn't allow me much money. I get my dress patterns and most of what I want out of the store, so I don't need it." "You have to buy things for the house,--groceries, and so on." "We have a bill at the grocery store. Your father pays it quarterly; so no money passes through my hands for that purpose." "Then you haven't got the money, mother," said Joshua, disappointed. "I haven't had as much as five dollars in my possession at one time for years," answered his mother. It was true that Mr. Drummond kept his wife uncommonly close. She was allowed to obtain a limited amount of goods from the store for her own wardrobe, but apart from that her husband appeared to think she had no need of money. More than once she wished she could have a little money at her control to answer occasional calls for charity. But on one occasion, having been indiscreet enough to give twenty-five cents and a good meal to a woman, sick and poor, who crawled to her door and asked for help, Mr. Drummond indulged in such a display of ill-humor at her foolish extravagance, as he called it, that she was forced afterwards to deny her generous impulses, or give in the most secret manner, pledging the recipient to silence. "I'm sorry I can't oblige you, Joshua," said his mother. "Will you have the pie?" "Yes," said Joshua, sullenly, for he was at a loss where next to apply, and felt that his scheme of sudden riches was blighted at its inception. Notwithstanding his disappointment, however, he was able to dispose of the pie. After consuming it, he went out of doors, to reflect upon other ways of raising the necessary money. There was his cousin Walter; he was quite sure that he had the money, but quite as sure that he would not lend it. Besides, he would have hesitated to apply, on account of the dislike he had come to entertain for our hero. This dislike had been increased by the result of the boat race between the "Pioneer" and the "Arrow." He had occasion to know that the defeat of the former boat was generally ascribed to his own imperfect steering, and he also knew that Walter had obtained considerable credit for his own performance in the same line. Now Joshua knew in his own heart that he could not steer, but he wanted the reputation of steering well, and it was very irksome to him to have to play second fiddle to Walter. He had indicated his dislike ever since by refusing to notice or speak to Walter, except in so far as it was absolutely necessary. Of course Walter noticed this want of cordiality, and was in a measure sorry for it; still he had become pretty thoroughly acquainted with Joshua's character by this time, and this knowledge led him to feel that the loss of his friendship was not a very serious one. He had made some other acquaintances, in the village, with boys of his own age, in whose society he found considerable more pleasure than he was ever likely to do in Joshua's. "He can go his way, and I'll go mine," he said to himself. "I'll paddle my own canoe, and he may paddle his. Perhaps he will succeed better in that than in steering," he thought with a smile. Help from Walter, therefore, was not to be expected. Was there any one else to help him? Joshua thought doubtfully of his father's clerk, young Nichols, who has already been introduced to the reader. He did not think there was much prospect of obtaining a loan from Nichols; still there might be. At any rate there seemed no other resource, and he made up his mind to sound him. He stepped into the store one day when Walter was absent on an errand, and his father was out also. "Good-morning, Joshua," said the salesman. "What's up this morning?" "Nothing that I know of." "You have an easy time. Nothing to do but to lounge about all day. You aint cooped up in a store fourteen hours a day." "That's so; but I suppose I'll have to begin some time." "Oh, you're all right. Your father's getting richer every year." "Yes, I suppose he is; but that doesn't give me ready money now. The fact is, I'm hard up for five dollars. Can't you lend it to me for a week? I'll give it back in a week, or ten days at any rate." "You couldn't come to a worse place for money," said Nichols, laughing. "The fact is, I'm hard up myself, and always am. Old Jones, the tailor, is dunning me for this very suit I have on. Fact is, my salary is so small, I have the hardest kind of work to get along." "Then you can't lend me the money? It's for only a week I want it." "I've got less than a dollar in my pocket, and I'm owing about fifty dollars to the tailor and shoemaker. Perhaps Walter can lend you the money." "I shan't ask him," said Joshua, shortly. "I'll go without first." "Don't you like him?" "No, I don't. He's a mean fellow." Nichols was privately of the opinion that the term described Joshua himself much more aptly, but did not express his opinion. CHAPTER XVI. JOSHUA TRIES KEEPING STORE. The more Joshua thought it over, the more convinced he was that a large sum of money was likely to come to him through the lottery, if he could only manage to raise money enough to buy a ticket. But the problem of how to get the necessary five dollars he was as far as ever from solving. While in this state of mind he happened one day to be in the store at noon, and alone. Nichols, the head clerk, wished to go to dinner, and was only waiting for Walter to get back from an errand. "I wish Walter would hurry up," he grumbled. "My dinner will get cold." "I'll take your place till he gets back, Mr. Nichols," said Joshua, with extraordinary kindness for him. [Illustration] "Much obliged, Joshua," said the salesman. "I'll do as much for you another time. I don't think you'll have long to wait." "You'd better hurry off," said Joshua. "I'd just as lief wait as not." "I never knew him so accommodating before," thought Nichols, with a feeling of surprise. He seized his hat and hurried away. No sooner had he gone than Joshua, after following him to the door, and looking carefully up and down the street, walked behind the counter with a hasty step, and opened the money-drawer. There was a small pile of bills in one compartment, and in the other a collection of currency. He took the bills into his hand, and looked over them. His hands trembled a little, for he contemplated a dishonest act. Unable to obtain the money in any other way, he meant to borrow (that was what he called it) five dollars from the money-drawer, and expend it in a lottery ticket. Singling out a five-dollar bill from the pile, he thrust it into his vest-pocket. He had scarcely done so when he was startled by hearing the door open. He made a guilty jump, but perceived, to his relief, that it was a woman not living in the village, but probably in some adjoining town. "What can I show you, ma'am?" he asked, in a flurried manner, for he could not help thinking of what he had in his vest-pocket. "I should like to look at some of your shawls," said the woman. Joshua knew very little about his father's stock. He did know, however, where the shawls were kept, and going to that portion of the shelves, pulled down half a dozen and showed them to his customer. "Are they all wool?" she asked, critically examining one of them. "Yes," answered Joshua, confidently, though he had not the slightest knowledge on the subject. "What is the price of this one?" asked the customer, indicating the one she had in her hand. "Five dollars," answered Joshua, with some hesitation. He knew nothing of the price, but guessed that this would be about right. "And you say it is all wool?" "Certainly, ma'am." "I guess I'll take it. Will you wrap it up for me?" This Joshua did awkwardly enough, and the customer departed, much pleased with her bargain, as she had a right to be, for the real price of the shawl was nine dollars, but, thanks to Joshua's ignorance, she had been able to save four. Joshua looked at the five-dollar bill he had just received, and a new idea occurred to him. He replaced in the drawer the bill he had originally taken from it, and substituted that just received. "I won't say anything about having sold a shawl," he said, "and father'll never know that one has been sold. At any rate, not till I get money enough to replace the bill I have taken." Just then a little girl came in and inquired for a spool of cotton. Joshua found the spools, and let her select one. "How much is it?" asked the young customer. "Ten cents." "Mother told me it wouldn't be but six." "Very well, if that is all you expect to pay, you shall have it for that." "Thank you, sir;" and the little girl departed with her purchase. Joshua now hurriedly folded up the shawls and replaced them on the shelves. He had just finished the task when Walter entered. "Are you tending store?" he said, in surprise. "Yes," said Joshua. "Nichols got tired waiting for you, so I told him I'd stay till you got back." "I had some distance to go, and that detained me. Did you have any customers?" "Yes, I just sold a spool of cotton to a little girl." "I met her a little way up the road, holding the spool in her hand." "Well," said Joshua, "I guess I'll go, now you've got back." He went across the street to his father's house, and, going up into his own room, locked the door, not wishing to be interrupted. Then, opening his desk, he took out a sheet of paper, and wrote a note to the address given in his lottery circular, requesting the parties to send him by return of mail a lottery ticket. He added, shrewdly as he thought, "If this ticket draws a prize, I will keep on buying; but if it don't I shall get discouraged and stop." "I guess that'll fetch 'em," thought Joshua. He folded up the paper, and, inclosing the bill, directed it. The next thing to do was to mail it. Now this seemed a very simple thing, but it really occasioned considerable trouble. The postmaster in a small village can generally identify many of the correspondents who send letters through his office by their handwriting. He knew Joshua's, and such a letter as this would attract his attention and set him to gossiping. Considering the circumstances under which he obtained the money, this was hardly desirable, and Joshua therefore decided, though unwillingly, on account of the trouble, to walk to the next post-office, a distance of three miles, and post his letter there. He came downstairs with his letter in his pocket. "Where are you going, Joshua?" asked his mother. "Going out to walk," said Joshua, shortly. "I wanted to send a little bundle to Mr. Faulkner's, but that is too far off." "I'll carry it," said Joshua. Mrs. Drummond was astonished at this unusual spirit of accommodation, for Joshua was, in general, far from obliging. The truth was, however, that, though Mr. Faulkner lived over a mile and a quarter distant, it was on his way to the post-office. "Thank you, Joshua," said Mrs. Drummond. "I was afraid you wouldn't be willing to go so far." "I feel just like taking a long walk to-day, mother." "Here is the bundle. I will bake a little pie for you while you are gone." So things seemed to be working very smoothly for Joshua, and he set out on his three-mile walk in very good spirits. His walk he knew would make him hungry, and the pie which his mother promised him would be very acceptable on his return. Arrived in front of Mr. Faulkner's, he saw Frank Faulkner, a boy of twelve, playing outside. "Frank," called out Joshua, "here's a bundle I want you to carry into the house. Tell your folks my mother sent it." "All right," said Frank, and he carried it in. Joshua proceeded on his way, and finally reached the post-office. "Give me a three-cent postage-stamp," he said to the postmaster. This was speedily affixed to the letter, and, after resting a short time, he set out on his walk homeward. Reaching the house of Mr. Faulkner, he was hailed by Frank, who was still playing outside. "Where have you been, Joshua?" Joshua was not desirous of having it known where he had been, and he answered, in the surly manner characteristic of him, "What business is that of yours?" "Where did you learn manners?" asked Frank, who was a sturdy scion of Young America, and quite disposed to stand up for his rights. "If you're impudent, I'll give you a licking," growled Joshua. "Next time you come along this way, you may take in your own bundles," retorted Frank. "If I had a stick, I'd give you something you wouldn't like." "You'd have to catch me first," said Frank. Joshua's temper, which was none of the sweetest, was by this time roused, and he started in pursuit of Frank, but the younger boy dodged so adroitly as to baffle his pursuit. In attempting to catch him, indeed, Joshua stubbed his toe violently against a projecting root, and measured his length by the roadside. "Who's down, I wonder?" asked Frank, scrambling over the fence, where he felt safe. "I'll wring your neck some time, you young imp!" exclaimed Joshua, gathering himself up slowly and painfully, and shaking his fist vindictively at Frank. "I'll wait till you're ready," returned Frank. "I'm in no hurry." At length Joshua reached home, feeling tired and provoked, but congratulating himself that he had taken the first step towards the grand prize which loomed in dazzling prospect before his eyes. CHAPTER XVII. JOSHUA'S DISAPPOINTMENT. In due time, to Joshua's great delight, the lottery ticket reached him. It was several days in coming, and he had almost given it up, but the sight of it raised his spirits to the highest pitch. It seemed to him the first step to a fortune. He began at once to indulge in dazzling visions of what he would do when the prize came to hand; how the "old man" would be astonished and treat him with increased respect; how he would go to the city and have a good time seeing the lions, and from henceforth throw off the galling yoke of dependence which his father's parsimony had made it so hard to bear. Whenever he was by himself, he used to pull out the ticket and gaze at it with the greatest satisfaction, as the key that was to unlock the portals of Fortune, Independence, and Happiness. He had been afraid that his appropriation of five dollars would be detected, and every time his father entered the house he looked into his face with some apprehension; but days rolled by, and nothing was heard. He congratulated himself that he had been able to sell the shawl for precisely the sum he needed, otherwise the money might have been missed that very night. As it was, neither the shawl nor the bill had been missed. About this time he received a letter from Sam Crawford, describing the gayeties of the city. It closed thus:-- "By the way, Josh, when are you coming up to the city, to take a look at the lions? It's a shame that a young man of your age should be cooped up in an insignificant little village like Stapleton. I wouldn't exchange the knowledge of the world I have obtained here for five hundred dollars! What a green rustic I was when I first came here! But it didn't take me long to find the way round, and now I know the ropes as well as the next man. I generally play billiards in the evening, and, if I do say it myself, I am rather hard to beat. When you come up, I'll give you a few lessons. I can't help pitying you for leading such a slow, humdrum life in the country. I should be moped to death if I were in your place. Can't you induce the old man to fork over the stamps, and come up here, if only for a week?" This letter had the effect of making Joshua very much disgusted with Stapleton. Brilliant visions of city life and city enjoyments flitted before his eyes, and he felt that nothing was needed to make a man of him except the knowledge of life which a city residence would be sure to give. "It's all true what Sam says," he soliloquized. "A man can't learn anything of life here. No wonder he looks upon me as a green rustic. How can I be anything else in this miserable little village? But as for the old man's paying my expenses on a visit, he's too mean for that. But then there is the lottery ticket. Just as soon as I get hold of my prize, I'll go on my own hook." I append a passage from Joshua's reply to Sam's letter:-- "There isn't any chance of the old man's forking over stamps enough to pay for my visit to New York. He's too thundering mean for that. All he cares for is to make money. _But I'm coming, for all that._ I've bought a lottery ticket, as you advised, and just as soon as I get hold of the prize, I shall come and make you a visit. I should like very much to learn billiards. I wish there was a billiard table in Stapleton, though it wouldn't do me much good if there were, the old man keeps me so close. I shall be glad when I am twenty-one. I don't see why he can't let me have a few thousand dollars then, and set me up in business in the city. Perhaps we could go in together as partners. However, there is no use in talking about him, for he won't do it. _But I may get hold of the money some other way._ Would five thousand dollars be enough to set a fellow up in business in New York? "You will hear from me again soon. I hope I shall be able to write you that I am coming to see you. "Your friend, "JOSHUA DRUMMOND." It will be seen that Joshua was willing to go into business for himself, though he did not care to take a situation. He had the idea, which I think is entertained by a large number of boys and young men, that an employer has nothing to do but to sit at his desk, count over his money, and order his clerks around. For such an employment as this Joshua felt that he was well adapted, and would very much have enjoyed the sense of importance it would give him. But Joshua made a great mistake. Many employers look back upon the years which they passed as clerks as years of comparative leisure and ease, certainly of freedom from anxiety. They find that they have a heavy price to pay for the privilege of being their own masters, and the masters of others. But Joshua was thoroughly lazy, and it was this feeling that dictated the wish which he expressed in his letter to Sam Crawford. The days passed very slowly, it must be acknowledged. Joshua was in a restless and excited state. Though he expected to draw a prize, he knew that there was a remote chance of failing to draw anything, and he wanted the matter decided. But at length the long-expected letter arrived. Joshua did not like to open it in the post-office, lest it should attract the attention of the postmaster. He therefore withdrew to a place where he was not likely to be disturbed, and with trembling fingers opened the letter. Something dropped out. "I wonder if it is a check?" thought Joshua, stooping over and picking it up. But no, it was an announcement of the drawing. Joshua's numbers,--for each lottery ticket contains three numbers,--were 9, 15, 50. But of the thirteen lucky numbers drawn out of sixty-five, neither of them was one. Slowly it dawned upon Joshua that he had drawn nothing, that his five dollars had been absolutely thrown away. But there was a letter. Perhaps this would explain it. Joshua read as follows:-- "DEAR SIR:--We regret to say that we are unable to send you a prize this time. We hope, however, you will not be discouraged. Some of our patrons who have been most fortunate have commenced by being unlucky. Indeed, singularly enough, this is a general rule. Let us cite an instance. Mr. B----, of your State, bought his first ticket of us last spring. It turned out a blank. We wrote him not to be discouraged, but we did not hear from him for some weeks. Finally he sent us a remittance for a ticket, adding that he sent it with a very faint hope of success. He was convinced that he was born to ill-luck. But what was the result? In less than a fortnight we had the pleasure and gratification of sending him five thousand dollars, minus our usual commission. Suppose he had been discouraged by a first failure, you can see how much he would have lost. "Hoping to hear from you again, and to send you in return better news, we subscribe ourselves, "Very respectfully, "GRABB & CO." The effect of Joshua's ill success was to make him very despondent. "It's all very well to say 'Try again,'" he said to himself, "but where can I get the money? That five dollars is thrown away, and I've got nothing to show for it." He thought of all he had intended to do, and now his castles had crumbled, and all in consequence of this letter. He had been so sanguine of success. Now he must write to Sam that his visit to New York was indefinitely postponed, that is, unless he could induce his father to provide him with money enough to go. The prospect was not very encouraging, but he felt desperate, and he determined to make the attempt. Accordingly, just after supper, he detained his father, just as he was returning to the store, and said:-- "Father, I wish you'd let me go to New York on a visit." "What for?" asked Mr. Drummond, elevating his brows. "Because I'm eighteen years old, and I've never been there yet." "Then, if you've gone eighteen years without seeing the city, I think you can go a while longer," said his father, under the impression that he had made a witty remark. But Joshua did not appreciate the humor of it. "I've lived in Stapleton ever since I was born," grumbled Joshua, "and have got tired of it. I want to see something of life." "Do you? Well, I'm sure I've no objection." "May I go then?" "Yes." "When?" asked Joshua, joyfully. "To-morrow, if you like; but of course you will pay your own expenses." "How can I?" exclaimed Joshua, in angry disappointment. "I have no money." "Then you can save up your allowance till you have enough." "Save up on twenty-five cents a week! I couldn't go till I was an old man!" "I know of no other way," said Mr. Drummond, with provoking indifference, "unless you earn the money in some way." "You treat me like a little boy!" said Joshua, angrily. "You are better off than I am. I have to work for all I get. You get your board, clothes, and pocket-money for nothing." "Other boys go to New York when they are much younger." "I have told you you can go when you like, but you mustn't expect me to supply the money." Mr. Drummond put on his hat and crossed the street to the store, leaving Joshua in a very unfilial frame of mind. CHAPTER XVIII. WALTER FINDS HIMSELF IN HOT WATER. Two days later two women entered Mr. Drummond's store. One was Joshua's customer, and she wore the same shawl which she had purchased of him. It happened that Walter was out, but Mr. Drummond and Nichols were both behind the counter. "Have you got any more shawls like this?" asked the first lady, whom we will call Mrs. Blake. "Mrs. Spicer, who is a neighbor of mine, liked it so well that she wants to get another just like it." This was addressed to Mr. Drummond, who happened to be nearest the door. "Did you buy this shawl of us?" asked Mr. Drummond. "Yes, sir. I bought it about a fortnight ago, and paid five dollars for it." "Five dollars! There must be some mistake. We never sell such a shawl as that for less than ten dollars." "I can't help it," said Mrs. Blake, positively. "I bought it here, and paid five dollars for it." "Why, those shawls cost me seven dollars and a half at wholesale. It is not likely I would sell them for five." "I didn't buy it of you." "Mr. Nichols," said Mr. Drummond, "did you sell this lady the shawl she is wearing, for five dollars?" "No, sir; have not sold a shawl like that for two months. I know the price well enough, and I wouldn't sell it for less than ten dollars." "I didn't buy it of him, I bought it of a boy," said Mrs. Blake. "It must have been that stupid Conrad," exclaimed Mr. Drummond, angrily. "Wait till he comes in, and I'll haul him over the coals." "Then you won't let my friend have another like it for five dollars?" "No," said Mr. Drummond, provoked. "I don't do business that way. I've lost nearly three dollars by that shawl of yours. You ought to make up the wholesale price to me." "I shan't do it," said Mrs. Blake. "If you've made a mistake, it's your lookout. I wasn't willing to pay more than five dollars." The two ladies were about to leave the store when Mr. Drummond said, "The boy will be back directly. I wish you would wait a few minutes, so that if he denies it you can prove it upon him." "I've got a call to make," said Mrs. Blake, "but I'll come in again in about an hour." They left the store, and Mr. Drummond began to berate the absent Walter. He was provoked to find that he had lost two dollars and a half, and, if Walter had been in receipt of any wages, would have stopped the amount out of his salary. But, unfortunately for this plan of reprisal, our hero received his board only, and that could not very well be levied upon. However, he might have some money in his possession, and Mr. Drummond decided to require him to make up the loss. "When did she say she bought the shawl, Mr. Nichols?" asked his employer. "About a fortnight ago." "Will you look on the books, and see if you find the sale recorded? I am surprised that it escaped my attention." Nichols looked over the book of sales, and announced that no such entry could be found. Mr. Drummond was surprised. Though not inclined to judge others any too charitably, he had never suspected Walter of dishonesty. "Are you sure you looked back far enough?" he asked. "Yes," said Nichols; "to make sure, I looked back four weeks. The woman said only a fortnight, you know." "I know. Then it seems Conrad has concealed the sale and kept the money." "Perhaps," suggested Nichols, who rather liked Walter, "he forgot to put it down." "If he did, he forgot to put the money in the drawer, for the cash and the sales have always balanced. He's an ungrateful young rascal," continued Mr. Drummond, harshly. "After I took him into my house and treated him as a son (this was not saying much, if Joshua may be believed), he has robbed me in the most cold-blooded manner." Why there should be anything cold-blooded in appropriating the price of the shawl, even had the charge been true, I cannot say, nor could Mr. Drummond probably, but he thought that the use of this term would make the offence seem more aggravated. Even Nichols was a little staggered by the evidence against our hero. He did not like to think him guilty, but it certainly seemed as if he must be. "What are you going to do about it, Mr. Drummond?" he asked. "I suppose I ought to have him arrested. He deserves it." "I hope you won't do that. He may be able to explain it." "If I do not proceed to extremities, it will be on account of his relationship, which I blush to acknowledge." The time had been, and that not long since, when Mr. Drummond felt proud of his relationship to the rich Squire Conrad of Willoughby; but that was before his loss of property. Circumstances alter cases. Quite unconscious of the storm that was gathering, Walter at this moment entered the store. "So you've got back!" said Mr. Drummond, harshly. "Yes, sir." "You haven't been in any particular hurry. However, that was not what I wished to speak to you about. We have made a discovery since you went out." "Have you, sir?" asked Walter, rather surprised by the peculiar tone which Mr. Drummond saw fit to adopt. "Yes, and not a very agreeable one." "I am sorry for that," said Walter, not knowing what else was expected of him. "No doubt you are sorry," sneered Mr. Drummond. "I should think he would be, eh, Mr. Nichols?" "I am sorry also," said Nichols, who, though rather weak-minded, was a good-hearted young man. "So am I sorry," said Mr. Drummond. "It strikes me I have most reason to be sorry, considering that the loss has fallen on me." All this was an enigma to Walter, and he had not the faintest idea of what his employer meant. He inferred, however, that some blame was about to be laid upon him. "If you have no objection, Mr. Drummond," he said quietly, "perhaps you will tell me what has happened." "I have found out your ingratitude, Conrad," said Mr. Drummond, preparing for a lecture, which he rather liked to indulge in, as his wife could have testified. "I have discovered how like a viper you have repaid me for my kindness. You didn't think I would find out, but your iniquity has providentially come to light. While I was loading you with benefits, you prepared to sting the hand of your benefactor." "I don't know what you are talking about, Mr. Drummond," said Walter, impatiently. "I wish you would stop talking in riddles, and let me know in what way I resemble a viper." "Did you ever witness such brazen effrontery, Mr. Nichols?" demanded Mr. Drummond, turning to his head salesman; "even when he is found out, he brazens it out." "Wouldn't it be as well to tell him what is the matter, Mr. Drummond?" asked Nichols, who was in hopes our hero would be able to prove his innocence. "Won't you tell me, Mr. Nichols?" asked Walter. "No," said Mr. Drummond, waving his hand; "it is my duty to tell him myself. I will do so briefly. Walter Conrad, when I admitted you into my house I little dreamed that I was harboring a thief." "A thief!" exclaimed Walter, his eyes flashing with anger, and elevating his fist involuntarily. "Who dares to call me a thief?" "No violence, Conrad," said Mr. Drummond. "Such a theatrical display of indignation and surprise won't help you any. We are not to be imposed upon by your artful demonstrations." "Mr. Drummond," burst forth Walter, fairly aroused, "you are insulting me by every word you speak. I am no more a thief than you are." "Do you call me a thief?" exclaimed Mr. Drummond, turning white about the lips. "No, I don't; but I have as much right to call you one as you have to charge such a thing upon me." "I can prove what I say," said his employer. "I have got you in a net." "It won't take me long to get out of any net you may set for me. I insist upon your telling me at once what you mean." "This language is rather extraordinary for a boy convicted of dishonesty to use towards his employer." "I am not convicted of dishonesty. Mr. Nichols, I appeal to you to tell me, what Mr. Drummond does not seem disposed to do, what is the meaning of this false charge which he has trumped up against me." "I am sure you can prove your innocence, Conrad," said Nichols, soothingly. "Mr. Nichols, will you do me the favor to be silent?" said his employer, sharply. "The matter concerns Conrad and myself, and I don't choose that any one should communicate with him except myself. To come to the point, did you, or did you not, a fortnight since, sell one of those shawls, such as you see on the counter, for five dollars?" "I did not," said Walter, promptly. "It might not have been exactly a fortnight. Have you sold such a shawl within four weeks?" "I have not sold such a shawl since I have been in your employ, Mr. Drummond." "You hear what he says, Mr. Nichols," said Mr. Drummond. "You see how he adds falsehood to dishonesty. But that is not uncommon. It is only what I expected. Do you mean to say, Walter Conrad, that you didn't sell such a shawl for five dollars (only half price), and, instead of entering the sale, put the money into your own pocket?" "I do deny it most emphatically, Mr. Drummond," said Walter, impetuously, "and I challenge you to prove it." CHAPTER XIX. THE TABLES ARE TURNED. "I shall soon be able to prove it," said Mr. Drummond. "The lady who bought the shawl came into the store half an hour since, and asked for another. When I told her that it would cost ten dollars, she said she only paid five for the one she had on. She then told us that she bought it of you a fortnight since." "How did she know my name?" "She did not mention your name. She said that it was a boy she bought it of, and of course that can only be you." "There is some mistake about this, Mr. Drummond. She has made a mistake. She must have bought it somewhere else." "She would not be likely to make such a mistake as this. Besides, the shawl is like others I have. How do you account for that?" queried Mr. Drummond, triumphantly. "I don't pretend to account for it, and don't feel called upon to do so. All I have got to say is, that I did not sell the shawl, nor pocket the money." "I shouldn't be surprised if you had the money about you at this very moment." "You are mistaken," said Walter, firmly. "Show me your pocket-book." "My pocket-book is my own property." "You are afraid to show it. Observe that, Mr. Nichols. Does not that look like guilt?" "I am willing to show it to Mr. Nichols," said Walter. He took it from his pocket, and handed it to Nichols, who took it rather unwillingly. "Open that pocket-book, Mr. Nichols, and show me what is in it." "Shall I do so, Walter?" asked Nichols. "Yes, Mr. Nichols. There is nothing in it that I am ashamed of." Nichols opened the pocket-book and took out three bills. "What are those bills, Mr. Nichols?" asked his employer. "There is a one, here is a two, and here is--" Nichols hesitated and looked disturbed--"here is a five." Mr. Drummond's mean face was radiant with exultation. "I told you so. I think we need no further proof. The stolen money has been found in Conrad's possession, and his falsehood and dishonesty are clearly proved. Hand me that five." "Stop a minute, Mr. Drummond," said Walter, coolly. "You are altogether too much in a hurry. You have proved nothing whatever. That five-dollar bill I brought from home with me, and I have kept it ever since, having no occasion to spend it." "Do you think I will believe any such story?" asked his employer, with a sneer. "That is very plausible, Conrad, but very improbable. I have no doubt whatever that the bill is the same one which was paid you for the shawl." "Then you are entirely mistaken." "That remains to be seen. Mr. Nichols, I will relieve you of that pocket-book. As the shawl should have been sold for ten dollars, the entire contents will not be sufficient to pay for the loss I have sustained." "Mr. Nichols," said Walter, "I forbid your giving that pocket-book to Mr. Drummond. He has no claim to it whatever. You may give it to me." "I forbid you giving it to Conrad," broke in his employer. "I don't know what to do," said Nichols, perplexed, looking from one to the other. "You know that it belongs to me, Mr. Nichols," said Walter. "I--I think I had better lay it down on the counter," said Nichols, by the way of compromise. Walter, who was on the outside, sprang to the counter, and seized it just in time to prevent Mr. Drummond's obtaining it. The latter was very angry at his want of success, and exclaimed violently, "Walter Conrad, give me that pocket-book instantly." Walter, who had put it in an inside pocket of his coat, coolly buttoned the coat and answered, "If you had any claim to it, Mr. Drummond, you would not have to speak twice; but as it is mine, I prefer to keep it." Mr. Drummond, though he had an irritable, aggravating temper, was not one to proceed to violence on ordinary occasions. But just now he was thoroughly provoked, and showed it. He sprang over the counter with an agility worthy of his youth, and advanced threateningly upon Walter. "Walter Conrad," he exclaimed furiously, "how dare you defy me in this outrageous manner? Do you know that I can have you arrested; but in consideration of your being a relation, I may be induced to spare you the penalty of the law if you will give me what money you have towards making up my loss." "So I would, if the loss had come through me. But I have already told you that this is not the case. I know nothing whatever about the shawl." "And this," said Mr. Drummond, folding his arms, "this is the viper that I have warmed in my bosom. This is the friendless orphan that I admitted beneath my roof, and made a companion of my son. This is the ungrateful serpent who has crept into my confidence, and abused it!" Mr. Drummond was an orator on a small scale, and the pleasure of giving utterance to this scathing denunciation caused him to delay his intention to obtain possession of the pocket-book by violence. Walter ought to have been withered by this outburst of righteous anger, but he wasn't. He stood it very well, and did not seem in the least affected. "Behold his hardened effrontery, Mr. Nichols," pursued Mr. Drummond, unfolding his arms, and pointing at our hero with quivering fore-finger. "I could not have believed that a boy of his years could be so brazen." "Mr. Drummond," said Walter, "I am sustained by a consciousness of my innocence, and therefore what you say has no effect upon me. It doesn't seem to be very just to convict me without evidence, and sentence me without trial." "Will you give up that pocket-book?" demanded Mr. Drummond, furiously, having indulged in his little flight of oratory, and being now ready to proceed to business. "No, sir, I will not," returned Walter, looking him firmly in the face. Mr. Drummond made a dash for him, but Walter was used to dodging, and, eluding his grasp, ran behind the counter. "Mr. Nichols, help me to catch him," said Mr. Drummond, quite red in the face. But Nichols did not show any great readiness to obey. He let Walter pass him, and did not make the least effort to retain him. Mr. Drummond was making ready to jump over the counter, when Nichols, to his great relief, observed the ladies, already referred to, coming up the steps from the street. "Mr. Drummond, the ladies have returned," he said hastily. "Aha!" said his employer, with exultation. "Now we will be able to prove your guilt, you young rascal! Here is the lady who bought the shawl of you." Mrs. Blake and her friend, Mrs. Spicer, here entered the store. Mr. Drummond went forward to meet them. His face was flushed, but he tried to look composed. "I am glad to see you back, ladies," he said. "You told me that you bought your shawl of a boy?" turning to Mrs. Blake. "Yes, sir." "Come forward, Conrad," said Mr. Drummond, a malignant smile overspreading his face. "Perhaps you will deny now, to this lady's face, that you sold her the shawl she has on." "I certainly do," said Walter. "I never, to my knowledge, saw the lady before, and I know that I did not sell her the shawl." "What do you think of that, Mr. Nichols?" said Mr. Drummond. "Did you ever witness such unblushing falsehood?" But here a shell was thrown into Mr. Drummond's camp, and by Mrs. Blake herself. "The boy is perfectly right," she said. "I did not buy the shawl of him." "WHAT!" stammered Mr. Drummond. Mrs. Blake repeated her statement. "Didn't you say you bought the shawl of the boy?" asked Mr. Drummond, with a sickly hue of disappointment overspreading his face. "Yes, but it was not that boy." "That is the only boy I have in my employment." "Come to think of it, I believe it was your son," said Mrs. Blake. "Isn't he a little older than this boy?" "My son,--Joshua!" exclaimed Mr. Drummond. "Yes, I think it must be he. He's got rather an old-looking face, with freckles and reddish hair; isn't so good-looking as this boy." "Joshua!" repeated Mr. Drummond, bewildered. "He doesn't tend in the store." "It was about dinner-time," said Mrs. Blake. "He was the only one here." "Do you know anything about this, Mr. Nichols?" asked Mr. Drummond, turning to his head clerk. Light had dawned upon Nichols. He remembered now Joshua's offer to take his place, and he felt sure in his own mind who was the guilty party. "Yes, Mr. Drummond," he answered; "about a fortnight ago, as Walter was rather late in getting back, Joshua offered to stay in the store for a while. He must have sold the shawl, but he must have guessed at the price." "A mistake has been made," said Mr. Drummond, hurriedly, to the ladies,--"a mistake that you have profited by. I shall not be able to sell you another shawl for less than ten dollars." The ladies went out, and Mr. Drummond and his two clerks were left alone. "Mr. Drummond," said Walter, quietly, "after what has happened, you will not be surprised if I decline to remain in your employ. I shall take the afternoon train to Willoughby." He walked out of the store, and crossed the street to Mr. Drummond's house. CHAPTER XX. IN WHICH JOSHUA COMES TO GRIEF. Walter went up to his room, and hastily packed his trunk. He felt wronged and outraged by the unfounded charge that had been made against him. Why, he argued, should Mr. Drummond so readily decide that he had cheated him out of five dollars? He felt that he could not, with any self-respect, remain any longer under the same roof with a man who had such a poor opinion of him. He was not sorry that his engagement was at an end. He had obtained some knowledge of the dry-goods business, and he knew that his services were worth more than his board. Then again, though he was not particular about living luxuriously, the fare at Mr. Drummond's was so uncommonly poor that he did sometimes long for one of the abundant and well-cooked meals which he used to have spread before him at home, or even at his boarding-house while a pupil of the Essex Classical Institute. He was packing his trunk when a step was heard on the stairs, and his door was opened by Mr. Drummond, considerably to Walter's surprise. The fact is, that Mr. Drummond, on realizing what a mistake he had made, and that Joshua was the real culprit, felt that he had gone altogether too far, and he realized that he would be severely censured by Walter's friends in Willoughby. Besides, it was just possible that Walter might, after all, recover a few thousand dollars from his father's estate, and therefore it was better to be on good terms with him. Mr. Drummond determined, therefore, to conciliate Walter, and induce him, if possible, to remain in his house and employ. "What are you doing, Conrad?" he asked, on entering Walter's chamber. "Packing my trunk, sir," said Walter. "Surely you are not going to leave us." "I think it best," said Walter, quietly. "You won't--ahem!--bear malice on account of the little mistake I made. We are all liable to mistakes." "It was something more than a mistake, Mr. Drummond. What had you seen in me to justify you in such a sudden charge of dishonesty?" "Almost anybody would have been deceived under the circumstances," said Mr. Drummond, awkwardly. "You did not give me an opportunity to defend myself, or rather you disbelieved all I said." "Well, Conrad, I was mistaken. I shall be glad to have you come back to the store as before." "Thank you, Mr. Drummond, but I have decided to go back to Willoughby for a short time. I want to consult Mr. Shaw about the future. It is time I formed some plans, as I shall probably have to earn my living." "Don't you think you had better wait a few months?" "No, sir, I think not." "If you have made up your mind, all I have to say is that my humble dwelling will be ever open to receive you in the future. Perhaps, after a short visit at your old home, you may feel inclined to return to my employment. I will give you a dollar a week besides board." Mr. Drummond looked as if he felt that this was a magnificent offer, for which Walter ought to feel grateful. But our hero knew very well that he could command better pay elsewhere, and was not particularly impressed. Still he wished to be polite. "Thank you for your offer, Mr. Drummond," he said; "but I am not prepared to say, as yet, what I will do." "I hope," said Mr. Drummond, rather embarrassed, "you won't speak of our little difference to your friends at Willoughby." "No, sir, not if you wish me not to do so." By this time the trunk was packed, and Walter, locking it, rose from his knees. "If it won't be too much trouble, Mr. Drummond," he said, "I will send for my trunk to-morrow." "Certainly. Why won't you wait till to-morrow yourself?" "As I am ready, I may as well take the afternoon train." "Very well; just as you think best." "I will go down and bid good-by to Mrs. Drummond." Mrs. Drummond had just come from the kitchen. She looked with surprise at Walter and her husband, whose presence in the house at that hour was unusual. "What is the matter?" she asked. "Conrad is going home a short time on business," explained Mr. Drummond. "When shall we see you back again, Walter?" asked Mrs. Drummond. "That is uncertain," said Walter. "It depends upon my plans for the future." "I have offered him increased pay," said Mr. Drummond, "if he will return to the store. I hope he may decide to do so. Our humble roof will ever be ready to shelter him." Considering that Mr. Drummond had not lately made any such hospitable references to the humble roof, his wife looked somewhat puzzled. Just at that moment Joshua, unconscious of the damaging discovery that had been made relative to himself, entered the room. "Hallo! what's up?" he asked. It was the first time his father had seen him since the discovery of his dishonesty, and his anger was kindled. "You ought to be ashamed to show your face here, you young reprobate!" he exclaimed. Joshua stared in amazement, and Mrs. Drummond exclaimed, "What makes you talk so, Mr. Drummond? What has he done?" "What has he done?" ejaculated Mr. Drummond, adding, rather ungrammatically, "He's a thief, that's what he's done." "How can you say such things of your own son?" "Shut up, Mrs. Drummond; you don't know what you're talking about, or you wouldn't defend him. It would serve him right if I should flog him within an inch of his life." "If you try it," said Joshua, sullenly, "I'll have you arrested for assault and battery." "Take care, boy! or you may find yourself in custody for theft." "What do all these dreadful words mean?" asked Mrs. Drummond, distressed. "Tell me, Walter, if you know." "I would rather Mr. Drummond informed you," said Walter. "I'll tell you, Mrs. Drummond," said her husband. "That boy sold a shawl a fortnight ago, when alone in the store, and pocketed the money." "Who said I did?" asked Joshua, boldly, though he looked a little pale. "The woman who bought it of you was in the store to-day." "Did she say I sold it to her?" "Yes." "Did she know my name?" "No, but she described you." "So I did," said Joshua, finding it advisable to remember. "I remember now I sold it for five dollars." "What made you keep the money?" "I didn't. I waited till Conrad came into the store, and gave the money to him. What he did with it, I don't know. Perhaps he forgot to put it in the drawer," he added, with a spiteful look at Walter. "That's a lie, Joshua Drummond!" said Walter, quietly, "and you know it is. I think your father knows it is also." "Do you mean to say I lie?" blustered Joshua. "I wouldn't if I wasn't obliged to; but in my own defence I am compelled to do so." "What could I want of the money?" demanded Joshua, with a look of virtuous indignation. "I might as well ask the same question of myself; but that would be a poor defence. If you really want me to answer that question, I will do it." "Go ahead, then," said Joshua. "I hope my word is better than that of a beggar living on charity." "Joshua!" said his mother, in a tone of remonstrance. "I think you wanted the money to buy lottery tickets with," said Walter, calmly. Joshua turned pale, and looked thunderstruck. "To buy lottery tickets with!" he gasped, staring at Walter in dismay. "What's that?" asked Mr. Drummond, pricking up his ears. "Your son can tell you," said Walter. "What does this mean, Joshua?" demanded his father, sternly. "It's a lie," said Joshua, unblushingly. "Have you bought no lottery tickets?" "No." "Can you prove this charge which you have made against my son?" asked Mr. Drummond, turning to Walter. "I can, but I am sorry to do so. I picked up this letter a day or two since, and intended to give it back to Joshua, but it escaped my mind. I would not have exposed him if he had not tried to charge me with theft." He placed in Mr. Drummond's hands the letter already given, announcing to Joshua that he had drawn a blank. Mr. Drummond read it with no little anger, for he detested lotteries. "Unhappy boy!" he said, addressing Joshua. "I understand now what became of the five dollars. This decides me to do what I had intended to do sooner. I have supported you in laziness long enough. It is time you went to work. Next week you must go to work. I will take you into my store; but as I am not sure of your honesty, if I find you appropriating money to your own use, I will put you into a shoe-shop and make a shoemaker of you." This was an alarming threat to Joshua, who had a foolish pride, which led him to look upon a trade as less respectable than the mercantile profession. He slunk out of the house, and Mr. Drummond went back to the store, while Walter set out on foot for the railway station, three-quarters of a mile distant. CHAPTER XXI. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. "Give me a ticket to Willoughby," said Walter, offering the five-dollar bill which he had come so near losing. The ticket was handed him, and three dollars and seventy-five cents were returned to him. "How long are you going to stay away?" asked the station-master, with whom Walter had some acquaintance. "I may not come back at all." "Have you left Drummond's store?" "Yes." "Isn't that rather sudden?" "A little so; but I didn't mean to stay long." The shriek of the locomotive now became audible, and Walter went out on the platform. Five minutes later found him occupying a seat, or rather half a seat, for there sat next to him a brisk, energetic-looking man, of about thirty years of age. He had been reading the morning paper, but apparently he had got through with it, for he folded it up, and put it in his pocket. "Fine day," he said, briskly. "Yes, sir, very fine," answered Walter. "Some people are affected by the weather; I am not," pursued his fellow-traveller. "I feel as smart one day as another." "It isn't quite so cheerful when it rains," observed Walter. "I'm always cheerful. I've got too much business to do to mope. When a man's got enough to busy himself about, he hasn't time to be in the dumps." "There's a good deal in that," said Walter. "Of course there is. Push along, keep moving, that's my motto. Are you in business?" "No, sir, not at present." "I'm in the subscription-book business,--got an office in New York. We send out agents everywhere to canvass for our publication. Lots of money in it." "Is there?" "Yes. I used to be an agent myself, and, though I say it, I don't think there are many agents that can get ahead of me. Sometimes I used to make twenty dollars a day. At last I thought I'd like to settle down, so I bought a partnership, and now, instead of being an agent, I send out agents." "Isn't twenty dollars a day pretty large for an agent to make?" asked Walter. "Yes, there are not many do it, but plenty make from five to ten right along. You look as if you would make a good agent." "What makes you think so?" asked Walter. "You look smart." "Thank you," said Walter, laughing. "I am afraid you won't think so much of my ability when I tell you I have been working for the last three months for my board." "It's a shame. You'd better come with us. We'll do much better by you than that." "I am going to consult some friends about my future plans. If you are willing to tell me a little of your business, I will think of what you propose." "I have with me our latest publication. It's going like wildfire. Just the thing to please the people. I'll show it to you." Walter looked with interest while his new acquaintance drew out from a carpet-bag, which he had beneath the seat, a good-sized parcel wrapped in brown paper. Untying it, he produced a bulky octavo, in flashy binding, and abounding in illustrations. He opened the book and turned over the leaves rapidly. "It's stuffed full of illustrations, you see," said he. "The expense of the pictures alone was absolutely e-nor-mous!" he added, dwelling upon the last word by way of emphasis. "But we're going to make it pay. The sale will be immense. Our agents already in the field report remarkable sales." "What's the title of the book?" asked Walter, who had yet been unable to determine this point, by reason of the rapid turning of the pages. "'Scenes in Bible Lands.' We include other countries besides Palestine, and we've made a book that'll sell. Most every family will want one." "What terms do you offer to agents?" "Why, the book sells at retail at three dollars and fifty cents. Of this the agent keeps one dollar and twenty-five cents. Pretty good, isn't it?" "Yes, I should think it was." "You see you have only to sell four copies a day to make five dollars. If you're smart, you can do better than that." It really did seem very good to Walter, who couldn't help comparing it with the miserable wages he had received from Mr. Drummond. "I think that would pay very well," he said. "Most paying business out," said the other. "Say the word, and I'll engage you on the spot." "Where would you want me to sell?" "I should like to have you go West. This way districts are mostly taken up. It would give you a good chance to travel and see the world." Now Walter was, like most young people, fond of new scenes, and this consideration was a weighty one. It would enable him to travel, and pay his expenses while doing so. "Better say the word." "I can't now. I must see my friends first." "Where are you going?" "To Willoughby." "How long are you going to stay?" "I can't tell. A few days probably." "Well, I'll give you the number of our office in New York. When you get ready, report to us there, and we'll put you in the field." To this Walter assented, and asked several questions further, to which he received encouraging answers. The stranger gave him his card, from which our hero learned that he had made the acquaintance of Mr. James Pusher, of the firm of Flint & Pusher, subscription publishers, No. -- Nassau St., New York. "Good-by," said Mr. Pusher, cordially, when Walter left the train for the Willoughby station; "hope to see you again." "Thank you," said Walter; "very likely you will." Taking his carpet-bag in his hand, for he had arranged to have his trunk come the next day, he walked over to the house of Mr. Shaw, his father's executor. Mr. Shaw was in his office, a little one-story building standing by itself a little to the left of his house. He was busily writing, and did not at once look up. When he saw who it was, he rose up and welcomed Walter with a smile. "I'm very glad to see you, Walter," he said. "I was just wishing you were here. When did you leave Stapleton?" "This afternoon, Mr. Shaw. I have just reached Willoughby." "And how did you like Stapleton?" "Tolerably well." "And Mr. Drummond,--how were you pleased with him?" "As to that," said Walter, smiling, "I can't say that I liked him as well as I might." "I judged that from what I have heard of his character. He has the reputation of being very mean. A cent in his eyes is as large as a dollar appears to some men. How did he pay you for your services?" "I worked for board wages." "And pretty poor board at that, I imagine." "I had no fear of the gout," said Walter. "The living isn't luxurious." "Well, I'm glad you are back again. For the present I shall expect you to be my guest." This settled the embarrassing question which had suggested itself as to where he should stay. His late father's house was of course shut up, and he had no relatives in Willoughby. "Thank you, Mr. Shaw," he said. "For a few days I shall be glad to accept your kind offer. What progress have you made in settling the estate?" "I can give you some idea of how it stands. There will be something left, but not much. After paying all debts, including Nancy's, there will certainly be a thousand dollars; but if you pay Nancy's legacy, that will take half of this sum." "The legacy shall be paid," said Walter, promptly, "no matter how little remains. I am glad there is enough for that." "I honor your determination, Walter, but I don't think Nancy will be willing to take half of what you have left." "Then don't let her know how little it is." "There is a chance of something more. I have made no account of the Great Metropolitan Mining stock, of which your father held shares to the amount of one hundred thousand dollars, cost price. How these will come out is very uncertain, but I think we can get something. Suppose it were only five per cent., that would make five thousand dollars. But it isn't best to count on that." "I shan't make any account of the mining stock," said Walter. "If I get anything, it will be so much more than I expect." "That is the best way. It will prevent disappointment." "How long before we find out about it?" "It is wholly uncertain. It may be six months; It may be two years. All I can say is, that I will look after your interests." "Thank you, I am sure of that." "Now, as to your plans. You were at the Essex Classical Institute, I think?" "Yes, sir." "What do you say to going back for a year? It is not an expensive school. You could stay a year, including all expenses, for the sum of five hundred dollars." Walter shook his head. "It would consume all my money; and as long as I am not going to college, my present education will be sufficient." "As to consuming all your money," said Mr. Shaw, "let me say one thing. I received many favors from your father, especially when a young man just starting in business. Let me repay them by paying half your expenses for the next year at school." "You are very kind, Mr. Shaw," said Walter, gratefully, "and I would accept that favor from you sooner than from any one; but I've made up my mind to take care of myself, _and paddle my own canoe_." "Well, perhaps you're right," said the lawyer, kindly; "but at least you will accept my advice. Have you formed any plans for the future?" CHAPTER XXII. MESSRS. FLINT AND PUSHER. Now that he was again in his native village, Walter realized how unpleasant had been his position at Mr. Drummond's from the new elasticity and cheerfulness which he felt. There had been something gloomy and oppressive in the atmosphere of his temporary home at Stapleton, and he certainly had very little enjoyment in Joshua's society. Mrs. Drummond was the only one for whom he felt the least regard. He passed a few days quietly, renewing old acquaintances and friendships. Nancy Forbes had gone to live with a brother, who was an old bachelor, and very glad to have her with him. Her savings and the legacy left her by Mr. Conrad together amounted to a thousand dollars, or rather more,--sufficient to make Nancy rich, in her own opinion. But she was not quite satisfied about the legacy. "They say, Walter, that you'll be left poor," she said. "You'll need this money." "No, I shan't, Nancy," answered Walter. "Besides, there's a lot of mining stock that'll come to something,--I don't know how much." "But I don't feel right about taking this money, Walter." "You needn't feel any scruples, Nancy. I can take care of myself. I can paddle my own canoe." "But you haven't got any canoe," said Nancy, who did not comprehend the allusion. "Besides, I don't see how that would help you to a living." Walter laughed. "I shall get a canoe, then," he said, "and I'll steer it on to Fortune." "At any rate," said Nancy, "I will leave you my money when I die." "Who knows but you'll marry and have a lot of children?" "That isn't very likely, Walter, and me forty-seven a'ready. I'm most an old woman." So the conversation ended. Nancy agreed, though reluctantly, to take the legacy, resolved some time or other to leave it to Walter. If she had known how little he really had left, she would not have consented to accept it at all. The same evening Walter sat in the lawyer's comfortable sitting-room, and together they discussed the future. "So you want to be a book agent, Walter?" said Mr. Shaw. "I can't say I think very highly of this plan." "Why not, Mr. Shaw?" "It will lead to nothing." "I don't mean to spend my life at it. I am more ambitious than that. But it will give me a chance to travel without expense, and I always wanted to see something of the world." "How old are you now?" "Fifteen." "You are well-grown of your age. You might readily be taken for sixteen." "Do you really think so?" asked Walter, gratified, like most boys of his age, at being thought to look older than he really was. "Yes; at sixteen I was smaller than you now are." "You see, Mr. Shaw, that, as I am so young, even if I spend a year at this business, I shall not be too old to undertake something else afterwards. In the mean time I shall see something of the world." "Well, Walter, I won't oppose you. If I had not so much confidence in you, I should warn you of the temptations that are likely to beset your youth, left, as you will be, entirely to yourself. Of course you will be thrown among all kinds of associates." "Yes, sir; but I think I shall be wise enough to avoid what will do me no good." "So I hope and believe. Now, what is the name of this publisher you were speaking of?" "Pusher. He's of the firm of Flint & Pusher." "I have heard of them. They are an enterprising firm." "I think I had better start pretty soon, Mr. Shaw. I shall enjoy myself better when I am at work." "Next Monday, then, if you desire it." It was then Friday. On Monday morning Mr. Shaw handed Walter a pocket-book containing a roll of bills. "You will need some money to defray your expenses," he said, "until you are able to earn something. You will find fifty dollars in this pocket-book. There is no occasion to thank me, for I have only advanced it from money realized from your father's estate. If you need any more, you can write me, and I can send you a check or money-order." "This will be quite enough, Mr. Shaw," said Walter, confidently. "It won't be long before I shall be paying my way; at least I hope so. I don't mean to be idle." "I am sure you won't be, or you will belie your reputation. Well, good-by, Walter. Write me soon and often. You know I look upon myself as in some sort your guardian." "I will certainly write you, Mr. Shaw. By the way, I never thought to ask you about the furniture of my room at the Essex Classical Institute." "It was purchased by the keeper of the boarding-house; at a sacrifice, it is true, but I thought it best to let it go, to save trouble." [Illustration] "I should like to see Lem," thought Walter, with a little sigh as he called to mind the pleasant hours he had passed with his school-fellow. "I'll go back and pay the old institute a visit some time, after I've got back from my travels." Walter reached New York by ten o'clock. Though his acquaintance with the city streets was very limited, as he had seldom visited it, he found his way without much trouble to the place of business of Messrs. Flint & Pusher. As they did not undertake to do a retail business, but worked entirely through agents, their rooms were not on the first floor, but on the third. Opening the door of the room, to which he was guided by a directory in the entry beneath, Walter found himself in a large apartment, the floor of which was heaped up with piles of books, chiefly octavos. An elderly gentleman, with a partially bald head, and wearing spectacles, was talking with two men, probably agents. "Well, young man," said he, in rather a sharp voice, "what can I do for you?" "Is Mr. Pusher in?" asked Walter. "He went out for a few minutes; will be back directly. Did you wish particularly to see him?" "Yes, sir." "Take a seat, then, and wait till he comes in." Walter sat down and listened to the conversation. "You met with fair success, then?" inquired Mr. Flint. "Yes, the book takes well. I sold ten in one day, and six and eight in other days." Walter pricked up his ears. He wondered whether the book was the one recommended to him. If so, a sale of ten copies would enable the agent to realize twelve dollars and a half, which was certainly doing very well. Just as the agents were going out, Mr. Pusher bustled in. His sharp eyes fell upon Walter, whom he immediately recognized. "Ha, my young friend, so you have found us out," he said, offering his hand. "Yes, sir." "Come to talk on business, I hope?" "Yes, sir, that is my object in coming." "Mr. Flint," said Mr. Pusher, "this is a young friend whose acquaintance I made a short time since. I told him, if ever he wanted employment, to come here, and we would give him something to do." Mr. Flint, who was a slower and a more cautious man than Mr. Pusher, regarded Walter a little doubtfully. "Do you mean as an agent?" he said. "Certainly I do." "He seems very young." "That's true, but age isn't always an advantage. He looks smart, and I'll guarantee that he is all he looks. I claim to be something of a judge of human nature too." "No doubt you're right," said Mr. Flint, who was accustomed to defer considerably to his more impetuous partner. "What's the young man's name?" "You've got me there," said Mr. Pusher, laughing. "If I ever knew, which is doubtful, I've forgotten." "My name is Walter Conrad," said our hero. "Very good. Well, Conrad," continued Mr. Pusher, in an off-hand manner, "what are your wishes? What book do you want to take hold of?" "You mentioned a book the other day,--'Scenes in Bible Lands.'" "Yes, our new book. That would be as good as any to begin on. How's the territory, Mr. Flint?" Mr. Flint referred to a book. "Most of the territory near by is taken up," he said. "Does Mr. Conrad wish to operate near home?" "I would rather go to a distance," said Walter. "As far as Ohio?" "Yes." "In that case you could map out your own route pretty much. We haven't got the West portioned out as we have the Middle and New England States." "In other words, we can give you a kind of roving commission, Conrad," put in Mr. Pusher. "That would suit me, sir," said Walter. "Still it would be best not to attempt to cover too much territory. A rolling stone gathers no moss, you know. There is one important question I must ask you to begin with. Have you got any money?" "Yes, sir, I have fifty dollars." "Good. Of course you will need money to get out to your field of labor, and will have to pay your expenses till you begin to earn something. Fifty dollars will answer very well." "As I don't know very well how the business is managed," said Walter, "I must ask for instructions." "Of course. You're a green hand. Sit down here, and I'll make it all plain to you." So Mr. Pusher, in his brief, incisive way, explained to Walter how he must manage. His instructions were readily comprehended, and Walter, as he listened, felt eager to enter upon the adventurous career which he had chosen. CHAPTER XXIII. WALTER LOSES HIS MONEY. Walter, by advice of Mr. Pusher, bought a ticket to Cleveland. There was a resident agent in this city, and a depository of books published by the firm. As Walter would be unable to carry with him as large a supply of books as he needed, he was authorized to send to the Cleveland agency when he got out, and the books would be sent him by express. "I will give you a letter to Mr. Greene, our agent in Cleveland," said Mr. Pusher, "and you can consult him as to your best field of operations." The letter was hastily written and handed to Walter. "Good-by, Mr. Pusher," he said, preparing to leave the office. "Good-by, my young friend. I shall hope to hear good accounts from you." So Walter went downstairs, and emerged into the street. He had no particular motive for remaining in New York, and felt eager to commence work. So he went at once to the Erie railway depot, and bought a through ticket to Cleveland, via Buffalo and Niagara Falls. Though he had not much money to spare, he determined not to neglect the opportunity he would have of seeing this great natural wonder, but to stop over a day in order to visit the falls. He selected a comfortable seat by a window, and waited till the train was ready to start. He realized that he had engaged in rather a large enterprise for a boy of fifteen, who had hitherto had all his wants supplied by others. He was about to go a thousand miles from home, to earn his own living,--in other words, to paddle his own canoe. But he did not feel in the least dismayed. He was ambitious and enterprising, and confident that he could earn his living as well as other boys of his age. He had never been far from home, but felt that he should enjoy visiting new and unfamiliar scenes. So he felt decidedly cheerful and hopeful as the cars whirled him out of the depot, and he commenced his Western journey. Walter put his strip of railway tickets into his vest-pocket, and his porte-monnaie, containing the balance of his money, into the pocket of his pantaloons. He wished to have the tickets at hand when the conductor came round. He sat alone at first, but after a while a lady got in who rode thirty miles or more, and then got out. A little later a young man passed through the cars, looking about him on either side. He paused at Walter's seat, and inquired, "Is this seat taken?" "No, sir," said Walter. "Then, with your permission, I will take it," said the stranger. "Tiresome work travelling, isn't it?" "I don't know," said Walter. "I rather like it; but then I never travelled much." "I have to travel a good deal on business," said the other, "and I've got tired of it. How many times do you think I have been over this road?" "Couldn't guess." "This is the fifteenth time. I know it like a book. How far are you going?" "To Cleveland." "Got relations there, I suppose?" "No," said Walter; "I am going on business." He was rather glad to let his companion know that he, too, was in business. "You're young to be in business," said his companion. "What sort of business is it?" "I am an agent for Flint & Pusher, a New York firm." "Publishers, aint they?" "Yes, sir." Walter's companion was a young man of twenty-five, or possibly a year or two older. He was rather flashily attired, with a cut-away coat and a low-cut vest, double-breasted, across which glittered a massive chain, which might have been gold, or might only have been gilt, since all that glitters is not gold. At any rate, it answered the purpose of making a show. His cravat was showy, and his whole appearance indicated absence of good taste. A cautious employer would scarcely have selected him from a crowd of applicants for a confidential position. Walter was vaguely conscious of this. Still he had seen but little of the world, and felt incompetent to judge others. "Are you going right through to Cleveland?" inquired the stranger. "No; I think I shall stop at Buffalo. I want to see Niagara Falls." "That's right. Better see them. They're stunning." "I suppose you have been there?" said Walter, with some curiosity. "Oh, yes, several times. I've a great mind to go again and show you round, but I don't know if I can spare so long a time from business." "I should like your company," said Walter, politely; "but I don't want to interfere with your engagements." "I'll think of it, and see how I can arrange matters," said the other. Walter was not particularly anxious for the continued society of his present companion. He was willing enough to talk with him, but there was something in his appearance and manner which prevented his being attracted to him. He turned away and began to view the scenery through which they were passing. The stranger took out a newspaper, and appeared to be reading attentively. Half an hour passed thus without a word being spoken on either side. At length his companion folded up the paper. "Do you smoke?" he asked. "No," said Walter. "I think I'll go into the smoking-car, and smoke a cigar. I should like to offer you one if you will take one." "No, thank you," said Walter; "I don't smoke, and I am afraid my first cigar wouldn't give me much pleasure." "I'll be back in a few minutes. Perhaps you'd like to look over this paper while I am gone." "Thank you," said Walter. He took the paper,--an illustrated weekly,--and looked over the pictures with considerable interest. He had just commenced reading a story when a boy passed through the car with a basket of oranges and apples depending from his arm. "Oranges--apples!" he called out, looking to the right and left in quest of customers. The day was warm, and through the open window dust had blown into the car. Walter's throat felt parched, and the oranges looked tempting. "How much are your oranges?" he inquired. "Five cents apiece, or three for a dime," answered the boy. "I'll take three," said Walter, reflecting that he could easily dispose of two himself, and considering that it would only be polite to offer one to his companion, whose paper he was reading, when he should return. "Here are three nice ones," said the boy, picking them out, and placing them in our hero's hands. Walter felt in his vest-pocket, thinking he had a little change there. He proved to be mistaken. There was nothing in that pocket except his railway tickets. Next, of course, he felt for his porte-monnaie, but he felt for it in vain. He started in surprise. "I thought my pocket-book was in that pocket," he reflected. "Can it be in the other?" He felt in the other pocket, but search here was equally fruitless. He next felt nervously in the pocket of his coat, though he was sure he couldn't have put his porte-monnaie there. Then it flashed upon him, with a feeling of dismay, that he had lost his pocket-book and all his remaining money. How or where, he could not possibly imagine, for the suddenness of the discovery quite bewildered him. "I won't take the oranges," he said to the boy. "I can't find my money." The boy, who had made sure of a sale, took back the fruit reluctantly, and passed on, crying out, "Here's your oranges and apples!" Walter set about thinking what had become of his money. The more he thought, the more certain he felt that he had put his porte-monnaie in the pocket in which he had first felt for it. Why was it not there now? That was a question which he felt utterly incompetent to answer. "Have you lost anything?" inquired a gentleman who sat just behind Walter. Looking back, he found that it was a gentleman of fifty who addressed him. "Yes, sir," he said, "I have lost my pocket-book." "Was there much money in it?" "About forty dollars, sir." "That is too much to lose. Was your ticket in it also?" "No, sir; that I have in my vest-pocket." "Where was your pocket-book when you last saw it?" inquired the gentleman. "In this pocket, sir." "Humph!" commented the other. "Who was that young man who was sitting with you a few minutes since?" "I don't know, sir." "He was a stranger, then?" "Yes, sir; I never met him till this morning." "Then I think I can tell you where your money has gone." "Where, sir?" demanded Walter, beginning to understand him. "I think your late companion was a pickpocket, and relieved you of it, while he pretended to be reading. I didn't like his appearance much." "I don't see how he could have done it without my feeling his hand in my pocket." "They understand their business, and can easily relieve one of his purse undetected. I once had my watch stolen without being conscious of it. Your porte-monnaie was in the pocket towards the man, and you were looking from the window. It was a very simple thing to relieve you of it." CHAPTER XXIV. SLIPPERY DICK. It is not natural for a boy of Walter's age to distrust those with whom he becomes acquainted even slightly. This lesson unfortunately is learned later in life. But the words of his fellow-traveller inspired him with conviction. He could think of no other way of accounting for his loss. He rose from his seat. "Where are you going?" asked the old gentleman. "I am going to look for the thief." "Do you expect to find him?" "He said he was going into the smoking-car." "My young friend, I strongly suspect that this was only to blind you. The cars have stopped at two stations since he left his seat, and if he took your money he has doubtless effected his escape." Walter was rather taken aback by this consideration. It seemed reasonable enough, and, if true, he didn't see how he was going to get back his money. "I dare say you are right," he said; "but I will go into the smoking-car and see." "Come back again, and let me know whether you find him." "Yes, sir." Walter went through two cars, looking about him on either side, thinking it possible that the thief might have taken his seat in one of them. There was very little chance of this, however. Next he passed into the smoking-car, where, to his joy no less than his surprise, he found the man of whom he was in search playing cards with three other passengers. He looked up carelessly as Walter approached, but did not betray the slightest confusion or sign of guilt. To let the reader into a secret, he had actually taken Walter's pocket-book, but was too cunning to keep it about him. He had taken out the money, and thrown the porte-monnaie itself from the car platform, taking an opportunity when he thought himself unobserved. As the money consisted of bills, which could not be identified as Walter's, he felt that he was in no danger of detection. He thought that he could afford to be indifferent. "Did you get tired of waiting?" he asked, addressing our hero. "That's pretty cool if he took the money," thought Walter. "May I speak to you a moment?" asked Walter. "Certainly." "I mean alone." "If you'll wait till I have finished the game," said the pickpocket, assuming a look of surprise. "Something private, eh?" "Yes," said Walter, gravely. He stood by impatiently while the game went on. He was anxious to find out as soon as possible what had become of his money, and what was the chance of recovering it. At length the game was finished, and a new one was about to be commenced, when Walter tapped his late companion on the shoulder. "Oh, you wanted to speak to me, did you?" he said indifferently. "Can't you wait till we have finished this game?" "No," said Walter, resolutely, "I can't wait. It is a matter of great importance." "Then, gentlemen, I must beg to be excused for five minutes," said the pickpocket, shrugging his shoulders, as if to express good-natured annoyance. "Now, my young friend, I am at your service." Walter proceeded to the other end of the car, which chanced to be unoccupied. Now that the moment had come, he hardly knew how to introduce the subject. Suppose that the person he addressed were innocent, it would be rather an awkward matter to charge him with the theft. "Did you see anything of my pocket-book?" he said, at length. "Your pocket-book?" returned the pickpocket, arching his brows. "Why, have you lost it?" "Yes." "When did you discover its loss?" "Shortly after you left me," said Walter, significantly. "Indeed! was there much money in it?" "Over thirty dollars." "That is quite a loss. I hope you have some more with you." "No, it is all I have." "I'm very sorry indeed. I did not see it. Have you searched on the floor?" "Yes; but it isn't there." "That's awkward. Was your ticket in the pocket-book?" "No, I had that in my vest-pocket." "That's fortunate. On my honor, I'm sorry for you. I haven't much money with me, but I'll lend you a dollar or two with the greatest of pleasure." This offer quite bewildered Walter. He felt confident that the other had stolen his money, and now here he was offering to lend him some of it. He did not care to make such a compromise, or to be bought off so cheap; so, though quite penniless, he determined to reject the offer. "I won't borrow," he said, coldly. "I was hoping you had seen my money." "Sorry I didn't. Better let me lend you some." "I would rather not borrow." Walter could not for the life of him add "Thank you," feeling no gratitude to the man who he felt well assured had robbed him. The pickpocket turned and went back to his game, and Walter slowly left the car. He had intended to ask him point-blank whether he had taken the money, but couldn't summon the necessary courage. He went back to his old seat. "Well," said the old gentleman who sat behind him, "I suppose you did not find your man?" "Yes, I did." "You didn't get your money?" he added, in surprise. "No, he said he had not seen it." "Did you tax him with taking it?" "No, I hardly ventured to do that." "Did he show any confusion?" "No, sir, he was perfectly cool. Still, I think he took it. He offered to lend me a dollar or two." "That was cool, certainly." "What would you advise me to do?" asked Walter. "I hardly know what to advise," said the other, thoughtfully. "I don't want him to make off with my money." "Of course not. That would be far from agreeable." "If he could only be searched, I might find the pocket-book on him." "In order to do that, he must be charged with the robbery." "That is true. It will be rather awkward for a boy like me to do that." "I'll tell you what you had better do, my young friend. Speak to the conductor." "I think I will," said Walter. Just at that moment the conductor entered the car. As he came up the aisle Walter stopped him, and explained his loss, and the suspicions he had formed. "You say the man is in the smoking-car?" said the conductor, who had listened attentively. "Yes." "Could you point him out?" "Yes." "I am glad of it. I have received warning by telegraph that one of the New York swell-mob is on the train, probably intent on mischief, but no description came with it, and I had no clue to the person. I have no doubt that the man you speak of is the party. If so, he is familiarly known as 'Slippery Dick.'" "Do you think you can get back my money?" asked Walter, anxiously. "I think there is a chance of it. Come with me and point out your man." Walter gladly accompanied the conductor to the smoking-car. His old acquaintance was busily engaged as before in a game, and laughing heartily at some favorable turn. "There he is," said Walter, indicating him with his finger. The conductor walked up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. "What's wanted?" he asked, looking up. "You've looked at my ticket." "I wish to speak to you a moment." He rose without making any opposition, and walked to the other end of the car. "Well," he said, and there was a slight nervousness in his tone, "what's the matter? Wasn't my ticket all right?" "No trouble about that. The thing is, will you restore this boy's pocket-book?" "Sir," said the pickpocket, blustering, "do you mean to insult me? What have I to do with his pocket-book?" "You sat beside him, and he missed it directly after you left him." "What is that to me? You may search me if you like. You will find only one pocket-book upon me, and that is my own." "I am aware of that," said the conductor, coolly. "I saw you take the money out and throw it from the car platform." The pickpocket turned pale. "You are mistaken in the person," he said. "No, I am not. I advise you to restore the money forthwith." Without a word the thief, finding himself cornered, took from his pocket a roll of bills, which he handed to Walter. "Is that right?" asked the conductor. "Yes," said our hero, after counting his money. "So far, so good. And now, Slippery Dick," he continued, turning to the thief, "I advise you to leave the cars at the next station, or I will have you arrested. Take your choice." The detected rogue was not long in making his choice. Already the cars had slackened their speed, and a short distance ahead appeared a small station. The place seemed to be one of very little importance. One man, however, appeared to have business there. Walter saw his quondam acquaintance jump on the platform, and congratulated himself that his only loss was a porte-monnaie whose value did not exceed one dollar. I will only add that the conductor on seeing the pocket-book thrown away had thought nothing of it, supposing it to be an old one, but as soon as he heard of the robbery suspected at once the thief and his motive. CHAPTER XXV. A HARD CUSTOMER. Walter stopped long enough at Buffalo to visit Niagara Falls, as he had intended. Though he enjoyed the visit, and found the famous cataract fully up to his expectations, no incident occurred during the visit which deserves to be chronicled here. He resumed his journey, and arrived in due time at Cleveland. He had no difficulty in finding the office of Mr. Greene, the agent of Messrs. Flint & Pusher. He found that this gentleman, besides his agency, had a book and stationery business of his own. "I don't go out myself," he said to Walter; "but I keep a supply of Flint's books on hand, and forward them to his agents as called for. Have you done much in the business?" "No, sir, I am only a beginner. I have done nothing yet." "I thought not. You look too young." "Mr. Pusher told me I had better be guided by your advice." "I'll advise you as well as I can. First, I suppose you want to know where to go." "Yes, sir." "You had better go fifty miles off at least. The immediate neighborhood has been pretty well canvassed. There's C---- now, a flourishing and wealthy town. Suppose you go there first." "Very well, sir." "It's on the line of railway. Two hours will carry you there." "I'll go, this afternoon." "You are prompt." "I want to get to work as soon as possible." "I commend your resolution. It speaks well for your success." Walter arrived in C---- in time for supper. He went to a small public house, where he found that he could board for a dollar and a half a day, or seven dollars by the week. He engaged a week's board, reflecting that he could probably work to advantage a week in so large a place, or, if not, that five days at the daily rate would amount to more than the weekly terms. He did not at first propose to do anything that evening until it occurred to him that he might perhaps dispose of a copy of his book to the landlord in part payment for his board. He went into the public room after supper. "Are you travelling alone?" asked the landlord, who had his share of curiosity. "Yes," said Walter. "Not on business?" "Yes, on business." "What might it be now? You are rather young to be in business." "I am a book-agent." "Meeting with pretty good success?" "I'm just beginning," said Walter, smiling. "If you'll be my first customer, I'll stop with you a week." "What kind of a book have you got?" Walter showed it. It was got up in the usual style of subscription books, with abundance of illustrations. "It's one of the best books we ever sent out," said Walter, in a professional way. "Just look at the number of pictures. If you've got any children, they'll like it; and, if you haven't, it will be just the book for your centre-table." "I see you know how to talk," said the landlord, smiling. "What is the price?" "Three dollars and a half." "That's considerable." "But you know I'm going to take it out in board." "Well, that's a consideration, to be sure. A man doesn't feel it so much as if he took the money out of his pocket and paid cash down. What do you say, Mrs. Burton?" addressing his wife, who just then entered the room. "This young man wants to stay here a week, and pay partly in a book he is agent for. Shall I agree?" "Let me see the book," said Mrs. Burton, who was a comely, pleasant-looking woman of middle age. "What's the name of it?" "'Scenes in Bible Lands,'" said Walter. He opened it, taking care to display and point out the pictures. "I declare it is a nice book," said Mrs. Burton. "Is there a picture of Jerusalem?" "Here it is," said Walter, who happened to know just where to find it. "Isn't it a good picture? And there are plenty more as good. It's a book that ought to be in every family." "Really, Mr. Burton, I don't know but we might as well take it," said the landlady. "He takes it out in board, you know." "Just as you say," said the landlord. "I am willing." "Then I'll take the book. Emma will like to look at it." So Walter made the first sale, on which he realized a profit of one dollar and a quarter. "It's a pretty easy way to earn money," he reflected with satisfaction, "if I can only sell copies enough. One copy sold will pay for a day's board." He went to bed early, and enjoyed a sound and refreshing sleep. He was cheered with hopes of success on the morrow. If he could sell four copies a day, that would give him a profit of five dollars, and five dollars would leave him a handsome profit after paying expenses. The next morning after breakfast he started out, carrying with him three books. Knowing nothing of the residents of the village, he could only judge by the outward appearance of their houses. Seeing a large and handsome house standing back from the street, he decided to call. "The people living here must be rich," he thought. "They won't mind paying three dollars and a half for a nice book." Accordingly he walked up the gravelled path and rang the front-door bell. The door was opened by a housemaid. "Is the lady of the house at home?" asked Walter. "Do you want to see her?" "Yes." "Then wait here, and I'll tell her." A tall woman, with a thin face and a pinched expression, presented herself after five minutes. "Well, young man," she asked, after a sharp glance, "what is your business?" Her expression was not very encouraging, but Walter was bound not to lose an opportunity. "I should like to show you a new book, madam," he commenced, "a book of great value, beautifully illustrated, which is selling like wildfire." "How many copies have you sold?" inquired the lady, sharply. "One," answered Walter, rather confused. "Do you call that selling like wildfire?" she demanded with sarcasm. "I only commenced last evening," said Walter, "I referred to the sales of other agents." "What's the name of the book?" "'Scenes in Bible Lands.'" "Let me see it." Walter displayed the book. "Look at the beautiful pictures," he said. "I don't see anything remarkable about them. The binding isn't very strong. Shouldn't wonder if the book would go to pieces in a week." "I don't think there'll be any trouble that way," said Walter. "If it does, you'll be gone, so it won't trouble you." "With ordinary care it will hold long enough." "Oh, yes, of course you'd say so. I expected it. How much do you charge for the book?" "Three dollars and a half." "Three dollars and a half!" repeated the woman. "You seem to think people are made of money." "I don't fix the price, madam," said Walter, rather provoked. "The publishers do that." "I warrant they make two-thirds profit. Don't they now?" "I don't know," said Walter. "I don't know anything about the cost of publishing books; but this is a large one, and there are a great many pictures in it. They must have cost considerable." "Seems to me it's ridiculous to ask such a price for a book. Why, it's enough to buy a nice dress pattern!" "The book will last longer than the dress," said Walter. "But it is not so necessary. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'd like the book well enough to put on my parlor-table. I'll give you two dollars for it." "Two dollars!" ejaculated Walter, scarcely crediting the testimony of his ears. "Yes, two dollars; and I warrant you'll make money enough then." "I should lose money," said Walter. "I couldn't think of accepting such an offer." "In my opinion there isn't any book worth even two dollars." "I see we can't trade," said Walter, disgusted at such meanness in a lady who occupied so large a house, and might be supposed to have plenty of money. He began to replace the book in its brown-paper covering. "I don't know but I might give you twenty-five cents more. Come now, I'll give you two dollars and a quarter." "I can't take it," said Walter, shortly. "Three dollars and a half is the price, and I will not take a cent less." "You won't get it out of me then," retorted the lady, slamming the door in displeasure. Walter had already made up his mind to this effect, and had started on his way to the gate. "I wonder if I shall meet many people like her," he thought, and his courage was rather damped. CHAPTER XXVI. BUSINESS EXPERIENCES. Walter began to think that selling books would prove a harder and more disagreeable business than he anticipated. He had been brought face to face with meanness and selfishness, and they inspired him with disgust and indignation. Not that he expected everybody to buy his books, even if they could afford it. Still it was not necessary to insult him by offering half price. He walked slowly up the street, wondering if he should meet any more such customers. On the opposite side of the street he noticed a small shoemaker's shop. "I suppose it is of no use to go in there," thought Walter. "If they won't buy at a big house, there isn't much chance here." Still he thought he would go in. He had plenty of time on his hands, and might as well let slip no chance, however small. He pushed open the door, and found himself in a shop about twenty-five feet square, littered up with leather shavings and finished and unfinished shoes. A boy of fourteen was pegging, and his father, a man of middle age, was finishing a shoe. "Good-morning," said Walter. "Good-morning," said the shoemaker, turning round. "Do you want a pair of shoes this morning?" "No," said Walter, "I didn't come to buy, but to sell." "Well, what have you got to sell?" "A subscription book, finely illustrated." "What's the name of it?" "'Scenes in Bible Lands.'" "Let me look at it." He wiped his hands on his apron, and, taking the book, began to turn over the leaves. "It seems like a good book," he said. "Does it sell well?" "Yes, it sells largely. I have only just commenced, but other agents are doing well on it." "You are rather young for an agent." "Yes, but I'm old enough to work, and I'm going to give this a fair trial." "That's the way to talk. How much do you expect to get for this book?" "The price is three dollars and a half." "It's rather high." "But there are a good many pictures. Those are what cost money." "Yes, I suppose they do. Well, I've a great mind to take one." "I don't think you'll regret it. A good book will give you pleasure for a long time." "That's so. Well, here's the money;" and the shoemaker drew out five dollars from a leather pocket-book. "Can you give me the change?" "With pleasure." Walter was all the more pleased at effecting this sale because it was unexpected. He had expected to sell a book at the great house he had just called at, but thought that the price of the book might deter the shoemaker, whose income probably was not large. He thought he would like to know the name of the lady with whom he had such an unpleasant experience. "Can you tell me," he inquired, "who lives in that large house a little way up the street?" "You didn't sell a book there, did you?" asked the shoemaker, laughing. "No, but I got an offer of two dollars for one." "That's just like Mrs. Belknap," returned the other. "She has the name of being the meanest woman for miles around." "It can't be for want of money. She lives in a nice house." "Oh, she's rich enough,--the richest woman in town. When her husband was alive--old Squire Belknap--she wasn't quite so scrimping, for he was free-handed and liberal himself; but now she's a widow, she shows out her meanness. So she offered you two dollars?" "Yes, but she afterwards offered twenty-five cents more." "Then she must have wanted the book. She makes it her boast that no peddler ever took her in, and I guess she's about right." "I hope there are not many such people in town. If there are, I shall get discouraged." "We've got our share of mean people, I expect, but she's the worst." "Well, I suppose I must be going. Thank you for your purchase." "That's all right. If I like the book as well as I expect, I'll thank you." Walter left the shoemaker's shop with considerably higher spirits than he entered. His confidence in human nature, which had been rudely shaken by Mrs. Belknap, was in a degree restored, and his prospects looked brighter than a few minutes before. "I wonder who'll make the next purchase?" he thought. He stopped at a plain two-story house a little further up the road. The door was opened by an old lady. "What do you want?" she asked. "I am agent for an excellent book," commenced Walter. "Oh, you're a peddler," broke in the old lady, without waiting to hear him through. "I suppose I may be called so." "Are you the man that was round last spring selling jewelry?" "No, I have never been here before." "I don't know whether to believe you or not," said the old lady. "Your voice sounds like his. I can't see very well, for I've mislaid my specs. If you're the same man, I'll have you took up for selling bogus jewelry." "But I'm not the same one." "I don't know. The man I spoke of sold my darter a gold ring for a dollar, that turned out to be nothing but brass washed over. 'Twa'n't worth five cents." "I'm sorry you got cheated, but it isn't my fault." "Wait a minute, I'll call my darter." In reply to her mother's call a tall maiden lady of forty advanced to the door, with some straw in her hand, for she was braiding straw. "What's wanted, mother?" she asked. "Isn't this the same man that sold you that ring?" "La, no, mother. He was a man of forty-five, and this is only a boy." "I s'pose you must be right, but I can't see without my specs. Well, I'm sorry you're not the one, for I'd have had you took up onless you'd give back the dollar." Under the circumstances Walter himself was not sorry that there was no chance of identifying him with his knavish predecessor. "What have you got to sell?" asked the younger woman. "A book beautifully illustrated, called 'Scenes in Bible Lands.' Will you allow me to show it to you?" "He seems quite polite," said the old lady, now disposed to regard Walter more favorably. "Won't you come in?" Walter entered, and was shown into a small sitting-room, quite plainly furnished. The book was taken from him, and examined for a considerable length of time by the daughter, who, however, announced at the end that though she should like it very much, she couldn't afford to pay the price. As the appearance of the house bore out her assertion, Walter did not press the purchase, but was about to replace the book under his arm, when she said suddenly, "Wait a minute. There's Mrs. Thurman just coming in. Perhaps she'll buy one of your books." Walter was of course perfectly willing to wait on the chance of a sale. Mrs. Thurman was the wife of a trader in good circumstances, and disposed to spend liberally, according to her means. Walter was not obliged to recommend his book, for this was done by the spinster, who was disinterestedly bent on making a sale. So he sat quiet, a passive but interested auditor, while Miss Nancy Sprague extolled the book for him. "It does seem like an excellent book," said Mrs. Thurman, looking at the pictures. "Just the thing for your Delia," suggested Miss Nancy; "I am sure she would like it." "That reminds me to-morrow is Delia's birthday." "Then give her the book for a birthday present." "I had intended to buy her something else. Still I am not sure but this would suit her quite as well." "I am sure it would," responded Miss Nancy. "Then I will take it. Young man, how much do you ask for your book?" "Three dollars and a half." Mrs. Thurman paid the money, and received the book. "I am much obliged to you," said Walter, addressing Miss Nancy, "for recommending my book." "You're quite welcome," said Miss Nancy, who felt some satisfaction at gaining her point, though it would not benefit her any. "I'm sure you are quite polite for a peddler, and I hope you'll excuse mother for making such a mistake about you." "That is of no consequence," said Walter, smiling. "I think if your mother had had her glasses on she would not have made such a mistake." He left the house still farther encouraged. But during the next hour he failed to sell another copy. At length he managed to sell a third. As these were all he had brought out, and he was feeling rather tired, he went back to the tavern, and did not come out again till after dinner. He had sold three copies and cleared three dollars and seventy-five cents, which he was right in regarding as very fair success. CHAPTER XXVII. A CABIN IN THE WOODS. Walter found a good dinner ready for him at twelve o'clock, which he enjoyed the more because he felt that he had earned it in advance. He waited till about two o'clock, and again set out, this time in a different direction. As it takes all sorts of people to make a world, so the reception he met with at different places differed. In some he was received politely; in others he was treated as a humbug. But Walter was by this time getting accustomed to his position, and found that he must meet disagreeable people with as good humor as he could command. One farmer was willing to take the book if he would accept pay in apples, of which he offered him two barrels; but this offer he did not for a moment entertain, judging that he would find it difficult to carry about the apples, and probably difficult to dispose of them. However, he managed to sell two copies, though he had to call at twenty places to do it. Nevertheless, he felt well repaid by the degree of success he met with. "Five books sold to-day!" thought Walter, complacently, as he started on his walk home. "That gives me six dollars and a quarter profit. I wish I could keep that up." But our young merchant found that he was not likely to keep up such sales. The next day he sold but two copies, and the day succeeding three. Still for three days and a half the aggregate sale was eleven copies, making a clear profit of thirteen dollars and seventy-five cents. At the end of the week he had sold twenty copies; but to make up this number he had been obliged to visit one or two neighboring villages. He now prepared to move on. The next place at which he proposed to stop for a few days we will call Bolton. He had already written to Cleveland for a fresh supply of books to be forwarded to him there. He had but two books left, and his baggage being contained in a small valise, he decided to walk this distance, partly out of economy, but principally because it would enable him to see the country at his leisure. During the first five miles he succeeded in selling both books, which relieved him of the burden of carrying them, leaving him only his valise. Walter was strong and stout, and enjoyed his walk. There was a freshness and novelty about his present mode of life, which he liked. He did not imagine he should like to be a book-agent all his life, but for a time he found it quite agreeable. He stopped under the shade of a large elm and ate the lunch which he had brought with him from the inn. The sandwiches and apples were good, and, with the addition of some water from a stream near by, made a very acceptable lunch. When he resumed his walk after resting a couple of hours, the weather had changed. In the morning it was bright sunshine. Now the clouds had gathered, and a storm seemed imminent. To make matters worse, Walter had managed to stray from the road. He found himself walking in a narrow lane, lined on either side by thick woods. Soon the rain come pattering down, at first in small drops, but quickly poured down in a drenching shower. Walter took refuge in the woods, congratulating himself that he had sold the books, which otherwise would have run the risk of being spoiled. "I wish there were some house near by in which I could rest," thought Walter. The prospect of being benighted in the woods in such weather was far from pleasant. Looking around anxiously, he espied a small foot-path, which he followed, hoping, but hardly expecting, that it might lead to some place of refuge. To his agreeable surprise he emerged after a few minutes into a small clearing, perhaps half an acre in extent, in the middle of which was a rough cabin. It was a strange place for a house, but, rude as it was, Walter hailed its appearance with joy. At all events it promised protection from the weather, and the people who occupied it would doubtless be willing to give him, for pay of course, supper and lodging. Probably the accommodations would not be first class, but our hero was prepared to take what he could get, and be thankful for it. Accordingly he advanced fearlessly and pounded on the door with his fist, as there was neither bell nor knocker. The door not being opened immediately, he pounded again. This time a not particularly musical voice was heard from within:-- "Is that you, Jack?" "No," answered Walter, "it isn't Jack." His voice was probably recognized as that of a boy, and any apprehension that might have been felt by the person within was dissipated. Walter heard a bolt withdrawn, and the door opening revealed a tall, gaunt, bony woman, who eyed him in a manner which could not be considered very friendly or cordial. "Who are you?" she demanded abruptly, keeping the door partly closed. "I am a book-agent," said Walter. "Do you expect to sell any books here?" asked the woman, with grim humor. "No," said Walter, "but I have been caught in the storm, and lost my way. Can I stop here over night if the storm should hold on?" "This isn't a tavern," said the woman, ungraciously. "No, I suppose not," said Walter; "but it will be a favor to me if you will take me in, and I will pay you whatever you think right. I suppose there is no tavern near by." He half hoped there might be, for he had already made up his mind that this would not be a very agreeable place to stop at. "There's one five miles off," said the woman. "That's too far to go in such weather. If you'll let me stay here, I will pay you whatever you ask in advance." "Humph!" said the woman, doubtfully, "I don't know how Jack will like it." As Walter could know nothing of the sentiments of the Jack referred to, he remained silent, and waited for the woman to make up her mind, believing that she would decide in his favor. He proved to be right. "Well," she said, half unwillingly, "I don't know but I'll take you in, though it isn't my custom to accommodate travellers." "I will try not to give you much trouble," said Walter, relieved to find that he was sure of food and shelter. "Humph!" responded the woman. She led the way into the building, which appeared to contain two rooms on the first floor, and probably the same number of chambers above. There was no entry, but the door opened at once into the kitchen. "Come up to the fire if you're wet," said the woman. The invitation was hospitable, but the manner was not. However, Walter was glad to accept the invitation, without thinking too much of the manner in which it was expressed, for his clothes were pretty well saturated by the rain. There was no stove, but an old brick fireplace, on which two stout logs were burning. There was one convenience at least about living in the woods. Fuel was abundant, and required nothing but the labor of cutting it. "I think I'll take off my shoes," said Walter. "You can if you want to," said his grim hostess. He extended his wet feet towards the fire, and felt a sense of comfort stealing over him. He could hear the rain falling fiercely against the sides of the cabin, and felt glad that he was not compelled to stand the brunt of the storm. [Illustration] He looked around him guardedly, not wishing to let his hostess see that he was doing so, for she looked like one who might easily be offended. The room seemed remarkably bare of furniture. There was an unpainted table, and there were also three chairs, one of which had lost its back. These were plain wooden chairs, and though they appeared once to have been painted, few vestiges of the original paint now remained. On a shelf were a few articles of tin, but no articles of crockery were visible, except two cracked cups. Walter had before this visited the dwellings of the poor, but he had never seen a home so poorly provided with what are generally regarded as the necessaries of life. "I wonder what Lem would say if he should see me now," thought Walter, his thoughts going back to the Essex Classical Institute, and the friend whose studies he shared. They seemed far away, those days of careless happiness, when as yet the burdens of life were unfelt and scarcely even dreamed of. Did Walter sigh for their return? I think not, except on one account. His father was then alive, and he would have given years of his own life to recall that loved parent from the grave. But I do not think he would have cared, for the present at least, to give up his business career, humble though it was, and go back to his studies. He enjoyed the novelty of his position. He enjoyed even his present adventure, in spite of the discomforts that attended it, and there was something exciting in looking about him, and realizing that he was a guest in a rough cabin in the midst of the woods, a thousand miles away from home. Guarded as he had been in looking around him, it did not escape without observation. "Well, young man, this is a poor place, isn't it?" asked the woman, suddenly. "I don't know," said Walter, wishing to be polite. "That's what you're thinkin', I'll warrant," said the woman. "Well, you're not obliged to stay, if you don't want to." "But I do want to, and I am very much obliged to you for consenting to take me," said Walter, hastily. "You said you would pay in advance," said the woman. "So I will," said Walter, taking out his pocket-book, "if you will tell me how much I am to pay." "You may give me a dollar," said the woman. Walter drew out a roll of bills, and, finding a one-dollar note, handed it to the woman. She took it, glancing covetously at the remaining money which he replaced in his pocket-book. Walter noticed the glance, and, though he was not inclined to be suspicious, it gave him a vague feeling of anxiety. CHAPTER XXVIII. STRANGE ACQUAINTANCES. An hour passed without a word being spoken by his singular hostess. She went to the window from time to time, and looked out as if expecting some one. At length Walter determined to break the silence, which had become oppressive. It did not seem natural for two persons to be in the same room so long without speaking a word. "I should think you would find it lonely living in the woods away from any neighbors," he said. "I don't care for neighbors," said the woman, shortly. "Have you lived here long?" "That's as people reckon time," was the answer. Walter found himself no wiser than before, and the manner of his hostess did not encourage him to pursue his inquiries further on that subject. "You don't have far to go for fuel," was the next remark of our hero. "Any fool might see that," said the woman. "Not very polite," thought Walter. He relapsed into silence, judging that his hostess did not care to converse. Soon, however, she began to ask questions. "Did you say you was a book-peddler?" she inquired. "I am a book-agent." "Where are your books,--in that carpet-bag?" "No, I have sold all my books, and sent for some more." "Where did you sell them?" "In C----." "Have you come from there?" "Yes, I started from there this forenoon." "Where did you stop?" "At the tavern." "Is your business a good one?" she asked, eying him attentively. "I have done very well so far, but then I have been at it only a week." "It's a good thing to have money," said the woman, more to herself than to Walter. "Yes," said Walter, "it's very convenient to have money; but there are other things that are better." "Such as what?" demanded the woman abruptly. "Good health for one thing." "What else?" "A good conscience." She laughed scornfully. "I'll tell you there's nothing so good as money. I've wanted it all my life, and never could get it. Do you think I would live here in the woods if I had money? No, I should like to be a lady, and wear fine clothes, and drive about in a handsome carriage. Why are some people so lucky, while I live in this miserable hole?" She looked at Walter fiercely, as if she held him responsible for her ill-fortune. "Perhaps your luck will change some day," he said, though he had little faith in his own words. He wondered how the tall, gaunt woman of the backwoods would look dressed in silks and satins. "My luck never will change," she said, quickly. "I must live and die in some such hovel as this." "My luck has changed," said Walter, quietly; "but in a different way." "How?" she asked, betraying in her tone some curiosity. "A year ago--six months ago--my father was a rich man, or was considered so. He was thought to be worth over a hundred thousand dollars. All at once his property was swept away, and now I am obliged to earn my own living, as you see." "Is that true?" she asked. "Yes, it is true." "How did your father lose his money?" "By speculating in mines." "The more fool he!" "My father is dead," said Walter, gravely. "I cannot bear to hear him blamed." "Humph!" ejaculated the woman; but what she intended to convey by this utterance Walter could not tell. Again the woman went to the window and looked out. "It's time for Jack to be here," she said. "Your son?" asked Walter. "No, my husband." "He'll be pretty wet when he comes in," Walter ventured to say; but his remark elicited no response. After a while his hostess said, in her usual abrupt tone, "I expect you are hungry." "Yes," said Walter, "I am, but I can wait till your husband comes." "I don't know when he'll come. Likely he's kept." She took out from a small cupboard a plate of bread and some cold meat, and laid them on the table. Then she steeped some tea, and, when it was ready, she put that also on the table. "Set up," she said, briefly. Walter understood from this that supper was ready, and, putting on his shoes, which were now dry, he moved his chair up. "Likely you're used to something better," said the woman. This was true, but our hero politely said that the supper looked very good, and he did not doubt he would enjoy it. "That's lucky, for it's all you will get," said the woman. "There's not much use in wasting politeness on her," thought Walter. "She won't give any in return, that's certain." The woman poured him out some tea in one of the cracked cups. "We haven't got no milk nor sugar," she said. "My man and I don't care for them." The first sip of the tea, which was quite strong, nearly caused a wry expression on Walter's face, but he managed to control himself so far as not to betray his want of relish for the beverage his hostess offered him. The only redeeming quality it had was that it was hot, and, exposed as he had been to the storm, warm drink was agreeable. "There's some bread and there's some meat," said the woman. "You can help yourself." "Are you not going to eat supper with me?" asked Walter. "No, I shall wait for Jack." She sat down in a chair before the fire, leaving Walter to take care of himself, and seemed plunged in thought. "What a strange woman!" thought Walter. "I wonder if her husband is anything like her. If he is, they must be an agreeable couple." He ate heartily of the food, and succeeded in emptying his cup of tea. He would have taken another cup if there had been milk and sugar, but it was too bitter to be inviting. "Will you have some more tea?" asked the hostess, turning round. "No, I thank you." "You miss the milk and sugar?" "I like them in tea." "We can't afford to buy them, so it's lucky we don't like them." There was a bitterness in her tone whenever she talked of money, which led Walter to avoid the topic. Evidently she was a discontented woman, angry because her lot in life was not brighter. Walter pushed his chair from the table, and sat down again before the fire. She rose and cleared the table, replacing the bread and meat in the cupboard. "Where are you going next?" she asked, after a pause. Walter mentioned the name of the place. "Have you ever been there?" he asked. "Yes." "Is it a flourishing place?" "Yes, good enough, but I haven't been there for a year. It may have burned down for all I know." "I wonder what sort of a woman she was when she was young?" thought Walter. "I wonder if she was always so unsociable?" There was silence for another hour. Walter wished it were time to go to bed, for the presence of such a woman made him feel uncomfortable. But it was too early yet to suggest retiring. At length the silence was broken by a step outside. "That's Jack," said the woman, rising hastily; and over her face there came a transient gleam of satisfaction, the first Walter had observed. Before she could reach the door it was opened, and Jack entered. Walter looked up with some curiosity to see what sort of a man the husband of this woman might be. He saw a stout man, with a face like a bull-dog's, lowering eyes, and matted red hair and beard. "They are fitly mated," thought our hero. The man stopped short as his glance rested upon Walter, and he turned quickly to his wife. "Who have you got here, Meg?" he asked, in a rough voice. "He was overtaken by the storm, and wanted me to take him in, and give him supper and lodging." "He's a boy. What brings him into these woods?" "He says he's a book-peddler." "Where are his books?" "I have sold them all," said Walter, feeling called upon to take a personal share in the conversation. "How many did you have?" "Twenty." "How much did you charge for them?" "Three dollars and a half apiece." "That's seventy dollars, isn't it?" "Yes." "Well, you can stay here all night if you want to. We aint used to keepin' a tavern, but you'll fare as well as we." "Thank you. I was afraid I might have to stay out all night." "Now, Meg, get me something to eat quick. I'm most famished." While his wife was getting out the supper again, he sat down beside the fire, and Walter had a chance to scan his rough features. There was something in his appearance that inspired distrust, and our hero wished the night were past, and he were again on his way. CHAPTER XXIX. DANGER THREATENS. After supper, which the man devoured like a wild animal, he proved more sociable. He tried in a rough, uncouth manner to make himself agreeable, and asked Walter numerous questions. "Do you like peddlin'?" he asked. "I can't tell yet," said Walter. "I haven't been at it long enough." "You can make money pretty fast?" "I don't know. Some days I expect to do well, but other days I may not sell any books. But I like travelling about from place to place." "I don't know but I should like travellin' myself," said Jack. "Hey, Meg?" "Anything better than staying in this miserable hole," said the woman. "I'm sick and tired of it." "Well, old woman, maybe we'll start off soon. You couldn't get me a chance in your business, could you?" Walter doubted strongly whether a rough, uneducated man like the one before him would be well adapted for the book business, but he did not venture to say so. "If you would like to try it," he said, "I can give you the name of the agent in Cleveland. He is authorized to employ agents, and might engage you." "Would he engage the old woman too?" "I don't know whether he has any female agents." "I couldn't do nothing sellin' books," said Meg, "nor you either. If it was something else, I might make out." "Well, we'll think about it. This aint a very cheerful place to live, as you say, and it's about time for a change." About nine o'clock Walter intimated a desire to go to bed. "I have been walking considerable to-day," he said, "and I feel tired." "I'll show you the place you're to sleep in," said the woman. She lit a candle, and left the room, followed by Walter. She led the way up a rough, unpainted staircase and opened the door of the room over the one in which they had been seated. "We don't keep a hotel," said she, "and you must shift as well as you can. We didn't ask you to stay." Looking around him, Walter found that the chamber which he had entered was as bare as the room below, if not more so. There was not even a bedstead, but in the corner there was a bed on the floor with some ragged bedclothes spread over it. "That's where you're to sleep," said the woman, pointing it out. "Thank you," said Walter. "There isn't much to thank me for. Good-night." "Good-night," said Walter. She put the candle on the mantel-piece, for there was no bureau or table in the room, and went out. "This isn't a very stylish tavern, that's a fact," thought Walter, taking a survey of the room. "I shall have a hard bed, but I guess I can stand it for one night." There was something else that troubled him more than the poor accommodations. The ill looks of his host and hostess had made a strong impression upon his mind. The particular inquiries which they had made about his success in selling books, and their strong desire for money, led him to feel apprehensive of robbery. He was in the heart of the woods, far away from assistance, and at their mercy. What could he, a boy of fifteen, do against their combined attack? He would have preferred to sleep in the woods without a shelter, rather than have placed himself in their power. Under the influence of this apprehension, he examined the door to see if there was any way of locking it. But there was neither lock nor bolt. There had been a bolt once, but there was none now. Next he looked about the room to see if there was any heavy article of furniture with which he could barricade the door. But, as has already been said, there was neither bureau nor table. In fact, there was absolutely no article of furniture except a single wooden chair, and that, of course, would be of no service. "What shall I do?" thought Walter. "That man can enter the room when I am asleep, and rob me of all my money." It was a perplexing position to be in, and might have puzzled an older and more experienced traveller than our young hero. He opened his pocket-book, and, taking out the money, counted it. There were sixty dollars and a few cents within. "Where shall I hide it?" he considered. Looking about the room, he noticed a closet, the door of which was bolted on the outside. Withdrawing the bolt he opened the door and looked in. It was nearly empty, containing only a few articles of little or no value. A plan of operations rapidly suggested itself to Walter in case the room should be entered while he was awake. In pursuance of this plan he threw a few pennies upon the floor of the closet, and then closed the door again. Next he drew from the pocket-book all the money it contained, except a single five-dollar bill. The bank notes thus removed amounted to fifty-five dollars. He then drew off his stockings, and, laying the bills in the bottom, again put them on. "He won't suspect where they are," thought Walter, in a tone of satisfaction. "If he takes my pocket-book, I can stand the loss of five dollars." He put on his shoes, that he might be ready for instant flight, if occasion required it, and threw himself down on the outside of the coverlid. If our young hero, who, I hope, will prove such if the danger which he fears actually comes, could have overheard the conversation which was even then going on between Jack and Meg, he would have felt that his apprehensions were not without cause. When the woman returned from conducting Walter to his room, she found her husband sitting moodily beside the fire. "Well, Meg," he said, looking up, "where did you put him?" "In the room above." "I hope he'll sleep sound," said Jack, with a sinister smile. "I'll go up by and by and see how he rests." "What do you mean to do?" asked Meg. "He has got seventy dollars in that pocket-book of his. It must be ours." His wife did not answer immediately, but looked thoughtfully into the fire. "Well, what do you say?" he demanded impatiently. "What do I say? That I have no objection to taking the money, if there is no danger." "What danger is there?" "He may charge us with the theft." "He can't see me take it, when his eyes are shut." "But he may not be asleep." "So much the worse for him. I must have the money. Seventy dollars is worth taking, Meg. It's more money than I've had in my hands at one time for years." "I like money as well as you, Jack; but the boy will make a fuss when he finds the money is gone." "So much the worse for him," said Jack, fiercely. "I'll stop his noise very quick." "You won't harm the lad, Jack?" said Meg, earnestly. "Why not? What is he to you?" "Nothing, but I feel an interest in him. I don't want him harmed. Rob him if you will, but don't hurt him." "What should you care about him? You never saw him before to-day." "He told me his story. He has had ill-luck, like us. His father was very rich, not long since, but he suddenly lost all his property, and this boy is obliged to go out as a book-peddler." "What has that to do with us?" "You mustn't harm him, Jack." "I suppose you would like to have him inform against us, and set the police on our track." "No, I wouldn't, and you know it." "Then he must never leave this cabin alive," said Jack. "You would not murder him?" demanded Meg, horror-struck. "Yes, I would, if there is need of it." "Then I will go up and bid him leave the house. Better turn him out into the forest than keep him here for that." She had got half way to the door when her husband sprang forward, and clutched her fiercely by the shoulder. "What are you going to do?" he growled. "You shall not kill him. I will send him away." "I have a great mind to kill you," he muttered fiercely. "No, Jack, you wouldn't do that. I'm not a very good woman, but I've been a faithful wife to you, and you wouldn't have the heart to kill me." "How do you know?" he said. "I know you wouldn't. I am not afraid for myself, but for you as well as this boy. If you killed him, you might be hung, and then what would become of me?" "What else can I do?" asked her husband, irresolutely. "Threaten him as much as you like. Make him take an oath never to inform against you. He's a boy that'll keep his oath." "What makes you think so?" "I read it in his face. It is an honest face, and it can be trusted." "Well, old woman, perhaps you are right. The other way is dangerous, and if this will work as well, I don't mind trying it. Now let us go to bed, and when the boy's had time to fall asleep, I'll go in and secure the money." CHAPTER XXX. THE ROBBER WALKS INTO A TRAP. Walter's feelings, as he lay on his hard bed on the floor, were far from pleasant. He was not sure that an attempt would be made to rob him, but the probability seemed so great that he could not compose himself to sleep. Suspense was so painful that he almost wished that Jack would come up if he intended to. He was tired, but his mental anxiety triumphed over his bodily fatigue, and he tossed about restlessly. It was about nine o'clock when he went to bed. Two hours passed, and still there were no signs of the apprehended invasion. But, five minutes later, a heavy step was heard upon the staircase, which creaked beneath the weight of the man ascending. Jack tried to come up softly, but it creaked nevertheless. Walter's heart beat quick, as he heard the steps approaching nearer and nearer. It was certainly a trying moment, that might have tested the courage of one older than our hero. Presently the door opened softly, and Jack advanced stealthily into the chamber, carrying a candle which, however, was unlighted. He reckoned upon finding Walter undressed, and his clothes hanging over the chair; but the faint light that entered through the window showed him that his intended victim had not removed his clothing. Of course this made the task of taking his pocket-book much more difficult. "Confusion!" he muttered. "The boy hasn't undressed." Walter had closed his eyes, thinking it best to appear to be asleep; but he heard this exclamation, and it satisfied him of Jack's dishonest intentions. The robber paused a moment, and then, stooping over, inserted his hand into Walter's pocket. He drew out the pocket-book, Walter making no sign of being aware of what was going on. "I've got it," muttered Jack, with satisfaction, and stealthily retraced his steps to the door. He went out, carefully closing it after him, and again the steps creaked beneath his weight. "I'm afraid he'll come back when he finds how little there is in it," thought Walter. "If so, I must trust to my plan." Meg looked up with interest when her husband re-entered the room. She had been listening with nervous interest, fearing that there might be violence done. She had been relieved to hear no noise, and to see her husband returning quietly. "Have you got the pocket-book?" she asked. "Yes, Meg," he said, displaying it. "He went to bed with his clothes on, but I pulled it out of his pocket, as he lay asleep, and he will be none the wiser." "How much is there in it?" "I'm going to see. I haven't opened it yet." He opened the pocket-book, and uttered a cry of disappointment. "That's all," he said, displaying the five-dollar bill. "He must have had more." "He did have more. When he paid me the dollar for stoppin' here, he took it from a roll of bills." "What's he done with 'em, the young rascal?" "Perhaps he had another pocket-book. But that's the one he took out when he paid me." "I must go up again, Meg. He had seventy dollars, and I'm goin' to have the rest. Five dollars won't pay me for the trouble of stealin' it." "Don't hurt the boy, Jack." "I will, if he don't fork over the money," said her husband, fiercely. There was no longer any thought of concealment. It was necessary to wake Walter to find out where he had put the money. So Jack went upstairs boldly, not trying to soften the noise of his steps now, angry to think that he had been put to this extra trouble. Walter heard him coming, and guessed what brought him back. I will not deny that he felt nervous, but he determined to act manfully, whatever might be the result. He breathed a short prayer to God for help, for he knew that in times of peril he is the only sufficient help. The door was thrown open, and Jack strode in, bearing in his hand a candle, this time lighted. He advanced to the bed, and, bending over, shook Walter vigorously. "What's the matter?" asked our hero, this time opening his eyes, and assuming a look of surprise. "Is it time to get up?" "It's time for you to get up." "It isn't morning, is it?" "No; but I've got something to say to you." "Well," said Walter, sitting up in the bed, "I'm ready." "Where've you put that money you had last night?" "Why do you want to know?" demanded Walter, eying his host fixedly. "No matter why I want to know," said Jack, impatiently. "Tell me, if you know what's best for yourself." Walter put his hand in his pocket. "It was in my pocket-book," he said; "but it's gone." "Here is your pocket-book," said Jack, producing it. "Did you take it out of my pocket? What made you take it?" "None of your impudence, boy!" "Is it impudent to ask what made you take my property?" said Walter, firmly. "Yes, it is," said Jack, with an oath. "Do you mean to steal my money?" "Yes, I do; and the sooner you hand it over the better." "You have got my pocket-book already." "Perhaps you think I am green," sneered Jack. "I found only five dollars." "Then you had better give it back to me. Five dollars isn't worth taking." "You're a cool one, and no mistake," said Jack, surveying our hero with greater respect than he had before manifested. "Do you know that I could wring your neck?" "Yes, I suppose you could," said Walter, quietly. "You are a great deal stronger than I am." "Aint you afraid of me?" "I don't think I am. Why should I be?" "What's to hinder my killin' you? We're alone in the woods, far from help." "I don't think you'll do it," said Walter, meeting his gaze steadily. "You aint a coward, boy; I'll say that for you. Some boys of your age would be scared to death if they was in your place." "I don't think I am a coward," said Walter, quietly. "Are you going to give me back that pocket-book?" "Not if I know it; but I'll tell you what you're goin' to do." "What's that?" "Hunt up the rest of that money, and pretty quick too." "What makes you think I have got any more money?" "Didn't you tell me you sold twenty books, at three dollars and a half? That makes seventy dollars, accordin' to my reckonin'." "You're right there; but I have sent to Cleveland for some more books, and had to send the money with the order." This staggered the robber at first, till he remembered what his wife had told him. "That don't go down," he said roughly. "The old woman saw a big roll of bills when you paid her for your lodgin'. You haven't had any chance of payin' them away." Walter recalled the covetous glance of the woman when he displayed the bills, and he regretted too late his imprudence in revealing the amount of money he had with him. He saw that it was of no use to attempt to deceive Jack any longer. It might prove dangerous, and could do no good. "I have some more money," he said; "but I hope you will let me keep it." "What made you take it out of your pocket-book?" "Because I thought I should have a visit from you." "What made you think so?" demanded Jack, rather surprised. "I can't tell, but I expected a visit, so I took out most of my money and hid it." "Then you'd better find it again. I can't wait here all night. Is it in your other pocket?" "No." "Is that all you can say? Get up, and find me that money, or it'll be the worse for you." "Then give me the pocket-book and five dollars. I can't get along if you take all my money." Jack reflected that he could easily take away the pocket-book again, and decided to comply with our hero's request as an inducement for him to find the other money. "Here it is," he said. "Now get me the rest." "I hid some money in that closet," said Walter. "I thought you would think of looking there." No sooner was the closet pointed out than Jack eagerly strode towards it and threw open the door. He entered it, and began to peer about him, holding the candle in his hand. "Where did you put it?" he inquired, turning to question Walter. But he had scarcely spoken when our hero closed the door hastily, and, before Jack could recover from his surprise, had bolted it on the outside. To add to the discomfiture of the imprisoned robber, the wind produced by the violent slamming of the door blew out the candle, and he found himself a captive, in utter darkness. "Let me out, or I'll murder you!" he roared, kicking the barrier that separated him from his late victim, now his captor. Walter saw that there was no time to lose. The door, though strong, would probably soon give way before the strength of his prisoner. When the liberation took place, he must be gone. He held the handle of his carpet-bag between his teeth, and, getting out of the window, hung down. The distance was not great, and he alighted upon the ground without injury. Without delay he plunged into the woods, not caring in what direction he went, as long as it carried him away from his dishonest landlord. CHAPTER XXXI. WALTER'S ESCAPE. Though Walter was in a room on the second floor, the distance to the ground was not so great but that he could easily hang from the window-sill and jump without injury. Before following him in his flight, we will pause to inquire how the robber, unexpectedly taken captive, fared. Nothing could have surprised Jack more than this sudden turning of the tables. But a minute since Walter was completely in his power. Now, through the boy's coolness and nerve, his thievish intentions were baffled, and he was placed in the humiliating position of a prisoner in his own house. "Open the door, or I'll murder you!" he roared, kicking it violently. There was no reply, for Walter was already half way out of the window, and did not think it best to answer. Jack kicked again, but the door was a strong one, and, though it shook, did not give way. "Draw the bolt, I say," roared the captive again, appending an oath, "or I'll wring your neck." But our hero was already on the ground, and speeding away into the shelter of the friendly woods. If any man was thoroughly mad, that man was Jack. It was not enough that he had been ingloriously defeated, but the most galling thing about it was that this had been done by a boy. "I'll make him pay for this!" muttered Jack, furiously. He saw that Walter had no intention of releasing him, and that his deliverance must come from himself. He kicked furiously, and broke through one of the panels of the door; but still the bolt held, and continued to hold, though he threw himself against the door with all his force. Meanwhile his wife below had listened intently, at the bottom of the staircase, not without anxiety as to the result. She was a woman, and, though by no means of an amiable disposition, she was not without some humanity. She knew her husband's brutal temper, and she feared that Walter would come to harm. Part of her anxiety was selfish, to be sure, for she dreaded the penalty for her husband; but she was partly actuated by a feeling of rough good-will towards her young guest. She didn't mind his being robbed, for she felt that in some way she had been cheated out of that measure of worldly prosperity which was her due, and she had no particular scruple as to the means of getting even with the world. The fact that Walter, too, had suffered bad fortune increased her good-will towards him, and made her more reluctant that he should be ill-treated. At first, as she listened, and while the conversation was going on, she heard nothing to excite her alarm. But when her husband had been locked in the closet, and began to kick at the door, there was such a noise that Meg, though misapprehending the state of things, got frightened. "He's killing the poor boy, I'm afraid," she said, clasping her hands. "Why, why need he be so violent? I told him not to harm him." Next she heard Jack's voice in angry tones, but could not understand what he said. This was followed by a fresh shower of kicks at the resisting door. "I would go up if I dared," she thought; "but I am afraid I should see the poor boy dying." She feared, also, her husband's anger at any interference; for, as she had reason to know, his temper was not of the gentlest. So she stood anxiously at the foot of the staircase, and continued to listen. Meanwhile Jack, finding he could not release himself readily, bethought himself of his wife. "Meg!" he called out, in stentorian tones. His wife heard the summons and made haste to obey it. She hurried upstairs, and, opening the chamber door, found herself, to her surprise, in darkness. "Where are you, Jack?" she asked, in some bewilderment. "Here," answered her husband. "Where?" asked Meg; for the tones were muffled by the interposition of the door, and she could not get a clear idea of where her husband was. "In the closet, you fool! Come and open the door," was the polite reply. Wondering how her husband could have got into the closet, and, also, what had become of Walter, she advanced hastily to the closet-door, and drew the bolt. Jack dashed out furiously, cursing in a manner I shall not repeat. "How came you here, Jack?" asked his wife. "Where's the boy?" It was so dark that he could not readily discover Walter's flight. He strode to the bedstead, and, kneeling down, began to feel about for him. "Curse it, the boy's gone!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you stop him?" This he said on supposition that Walter had escaped by the stairs. "I don't know what you mean. I've seen nothing of the boy. Wasn't he here when you came up?" "Yes, he was, but now he's gone. He must have got out of the window," he added, with a sudden thought. "I don't understand it," said Meg. "How came you shut up in that closet?" "The boy sent me in on a fool's errand, and then locked me in." "Tell me about it, Jack." Her husband rehearsed the story, heaping execrations upon his own folly for being outwitted by a boy. "But you've got the pocket-book and the five dollars," said his wife, by way of comforting him. "No, I haven't. I gave them back to him, to get him to tell me where the rest of the money was. I meant to take it away from him again." "Then he's escaped with all his money?" "Yes," growled Jack; "he's fooled me completely. But it isn't too late. I may catch him yet. He's hiding in the woods somewhere. If I do get hold of him, I'll give him something to remember me by. I'll learn him to fool me." "I wouldn't go out to-night, Jack," said his wife. "It's most twelve." "If I don't go now, I'll lose him. Go downstairs, Meg, and light the candle." "Did he have the money with him?" "He said he hid it." "Then perhaps he left it behind him. He had to go away in a hurry." "That's so, Meg. Hurry down, and light the candle, and we'll hunt for it." The suggestion was a reasonable one, and Jack caught at it. If the money were left behind, it would repay him in part for his mortification at having been fooled by a boy, and he might be tempted to let him go. What vexed him most was the idea of having been baffled completely; and the discovery of the money would go far to make things even. Meg came up with the lighted candle; and they commenced a joint search, first in the closet, where they found the five pennies which Walter had thrown on the floor, and, afterwards, about the room, and particularly the bedding. But the roll of bills was nowhere to be found. Walter had, as we know, carried it away with him. This was the conclusion to which the seekers were ultimately brought. "The money aint anywhere here," said Jack. "The boy's got it with him." "Likely he has," said Meg. "I'm goin' for him," said her husband. "Go downstairs, Meg, and I'll foller." "You'd better wait till mornin', Jack," said his wife. "You're a fool!" he said, unceremoniously. "If I wait till daylight, he'll be out of the woods, and I can't catch him." "There isn't much chance now. It's dark, and you won't be likely to find him." "I'll risk that. Anyhow, I'm goin' and so you needn't say any more about it." Jack descended to the room below, put on his boots and hat, and, opening the outer door, sallied out into the darkness. He paused before the door in uncertainty. "I wish I knowed which way he went," he muttered. There seemed little to determine the choice of direction on the part of the fugitive. There was no regular path, as Jack and his wife were the only dwellers in the forest who had occasion to use one, except such as occasionally strayed in from the outer world. There was, indeed, a path slightly marked, but this Walter could not see in the darkness. Nevertheless, as chance would have it, he struck into it and followed it for some distance. Having nothing else to determine his course, it was only natural that Jack should take this path. Now that he was already started on his expedition, and found the natural darkness of the night deepened and made more intense by the thick foliage of the forest trees, he realized that his chances of coming upon Walter were by no means encouraging. But he kept on with dogged determination. "I'd like to catch the young rascal, even if I don't get a penny of the money," he said to himself. He resolved, in case he was successful, first, to give his victim a severe beating, and next, to convey him home, and keep him for weeks a close prisoner in the very closet in which he had himself been confined. The thought of such an appropriate vengeance yielded him considerable satisfaction, and stimulated him to keep up the search. CHAPTER XXXII. A STRANGE HIDING-PLACE. Meanwhile Walter had the advantage of quarter of an hour's start of his pursuer. Jack had indeed been released within five minutes, but he had consumed ten minutes more in searching for the money. It was too dark, however, to make rapid progress. Still Walter pushed on, resolved to put as great a distance as possible between the cabin and himself, for he anticipated pursuit, and judged that, if caught, he would fare badly for the trick he had played upon his host. He had proceeded perhaps half a mile when he stopped to rest. Two or three times he had tripped over projecting roots which the darkness prevented his seeing in time to avoid. "I'll rest a few minutes, and then push on," he thought. It was late, but the excitement of his position prevented him from feeling sleepy. He wished to get out of the woods into some road or open field, where he would be in less danger of encountering Jack, and where perhaps he might find assistance against him. He was leaning against an immense tree, one of the largest and oldest in the forest. Walter began idly to examine it. He discovered, by feeling, that it was hollow inside. Curiosity led him to examine farther. He ascertained that the interior was eaten out by gradual decay, making a large hollow space inside. "I shouldn't wonder if I could get in," he said to himself. He made the attempt, and found that he was correct in his supposition. He could easily stand erect inside. "That is curious," thought Walter. "The tree must be very old." He emerged from the trunk, and once more threw himself down beside it. Five minutes later and his attention was drawn by a sound of approaching footsteps. Then came an oath, which sounded startlingly near. It was uttered by Jack, who had tripped over a root, and was picking himself up in no very good humor. The enemy, it appeared, was close upon him. Walter started to his feet in dismay. His first thought was immediate flight, but if he were heard by Jack, the latter would no doubt be able to run him down. "What shall I do?" thought Walter, in alarm. Quickly the hollow trunk occurred to him. He seized his carpet-bag, and with as little delay as possible concealed himself in the interior. He was just in time, for Jack was by this time only a few rods distant. Walter counted upon his passing on; but on reaching the old tree Jack paused, and said aloud, "Where can the young rascal be? I wonder if I have passed him? I'll rest here five minutes. He may straggle along." With these words he sank upon the ground, in the very same place where Walter had been reclining two minutes before. He was so near that our hero could have put out his hand and touched him. It was certainly a very uncomfortable situation for Walter. He hardly dared to breathe or to stir lest his enemy should hear him. "He's led me a pretty tramp," muttered Jack. "I'm as tired as a dog, but I'm bound to get hold of him to-night. If I do, I'll half kill him." "Then I hope you won't get hold of him," Walter ejaculated inwardly. He began to wish he had run on instead of seeking this concealment. In the first case, the darkness of the night would have favored him, and even if Jack had heard him it was by no means certain that he would have caught him. Now an unlucky movement or a cough would betray his hiding-place, and there would be no chance of escape. He began to feel his constrained position irksome, but did not dare to seek relief by change of posture. "I wish he'd go," thought our hero. But Jack was in no hurry. He appeared to wish to waylay Walter, and was constantly listening to catch the sound of his approach. At last a little relief came. A sound was heard, which Jack suspected might proceed from his late guest. He started to his feet, and walked a few steps away. Walter availed himself of this opportunity to change his position a little. "It isn't he," said Jack, disappointed. "Perhaps he's gone another way." He did not throw himself down this time, but remained standing, in evident uncertainty. At length Walter was relieved to hear him say, "Well, I shan't catch him by stopping here, that's sure." Then he started, and Walter, listening intently, heard the sound of his receding steps. When sufficient time had elapsed, he ventured out from his concealment, and stopped to consider the situation. What should he do? It was hardly prudent to go on, for it would only bring him nearer to the enemy. If he ventured back, he would be farther away from the edge of the woods, and might encounter Meg, who might also be in pursuit. He did not feel in danger of capture from this quarter, but the woman might find means of communicating with her husband. On the whole, it seemed safest, for the present at least, to stick to the friendly tree which had proved so good a protector. He stood beside it, watching carefully, intending, whenever peril threatened, to take instant refuge inside. This was not particularly satisfactory, but he hoped Jack would soon tire of the pursuit, and retrace his steps towards the cabin. If he should do that, he would then be safe in continuing his flight. Jack pushed on, believing that our hero was in advance. It had been a fatiguing day, and this made his present midnight tramp more disagreeable. His hopes of overtaking Walter became fainter and fainter, and nature began to assert her rights. A drowsiness which he found it hard to combat assailed him, and he found he must yield to it for a time at least. "I wish I was at home, and in bed," he muttered. "I'll lie down and take a short nap, and then start again." He threw himself down on the ground, and no longer resisted the approaches of sleep. In five minutes his senses were locked in a deep slumber, which, instead of a short nap, continued for several hours. While he is sleeping we will go back to Walter. He, too, was sleepy, and would gladly have laid down and slept if he had dared. But he felt the peril of his position too sensibly to give way to his feelings. He watched vigilantly for an hour, but nothing could be seen of Jack. That hour seemed to him to creep with snail-like pace. "I can't stand this watching till morning," he said to himself. "I will find some out-of-the-way place, and try to sleep a little." Searching about he found such a place as he desired. He lay down, and was soon fast asleep. So pursuer and pursued had yielded to the spell of the same enchantress, and half a mile distant from each other were enjoying welcome repose. Some hours passed away. The sun rose, and its rays lighted up the dim recesses of the forest. When Walter opened his eyes he could not at first remember where he was. He lifted his head from his carpet-bag which he had used as a pillow, and looked around him in surprise; but recollection quickly came to his aid. "I must have been sleeping several hours," he said to himself, "for it is now morning. I wonder if the man who was after me has gone home?" He decided that this was probable, and resolved to make an attempt to reach the edge of the forest. He wanted to get into the region of civilization again, if for no other reason, because he felt hungry, and was likely to remain so as long as he continued in the forest. He now felt fresh and strong, and, taking his carpet-bag in his hand, prepared to start on his journey. But he had scarcely taken a dozen steps when a female figure stepped out from a covert, and he found himself face to face with Meg. Not knowing but that her husband might be close behind, he started back in alarm and hesitation. She observed this, and said, "You needn't be afraid, boy. I don't want to harm you." "Is your husband with you?" asked Walter, on his guard. "No, he isn't. He started out after you before midnight, and hasn't been back since. That made me uneasy, and I came out to look for him." "I have seen him," said Walter. "Where and when?" asked the woman, eagerly. It was strange that such a coarse brute should have inspired any woman with love, but Meg did certainly love her husband, in spite of his frequent bad treatment. "It must have been within an hour of the time I left your house. He stopped under that tree. That was where I saw him." "Did he see you?" "No, I was hidden." "How long did he stay?" "Only a few minutes, to get rested, I suppose. Then he went on." "In what direction?" "That way." "I am glad he did not harm you. He was so angry when he started that I was afraid of what would happen if he met you. You must keep out of his way." "That is what I mean to do if I can," said Walter. "Can you tell me the shortest way out of the woods?" "Go in that direction," said the woman, pointing, "and half a mile will bring you out." "It is rather hard to follow a straight path in the woods. If you will act as my guide, I will give you a dollar." Meg hesitated. "If my husband should find out that I helped you to escape, he would be very angry." "Why need he know? You needn't tell him you met me." The woman hesitated. Finally love of money prevailed. "I'll do it," she said, abruptly. "Follow me." She took the lead, and Walter followed closely in her steps. Remembering the night before, he was not wholly assured of her good faith, and resolved to keep his eyes open, and make his escape instantly if he should see any signs of treachery. Possibly Meg might intend to lead him into a trap, and deliver him up to her husband. He was naturally trustful, but his adventures in the cabin taught him a lesson of distrust. CHAPTER XXXIII. WALTER SHOWS STRATEGY. Walter followed Meg through the woods. He felt sure that he would not have far to go to reach the open fields. He had been delayed heretofore, not by the distance, but by not knowing in what direction to go. Few words were spoken between him and Meg. Remembering what had happened at the cabin, and that even now he was fleeing from her husband, he did not feel inclined to be sociable, and her thoughts were divided between the money she was to be paid as the price of her services, and her husband, for whose prolonged absence she could not account. After walking for fifteen minutes, they came to the edge of the forest. Skirting it was a meadow, wet in parts, for the surface was low. "Where is the road?" asked Walter. "You'll have to cross this meadow, and you'll come to it. It isn't mor'n quarter of a mile. You'll find your way well enough without me." Walter felt relieved at the prospect of a speedy return to the region of civilization. It seemed to him as if he had passed the previous night far away in some wild frontier cabin, instead of in the centre of a populous and thriving neighborhood, within a few miles of several flourishing villages. He drew out a dollar-bill, and offered it to Meg. "This is the money I agreed to pay you," he said. "Thank you, besides." "You haven't much cause to thank me," she said, abruptly. "I would have robbed you if I had the chance." "I am sorry for that," said Walter. "Money got in that way never does any good." "Money is sure to do good, no matter how it comes," said the woman, fiercely. "Think of what it will buy!--a comfortable home, ease, luxury, respect. Some time before I die I hope to have as much as I want." "I hope you will," said Walter; "but I don't think you will find it as powerful as you think." His words might as well have remained unspoken, for she paid no attention to them. She seemed to be listening intently. Suddenly she clutched his arm. "I hear my husband's steps," she said, hurriedly. "Fly, or it will be the worse for you." "Thank you for the caution," said Walter, roused to the necessity of immediate action. "Don't stop to thank me. Go!" she said, stamping her foot impatiently. He obeyed at once, and started on a run across the meadow. A minute later, Jack came in sight. "What, Meg, are you here?" he said, in surprise. "Yes; I got anxious about you, because you did not come home. I was afraid something had happened to you." "What could happen to me?" he retorted, contemptuously. "I'm not a baby. Have you seen the boy?" He did not wait for an answer, for, looking across the meadow, he saw the flying figure of our hero. "There he is, now!" he exclaimed, in a tone of fierce satisfaction. "Let him go, Jack!" pleaded Meg, who, in spite of herself, felt a sympathy for the boy who, like herself, had been unfortunate. He threw off the hand which she had placed upon his arm, saying, contemptuously, "You're a fool!" and then dashed off in pursuit of Walter. Walter had the start, and had already succeeded in placing two hundred yards between himself and his pursuer. But Jack was strong and athletic, and could run faster than a boy of fifteen, and the distance between the two constantly diminished. Walter looked over his shoulder, as he ran, and, brave as he was, there came over him a sickening sensation of fear as he met the fierce, triumphant glance of his enemy. "Stop!" called out Jack, hoarsely. Walter did not answer, neither did he obey. He was determined to hold out to the last, and when he surrendered it would be only as a measure of necessity. "Are you going to stop or not? You'd better," growled Jack. [Illustration] Walter still remained silent; but his heart bounded with sudden hope as he saw before him a means of possible escape. Only a few rods in advance was a deep ditch, at least twelve feet wide, over which a single plank was thrown as a bridge for foot-passengers. Walter summoned his energies, and sped like a deer forward and over the bridge, when, stooping down, he hastily pulled it over after him, thus cutting off his enemy's advance. Jack saw his intention, and tried to reach the edge of the ditch soon enough to prevent it. But he was just too late. Baffled and enraged, he looked across the gulf which separated him from his intended victim. "Put back that plank," he roared, with an oath. "I would rather not," said Walter, who stood facing him on the other side, hot and excited. "I'll kill you if I get at you," said Jack, shaking his fist menacingly. "What have I done to you?" asked Walter, quietly. "Why do you want to harm me?" "Didn't you lock me up in the closet last night?" "You wanted to take my money." "I'll have it yet." "It was all I could do," said Walter, who did not wish to excite any additional anger in his already irritated foe. "I haven't got but a little money, and I wanted to keep it." "Money isn't the only thing you may lose," said the ruffian, significantly. "Put back that plank. Do you hear me?" "Yes," said Walter; "I hear, but I cannot do it." "You're playin' a dangerous game, young one," said Jack. "Perhaps you think I can't get over." "I don't think you can," said Walter, glancing at the width of the ditch. "You may find yourself mistaken." Walter did not answer. "Will you put back that plank?" demanded Jack, once more. "No," answered Walter. "You'll be sorry for it then, you young cub!" said Jack, fiercely. He walked back about fifty feet, and then faced round. His intention was clear enough. He meant to jump over the ditch. Could he do it? That was the question which suggested itself to the anxious consideration of our hero. If the ground had been firm on the other side, such a jump for a grown man would not have been by any means a remarkable one. But the soft, spongy soil was unfavorable for a spring. Still it was possible that Jack might succeed. If he did, was there any help for Walter? Our hero took the plank, and put it over his shoulder, moving with it farther down the edge. An idea had occurred to him, which had not yet suggested itself to Jack, or the latter might have been less confident of success. Jack stood still for a moment, and then, gathering up his strength, dashed forward. Arrived at the brink, he made a spring, but the soft bank yielded him no support. He fell short of the opposite bank by at least two feet, and, to his anger and disgust, landed in the water and slime at the bottom of the ditch. With a volley of execrations, he scrambled out, landing at last, but with the loss of one boot, which had been drawn off by the clinging mud in which it had become firmly planted. Still he was on the same side with Walter, and the latter was now in his power. This was what he thought; but an instant later he saw his mistake. Walter had stretched the plank over the ditch a few rods further up, and was passing over it in safety. Jack ran hastily to the spot, hoping to gain possession of the plank which had been of such service to his opponent, and want of which had entailed such misfortunes upon him. But Walter was too quick for him. The plank was drawn over, and again he faced his intended victim with the width of the ditch between. He looked across at Walter with a glance of baffled rage. It was something new to him to be worsted by a boy, and it mortified him and angered him to such an extent that, had he got hold of him at that moment, murder might have been committed. "Put down that plank, and come across," he called out. Walter did not reply. "Why don't you answer, you rascal?" "You know well enough what I would say," said Walter. "I don't care to come." "I shall get hold of you sooner or later." "Perhaps you will," said Walter; "but not if I can help it." "You're on the wrong side of the ditch. You can't escape." "So are you on the wrong side. You can't get home without crossing." "I can keep you there all day." "I can stand it as well as you," said Walter. He felt bolder than at first, for he appreciated the advantage which he had in possessing the plank. True the situation was not a comfortable one, and he would have gladly exchanged it for one that offered greater security. Still, on the whole, he felt cool and calm, and waited patiently for the issue. CHAPTER XXXIV. DELIVERANCE. Jack might have waded back again across the ditch without inflicting much additional damage upon his already wet and miry clothing; but he fancied that Walter was in his power, and hoped he would capitulate. To this end, he saw that it was necessary to reassure him, and deceive him as to his own intentions. "Come across, boy," he said, softening his tone. "You needn't be afraid. I didn't mean nothing. I was only tryin' to see if I couldn't frighten you a little." "I'm very well off where I am," said Walter. "I think I'll stay where I am." "You won't want to stay there all day." "I'd rather stay here all day than be on the same side with you." "You needn't be afraid." "I am not afraid," said Walter. "You think I want to hurt you." "I think I am safer on this side." "Come, boy, I'll make a bargain with you. You've put me to a good deal of trouble." "I don't see that." "You locked me up in the closet, and you've kept me all night huntin' after you." "You were not obliged to hunt after me, and as for locking you up in the closet, it was the only way I had of saving my money." Jack did not care to answer Walter's argument, but proceeded: "Now I've got you sure, but I'll do the fair thing. If you'll come across and pay me ten dollars for my trouble, I'll let you go without hurtin' you." "What's to prevent you taking all my money, if you get me over there?" "Haven't I said I wouldn't?" "You might forget your promise," said Walter, whose confidence in Jack's word was by no means great. A man who would steal probably would not be troubled by many scruples on the subject of violating his word. "If you don't come, I'll take every cent, and give you a beating beside," said Jack, his anger gaining the ascendency. "Well, what are you goin' to do about it?" demanded Jack, after a brief pause. "I'll stay where I am." "I can come over any time, and get hold of you." "Perhaps you can," said Walter. "I'll take the risk." "I'll wait a while," thought Jack. "He'll come round after a while." He sat down, and taking a clay pipe from his pocket, filled the bowl with tobacco, and commenced smoking. Walter perceived that he was besieged, but kept cool, and clung to his plank, which was his only hope of safety. He began to speculate as to the length of time the besieging force would hold out. He was already hungry, and there was a prospect of his being starved into a surrender, or there would have been, if luckily his opponent had not been also destitute of provisions. In fact, the besieging party soon became disorganized from this cause. A night in the open air had given keenness to Jack's appetite, and he felt an uncomfortable craving for food. "I wish Meg would come along," he muttered. "I feel empty." But Meg did not come. She stood for a few minutes in the edge of the woods, and watched her husband's pursuit of Walter. She saw his failure to overtake his intended victim, and this made her easier in her mind. I do not wish to represent her as better than she was. Her anxiety was chiefly for her husband. She did not wish him to commit any act of violence which would put him without the pale of the law. It was this consideration, rather than a regard for Walter's safety, that influenced her, though she felt some slight interest in our hero. She went home, feeling that she could do no good in staying. Jack resented her disappearance. "She might know I wanted some breakfast," he growled to himself. "As long as she gets enough to eat herself, she cares little for me." This censure was not deserved. Meg was not a good woman, but she was devoted to the coarse brute whom she called husband, and was at any time ready to sacrifice her own comfort to his. Two hours passed, and still besieger and besieged eyed each other from opposite sides of the bank. Jack grew more and more irritable as the cravings of his appetite increased, and the slight hope that Meg might appear with some breakfast was dissipated. Walter also became more hungry, but showed no signs of impatience. At this time a boy was seen coming across the meadow. Jack espied him, and the idea struck him that he might through him lay in a stock of provisions. "Come here, boy," he said. "Where do you live?" The boy pointed to a small farm-house half a mile distant. "Do you want to earn some money?" "I dunno," said the boy, who had no objections to the money, but, knowing Jack's shady reputation, was in doubt as to what was expected of him. "Go home, and get a loaf of bread and some cold meat, and bring me, and I'll give you half a dollar." "Didn't you bring your luncheon?" asked the boy. "No, I came away without it, and I can't spare time to go back." It occurred to the boy, noticing Jack's lazy posture, that business did not appear to be very driving with the man whose time was so valuable. "Perhaps mother won't give me the bread and meat," he said. "You can give her half the money." The boy looked across to Walter, wondering what kept him on the other side. Our hero saw a chance of obtaining help. "I'll give you a dollar," he called out, "if you'll go and tell somebody that this man is trying to rob me of all my money. I slept in his house last night, and he tried to rob me there. Now he will do the same if he can get hold of me." "If you tell that, I'll wring your neck," exclaimed Jack. "It's all a lie. The boy slept at my house, as he says, and stole some money from me. He escaped, but I'm bound to get it back if I stay here all day." "That is not true," said Walter. "Carry my message, and I will give you a dollar, and will, besides, reward the men that come to my assistance." The boy looked from one to the other in doubt what to do. "If you want your head broke, you'll do as he says," said Jack, rather uneasy. "He won't pay what he promises." "You shall certainly be paid," said Walter. "You'd better shut up, or it'll be the worse for you," growled Jack. "Go and get my breakfast quick, boy, and I'll pay you the fifty cents." "All right," said the boy, "I'll go." He turned, but when he was behind Jack, so that the latter could not observe him, he made a sign to Walter that he would do as he wished. Fifteen minutes later Jack rose to his feet. An idea had occurred to him. At the distance of a furlong there was a rail-fence. It occurred to him that one of these rails would enable him to cross the ditch, and get at his victim. He was not afraid Walter would escape, since he could easily turn back and capture him if he ventured across. Walter did not understand his design in leaving the ditch. Was it possible that he meant to raise the siege? This seemed hardly probable. He watched, with some anxiety, the movements of his foe, fearing some surprise. When Jack reached the fence, and began to pull out one of the rails he understood his object. His position was evidently becoming more dangerous. Jack came back with a triumphant smile upon his face. "Now, you young cub," he said, "I've got you!" Walter watched him warily, and lowered the plank, ready to convert it into a bridge as soon as necessary. Jack put down the rail. It was long enough to span the ditch, but was rather narrow, so that some caution was needful in crossing it. Walter had moved several rods farther up, and thrown the plank across. Though his chances of escape from the peril that menaced him seemed to have diminished since his enemy was also provided with a bridge and it became now a question of superior speed, Walter was not alarmed. Indeed his prospects of deliverance appeared brighter than ever, for he caught sight of two men approaching across the meadow, and he suspected that they were sent by the boy whom he had hired. These men had not yet attracted the attention of Jack, whose back was turned towards them. He crossed the rail, and, at the same time, Walter crossed the plank. This he threw across, and then, leaving it on the bank, set out on a quick run. "Now I'll catch him," thought Jack, with exultation; but he quickly caught sight of our hero's reinforcements. He saw that his game was up, and he abandoned it. His reputation was too well known in the neighborhood for the story he had told to the boy to gain credence. He was forced to content himself with shaking his fist at Walter, and then, in discomfiture, returned to the woods, where he made up for his disappointment by venting his spite on Meg. She would have fared worse, had he known that Walter had found his way out of the wood through her guidance. CHAPTER XXXV. THE LAST OF JACK MANGUM. "What's the matter?" asked one of the two men as Walter came up. "I got lost in the woods, and passed the night in that man's house," said our hero. "He tried to rob me, but I locked him in the closet, and jumped out of the window and escaped. This morning he got on my track, and would have caught me but for the ditch." "You locked him in the closet!" repeated the other. "How were you able to do that? You are only a boy, while he is a strong man." Walter explained the matter briefly. "That was pretty smart," said Peter Halcomb, for this was the name of the man who questioned him. "You're able to take care of yourself." "I don't know how it would turn out, if you hadn't come up." "I happened to be at home when my boy came and told me that Jack Mangum had offered him fifty cents for some breakfast. He told me about you also, and, as I suspected Jack was up to some of his tricks, I came along." "I am very much obliged to you," said Walter, "and I hope you'll let me pay you for your trouble." "I don't want any pay, but you may pay my boy what you promised him, if you want to." "I certainly will; and I never paid away money with more pleasure. As I haven't had anything to eat since yesterday afternoon, I should like to have you direct me to the nearest place where I can get some breakfast." "Come to my house; I guess my wife can scare up some breakfast for you. She'll be glad to see the boy that got the better of Jack Mangum." "How long has this Jack Mangum lived about here?" asked Walter, after accepting with thanks the offer of a breakfast. "About five years. He's been in the county jail twice during that time, and there's a warrant out for him now. He's a confirmed thief. He'd rather steal any time than earn an honest living." "Has he ever stolen anything from you?" "I've missed some of my chickens from time to time, and, though I didn't catch him taking them, I've no doubt he was the thief. Once I lost a lamb, and I suppose it went in the same direction." "So there is a warrant out for him now?" "Yes, and I expect he'll be taken in a day or two. In that case he'll have the privilege of a few months' free board in the county jail." "Where is the jail?" "In T----." "That's the town I'm going to." "Is it? Do your folks live there?" "No, I'm travelling on business." "What's your business?" asked the farmer. The question was an abrupt one, but was not meant to be rude. In country towns everybody feels that he has a right to become acquainted with the business of any one with whom he comes in contact, even in its minutest details. Walter understood this, having himself lived in a country village, and answered without taking offence:-- "I am a book-agent." "Be you? How do you make it pay?" "Pretty well, but I can tell better by and by; I've only been in it a week." "You're pretty young to be a book-peddler Where do your folks live?" "In New York." "You've come some ways from home." "Yes; I thought I should like to see the country." "How old are you?" "Fifteen." "You'll make a smart man if you keep on." "I hope I shall," said Walter, modestly; "but I am afraid you overrate me." "I'll tell you what I judge from. A boy of fifteen that can get the better of Jack Mangum is smart, and no mistake." "I hope I shall realize your prediction," returned Walter, who naturally felt pleased with the compliment. Like most boys, he liked to be considered smart, although he did not allow himself to be puffed up by inordinate ideas of his own importance, as is the case with many of his age. While this conversation was going on, they had been walking towards the farm-house in which Peter Holcomb lived. It was an humble one-story building, with an attic above. On each side of it were broad fields, some under cultivation; and there was an appearance of thrift and comfort despite the smallness of the house. "Come in," said Peter, leading the way. "John," he added, addressing the hired man, who had accompanied him, "you may go into the potato field and hoe. I'll be out directly." Walter followed him into a broad, low room,--the kitchen,--in which Mrs. Holcomb, a pleasant looking woman, was engaged in cooking. "Mary," said her husband, "can't you scare up some breakfast for this young man? He stopped at Jack Mangum's last night, and didn't like his accommodations well enough to stay to breakfast." "You don't say so," repeated Mrs. Holcomb her countenance expressing curiosity. "That's about the last place I'd want to stop at." "I shouldn't want to go there again," said Walter; "but I didn't know anything about the man, or I would rather have stayed out in the woods." "Well, Mary, how about the breakfast?" "I guess I can find some," said she. "Sit right down here, and I'll see what I can do for you." She went to the pantry, and speedily reappeared with some cold meat, a loaf of bread, and some fresh butter, which she placed on the table. "I've got some hot water," she said, "and, in about five minutes, I can give you some warm tea. It won't be much of a breakfast, but if you'll stop for dinner, I can give you something better." "It looks nice," said Walter, "and I don't know when I have been so hungry." At this moment the farmer's boy, who had served as Walter's messenger, came into the kitchen. "You got away," he said, smiling. "Yes, thanks to you," said Walter. "Here is what I promised you." "I don't know as I ought to take it," said the boy, hesitating, though he evidently wanted it. "You will do me a favor by accepting it," said Walter. "You got me out of a bad scrape. Besides, you had a chance to earn some money from Jack Mangum." "I wouldn't have done anything for him, at any rate. He's a thief." Finally Peter, for he was named after his father, accepted the dollar, and, sitting down by Walter, asked him about his adventure in the wood, listening with great interest to the details. "I wouldn't have dared to do as you did," he said. "Perhaps you would if you had been obliged to." By this time the tea was steeped, and Walter's breakfast was before him. He made so vigorous an onslaught upon the bread and meat that he was almost ashamed of his appetite; but Mrs. Holcomb evidently felt flattered at the compliment paid to her cookery, and watched the demolition of the provisions with satisfaction. "You had better stop to dinner," she said. "We shall have some roast meat and apple-pudding." "Thank you," said Walter; "but I have eaten enough to last me for several hours. Can you tell me how far it is to the next town?" "About five miles. I'm going to ride over there in about an hour. If you'll wait till then I'll take you over." Walter very readily consented to wait. He was rather afraid that if he ventured to walk he might find Jack Mangum waiting to waylay him somewhere in the road, and he had no desire for a second encounter with him. The farmer absolutely refused to accept pay for breakfast, though Walter urged it. It was contrary to his ideas of hospitality. "We don't keep a tavern," he said; "and we never shall miss the little you ate. Come again and see us if you come back this way." "Thank you," said Walter, "I will accept your invitation with pleasure, but I shall not feel like calling on Mr. Mangum." "I've no doubt he would be glad to see you," said Peter Holcomb, smiling. "Yes, he was very sorry to have me leave him last night." Walter thought he had seen the last of Jack Mangum; but he was mistaken. Three days later, while walking in the main street of T----, with a book under his arm, for he had received a fresh supply from the agent at Cleveland, he heard the sound of wheels. Looking up, he saw a wagon approaching, containing two men. One of them, as he afterwards learned, was the sheriff. The other he immediately recognized as Jack Mangum. There was no mistaking his sinister face and forbidding scowl. He had been taken early that morning by the sheriff, who, with a couple of men to assist him, had visited the cabin in the forest, and, despite the resistance offered by Jack, who was aided by his wife, he had been bound, and was now being conveyed to jail. He also looked up and recognized Walter. His face became even more sinister, as he shook his fist at our hero. "I'll be even with you some day, you young cub!" he exclaimed. "Not if I can help it," thought Walter; but he did not answer in words. He was rather gratified to hear the next day that Jack had been sentenced to six months' imprisonment. He felt some pity, however, for Meg, who might have been a good woman if she had been married to a different man. CHAPTER XXXVI. JOSHUA BIDS GOOD-BY TO STAPLETON. Leaving Walter busily engaged in selling books, we will glance at the Drummond household, and inquire how the members of that interesting family fared after Walter's departure. Joshua's discontent increased daily. He was now eighteen, and his father absolutely refused to increase his allowance of twenty-five cents a week, which was certainly ridiculously small for a boy of his age. "If you want money you must work for it," he said. "How much will you give me if I will go into your store?" asked Joshua. "Fifty cents a week and your board." "I get my board now." "You don't earn it." "I don't see why I need to," said Joshua. "Aint you a rich man?" "No, I'm not," said his father; "and if I were I am not going to waste my hard-earned money on supporting you extravagantly." "There's no danger of that," sneered Joshua, "We live meaner than any family in town." "You needn't find fault with your victuals, as long as you get them free," retorted his father. "If you'll give me two dollars a week, I'll come into the store." "Two dollars!" exclaimed Mr. Drummond. "Are you crazy?" "You think as much of a cent as most people do of a dollar," said Joshua, bitterly. "Two dollars isn't much for the son of a rich man." "I have already told you that I am not rich." "You can't help being rich," said Joshua, "for you don't spend any money." "I've heard enough of your impudence," said his father, angrily. "If you can get more wages than I offer you, you are at liberty to engage anywhere else." "Tom Burton gets a dollar and a quarter a day for pegging shoes," said Joshua. "He dresses twice as well as I do." "He has to pay his board out of it." "He only pays three dollars a week, and that leaves him four dollars and a half clear." "So you consider Tom Burton better off than you are?" "Yes." "Then I'll make you an offer. I'll get you a place in a shoe-shop, and let you have all you earn over and above three dollars a week, which you can pay for your board." Joshua seemed by no means pleased with this proposal. "I'm not going to work in a shoe-shop," he said, sullenly. "Why not?" "It's a dirty business." "Yet you were envying Tom Burton just now." "It'll do well enough for him. He's a poor man's son." "So was I a poor man's son. I had to work when I was a boy, and that's the way I earned all I have. Not that I am rich," added Mr. Drummond, cautiously, for he was afraid the knowledge of his wealth would tempt his family to expect a more lavish expenditure, and this would not by any means suit him. "You didn't work in a shoe-shop." "I should have been glad of the chance to do it, for I could have earned more money that way than by being errand-boy in a store. It's just as honorable to work in a shop as to be clerk in a store." Though we are not partial to Mr. Drummond, he was undoubtedly correct in this opinion, and it would be well if boys would get over their prejudice against trades, which, on the whole, offer more assured prospects of ultimate prosperity than the crowded city and country stores. This conversation was not particularly satisfactory to Joshua. As he now received his board and twenty-five cents a week, he did not care to enter his father's store for only twenty-five cents a week more. Probably it would have been wiser for Mr. Drummond to grant his request, and pay him two dollars a week. With this inducement Joshua might have formed habits of industry. He would, at all events, have been kept out of mischief, and it would have done him good to earn his living by hard work. Mr. Drummond's policy of mortifying his pride by doling out a weekly pittance so small that it kept him in a state of perpetual discontent was far from wise. Most boys appreciate considerable liberality, and naturally expect to be treated better as they grow older. Joshua, now nearly nineteen, found himself treated like a boy of twelve, and he resented it. It set him speculating about his father's death, which would leave him master, as he hoped, of the "old man's" savings. It is unfortunate when such a state of feeling comes to exist between a father and a son. The time came, and that speedily, when Mr. Drummond bitterly repented that he had not made some concessions to Joshua. Finding his father obstinate, Joshua took refuge at first in sullenness, and for several days sat at the table without speaking a word to his father, excepting when absolutely obliged to do so. Mr. Drummond, however, was not a sensitive man, and troubled himself very little about Joshua's moods. "He'll get over it after a while," he said to himself. "If he'd rather hold his tongue, I don't care." Next Joshua began to consider whether there was any way in which to help himself. "If I only had a hundred dollars," he thought, "I'd go to New York, and see if I couldn't get a place in a store." That, he reflected, would be much better and more agreeable than being in a country store. He would be his own master, and would be able to put on airs of importance whenever he came home on a vacation. But his father would give him no help in securing such a position, and he could not go to the city without money. As for a hundred dollars, it might as well be a million, so far as he had any chance of securing it. While he was thinking this matter over, a dangerous thought entered his mind. His father, he knew, had a small brass-nailed trunk, in which he kept his money and securities. He had seen him going to it more than once. "I wonder how much he's got in it?" thought Joshua. "As it's all coming to me some day there's no harm in my knowing." There seemed little chance of finding out, however. The trunk was always locked, and Mr. Drummond carried the key about with him in his pocket. If he had been a careless man, there might have been some chance of his some day leaving the trunk unlocked, or mislaying the key; but in money matters Mr. Drummond was never careless. Joshua would have been obliged to wait years, if he had depended upon this contingency. One day, however, Joshua found in the road a bunch of keys of various sizes attached to a ring. He cared very little to whom they belonged, but it flashed upon him at once that one of these keys might fit his father's strong-box. He hurried home at once with his treasure, and ran upstairs breathless with excitement. He knew where the trunk was kept. Mr. Drummond, relying on the security of the lock, kept it in the closet of his bed-chamber. "Where are you going, Joshua?" asked his mother. "Upstairs, to change my clothes," was the answer. "I've got a piece of pie for you." "I'll come down in five minutes." Joshua made his way at once to the closet, and, entering, began to try his keys, one after the other. The very last one was successful in opening the trunk. Joshua trembled with excitement as he saw the contents of the trunk laid open to his gaze. He turned over the papers nervously, hoping to come upon some rolls of bills. In one corner he found fifty dollars in gold pieces. Besides these, there were some mortgages, in which he felt little interest. But among the contents of the trunk were some folded papers which he recognized at once as United States Bonds. Opening one of them, he found it to be a Five-Twenty Bond for five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars! What could he not do with five hundred dollars! He could go to the city, and board, enjoying himself meanwhile, till he could find a place. His galling dependence would be over, and he would be his own master. True it would be a theft, but Joshua had an excuse ready. "It will all be mine some day," he said to himself. "It's only taking a part of my own in advance." He seized the gold and the bond, and, hastily concealing both in his breast-pocket, went downstairs, first locking the trunk, and putting it away where he found it. "What's the matter, Joshua?" asked his mother, struck by his nervous and excited manner. "Nothing," he answered, shortly. "Are you well?" "I've got a little headache,--that is all." "Perhaps you'd better not eat anything then." "It won't do me any harm. I'll take a cup of tea, if you've got any." "I can make some in five minutes." Joshua ate his lunch, and, going upstairs again, came down speedily, arrayed in his best clothes. He got out of the house without his mother seeing him, and made his way to a railway station four miles distant, where he purchased a ticket for New York. He took a seat by a window, and, as the car began to move, he said to himself, in exultation, "Now I am going to see life." CHAPTER XXXVII. CONCLUSION. Three months later Walter arrived at Columbus, the capital of the State, after a business tour of considerable length, during which he had visited from twenty to thirty different towns and villages. He had now got used to the business, and understood better what arguments to employ with those whom he wished to purchase his book. The consequence was, that he had met with a degree of success which exceeded his anticipations. He had tested his powers, and found that they were adequate to the task he had undertaken,--that of earning his own living. He had paddled his own canoe thus far without assistance, and he felt confident that, if his health continued good, he should be able to do so hereafter. After eating supper, and spending an hour or two in the public room of the hotel, Walter went up to his room. Here he took out a blank-book, in which he kept an account of his sales and expenditures, and, taking a piece of paper, figured up the grand result. He wished to know just how he stood. After a brief computation, he said, with satisfaction, "I have sold two hundred and eighty books, which gives a gross profit of three hundred and fifty dollars. My expenses have been exactly two hundred and sixty-three dollars. That leaves me eighty-seven dollars net profit." This was a result which might well yield Walter satisfaction. He was only fifteen, and this was his first business experience. Moreover, he was nearly a thousand miles away from home and friends, surrounded by strangers. Yet, by his energy and business ability, he had been able to pay all his expenses, and these, of course, were considerable, as he was constantly moving, and yet had made a dollar a day clear profit. "That is rather better than working for my board in Mr. Drummond's store," he reflected. "I am afraid it would have taken me a long time to make my fortune if I had stayed there. I wonder how my amiable cousin Joshua is getting along." This thought led to the sudden recollection that he had written to Mr. Shaw, asking him to write to the hotel at Columbus where he was now stopping, giving him any news that he might consider interesting. Such a letter might be awaiting him. He went downstairs, and approached the clerk. "Have any letters been received here for me?" he inquired. "What name?" asked the clerk. "Walter Conrad." "There is a letter for that address. It was received a week since." "Give it to me," said Walter, eagerly. He took the letter, and recognized at once in the address Clement Shaw's irregular handwriting. Cut off, as he had been for over a month, from all communication with former friends, he grasped the letter with a sensation of joy, and hurried back to his room to read it quietly, and without risk of interruption. The letter ran as follows:-- "MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND: I have just received your letter asking me to write you at Columbus. I am glad to obtain your address, as I have a matter of importance to speak of. First, however, let me congratulate you on the success you have met with as a book-agent. It is not a business to which I should advise you to devote yourself permanently; but I have no doubt that the experience which you acquire, and the necessary contact into which it brings you with different classes of people, will do you good, while the new scenes which it brings before your eyes will gratify the natural love of adventure which you share in common with those of your age. When you set out, I had misgivings as to your success, I admit. It was certainly an arduous undertaking for a boy of fifteen; but you have already demonstrated that you are able to _paddle your own canoe_; and I shall hereafter feel confident of your success in life, so far at least as relates to earning your living. That you may also be successful in building up a good character, and taking an honorable position among your fellow-men, I earnestly hope. "I now come to the business upon which I wish to speak to you. "You will remember that a man named James Wall was prominently identified with the Great Metropolitan Mining Company, by which your poor father lost his fortune. Indeed, this Wall, who is a plausible sort of fellow, was the one who induced him to embark in this disastrous speculation. I suspect he has feathered his own nest pretty well already, and that he intends to do so still more. I was surprised to hear from him some ten days since. I will not copy the letter, but send you the substance of it. He reports that in winding up the affairs of the company, there is a prospect of realizing two per cent. for the stockholders, which, as your father owned a thousand shares, would yield two thousand dollars. It may be some time, he adds, before the dividend will be declared and paid. He professes a willingness, however, to pay two thousand dollars cash for a transfer of your father's claims upon the company. "Now, two thousand dollars are not to be despised; but, my impression is, that such a man as James Wall would never have made such an offer if he had not expected the assets would amount to considerable more than two per cent. I am unwilling to close with the offer until I know more about the affairs of the company. Here it has struck me that you can be of assistance. This Wall lives in a town named Portville, in Wisconsin, on the shore of Lake Superior. I would suggest that you change your name, go at once to Portville, and find out what you can. I can give you no instructions, but must trust to your own native shrewdness, in which I feel sure you are not deficient. If it should be necessary to give up your present business, do so without hesitation, since the other business is of more importance. I expect you to start at once; and I will write Mr. Wall that I have his offer under consideration. If you need money, draw upon me. "I hear that Joshua Drummond has run away from home, carrying away considerable money belonging to his father. The latter appears to lament the loss of his money more than of his son. "I remain your sincere friend, "CLEMENT SHAW." This letter gave Walter considerable food for reflection. He determined to wind up his book agency, and leave as soon as possible for Portville. It was encouraging to think that, in any event, he was likely to realize two thousand dollars from the mining shares, which he had looked upon as valueless. Besides, he felt there was good reason to hope they would prove even more valuable. Three days later, having closed his accounts as agent, he started for Portville. Those of my readers who may desire to follow him in his new experiences, and learn his success, as well as those who feel desirous of ascertaining Joshua Drummond's fortunes, are referred to the next volume of this series, to be called STRIVE AND SUCCEED; or, THE PROGRESS OF WALTER CONRAD. +--------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's note: | | | | Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | | A table of contents has been added. | | | +--------------------------------------------------+ 
37857	----	Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. THE HAUNTED MINE BY HARRY CASTLEMON AUTHOR OF "THE GUNBOAT SERIES," "ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES," "WAR SERIES," ETC. THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., PHILADELPHIA, CHICAGO, TORONTO. COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY HENRY T. COATES & CO. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. THE SALE OF "OLD HORSE," 1 II. CASPER IS DISGUSTED, 13 III. JULIAN IS ASTONISHED, 24 IV. WHERE THE BOX WAS, 38 V. CASPER THINKS OF SOMETHING, 52 VI. A MR. HABERSTRO APPEARS, 65 VII. A PLAN THAT DIDN'T WORK, 78 VIII. CLAUS CALLS AGAIN, 91 IX. THE MASTER MECHANIC, 105 X. WHERE ARE THE VALISES? 118 XI. IN DENVER, 132 XII. CASPER NEVINS, THE SPY, 146 XIII. GETTING READY FOR WORK, 160 XIV. HOW CASPER WAS SERVED, 174 XV. HOW A MINE WAS HAUNTED, 188 XVI. GOOD NEWS, 201 XVII. MR. BANTA IS SURPRISED, 215 XVIII. GRUB-STAKING, 228 XIX. GOING TO SCHOOL, 243 XX. WATERSPOUTS AND BLIZZARDS, 256 XXI. THE CAMP AT DUTCH FLAT, 271 XXII. THE HAUNTED MINE, 286 XXIII. HAUNTED NO LONGER, 302 XXIV. "THAT IS GOLD," 317 XXV. CLAUS, AGAIN, 332 XXVI. CLAUS HEARS SOMETHING, 348 XXVII. BOB TRIES STRATEGY, 365 XXVIII. AN INHUMAN ACT, 380 XXIX. A TRAMP WITH THE ROBBERS, 392 XXX. HOME AGAIN, 406 XXXI. CONCLUSION, 420 THE HAUNTED MINE. CHAPTER I. THE SALE OF "OLD HORSE." "Going for twenty-five cents. Going once; going twice; going----" "Thirty cents." "Thirty cents! Gentlemen, I am really astonished at you. It is a disgrace for me to take notice of that bid. Why, just look at that box. A miser may have hidden the secret of a gold-mine in it. Here it is, neatly dovetailed, and put together with screws instead of nails; and who knows but that it contains the treasure of a lifetime hidden away under that lid? And I am bid only thirty cents for it. Do I hear any more? Won't somebody give me some more? Going for thirty cents once; going twice; going three times, and sold to that lucky fellow who stands there with a uniform on. I don't know what his name is. Step up there and take your purchase, my lad, and when you open that box, and see what is in it, just bless your lucky stars that you came to this office this afternoon to buy yourself rich." It happened in the Adams Express office, and among those who always dropped around to see how things were going was the young fellow who had purchased the box. It was on the afternoon devoted to the sale of "old horse"--packages which had lain there for a long time and nobody had ever called for them. When the packages accumulated so rapidly that the company had about as many on hand as their storeroom could hold, an auctioneer was ordered to sell them off for whatever he could get. Of course nobody could tell what was in the packages, and somebody always bought them by guess. Sometimes he got more than his money's worth, and sometimes he did not. That very afternoon a man bought a package so large and heavy that he could scarcely lift it from the counter, and so certain was he that he had got something worth looking at that he did not take the package home with him, but borrowed a hammer from one of the clerks and opened it on the spot, the customers all gathering around him to see what he had. To the surprise of everybody, he turned out half a dozen bricks. A partner of the man to whom the box was addressed had been off somewhere to buy a brickyard, and, not satisfied with the productions of the yard, had enclosed the bricks to the man in St. Louis, to see how he liked them. The purchaser gazed in surprise at what he had brought, and then threw down the hammer and turned away; but by the time he got to the door the loud laughter of everybody in the office--and the office was always full at the sale of "old horse"--caused him to arrest his steps. By that time he himself was laughing. "I'll tell you what it is, gentlemen," said he; "those bricks, which are not worth a nickel apiece, cost me just two dollars." He was going on to say something more, but the roar that arose caused him to wait until it was all over. Then he went on: "I have spent fifty dollars for 'old horse,' and if anybody ever knows me to spend another dollar in that way I will give him my head for a football. A man who comes here to squander his money for anything like that is a dunce, and ought to have a guardian appointed over him. I wish you all a very good day." But in spite of this man's experience, Julian Gray had invested in this box because he thought there was something in it. He did not care for what the auctioneer said to him, for he talked that way to everybody; but Julian knew there were no bricks in it, for it was done up too neatly. The box was not more than twelve inches long and half as wide, and by shaking it up and down the boy became aware that there were papers of some kind in it. He paid the clerk the amount of his bid upon it, picked up his purchase, and started for the door, paying no heed to the remarks that were offered for his benefit. There he met another boy, dressed in a uniform similar to the one he himself wore, and stopped to exchange a few words with him. "Well, you got something at last," said the boy. "It is not bricks, I can swear to that." "No, sir, it is not," said Julian. "Lift it. It contains papers of some kind." "Why don't you open it, and let us see what is in it?" "I won't do that, either. I am not going to have the whole party laughing at me the way they served that man a little while ago. Come up to my room when Jack comes home, and then I will open it." "I would not be in your boots for a good deal when Jack sees that box," said the boy, hurrying away. "He says you have no business to spend the small earnings you get on such gimcracks as 'old horse.'" "I don't care," said Julian, settling the box under his arm and going away in the opposite direction. "I've got the box, and if Jack does not want to see what is in it, he need not look." Julian broke into a run,--he knew he had no business to spend as much time in that express office as he had done,--and in a few minutes reached the headquarters of the Western Union Telegraph Company, in whose employ he was. He laid down his book of receipts for the dispatches he had delivered, then picked up his box again and stowed it away under the counter, where he was sure it would be out of everybody's way. "I don't care," Julian repeated to himself, when he recalled what his older companion, Jack Shelden, would have to say to him when he found that he had been investing in "old horse." "I don't know that I expect to make anything out of it, but somehow or other I can't resist my curiosity to know what is in those bundles. When you can get the packages for little or nothing, where's the harm? But that is no way to save my money. I will never go near that express office again." With this good resolution, Julian took his seat among the other boys and waited in silence for the operator to call upon him to deliver a dispatch. It came at last, and during the rest of the afternoon Julian was kept busy. When six o'clock came he put his box under his arm and started for home. His duties were done for that day. The place that Julian called home was a long way from the office, for, being a poor boy, he was obliged to room where he could get it as cheaply as possible. He passed along several streets, turned numerous corners, and finally sprang up the stairs in a sorry-looking house which seemed almost ready to tumble down, and when he reached the top he found the door of his room open. There he met his chum, who had already returned from his work, going about his preparations for supper, and whistling as though he felt at peace with himself and all the world. "Halloo!" he exclaimed, as Julian came in. "What's the news to-day? Well, there. If you haven't been to that old express office again!" These two boys were orphans--or at least Jack was. Julian had a stepfather who, when his mother died, told the boy that he could not support him any longer, and that he must look out for himself. He no doubt expected that the boy would find himself in the poorhouse before he had been long out of his care; but Julian was not that sort of a fellow. He wandered aimlessly about the streets, looking for something to do, sleeping in dry-goods boxes or on a plank in some lumber-yard; and one morning, while passing along the street, wondering where he was going to get something to eat, he saw a scene that thrilled him with excitement. A span of horses was running away, and a telegraph operator--Julian knew that he was an operator from the uniform he wore--in making an attempt to stop them, lost his footing and fell on the ground right in front of the frantic team. Julian was nearer to him than anybody else, and acting upon the impulse of the moment, but scarcely knowing why he did so, he dashed forward, seized the young man by the shoulders, and pulled him out of the way. It was all done in an instant, and Julian shuddered when he thought of what he had done. "Thank you, my lad," said the man, when he got up, brushed the dust from his clothes, and looked after the flying horses. "You saved my life, but you couldn't save the man in the buggy. Now, what can I give you?" "I don't want anything, sir," said Julian. The man was neatly dressed, and looked as though he had some money, and Julian had more than half a mind to ask him for enough with which to get some breakfast. But he concluded that he would not do it; he would look farther, and he was sure that he could get something to do, such as sweeping out a store, and earn some breakfast in that way. "You don't want anything?" exclaimed the man. "Well, you are the luckiest fellow I ever saw!" The man now turned and gave Julian a good looking over. It was not necessary that he should ask any questions, for poverty was written all over him. "Where's your home?" he asked. "I haven't any, sir." "Have you had any breakfast?" "No, sir." "Well, here's enough to enable you to get a good fill-out," said the man, pulling out a dollar. "Get the very best breakfast you can, and then come down to the Western Union Telegraph office and ask for Wiggins. I will see what I can do for you." The man hurried away, and Julian looked at the dollar he held in his hand, then gazed in the direction in which his benefactor had gone, and could hardly believe that he was awake. A dollar was a larger sum of money than he had ever had before. Of course Julian followed the operator's instructions. When he reached the Western Union Telegraph office he was asked several questions about his habits, and what he knew about the city, and it finally ended by his being offered employment. Julian jumped at the chance. He had no money with which to purchase a uniform, but Wiggins got around that, and he had been there ever since, trying hard to do his duty, except in one particular, and his highest ambition was to become an operator. Long before this time he made the acquaintance of Jack Sheldon, who finally came to room with him, and they had been fast friends ever since. Jack had formerly gained a good living by shining boots and shoes around the St. Louis foundry-works, until one day the master mechanic, who had taken a wonderful shine to him, offered to take him away from his blacking-brush and give him a position where he could make a man of himself. Jack was waiting for this, and he promptly closed with it. Of course his wages were small now, but he wanted to get away from the bootblacks and mingle with persons more like himself, and when Julian made him a proposition to take him in as a roommate, Jack was only too glad to agree to it. He was but a year older than Julian, but he often took it upon himself to advise him; and one thing he could not stand was Julian's longing to find out what was concealed in those packages that every once in a little while were sold in the express office. Being economical himself, and never spending a cent unless absolutely necessary, he wanted to make his companion so, too. "That is no way for you to save money, Julian," said Jack. "To go to that express office when you ought to be at your work, and spending money for 'old horse' when you don't know what is in the bundle you bid on, is the very way for you to wear a poor man's clothes the longest day you live. I want to go into business myself some time, and I should think you would, too." This was the way he talked to Julian every time he brought home a bundle of "old horse," and he was ready to talk to him now in the same way. CHAPTER II. CASPER IS DISGUSTED. "Well, you have been to that old express office again and invested some of your hard earnings in 'old horse,' haven't you?" repeated Jack, placing his hands on his hips and looking sullenly at the box, which Julian placed upon the table. "Is that any way for you to save your money?" "No, it is not; but, Jack, I've got something in this," said Julian. "See how nicely this box is done up----" "I don't care to know anything about it," said Jack, turning away and going on with his preparations of getting supper. "That is the only thing I have against you. What do you care what is in those bundles? If they were worth anything don't you suppose that the people to whom they were addressed would have come after them? How much money have you got in bank, anyway?" "About forty dollars, I guess, including tips and everything." "Well, I've got a hundred," said Jack. "You will never be able to go into business by doing this way." "Lend me your knife and talk about it afterward. I want to get these screws out." "Take your own knife. I don't want to have mine broken." "Well, I want you to remember one thing, Jack. If I get anything out of this box, it is mine entirely. You will have no interest in it." "All right--I will agree to that." Seeing that he must depend entirely upon himself to get his box open, Julian took his knife from his pocket and went to work upon the screws; but they had been put there to stay, and he finally gave it up in disgust. Then Jack relented and came to his assistance. The strong blade of his knife presently worked the screws loose, and the inside of the box was revealed to them. There was nothing but a mass of papers, which looked so ancient that Jack declared they had been through two or three wars. He took one look at them, and then went on with his work of getting supper. "What's the use of fooling away your time with that stuff?" said he. "That's all your 'old horse' amounts to. If you are going to spend money in that way, I wish you would get something that is of some use." Julian did not reply. He took his box to an out-of-the-way corner where he would not be in Jack's way, and devoted himself to the reading of the first paper he took up. "Who's Haberstro?" said he. "Don't know him," said Jack. "Here's a letter addressed to him." "What is in it?" "Oh, you want to know something about it, now, don't you?" "Of course I do. If we can find out who Haberstro is, we must take the letter to him." Julian began and read the letter, which was written in a very plain hand, and before he had read a page of it he stopped and looked at Jack, while an expression of astonishment came to his face. "Go on with it," said Jack; "we might as well know it all." Julian "went on with it," and when he got through he had read a very good description of a gold-mine located somewhere out West, and inside the letter was a map which would lead anyone straight to it. There was one thing in it that did not look exactly right, and here is the passage that referred to it: "They have got the story around that the mine is haunted, but don't you believe it. I worked for almost six months in that mine alone after my partner took sick and died, going down into it and shovelling the dirt in, coming up and hoisting the bucket out, and went through the process of washing, and I never found anything to scare me yet. I took out, with every bucketful I washed, anywhere from ten to fifty dollars; anyway, I got fifty thousand dollars out of it. There is one thing about it: the mine is fully five miles from anybody's place, and in all that region you won't find a man who will prospect anywhere near you. It shows that all the country about Dutch Flat is not played out yet." A little farther on the letter spoke of the manner in which the miner came to turn his claim over to Haberstro: "You know that very shortly after we got there my partner died, and was buried near the mine. Perhaps that has something to do with the story of the mine's being haunted. I went to work and dug in the claim alone, not knowing anything about mining, until I made the sum that I told you of. Finally I received a letter from some lawyer in Europe, who told me that my father had died and left me heir to all his wealth. He urged me to come home and settle my claim at once, and who should my mind revert to but to you, old fellow, who stood by me when I was sick unto death. I know that we did not have the stamps to buy a mule-halter, but that did not make any sort of difference to you. You stayed at my back until I got well; and as I can't pay you in any other way I give you this mine, hoping it will make you as rich as it did me. More than that, for fear that the mine may play out on you, which I don't believe, I give you the deeds of several little pieces of property located in Denver and vicinity, which you will find will be more than enough to run you, even if you don't choose to go mining. For me, nothing would suit me. You know how you used to rail at me because I wanted to go from one thing to another. After I had accumulated that property in Denver, I had to go and look for claims, and that is the way I come to have this mine. "I send all these things to you by express, for I am in New York, now, and all ready to sail. By the time you get them I shall be on the deep sea. I forgot to say that the property which I have given to you for your kindness to me is worth, in round numbers, one hundred thousand dollars. Take it, and live happily with it. I don't know that I shall ever see you again; but if I do not, remember that my blessing always goes with you." "Well, sir, what do you think of that?" said Julian, as he folded up the letter. Jack Sheldon did not know what to say. He sat with a case-knife in his hand and with one leg thrown over the table, his mouth open, and listening with all his ears to the contents of the letter. "I tell you that auctioneer uttered a prophecy when he said that some miser had hidden the secret of a gold-mine inside the lid of that box," said Julian. "He told me that when I got home and opened this thing I would bless my lucky stars that I had come to that office to buy myself rich." "But there is one thing that you don't think of, Julian," replied Jack. "What's that?" "That we must make every effort to find this man Haberstro." "Yes," said Julian, with a sigh, "I did think of that. But it seems hard to have so much money in our grasp, and then to have it all slip away." "Of course it does. But that is the honest way of going at it." "Here's the deeds for a block of buildings that cost this man twenty-five thousand dollars," said Julian, continuing to examine the papers in the box. "Oh, put the box away," said Jack. "And he gives it all to this man Haberstro. We must find him, Julian, the first thing we do. Who's that coming upstairs, I wonder?" The boys turned toward the door, which opened almost immediately, admitting Casper Nevins, the boy who had met Julian at the express office. There was something about the boy that Jack did not like. He could not have told what it was, but there are those we meet in every-day life who have certain traits of character that excite our suspicions. Jack had often warned Julian to keep away from him, and the latter did not cultivate his acquaintance any more that he could help; but, being employed in the same office that Casper was, of course he was thrown into his company oftener than he desired. "Good-evening, boys," said Casper. "I was on my way home, and I thought I would drop in and see what Julian bought to-day at the express office. You promised to show me if I would come up," he added, turning to Julian. "I did, and there it is," said Julian, passing over the letter. "Sit down in this chair. We are so poor just now that we have only one chair apiece, but when we get out to our gold-mine we shall have two chairs." "Ah! You have a gold-mine, have you?" said Casper, with a smile. "When do you start?" "Read the letter, and you will think we ought to start right away," said Julian, while Jack got up and proceeded with his supper. "We think of starting to-morrow morning." "I would like to have my hand on your coat-tail about the time you get out there," said Casper. "Now, the question is, does the mine pay anything?" "Read the letter, and you will understand as much as we do." Casper began the letter, and he had not gone far with it before he broke out with "Jerusalem!" and "This beats me!" and "Fifty thousand dollars!" When he had got done with the letter, he folded it up and passed it back to Julian without saying a word. "And that is not all of it," said the latter. "Do you see the rest of the papers there in that box? Well, they are deeds of property which amount to one hundred thousand dollars." "Whew!" whistled Casper. "By gracious! You're lucky--are you not? When do you start?" "Laying all jokes aside, we don't intend to start at all," said Jack. "You don't?" exclaimed Casper. "Have you got something better on hand?" "No, I don't know that we have; but our first hard work must be to find this man Haberstro. It would not be right for us to keep what is in that box without turning the city upside down in order to locate him." "Why, the box was sold to you, was it not?" said Casper, turning to Julian. "Of course it was. Didn't I pay thirty cents of my hard earnings for it?" "Did you agree to hunt up this man Haberstro?" "No, because the clerks did not know where he was." "Then I say the box and everything in it belongs to you. Undoubtedly the man does not live here any more. He has gone somewhere else. I would not make a precious fool of myself, if I were you. Take the money and say nothing to nobody." "And go out there and take possession of that property while there is another man waiting for it?" asked Jack, with some heat. "Yes, sir; that's what I would do." "Then, sir, you are not honest. I am glad you don't train in my crowd." "I don't call it dishonest in holding fast to what you have. A hundred thousand dollars! You would not need to go mining at all." "We are well aware of that; but we must find out where that man lives, if we can. After having exhausted every means to find out, then I would consider that the property belongs to us. Julian, we will have to see a lawyer about that." "That's what I was thinking," said Julian. "Well, of all the plumb dunces that ever I saw, you are the beat!" said Casper, getting up and putting on his hat. "I tell you that if that property was mine I would never let anyone know that I had it. I would throw up my position to-morrow, borrow money, go out there and take possession; and you are fools if you don't do it." And Casper went out, slamming the door behind him. CHAPTER III. JULIAN IS ASTONISHED. "Well, sir, what do you think of that?" asked Julian, when he heard the noise the telegraph boy made in running down the stairs. "He really acts as though he were mad about it." "He is a dishonest fellow," said Jack, once more coming up to the table and throwing his leg over it. "You don't believe everything he said, do you?" "Not much, I don't," replied Julian, emphatically. "I could not go out there and work the mine as he talks of doing. I should think it was haunted, sure enough." "Well, put the papers away, and then let us have supper. While we are doing that, we will decide what we are going to do with the box." "I say, don't let us do anything with it. We will put it up there on the mantel, and when we are through supper one of us will write an advertisement calling upon Mr. Haberstro to come up and show himself. I guess the _Republican_ is as good a paper as any, isn't it?" "But Haberstro may be a Democrat, instead of a Republican," said Jack. "Well, then, put it in both papers. That will cost us two dollars--seventy-five cents for the first insertion and a quarter for the second." It did not take the boys a long time to get their supper. They had nothing but bacon, baker's bread, tea, and a few cream cakes which Jack had purchased on his way home; but there was an abundance, they were hungry, and they did full justice to it. After supper came something that everybody hates--washing the dishes; but that was something the two friends never neglected. The dishes must be washed some time, and the sooner it was done the sooner it would be over with. Then one picked up the broom and went to sweeping, while the other lighted the lamp and brought out the writing materials. "I have already made up my mind what I want to say," said Julian, who, being a better scribe than his companion, handled the pen. "Wait until I get the advertisement all written out, and then I will read it to you." The pen moved slowly, and by the time that Jack had finished sweeping and seated himself in a chair ready to listen, Julian read the following: "Information wanted regarding the whereabouts of S. W. Haberstro, formerly of St. Louis. If he will communicate with the undersigned he will hear of something greatly to his advantage. Any relative or friend of his who possesses the above information will confer a favor by writing to the name given below." "There; how will that do?" said Julian. "By the way, whose name shall I sign to it--yours or mine?" "Sign your own name, of course. Your place of business is much handier than mine." "I tell you, Jack, it requires something besides a knowledge of penmanship to write out an advertisement for a newspaper. I have worried over this matter ever since we were at supper, and then I didn't know how you would like it. Now, the next thing is to put it where it will catch the public eye in the morning." The boys did not intend to let the grass grow under their feet. They put on their coats and turned down the lamp, but before they went out they took particular pains to put the box where they knew it would be safe. They opened the closet, pushed the box as far back as they could on the top shelf, and threw some clothing in front of it to hide it from anyone who might look in there. Burglaries were common in the city, and the boys never left anything in their room that was worth stealing. The friends did not ride on the street cars, for they believed that five cents was worth as much to them as it was to the conductor, but walked all the distance that lay between them and the business part of the city. They reached the newspaper offices at last, paid for two insertions in each paper, and went away satisfied that they had done all in their power to find Mr. Haberstro. "Now we have done as we would be done by," said Julian, "and I believe a glass of soda water would help me sleep easier. Come in here." "We don't want any soda water," exclaimed Jack, seizing Julian by the arm and pulling him away from the drug store. "We don't need it. When we get home we will take a glass of cold water, and that will do just as well as all the soda water in town." "I suppose I shall have to give in to you," said Julian, continuing his walk with Jack, "but I think we deserve a little credit for what we have done. Here we are with a fortune of one hundred thousand dollars in our pockets, and yet we are anxious to give it up if Mr. Haberstro shows himself. I tell you, it is not everybody in the world who would do that." "I know it, but that is the honest way of doing business. I never could look our master mechanic in the face again if I should go off and enjoy that money without making an effort to find the owner." In due time the boys reached home and went to bed, but sleep did not visit their eyes before midnight. They were thinking of the fortune that was in their grasp. No one would have thought these boys very guilty if they had kept silent about the contents of that box and had gone off to reap the pleasure which good luck or something else had placed in Julian's hands; but such a thought had never entered their heads until Casper Nevins had suggested it to them. By being at the sale of "old horse" Julian had stumbled upon something that was intended for Mr. Haberstro, and he was just as much entitled to the contents of it as anybody. "But I would be dishonest for all that," said he, rolling over in his bed to find a more comfortable position. "I never could enjoy that money, for I should be thinking of Mr. Haberstro, who ought to have it. No matter whether he is alive or dead, he would come up beside me all the while, and reach out his hand to take the money I was getting ready to use for my own pleasure. No, sir. We will do the best we can to find Mr. Haberstro, and if he does not show up within any reasonable time, then Jack says the money belongs to us. I can spend it, then, to get anything I want, with perfect confidence." When Julian got to this point in his meditations he became silent, and thought over the many things he stood in need of, and which he thought he could not possibly get along without, until finally he fell asleep; but the next morning, when he arose and returned Jack's hearty greeting, that fortune came into his mind immediately. "I tell you what it is, Jack," said he. "If, after waiting a few days, we don't hear from Mr. Haberstro or any of his kin, suppose I go to Mr. Wiggins with it? He will know exactly what we ought to do." "All right," said Jack. "That will be better than going to a lawyer, for he won't charge us anything for his advice." "And shall you keep still about this?" "Certainly. Don't lisp it to anybody. We don't want somebody to come along here and claim to be Haberstro, when perhaps he don't know a thing about what is in the box." "Of course he would not know a thing about it," said Julian, in surprise. "Haberstro himself don't know what there is in the box. He has got to prove by outside parties that he is the man that we want, or we can put him down as a fraud." "That's so," said Jack, after thinking a moment. "We must be continually on the lookout for breakers." Why was it that Jack did not go further, and say that they must be continually on the lookout for the safety of the box when they were not there to watch over it? It was not safe from anybody who knew it was there, and it would have been but little trouble for them to have taken it with them and put it into the hands of Mr. Wiggins. If they had thought of this, no doubt they would have lost no time in acting upon it. Long before the hands on Jack's watch had reached the hour of half-past six the two friends were on their way toward their places of business, and when Julian reached the office almost the first boy he saw was Casper Nevins, who had denounced them for trying to find out what became of Mr. Haberstro. "Good-morning, Julian," said he. "Have you advertised for that man of yours yet?" "What do you want to know for?" said Julian, remembering what Jack had said about keeping the matter still. "Oh, nothing; only I want to tell you that if you get yourselves fooled out of that fortune you can thank yourselves for it. What is there to prevent some sharper from coming around and telling you that he is Haberstro? You didn't think of that, did you?" "Yes, we thought of it," said Julian, with a smile. "Do you suppose we will take any man's word for that? He must prove that he is the man we want, or else we won't have anything to do with him." "Pshaw! That is easy enough. I can find fifty men right here in this town who will prove that they are President of the United States for half of what that box is worth. Say!" he added, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, "you haven't said a word to anybody about advertising for him, have you?" "No; and I have not said a word to you about it either," said Julian. "That's all right, but you can't fool me so easy. I want to tell you right now that there are a good many here who know about it, and that they are bound to have that box. Ah!" he added, noting the expression that came upon Julian's face, "you didn't think of _that_, did you?" "Who are they?" asked Julian. "There were men in the express office yesterday who know all about it. You needn't think you are going to keep that express box hid, for you can't do it. Where did you put it?" "It is safe. It is where nobody will ever think of looking for it." "Then you are all right," said Casper, who was plainly very much disappointed because he did not find out where the box was. "But you had better keep an eye out for those fellows in the express office, for, unless the looks of some of them belied them, they will steal that box from you as sure as you are a foot high." "If they thought so much of the box, why didn't they buy it in the first place?" "That is for them to tell. I don't know but they have somehow got an idea that there is something in it. You are going to get fooled out of it, and it will serve you just right for advertising for Haberstro." That day was a long one to Julian, for he could not help turning over in his mind what Casper had said to him. When he reached home after his day's work was done he went straight to the closet, paying no sort of attention to Jack, who looked at him in surprise, took a chair with him, and hunted up the box. It was where he put it, and he drew a long breath of relief. "Now, then, I would like to have you explain yourself," said Jack, after he had waited some little time for Julian to say what he meant by his actions. "It is there," said Julian, "but I have been shaking in my shoes all day. Did it ever occur to you that some of those people who saw me buy the box at the express office would come up here to take it?" "No; and I don't believe they will do it." "Well, Casper said they would." "You tell Casper Nevins to keep his long, meddlesome nose out of this pie and attend strictly to his own affairs," said Jack, in disgust. "It is ours, and he has nothing to do with it. If anybody comes into this room when we are not here, it will be Casper himself." "He can't; he has not got a key." "I know that. If he had, we would have trouble with that box. What did he say to you?" Julian then repeated the conversation he held with Casper that morning, and Jack nodded his head once or twice to say that he approved of it. "You did perfectly right by declining to answer his question about advertising for our man," said Jack. "What did he want to know that for? If they wanted the box, why did they not buy it in the first place?" During the next few days the two friends were in a fever of suspense, for they did not want somebody to come and take their fortune away from them. Every man who came into the telegraph office Julian watched closely, for he had somehow got it into his head that Haberstro must be a German; but every German who came in there had business of his own, and as soon as it was done he went out. No one came to see Julian about the box, and, if the truth must be told, he began to breathe easier. Of late he had got out of the habit of looking for the box as soon as he came home, and perhaps the sport that Jack made of him for it was the only thing that made him give it up. "One would think you owned that fortune," said he. "I don't believe a miser ever watched his gold as closely as you watch that box." "I don't care," said Julian. "The fortune is ours, or rather is going to be in a few days. Now you mark my words, and see if I don't tell you the truth." "There's many a slip. We will never have such luck in the world." "Well, I am going to look at it now. It seems to me that if Haberstro is around here he ought to have put in an appearance before this time. We have waited a whole week without seeing anything of him." "A whole week!" exclaimed Jack, with a laugh. "If you wait a month without seeing him you may be happy. If we keep the box for three months without the man appearing, then I shall think it belongs to us." Julian did not believe that. He thought that the contents of the box would belong to them before that time. He made no reply, but took a chair to examine the closet. He moved the clothing aside, expecting every minute to put his hand upon the box, and then uttered an exclamation of astonishment and threw the articles off on the floor. "What's the matter?" asked Jack, in alarm. "The box is gone!" replied Julian. CHAPTER IV. WHERE THE BOX WAS. This startling piece of information seemed to strike Jack Sheldon motionless and speechless with astonishment. His under jaw dropped down, and he even clutched the back of a chair, as if seeking something with which to support himself. The two boys stood at opposite sides of the room looking at each other, and then Jack recovered himself. "Gone!" he repeated. "You are mistaken; you have overlooked it. I saw it night before last myself." "I don't care," said Julian, emphatically; "I have taken the clothes all out, and the box is gone. Look and see for yourself." Julian stepped down from the chair and Jack took his place. He peered into every nook and corner of the dark shelf, passed his hands over it, and then, with something like a sigh, got down and began to hang the clothes up in their proper places. Then he closed the door of the closet, took a chair, and gazed earnestly at the floor. "Well, sir, what do you think of that?" said Julian. "Didn't I tell you that if anybody came in here to look for that box while we were not here it would be Casper Nevins, and nobody else?" said Jack. "You surely don't suspect him!" exclaimed Julian. "I _do_ suspect him; if you could get inside his room to-night you would find the box." "Why, then he is a thief!" said Julian, jumping up from his chair and walking the floor. "Shall we go down to No. 8 Station and ask the police to send a man up there and search him?" "I don't know whether that would be the best way or not," said Jack, reflectively. "Has Casper got many friends among the boys of your office?" "I don't believe he's got one friend there who treats him any better than I do. The boys are all shy of him." "And well they may be. That boy got a key somewhere that will fit our door, and came in here and took that box. You say he has not any friends on whom he can depend in the office?" "Not one. If he has any friends, none of us know who they are." "Then he must be alone in stealing the box from us. He has it there in his room, for he has no other place to hide it. Do you know what sort of a key he has to fit his door?" "Of course I do. I was with him when he got it. It is a combination key; one that he folds up when he puts it into his pocket." "Do you believe you can buy another like it?" "By George! That's an idea. Let us go down and find out. Then to-morrow, if I can get away, I will come up here and go through his room." That was Jack's notion entirely. He wanted to see "the biter bit"--to know that he would feel, when he awoke some fine morning and found his fortune gone, just how they were feeling now. They put on their coats and locked the door,--it seemed a mockery to them now to lock the door when their fortune was gone,--and, after walking briskly for a few minutes, turned into the store where Casper had purchased his key. When Julian told the clerk that he wanted to see some combination keys, he threw out upon the counter a box which was filled to overflowing. "Do you remember a telegraph boy who was in here several months ago and bought a combination lock to fit his door?" asked Julian. "I was in here at the time, and I know he bought the lock of you." "Seems to me that I _do_ remember something about that," said the clerk, turning around to the shelves behind him and taking down another box, "and we have got just one lock of that sort left." "Are you sure this key will open his door?" asked Julian. "I am sure of it. If it don't open his door, you can bring it back and exchange it for another." Julian told him that he would take the lock, and while the clerk was gone to another part of the store to do it up he whispered to Jack, "I have just thought of something. He has not any closet in his room that I know of, and who knows but that he may have put that box in his trunk? I had better get some keys to his trunk while I am about it." "Do you remember how the key looked?" asked Jack. "I guess I can come pretty close to it," answered Julian. The work of selecting a key to the trunk was not so easy; but Julian managed to satisfy himself at last, and the boys left the store. Julian did not say anything, but he was certain that the box would be in his own possession before that time to-morrow. That would be better than calling the police to search his room. In the latter case, Casper would be held for trial, and Julian did not want to disgrace him before all the boys in the office. "I will give Mr. Wiggins the box as soon as I get my hands on it, but I shan't say anything to him about Casper's stealing it," said he. "Would you?" "You are mighty right I _would_," exclaimed Jack, who looked at his friend in utter surprise. "He stole it, didn't he? He was going to cheat Haberstro out of it if he showed up, and, failing that, he would leave us here to work all our lives while he lived on the fat of the land. No, sir; if you get the box you must tell Mr Wiggins about it." For the first time in a long while the boys did not sleep much that night. Jack was thinking about Casper's atrocity,--for he considered that was about the term to apply to him for stealing their box,--and Julian was wondering if he was going to get into Casper's room and recover the fortune which he was attempting to deprive them of. "I tell you, that boy is coming to some bad end," said Jack. "I would not be in his boots for all the money he will ever be worth." "I don't care what end he comes to," said Julian, "but I was just thinking what would happen to us if this key did not open his door. We would then have to get the police, sure enough." Morning came at length, and at the usual hour Julian was on hand in the telegraph office, waiting to see what his duties were going to be. As usual, he found Casper Nevins there. He looked closely at Julian when he came in, but could not see anything in the expression of his face that led him to believe there was anything wrong. "Good-morning, Julian," said he. "Good-morning," said Julian. "How do you feel this morning?" "Right as a trivet. I feel much better than you will when you find that that box is gone," added Casper to himself. "He hasn't found it out yet, and I hope he will not until I get my pay. I have waited and watched for this a long time, and, thank heaven! I have found it at last. I wish I knew somebody who would take that box and hide it for me; but I can't think of a living soul." All the fore part of that day Julian was kept busy running to the lower part of the city with messages, and not a chance did he get to go up past Casper's room. Two or three times he was on the point of asking Mr. Wiggins to excuse him for a few minutes, but he always shrunk from it for fear of the questions that gentleman would ask him. "Where did he want to go?" "What did he want to go after?" "What was he going to do when he got there?" and Julian was quite certain that he could not answer these questions without telling a lie. While he was thinking it over he heard his name called, and found that he must go right by Casper's room in order to take the message where it was to go. He seemed to be treading on air when he walked up to take the telegraphic dispatch. "Do you know where that man lives?" asked the operator. "I know pretty nearly where he lives," answered Julian. "Well, take it there, and be back as soon as you can, for I shall want to send you somewhere else. What's the matter with you, Julian? You seem to be gay about something." "I don't know that I feel any different from what I always do," replied Julian. "I will go there as soon as I can." When Julian got into the street, his first care was to find his keys. They were all there; and, to gain the time that he would occupy in looking about the room, Julian broke into a trot, knowing that the police would not trouble him while he had that uniform on. At the end of an hour he began to draw close to Casper's room, and there he slackened his pace to a walk. "Ten minutes more and the matter will be decided," said Julian, his heart beating with a sound that frightened him. "That boy has the box, and I am going to have it." A few steps more brought him to the stairs that led up to Casper's room. It was over a grocery store, and the steps ran up beside it. He turned in there without anybody seeing him, and stopped in front of the door. The combination key was produced, and to Julian's immense delight the door came open the very first try. "I guess I won't lock it," muttered Julian. "I might lock myself in. He does not keep his room as neat as we do ours." Julian took one glance about the apartment, taking in the tumbled bedclothes, and the dishes from which Casper had eaten his breakfast still unwashed on the table, and then turned his attention to what had brought him there. There was no closet in the room, and the box was not under the bed; it must therefore be in his trunk. One after another of the keys was tried without avail, and Julian was about to give it up in despair, when the last key--the one on Jack's bunch--opened the trunk, which he found in the greatest confusion. He lifted off the tray, and there was the box, sure enough. Julian took it, and hugged it as though it was a friend from whom he had long been separated. "Now the next question is, are the papers all here?" thought he. "There were seven of them besides the letter, and who knows but that he has taken a block of buildings away from us." But the papers were all there. However much Casper might have been tempted to realize on some of the numerous "blocks of buildings" which the box called for, he dared not attempt the sale of any of them. It was as much as he could do to steal the papers. Julian placed the tray back and carefully locked the trunk, and then looking around, found a paper with which to do up his box. Then he locked the door, came down, and went on to deliver his message. "That boy called us foolish because we advertised for Mr. Haberstro," said Julian, as he carefully adjusted the box under his arm. "I would like to know if we were bigger fools than he was. We could have found the police last night as easy as not, and it would have been no trouble for them to find the box. He ought not to have left it there in his trunk. He didn't think that we could play the same game on him that he played upon us." Julian conveyed his message and returned to his office in less time than he usually did, and, after reporting, told Mr. Wiggins in a whisper that he would like to see him in the back room. "I know what you want," said Mr. Wiggins, as he went in. "You have been up to the express office, buying some more of that 'old horse.' Some day I am going to give you fits for that. It is the only thing I have stored up against you." "Can you tell when I did it?" asked Julian, slowly unfolding the box which he carried under his arm. "Haven't I carried my telegraphic dispatches in as little time as anybody? Now, I have something here that is worth having. Read that letter, and see if it isn't." Mr. Wiggins seated himself on the table and slowly read the letter which Julian placed in his hands, and it was not long before he became deeply interested in it. When he had got through he looked at the boy with astonishment. "I declare, Julian, you're lucky," said he. "Now, the next thing for you to do is to advertise for Haberstro." "We have already advertised for him. We have put four insertions in the papers." "And he doesn't come forward to claim his money? Put two other advertisements in, and if he don't show up the money is yours." "That is what I wanted to get at," said Julian, with a sigh of relief. "Now, Mr. Wiggins, I wish you would take this and lock it up somewhere. I don't think it safe in our house." "Certainly I'll do it. By George! Who would think you were worth a hundred thousand dollars!" "It isn't ours yet," said Julian, with a smile. "About the time we get ready to use it, here will come Mr. Haberstro, and we will have to give it up to him." "Well, you are honest, at any rate, or you would not have advertised for him. This beats me, I declare. I won't scold you this time, but don't let it happen again." "I'll never go into that express office again while I live," said Julian, earnestly. "I have had my luck once, and I don't believe it will come again." When Julian went out into the office he saw Casper there, and he was as white as a sheet. Julian could not resist the temptation to pat an imaginary box under his arm and wink at Casper. "What do you mean by that pantomime?" said he. "It means that you can't get the start of two fellows who have their eyes open," said Julian. "I've got the box." "You have?" gasped Casper. "You've been into my room when I was not there? I'll have the police after you before I am five minutes older!" Casper jumped to his feet and began to look around for his hat. CHAPTER V. CASPER THINKS OF SOMETHING. Julian stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Casper, and something that was very like a smile came into his face. "I know what you went in there with Mr. Wiggins for," said Casper; and having found his cap by that time, he jammed it spitefully on his head, "and I just waited until you came out so that I could ask you. I don't need to ask you. I tell you once for all----" "Well, why don't you go on?" asked Julian. "You will tell me once for all--what?" Casper had by this time turned and looked sternly at Julian, but there was something about him which told him that he had gone far enough. "Go and get the police," said Julian. "Right here is where I do business. Look here, Casper: you came into our room and stole that box out of our closet." "I never!" said Casper, evidently very much surprised. "So help me----" "Don't swear, because you will only make a bad matter worse. I found the box in your trunk, just where you had left it. The way I have the matter arranged now, there's nobody knows that you took it; but you go to work and raise the police, and I will tell all I know. If you keep still, I won't say one word." Casper backed toward the nearest chair and sat down. This conversation had been carried on in whispers, and there was nobody, among the dozen persons who were standing around, that had the least idea what they were talking about. If Casper supposed that he was going to scare Julian into giving up the box, he failed utterly. "I won't give up that fortune," said he, to himself, when Julian turned away to go to his seat. "A hundred thousand dollars! I'll have it, or I'll never sleep easy again." During the rest of the day Julian was as happy as he wanted to be. The box was now safe in the hands of Mr. Wiggins, and he would like to see anybody get hold of it. Furthermore, Mr. Wiggins had told him to put two more advertisements in the papers, and, if Mr. Haberstro did not show himself in answer to them, the money was his own. "I do hope he won't come," said Julian. "I don't believe in giving up that fortune." The boy was glad when the day was done, and the moment he was safe on the street he struck a trot which he never slackened until he ran up the stairs to his room. Jack was there, as he expected him to be, and he was going about his work of getting supper. He looked up as Julian came in, and he saw at a glance that he had been successful. "I've got it!" shouted Julian; and, catching Jack by the arm, he whirled him around two or three times. "It was in the trunk, just as I told you it was. Mr. Wiggins has it now, and he will take care of it, too." "That's the best news I have heard in a long time," said Jack, throwing his leg over the table. "Did you tell Mr. Wiggins about the way Casper acted?" "No, I did not. Somehow, I couldn't bear to see the boy discharged. I simply told Mr. Wiggins that it wasn't safe in our room." "Well, I don't know but that was the best way, after all," said Jack, looking reflectively at the floor. "But I tell you, if I had been in your place I would have let it all out. Now tell me the whole thing." Julian pulled off his coat, and, while he assisted Jack in getting supper, told him all that passed between Mr. Wiggins and himself, not forgetting how the latter had promised to scold him at some future time for going to the express office and investing in "old horse." "I hope he will tell you some words that will set," said Jack. "All I can say to you has no effect upon you." "I will never go near that express office again--never!" said Julian, earnestly. "I hope you will always bear that in mind." "I've had my luck, and if I live until my head is as white as our president's I never shall have such good fortune again. I will get bricks the next time I buy." "You had better sit down and write out that advertisement for two more insertions, and after supper we'll take it down and put it in. If Haberstro does not appear in answer to them the money is ours. That's a little better fortune than I dared to hope for." Anybody could see that Jack was greatly excited over this news, but he tried not to show it. If he had gone wild over it, he would have got Julian so stimulated that he would not have known which end he stood on. He had to control himself and Julian, too. He ate his supper apparently as cool as he ever was, and after the room had been swept up and the dishes washed he put on his coat and was ready to accompany his friend to the newspaper offices. "Remember now, Julian, we don't want any soda water to-night," said Jack. "If you want anything to drink, get it before you start." Julian promised that he would bear it in mind, and during the three hours that they were gone never asked for soda water or anything else. "Just wait until I get that fortune in my hands, and then I will have all the soda water I want," said Julian to himself. "But, after all, Jack's way is the best. I don't know what I should do without him." In due time the boys were at home and in bed; and leaving them there to enjoy a good night's rest, we will go back to Casper Nevins and see what he thought and what he did when he found that he had lost the box he had risked so much to gain. He was about as mad as a boy could hold when he ran down the stairs after his interview with them in their room, and he straightway began to rack his brain to see if he could not get that box for himself. "Of all the dunces I ever saw, those two fellows are the beat!" said he, as he took his way toward his room. "They have got the fortune in their own hands; no one will say a word if they use it as though it was their own; and yet they are going to advertise for the man to whom it was addressed. Did anybody ever hear of a fool notion like that? I was in hopes that I could get them to go partners with me, but under the circumstances I did not like to propose it. Why didn't I happen into that express office and bid on that box? Gee! What a fortune that would be!" Casper was almost beside himself with the thought, and he reached his room and cooked and ate his supper, still revolving some plan for obtaining possession of that box. He had suddenly taken it into his head that he ought to go into partnership with the two boys in order to assist them in spending their money, although there was not the first thing that he could think of that induced the belief. Julian had always been friendly with him,--much more so than any of the other boys in the office,--although he confessed that he had not always been friendly with Julian. "Of course I have little spats with him, but Julian isn't a fellow to remember that," said Casper to himself. "I've had spats with every boy, and some of them I don't want anything more to do with. But Julian ought to take me into partnership with him, and I believe I'll ask him. But first, can't I get that box for my own? That is an idea worth thinking of." It was an idea that had suddenly come into Casper's head, and he did not think any more about the partnership business just then. Of course their advertising for Haberstro knocked all that in the head; but then if he had the box he could do as he pleased with it. The next day, at the office, he did say something about partnership, but Julian laughed at him. He said that he and Jack could easily spend all that money, and more too, if they had it. It was made in a joking way, and Julian had not thought to speak to Jack about it. "It is no use trying you on," said Casper to himself, getting mad in a minute. "You can spend all that money yourselves, can you? I'll bet you don't. There must be some keys in the city that will fit your door, and I am going to have one." From that time forward Casper had but just one object in view, and that was to get the box. He spent three days in trying the different keys which he had purchased to fit the lock, and one time he came near getting himself into difficulty. He was out a great deal longer than he ought to have been with a message, and when he got to the office Mr. Wiggins took him to task for it. "How is this, Casper?" said he. "You have been gone three-quarters of an hour longer than you ought to have been." "I went just as soon as I could," replied Casper, who was not above telling a lie. "The man wasn't at his place of business, and so I went to his home." "Then you are excusable. It seems strange that he should be at home at this hour." Casper did not say anything, but he was satisfied that he was well out of that scrape. He had not been to the man's home at all. He was trying the lock on Julian's door. Although he made two attempts without getting in, he succeeded on the third. The door came open for him, and after searching around the room in vain for the box, he looked into the closet. "Aha! I've got you at last!" said he, as he drew the clothing aside and laid hold of the object of his search. "Now I wish I had my money that is due me from the telegraph office. To-morrow would see me on my way toward Denver." Hurriedly locking the door, Casper made the best of his way down the stairs and to his room, and put the box into his trunk. Then he broke into another run and went to the office, where he arrived in time to avoid a second reprimand. "Oh, you feel mighty well now," said Casper, watching Julian, who was talking and laughing with some of the boys, "but I bet you you will feel different in a little while. Now who am I going to get to hide that box for me? None of the boys in here will do it, so I must go elsewhere." During the rest of the week Casper was as deeply interested in watching the persons who came there as Julian was. He did not advertise for Haberstro, because he did not want to give up the box. He was more than half inclined to go to Mr. Wiggins and tell him he was going to leave when his month was out, but some way or other he did not. Something compelled him to wait, and in three days more he found out what it was. He was in the office waiting for a message to deliver, when Julian came in with a bundle wrapped up in a newspaper under his arm. Casper was thunderstruck, for something told him that Julian had played the same game that he had. He had been to his room and got the box. His face grew as pale as death when he saw Mr. Wiggins follow Julian into the back room, and his first thought was to leave the office before he came out. "It is all up with me now," said he, rising to his feet and looking around for his cap, which, boy fashion, he had tossed somewhere, on entering the room. "He will tell Mr. Wiggins that I stole the box, and I will be discharged the first thing. I'll deny it," he added, growing desperate. "I haven't seen his box. He did not find it in my room, but got it somewhere else. I will make a fight on it as long as I can." So saying, Casper sat down to await Julian's return; but the boy came out alone, and the antics he went through drove Casper frantic. "I've got the box," said Julian, when Casper asked him what he meant by that pantomime. The guilty boy was given plenty of opportunity to "deny it all," but he gave it up in despair when he found that Julian was not to be frightened into giving up the box. The latter was perfectly willing that the police should come there, but if they did, he would tell all Casper had done. He might get Julian in a scrape, but he would get into a worse one himself. He was glad when Julian moved off to his chair and left him alone. "I guess it is the best way as it is," said Casper, getting upon his feet and looking out into the street. "If he sets the police onto me--good gracious, what should I do? So that plan has failed, and now the next thing is something else. I'll have that box, or die trying to get it." All that day, while he was in the office or carrying his telegraphic dispatches around the street, Casper thought of but one thing, and that was, how was he going to get that box again? He did not have much to say to anybody, and when six o'clock came he lost no time in getting home. He had evidently determined upon something, for he ate a very scanty supper, changed his clothes, and hurried out again. His changing his uniform for a citizen's suit was something that would have brought him his instant discharge if his company officers had found him in that fix. He could mingle with loafers about the pool-rooms, and no one could have told that he was any different from anybody else. He could drink his beer, too, and no one would suspect that he was going back on the pledge he made to the company. But, then, Casper was used to such things, and he thought nothing of it. More than that, he had an object to gain, and he had already picked out the person whom he hoped to induce to enter into a scheme to possess that box. "Claus is the fellow I am going to try," said he, as he hurried along toward a pool-room which he often frequented. "He is a German, he is well along in years, and I know he isn't above making a dime or two whenever he gets the chance. Now for it. It is make or break." CHAPTER VI. A MR. HABERSTRO APPEARS. As Casper Nevins uttered these words he turned into an entry, ran up a flight of stairs, and opened the door of the pool-room. The apartment was always crowded at night, and the players were mostly young men who ought by rights to have been somewhere else. One end of the room was occupied with pool-tables, and the other was taken up by billiards, which were in full blast. Casper gave out among the players that he was a broker's clerk, and the story seemed to satisfy the young men, who asked no further questions. There was no chance for him in a pool game, and consequently he did not look for it. He looked all around, and finally discovered his man Claus, who was sitting near one of the tables, watching the game. This man was one of the loafers about the pool-rooms. He always dressed very neatly, but he was never known to have any money. He was a German, and that fitted the name of the man to whom the box was addressed. "I am living on the interest of my debts," said he, when some one asked what his occupation was. "I never have any money. I don't need it. I can get along without it. You fellows have to work every day, while I do nothing but sit around the pool-room and wait for some one to challenge me for a game." "But you must make some money sometime, or else you couldn't play pool as often as you do." "Oh, as to that, I make a dollar or two when I find the right man who can play a little, and sometimes I make more. If I could get a chance to make a hundred thousand dollars I would take it in a minute. After that, I would not be obliged to work." These remarks were made in the presence of Casper Nevins, who remembered them. After he had stolen the box, and before Julian had got it back again, he thought it best to try him on a new tack. "Supposing you didn't get a hundred thousand dollars the first time trying," said he. "Would not fifty thousand do you?" "Well, I think I could live on that much. Fifty thousand would tempt me awfully. I wish I had a chance to try it." "There is Claus, and I am going to speak to him the first thing I do," said Casper. "If there is anybody who can play the part of the missing Haberstro, he is the man." "Ah! Good-evening, Casper," he exclaimed, as the boy approached him. "How is the brokerage business to-day? Have you made any money?" "I don't make any. The boss does all that." "Well, why don't you pick up some money and go in yourself? You will never be a man in the world as long as you stay in the background. Do you want to see me? Here I am, and all ready for business. Is there any money in this thing you have to propose?" Claus, following Casper's lead, occupied an arm-chair in a remote corner of the room, away from everybody, and Casper sat down alongside of him. It was not any work for him to begin the conversation, for Claus "had given himself away" every time the subject of money was introduced. "Were you in earnest the other day when you said that if you had a chance to steal a hundred thousand dollars you would try it on?" said Casper. "I want you to deal fairly with me now. I want to know just how you feel about it." "My dear boy, I was never more in earnest in my life," said Claus emphatically. "Just give me a chance, and you will see whether or not I meant what I said." "Well, I have got a chance for you to make something," said Casper. "You have? Let her rip. I am all attention. But hold on a bit. Let us get a cigar. Have you any money?" "I have ten cents." "That is enough. Anything to keep our jaws puffing. I can listen a great deal better with a cigar than I can without it." The two arose from their seats and made a trip to the bar. They lighted their cigars, and Casper paid ten cents for them. It made no difference to Claus that Casper had paid out some of his hard earnings and wondered where his next morning's breakfast was coming from. As long as he got the cigar, it mattered little to him whether Casper had any more money or not. "Now I am all ready to listen," said Claus, seating himself in his arm-chair once more. "Be explicit; go into all the minutiæ, so that I may know what I have to do." There was no need that Claus should tell Casper this, and for the next fifteen minutes Claus never said a word, but listened intently. He told about Julian's habit of going to the express office on the day that "old horse" was offered for sale, until finally he bought the secret of a gold-mine which was hidden away in a box that came near being sold for twenty-five cents. The box was addressed to S. W. Haberstro, and the boys had put four advertisements in the papers asking that man to show himself; and, if he did not show up in reasonable time, the money was to be theirs. "Here is a copy of the _Democrat_, with a copy of the advertisement in it," said Casper. "I knew you would want to know everything, and so I brought it along. A hundred thousand dollars! Now, why couldn't I have bid on that box? That little snipe does not get any more money than I do, and yet he had to go and buy himself rich." "Then it seems that you are not a broker's clerk after all," said Claus. "I don't know as I blame you." "You see I would get discharged if any of the company officers should find me dressed up in citizen's rig," said Casper. "I can go among the boys, now, and have a good time." "I don't know that I blame you," repeated Claus. "I will keep your secret. Well, go on. I begin to understand the matter now." "I tell you I was mad when I found out that they were going to advertise for old man Haberstro," said Casper. "I called them everything but decent boys, and went to work to conjure up some plan for getting the box for my own. I got it, too----" "You did? Then you are all right." "Not so near right as you think I am. Julian got some keys that would fit my door, and went in and stole it." "Whew! They are a desperate lot; ain't they?" "That is just what they did; and, furthermore, Julian gave the box into the hands of Mr. Wiggins, our chief telegraph operator. Now, I want you to come down there, pass yourself off for Haberstro, and claim that box. Can you do it?" Mr. Claus did not answer immediately. He stretched his legs out before him and slid down in his chair until his head rested on the back of it. He was thinking over the details of the plan. Casper did not interrupt him, but waited to see what he was going to say about it. "And you are willing to give me half the contents of that box if I will get it for you?" said he. "You have given me the hardest part of the work. Where do you suppose that man Wiggins keeps the box?" "In the bank, of course. He's pretty sharp, and you must look out for that. If we can get that box, I won't go near the mine. I am not going to handle a pick and shovel when I have fifty thousand dollars to fall back upon. I am not going to work every day when I am afraid that something will come up and scare me to death. I will take half the block of buildings described there, and you can take the other half. That is fair, isn't it?" "Yes, it is fair enough, but I am afraid of that man Wiggins. What sort of a looking man is he?" "The worst part about him is his eyes. They are steel-gray, and when he turns them on a culprit in the office you would think he was going to look him through. You will have to be pretty sharp to get around him." "Well, suppose I go and see Julian first. If I can get around him, that will be so much gained." This was the beginning of a long conversation between Casper and Claus, and when it was done the latter felt greatly encouraged, and told himself that he was nearer getting the box for his own than he ever was before. Casper told him everything he could think of that related to the matter, and when Claus got up, removed his hat and wiped his face with his handkerchief, Casper said that if he would just act that way in the presence of Mr. Wiggins, he would carry the day. "You act more like a German than I ever saw you act before," said he. "If you will just do that way to-morrow, I will answer for your success." "I can act the German all over, if that is what he wants," said Claus, with a laugh. "You haven't got another ten cents, have you? Well, let it go. I will go home and sleep upon it." "But look here," said Casper, earnestly. "If you come to that telegraph office you must not know me. You never saw me before." "Of course not. I won't give you away. That money is worth trying for. What is the reason that you and I have not some good friends to leave us that amount of money?" "Because we are not honest enough," said Casper, bitterly. "Honesty has nothing to do with it. We ain't sharp; that is what's the matter with us. Well, good-night. I will go and see Julian to-morrow night, and the next day I may be down to the telegraph office. I want to go easy, because I don't want to spoil the thing by being too brash." As it was already late, Casper did not attempt to enter any game that night. He went home and tumbled into bed, and for a long time he lay thinking over what he had said to Claus. There was another thing that came into his mind every once in a while, and that was, where was his breakfast to come from? "I was not going to get any cigars to-night, because ten cents was all I had left," said Casper. "But I could not well refuse Claus. No matter. If he succeeds in getting that box, I will have all the cigars I want." The next morning Casper went to the office without any breakfast; but the first message he had to carry took him to a saloon where they set a free-lunch table. There he took the edge off his appetite and ate enough to last him until supper-time, when he was to get his pay. Julian was there, looking as happy as ever. Casper did not blame him for that. If he had a box with that amount of money in it, he would be happy, too. "By George! It is six o'clock," said Casper, at length. "In two hours more I will know what Julian says to Claus. Till then, I must have patience." Casper received his money when the others did, and without saying a word to anybody set out for home. Julian was not in quite so big a hurry. He walked along with his hands in his pockets, and once, when passing by a baker's shop, he went in and bought some cakes with which to top off their supper. Jack Sheldon always reached home before he did, and Julian found him in his usual act of getting supper. In reply to his ordinary greetings, he answered that there had been nothing unusual going on in the telegraph office, and that no man who said his name was Haberstro had been there to see about the advertisement that had appeared in the papers. "I tell you, Jack, that fortune in the box is ours," said Julian. "That man has had ample time to show up, and it won't be long before we will be on our way to Denver." "Don't be too sure of that," said Jack. "Haberstro may be off on a vacation somewhere. I shall believe we are in Denver when we get there, and not before." Almost as Jack said the words there was a sound of somebody coming up the stairs. He stopped in front of the door, and called out to somebody he left below, "Does Mr. Julian Gray live here? Thank you;" and a moment afterward his rap sounded upon the door. "What did I tell you?" whispered Jack. "That's Haberstro, as sure as you live." For an honest boy, Julian's heart fell. His fortune was gone, and there were no two ways about it. He stepped to the door and opened it, and there stood Claus, more neatly dressed than ever. "Good-evening," said he, while his eyes roved from one boy to the other. "Which one of you is Julian Gray?" "I am, sir." "I am delighted to meet you," said he; and he thrust out his hand, into which Julian put his own. Then he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a card on which the name S. W. Haberstro was engraved. "I got belated in my hotel while waiting for the train, and I picked up this paper and saw this advertisement in it. As it happened to be my name, I read it through." "Come in, sir," said Jack, placing a chair for him. "It is one of four advertisements that we put into the daily papers. Your name is Haberstro, I believe?" "That is my name. You said you had something of great value to tell me. What is it?" Julian could not have opened his mouth to save him. He was obliged to let Jack do all the talking. CHAPTER VII. A PLAN THAT DIDN'T WORK. Julian Gray took his stand in one corner of the room, with his hands in his pockets and his feet spread out, and looked at this man who called himself Haberstro. He was a German, there were no two ways about that; and he had a habit of taking out his handkerchief and wiping his face with it that nobody but a pompous and well-to-do German ever imitated. "Do you know of a man of the name of Winkleman?" asked Jack. "Know him?" exclaimed the German. "Of course I do. He was living here in St. Louis with me, but all on a sudden he took the gold fever and went out to Denver. I was engaged in pretty good business, and so I did not go with him. I never heard what he was doing out there. He--he isn't dead, is he?" "Oh, no. He accumulated some property while he was out there. He got a notice that his father had died in Europe and left all his property to him, and he has gone home to take possession of it." "Then that accounts for his not writing to me. He always said that his folks were immensely rich, and that some day he would have more than he wanted. What property did he collect out there?" "He is worth several buildings which are worth a hundred thousand dollars. Furthermore, he has given them to you." "To me?" cried the German, rising to his feet. "Yes, to you. And, more than that, he has a mine out of which he took fifty thousand dollars, and you come into possession of that, also." "Lord bless my soul!" exclaimed the German. "I don't remember that I ever did anything to him to give him so good an opinion of me." "Did you not nurse him while he was sick?" "Did you not care for your mother when she was sick?" returned the German. "Of course that did not amount to anything. He was my chum, and I had to stand by him." "Well, he gave you the property for it, anyway. He sent you the deeds by express, and Julian bought them for thirty cents." "Well, sir, that is a heap of money. I don't know anybody that needs it more than I do. Where is the box now?" "It is safe in the hands of Mr. Wiggins. We were not going to have somebody come along here and claim to be Haberstro. Have you anybody here in St. Louis to whom you can recommend us? We want to know who you are before we give up the box." "That is perfectly right and proper. You see, my home is in Chicago, and I know but few persons here. If you think this Mr----what do you call him?" "Wiggins?" said Jack. "Yes; if you think he will want somebody to vouch for me, I can give him the names of all the Germans in the city. Where does he hang out?" "The Union Telegraph office. You know where that is?" "I can easily find it, for I have a tongue in my head. I don't believe I will go near that mine at all. I will sell it." "You had better not. The miners have a story around that it is haunted." The German threw back his head and laughed heartily. "I am not afraid of that. If he took fifty thousand dollars out of it, it is surely worth as much more. Well, if you have told me everything, I guess I had better go back to my hotel. I was going back to my home to-night, but now I am glad I did not go." "I guess we have told you everything that pertains to the matter," said Jack. "Do you think of any questions you would like to ask us?" "No; but I may think of some to-morrow. Good-night." "By the way," said Jack, as if he had just thought of something. "Where were you when this man Winkleman was sick? You were out in the mines, I suppose?" "Oh, no, we were not; we were here in St. Louis. If we had been out at the mines, where no doctor could have been reached, he would have gone up on my hands. Look here--I don't want you to do this for nothing. Make up your minds what you ought to have and I will give it to you. If it had not been for you I would never have seen the box. Good-night." The German bowed himself out and closed the door behind him. The boys waited until he got to the street, and then Julian took possession of the chair he had just vacated. "Well, sir, what do you think of that?" asked Jack, using companion's expression. "I think our fortune is gone up," answered Julian; and then he leaned his elbows on his knees and looked down at the floor. Jack laughed as loudly as the German did a few moments before. Julian straightened up and looked at him in surprise. "What do you mean by that?" he exclaimed. "Is a hundred thousand dollars such a sum in your eyes that you can afford to be merry over it?" "No; but you will never lose it through that man. His name is not Haberstro any more than mine is." "Jack, what do you mean?" "You were so busy with your own thoughts that you didn't see how I was pumping him, did you? In the first place he told us that Winkleman was sick in St. Louis; and yet Winkleman says in his letter that they were so poor that they could not raise enough to buy a halter for a mule. Now, he would not have used such an expression as that if he had been here in the city, would he?" "No, I don't think he would," said Julian, reflectively. "He used the words of the country in which he lived." "That is what I think. In the next place, he said that he was engaged in a paying business here, and consequently did not go with Winkleman to the mines; and then, almost in the same breath, he said he could not refer me to anybody here because his home was in Chicago. You didn't see those little errors, did you?" Julian began to brighten up. He remembered all the German had said to Jack, but somehow he did not think of it. The box was not lost, after all. "Now, he must have had somebody to post him in regard to these matters," said Jack. "Who do you think it was?" "Casper Nevins!" said Julian, who just then happened to think of the boy's name. "That is what I think. He is bound to have that box, is he not? Don't you give that box up; do you hear me?" "I am mighty sure I won't give it up," said Julian, emphatically. "I shan't give it up until you are on hand. I had better take Mr. Wiggins into my confidence to-morrow." "Of course. Tell him the whole thing. Tell him about the mistakes this man made in his conversation with me, and let him draw his own conclusions. I never saw such a desperate fellow as that Casper Nevins is. Now let us go on and get supper." "I feel a good deal better than I did a few minutes ago," said Julian, with something like a long-drawn sigh of relief. "I thought the box was lost to us, sure." The boys were impatient to have to-morrow come because they wanted to see what the German--they did not know what his true name was--was going to do about it. "I will tell you one thing, Jack," said Julian. "If that Dutchman goes to-morrow and sees Mr. Wiggins about it, he will get a look that will last him as long as he lives. I ought to know, for I have had those eyes turned on me two or three times. If that man stands against them I shall think he is a nervy fellow." The night wore away at last, and at the usual hour the boys were at their posts. Casper was in the office, and he seemed to be uneasy about something. He could not sit still. He was continually getting up and going to the door, and then he would come back and walk around the room. When Mr. Wiggins came in and wished them all a good-morning, Julian followed him into the back room. "Julian, have you some news about that box?" said he. "Yes, sir; there was a man up to our room and handed us this card, and I thought----" "Halloo," said Mr. Wiggins. "The box does not belong to you, after all." "Hold on until I get through explaining things," said Julian. With this Julian began, and told him of the conversation that had taken place between Jack and the German, not omitting the smallest thing. Mr. Wiggins listened intently, and when the story was done he said, "Somebody has been posting that man in regard to that box. Now, who have you told about it except Jack Sheldon?" "I don't know as that has anything to do with it," said Julian, who resolved that he would stand by Casper as long as he could. "Yes, it has; it has a good deal to do with it. Does Casper Nevins know all about it?" "What do you know about Casper?" said Julian in surprise. He wondered if there was any boy in the office who could do anything wrong without Mr. Wiggins finding it out. "Because he has been uneasy for the past week. Does Casper know all about it?" "Yes, sir, he does. He was there when we read the letter." "That is all. I will see you again after a while." Julian went out and sat down, and in a few minutes Mr. Wiggins came from the back room and spoke to the operator, who immediately sent off a dispatch. Nobody was called to carry this, for the message went straight to the office for which it was intended. Five minutes passed, and then a stout man, who was a stranger to all of them, strolled into the office. One of the boys got up to wait upon him, pushing some blanks toward him, but the stout man did not want to send any telegraphic dispatches. "I just want to look around and see how you do things here," said he. "Then take this chair, sir," said Mr. Wiggins. "I guess you will find that we do things about right." The minutes passed, and all the boys who had congregated in the office had been sent off with messages--all except Casper. There did not seem to be any dispatches for him. The chief operator was busy at his desk, when suddenly the door opened, and the same German who had called at Julian's room the night before, came in. Mr. Wiggins glanced toward him and then he looked toward Casper. The latter never could control himself when he was in difficulty, and his face grew white. "Is this the Western Union Telegraph office?" said the German, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. "Do I speak to Mr. Wiggins? Well, sir, I would like to see you about a box that one of your boys bought at a sale of 'old horse' in the express office. That box contains something that is off immense value to me--S. W. Haberstro." And he handed out his card with his name engraved on it. "There is a box here addressed to a man of that name," said Mr. Wiggins, "but it is in the bank now. I suppose you have plenty of friends here to whom you can refer?" "I am sorry to say that I have not," replied the German. "My home is in Chicago. I can refer you to all the Germans there." "Then, would it not be worth while for you to write to some of your friends there and get some letters of recommendation? You see, we don't want to give the box to anybody unless we know who it is." "That is all right, sir. I have some business on hand in Chicago, and I will go up there and get them." "That will be sufficient. Good-day, sir." The German, who appeared to be in a great hurry, closed the door and hastened up the street. As soon as he was gone, Mr. Wiggins beckoned to Casper and went into the back room. "Who was that man who just went out?" said he, in a tone of voice which did not admit of argument. "Tell me the truth." "His name is Claus, sir," said Casper. "Where does he stay, principally?" "He stays first in one pool-room, and then in another. Where he lives I don't know." "That will do," said Mr. Wiggins. "I never have been guilty of such a thing before," began Casper. "I said that would do," interrupted Mr. Wiggins. "I may see you again after a while." When Mr. Wiggins and Casper got out into the other room they found that the stout man had disappeared. He had gone out about the time that the German disappeared. In half an hour he came back, leaned over the desk, and spoke to the chief operator. "That fellow is no more Haberstro than I am," he whispered. "His name is Solomon Claus. We have had him up a time or two for vagrancy, and I'll take him up for the same cause, if you say so." "No; let him go, but keep your eyes on him. He has not done us any harm yet. If he comes here again I will send for you." CHAPTER VIII. CLAUS CALLS AGAIN. When the stout man reached the sidewalk he saw the German a short distance in advance of him, still hurrying along as though he had no time to waste. He turned several corners, and at last disappeared up the stairs that led to the pool-room. The detective, for that was what he was, did not seem to notice what had become of the German, but he marked the place where he had gone up and kept on to the station-house. There he changed his coat and hat, and picked up a huge walking-stick which stood in one corner. When he came out on the streets again, everybody noticed that he walked with difficulty, and there was an expression on his face which only those who were intimate with the detective would have thought belonged to him. It was very different from his ordinary appearance. Instead of the frank, open look with which he regarded everybody, it was drawn up as though he was suffering intense pain, from which he could not get a moment's relief. The detective speedily found the place where the German had disappeared, walked wearily up the stairs, opened the door, and sank into the nearest chair. Then he pulled a pair of eye-glasses from his pocket and became interested in a paper. But he used his eyes to some advantage, and quickly discovered the man he wanted seated off by himself, with his legs outstretched before him and his chin resting on his breast. "I guess he found some difficulty in getting that box," said the detective, who knew what Mr. Wiggins wanted of him before he came to the office. "You want to go easy, my friend, or I'll have you up for vagrancy again." There were not so many in the pool-room as there were the night before, and nobody seemed to bother the German; but presently, while he was thinking about it, another party came in. He took off his coat, seized a cue, and looked all around the room for an antagonist, until he discovered the German sitting there doing nothing. "Halloo, Claus!" he shouted, "come on, and let us have a game of billiards." "No, you must excuse me," was the reply; "I don't feel in the humor for billiards or anything else." "Have you anybody on a string that you are trying to make some money out of?" asked his friend. "Come on, and perhaps a game will brighten you up." "'Claus,'" muttered the detective. "I know you now. I was told to find out what his name was, so I will go back. So this is where you hang out. I will remember you." The detective hobbled out the door and down the stairs; but by the time he got down to the street his lameness had all disappeared, and he walked as briskly as anybody. He went to the Western Union Telegraph office, told Mr. Wiggins he had discovered that the man's name was Claus, and not Haberstro, and then went back to the station. Casper Nevins was called into the back room a moment afterward, but he was not there more than long enough to receive his discharge. "I have never done anything like this before," said Casper, trying to beg off. "If you will overlook this----" "I can't do it," said Mr. Wiggins. "You are a boy that I can't trust. Why, Casper, do you know what will become of you if you do not mend your ways? You will get into the State's prison before you are five years older. I paid you up yesterday, and you have not done anything to-day, and so you can go." "It would not be of any use for me to ask for a letter of recommendation, would it?" asked Casper. He always had a good deal of audacity about him, but this made Mr. Wiggins open his eyes in surprise. "Not from me, you can't," he answered. "You will have to go somewhere else to get it." Casper put on his cap and left the office, and on the way to the pool-room, where he expected to find Claus, he blamed everybody but himself for the disgrace he had got into. He blamed Claus, although it is hard to see what that man had done, for he worked as hard as anybody could to get that box; but he reproached Julian Gray more than all for his interference in the matter. "Come to think of it, I don't know but I am to blame a little myself," said he, after he had thought the affair all over. "Why did I not dig out the moment I got that box? I would have been in Denver by this time, and enjoying my wealth. It beats the world what luck some people do have." But Claus was not in the pool-room. He wanted to be alone, so that he could think over the matter, and he had gone out where he would be by himself. The barkeeper did not know where he had gone, and Casper went home to change his clothes. As he pulled his uniform off he told himself that it would be a long time before he ever wore it again. Then he threw himself into a chair and tried to determine what he should do next. "I have just ten dollars," he mused, taking the bill from his pocket, "and what I shall do when that is gone is another and a deeper question. I'll bet that Claus don't get any cigars out of me to-night." Meanwhile Julian Gray came in from delivering his message. His face was flushed, and he acted as though he had been running. He made his report, and then went into the back room in obedience to a sign from Mr. Wiggins. "Well, Julian, your box is still safe," said the latter. "Has that Dutchman been around here?" asked Julian. Mr. Wiggins said he had, and then went on to give the boy a complete history of what Claus had done to secure the box. "I got rid of him very easily," said Mr. Wiggins. "I told him that it would be well for him to write to some German friends in Chicago, where he said he lived, and he said he was going up there on business and would bring the letters back with him. I found out that his name is Claus, and that he hangs out in a pool-room. You don't know him, do you?" No, Julian could not say that he had ever heard of him before. "Well, don't you let the box go without seeing me about it." "Nobody shall have it. Mr. Wiggins, I don't know how to thank you for what you have done." "You are a good boy, Julian, and the only thing I have against you is that you will hang around that express office so much. Some day I am going to give you a good scolding for that." "You will never hear of my being there again. I am done going there forever." "I don't think you will have to do it any more. You have your fortune, easy enough." "Oh, Mr. Wiggins! Do you think it is ours sure enough?" "Well, perhaps I ought not to speak so positively; it is hard to tell at this stage of the game. I _hope_ you have." Julian was delighted to hear Mr. Wiggins talk in this way, but before he could ask him any more questions that gentleman had gone back into the office. He then went out and looked around for Casper. One of the boys told him he believed Casper had got the "sack," for he put on his cap and left the office. "I don't know what he has been doing," said the boy; "do you?" "Mr. Wiggins knows, and he will not tell," replied Julian. "I wonder what the poor fellow will do now?" Julian was impatient for night to come, so that he could go home and see Jack about it. It came at last, and Julian never broke a trot until he ran up the stairs and burst into his room. "Well?" said Jack. "You look happy. Tell us all about that Dutchman." "There is not much to tell. His name is Claus, and he lives in a pool-room." "I knew I was not mistaken in him," said Jack, taking his usual seat by throwing his leg over the table. "That man had better go somewhere else." But that he did not feel inclined to go somewhere else just then was evident, for just as Jack pronounced his name the boys heard his step coming up the stairs. He had a peculiar step, which, once heard, could not be forgotten. "Well, he is coming again," said Julian. "Now, what are you going to say to him?" "That depends upon what he has to say to me," said Jack. "Go to the door, let him in, and put out a chair for him." He rapped on the door the minute he got there, and Julian opened it for him. He looked closely from one to the other of the boys, but did not see anything in their faces to make him hide what he had on his mind. He had a new plan, but it did not promise as well as the one which had been defeated by Mr. Wiggins. He wanted to induce one of them to get the box for him and let him read the papers that were in it. If he could prevail upon them to bring the box out of the bank, he was certain that in some way he could get an opportunity to steal it. He did not intend to go about it slyly; he intended to take it, open and above-board, and let Jack and Julian help themselves if they could. He was certain that a revolver, presented at their heads and cocked, would surely keep them quiet until he had locked the door and got into the street. Where he would go after that he neither knew nor cared. What he wanted was to get possession of the box. "Ah! Good-evening," said Claus, bowing very politely. "I came back to see you about that box." "Take a chair," said Jack. "What about the box?" "Mr. Wiggins said it was in the bank," said Claus, "and I want to know if you could get it out of there and let me read the letter and the papers. You see, the thing may not be for me, and I don't want to go home and bother my friends about it until I know what the box contains." "Oh! your friends won't care anything about that," said Jack. "You tell them that the box is for you, and they will give you all the letters you want. Besides, I don't think Mr. Wiggins would agree to what you ask." The German did not like the way Julian was acting. He had kept his eyes roaming from one to the other; but, although the boy occupied his favorite position, with his hands buried in his pockets and his feet spread out, his expression was different from what it had been the night before. There was a smile on his face, and it would not have taken very much to set him to laughing outright. Claus began to think there was something up. "Why, the box is your own, ain't it?" asked Claus. "You can do what you please with it." "Not now, we can't. We have told Mr. Wiggins that we wanted him to watch over it for us, and he will have to be present when you read the papers." "Then you can't get it for me?" "No, I don't believe I could, Mr. Claus. You don't need anybody to give you a recommend. Go to some of your friends here----" "Claus! Claus! That is not my name. My name is Haberstro." Julian grinned broadly, and even Jack did not appear to be above merriment. "What do you mean by applying that name to me?" exclaimed Claus. "There is my card." "I don't want to see it. I have one already. Your name is Claus, you live in a billiard saloon, and you got a full history of this box from Casper Nevins." "Young man, I will have you arrested before you are an hour older!" said Claus, getting upon his feet. "I come here and ask a civil question of you, and you insult me!" "Do so, and we will have Casper arrested for burglary and you for trying to obtain money under false pretenses. The sooner you get about it the better it will suit us." "Very well--I will have a policeman here in less than ten minutes!" Mr. Claus went out, and this time he did not bow himself through the door as he had done the night before. The boys heard him going downstairs, and then turned and looked at each other. "Somebody has been posting those fellows," said Claus, as he hurried away toward Casper's room. "I wonder if there was a detective in there while I was at the office? Two attempts have failed, but the third is always successful." Claus was almost beside himself with fury, but he retained his wits sufficiently to guide him on the road to Casper's room. He found the boy in, seated in a chair, with his elbows on his knees, trying his best to make up his mind what he was going to do, now that he had been discharged from the telegraph office. He had sat that way ever since eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and had not been able to determine upon anything. The first intimation he had that anybody was coming was when the door was thrown open and Claus came in, muttering something under his breath that sounded a good deal like oaths. "There is no need that you should say anything," said Casper. "You have failed." "Yes, sir, I have; failed utterly and plump," said Claus. "And I have been discharged." "Whew!" whistled Claus. "You are in a fix, aren't you?" "Yes, and I don't know what I shall do now. Tell me your story, and I will tell you mine." "Have you a cigar handy?" "No; and I have no money." "How long before you will be paid?" "Oh, it will be two weeks yet." "Then I will have to go down and get some cigars myself. I can think more clearly while my jaws are puffing than I can without." "You got your last cigar out of me, old fellow," said Casper to himself, when Claus had left the room. "I have but little money, and I am going to keep it." CHAPTER IX. THE MASTER MECHANIC. "Well, sir, what do you think of that?" said Julian, when he was certain that Claus had gone down the stairs and out on the street. "He had better try some other way of getting that box." "He has failed," said Jack, putting a frying-pan filled with bacon on the stove. "Casper Nevins is at the bottom of that. I tell you, that money is safe yet." "Do you know that I looked upon it as gone when he first came here and handed out his card?" said Julian. "I thought he was Haberstro, sure enough." "I confess that I thought so, too. Now let us go on and get supper. The next time we save that money, somebody else will have a hand in it." "Why, will we have to fight for it?" "It looks that way to me now. We don't know anything about business, and the first thing we know we'll get tripped up." "I did not think of that," said Julian, drawing a long breath. "I wish Mr. Wiggins were going out to Denver with us. I will get advice from him before we start." "We have not got out there yet," said Jack, with a laugh. "If we do get there, we will go to the lawyer who drew up those deeds. He must be an honest man." The boys continued to talk in this way until the room was swept up and the dishes washed, and when bedtime came they went to sleep. The next morning found them on duty again. Casper was not there to greet him and make inquiries concerning the box, but there were other boys there who wanted to know why Casper had been discharged. They appealed to Julian, for he was in the back room shortly before; but he thought the best thing he could do was to keep a still tongue in his head. "Mr. Wiggins knows why he discharged Casper, and if he won't tell you, I don't know where else you can apply." "You had a hand in it and I know it," said one boy who was enough like Casper to have been his brother. "Maybe you are a spy on us." "You come out in the back yard and I'll show you who is a spy!" said Julian, rising to his feet. "No one ever accused me of that before. If I am a spy, you want to do your duty right up to the handle." This was something new on Julian, for we know how hard he worked to keep the police off from Casper's track. Some of the other boys turned away as if they were quite willing to believe that Julian was seeking for promotion, while some others stood up close to him, as if to assure him of their protection. "If you will stay by me when Mr. Wiggins comes here, I will ask him before you if I had anything to do with Casper's discharge. He will tell you the truth." But the boys wisely appealed to him not to do that. Since Casper had been discharged, they wanted their skirts clear of him, and the best way to do that would be to say nothing about it. "But, Julian, you want to keep clear of that fellow who called you a spy," said one of the boys. "He has been jealous of you for a long time, in fact ever since the day you came into the office, and just as soon as he gets a good chance he is going to split on you." "Thank you; I did not suppose I had an enemy in this city. Let him keep watch, if he wants to. My conduct will bear investigation." Julian did not do his work with his usual energy that day, for he could not bear to think that one boy was acting as a spy upon him. He carried his dispatches as well as he could, never stopping to gaze in at the prize windows or to make one of a crowd who gathered around some show that had stopped for a moment on a corner, and that was as well as anybody could do. Jack laughed loudly when he saw what a gloomy face Julian had on when he told him of the matter. "What do you care for spies?" said Jack. "Do your duty faithfully, and then you will be all right. In our place we don't have any such things. The boys are always glad to see me promoted, for they think they have a new mechanic to assist them when they get into trouble." For another month things moved along in their usual way, and nothing was heard from Mr. Haberstro. Julian did not meet Casper or Claus, for they had disappeared completely. He held frequent and earnest consultations with Mr. Wiggins on the subject of the box, put other advertisements in the papers, and finally Mr. Wiggins took Julian down to the bank and talked to the president. It excited Julian wonderfully to know that the box was theirs. "I should not wait any longer, if I were in your place," said the president. "You have done all that you can to find the owner, and he does not make his appearance. You can go out there and lay claim to the property, and enjoy it; and if at any time this Mr. Haberstro turns up, you can give the property over to him. But I want you to be careful in what you are doing. There are plenty of Haberstros in the world who would like nothing better than to get that box." "By George, Jack," said Julian, when he went home that night, "did I not tell you that that box was ours? I have talked with the president of the bank about it, and he says we can go out there and enjoy that property." Jack took his usual seat, with his leg thrown over the table, and looked at Julian without speaking. He had never laid great stress on having that box. He supposed that Haberstro would show himself in due time, and all they would have to do would be to give up the money and go on with their work. His good fortune was a little too much for him to take in all at once. A dollar a day was pretty big wages for him, and he supposed that it would last till he learned his trade, and that then he would receive more money. But a hundred thousand dollars, to say nothing of the gold-mine! Why, that mine had already yielded its owner fifty thousand dollars! "Jack, why don't you say something?" exclaimed Julian. "You don't act as though you were a bit pleased. I wish, now, that I had been a mile away when that box was put up for sale." Jack roared. He was always ready to laugh when Julian talked in this way. "I am very glad you _were_ there when it was sold," said he; "but the idea of owning so much money rather takes my breath away. I was just wondering what we would do if some more Haberstros came up and demanded the money. I suppose there are some men like that in Denver, as well as there are here." "The president cautioned me about that. He told me to be careful in what we did. Now, Jack, when will we start?" "I don't know. I shall have to see the master mechanic about that. You know that I am as deeply indebted to him as you are to Mr. Wiggins." "Does he know about the box?" "Not a thing. I thought I had better see you about that before I broached the subject to him." "Well, then, tell it to him to-morrow. We don't want to be any longer in getting out there than we can help. We want to be there before the snow flies, or the first thing we know we'll be snowed up." "Are you going to see Mr. Wiggins about it?" "I am. Let us go out to Denver at once." "I tell you it comes hard to say good-bye to those fellows; I have been with them so long that I hate to do it. If I get in trouble in any way, they will always help me out." The next day Julian talked to Mr. Wiggins about going out to Denver, and the latter's face grew grave at once. He could not bear to let Julian go out there among strangers. He had always had him under his eye, was waiting for a chance to promote him, and now he was going away. "I will go down and get the box," said he. "And remember one thing, Julian: You may get into a hard row of stumps out there, and I want you to write to me fully and plainly of what you are doing. If you want some money, say so; and if you want to come back here in the office, say that also, and I will try and make room for you." Julian's eyes filled with tears when he saw Mr. Wiggins go out on the street and turn toward the bank. He found, with Jack, that it was going to be hard work to say good-bye. When he went out into the other room, the boys noticed at once that he had been crying. "Aha!" said the boy who had once accused him of being a spy, "you have come up with a round turn, have you?" "Yes," said Julian, "I've got it at last." "It serves you right!" said the boy. "If Wiggins gave it to you in pretty good order I shall be satisfied. You know now how Casper felt when he was discharged." "Are you discharged, Julian?" whispered another of the boys. "I guess I have got something like it," was the reply; "you won't see me here to-morrow." Julian walked to the window and looked out on the street, and in a few minutes Mr. Wiggins came up with the box. The boy followed him into the back room, all the boys, of whom there were half a dozen in the office, looking on with surprise. Mr. Wiggins's face was grave, but he was not angry, and they did not know what to make of it. "I think I would do this up and send it by express--wouldn't you?" said he. "If this is put in your trunk, and the cars run off the track and get smashed, your trunk might get smashed, too, and the box with it. Before I put the cover on I will write a letter to our agent in Denver. I have never seen him, but that won't matter; and then, if you want any good advice, go to him. Come in in the course of half an hour--" "No, sir!" said Julian, emphatically; "I am going to do my duty as long as I stay in the office." "Well, go ahead; I will give you the box, sealed and addressed to yourself, to-night." Julian went out and took his seat among the boys, and about half of them felt a little bit sorry for him, but the other half did not. Here was one favorite out of the way, and consequently there was a chance for somebody else. Presently his name was called, and then Julian went away to deliver his dispatch. When six o'clock came, Julian went into the back room and received the package. "You will be around here before you go?" said Mr. Wiggins, extending his hand. "Then I won't bid you good-bye. Take this box to the express office and send it off. Have you any money?" Yes, Julian had plenty of money. Did Mr. Wiggins suppose that he was going to spend all his month's wages in two days? He took the box and went out, and took his way toward the express office, wondering what the clerk would say if he knew what was in that package. The clerk turned out to be the same one who had given him the box, but he said nothing about it; and when Julian had paid the express charges on it he came out and started for home. As he was going up the stairs he heard the sound of voices in the room, and opened the door to find a man there, dressed in his best, and with a very smiling face, which he turned toward Julian. "So this is the boy who bought himself rich," said he, getting on his feet "I know you from the description I have received of your uniform. I congratulate you heartily, but I am sorry you are going to take Jack away from me. When you are awful home-sick, and are short of money, you can write to me, and I will send you something to come home on." "This is Mr. Dawson, our master mechanic," said Jack. "I am glad to meet you, Mr. Dawson," said Julian, shaking the man's hand very cordially. "Jack often found fault with me for going to that office, but I struck it once,--didn't I?" "Well, I should say you _did_," returned Mr. Dawson, with a laugh; "you couldn't do it again if you were to try it your lifetime." "Sit down, sir; we will have supper ready after awhile, and you must join us." "That's just what I came up here for. Jack is going away pretty shortly, and I shall not see him any more, so I came up to be with him as long as I could." Mr. Dawson moved back his chair so that he would not be in the way, and Julian pulled off his coat and went to work; but he saw by the extra bundles there were on the table that his chum had been going back on his principles. There were cream cakes and peaches by the dozen, as well as sundry other little things that Jack had purchased for supper. It was a better meal than they had been accustomed to for a long time, and if there was any faith in the way that master mechanic asked for peaches, he thoroughly enjoyed it. "I hope you boys will live this way while you are gone," said he, as he pushed back his chair and declined having any more. "You must remember that a hundred thousand dollars don't go very far. There certainly is an end to it, and the first thing you know you'll be there. Now, I hope you fellows won't object if I smoke a cigar?" The "fellows" did not object, nor did he raise any complaint when they proceeded to wash the dishes. It was eleven o'clock when Mr. Dawson said it was time he was going home, and when the boys felt the hearty grasp of his hand at parting, they told themselves that there was one friend they were leaving behind. CHAPTER X. WHERE ARE THE VALISES? For the next two days Julian did not know whether he stood on his head or heels. Jack went about his preparations very moderately, but the fact of it was, Julian was in a great hurry. He could not help telling himself that if they did not get away from St. Louis, that man Haberstro would appear just at the wrong time, and they would have to go back to work again. He donned a citizen's dress and tied his uniform up neatly in a bundle, calculating to take it down to the office and present it to a boy there who did not act as though he had more in this world than the law allows. "I will give this up to Hank," said he. "The poor fellow don't have any too much, and perhaps this suit will help him." Jack accompanied him to the office--it was the first time he had ever been there--and while he was looking around to see how they did business, Julian found the boy of whom he was in search. "Here's a present I have brought for you, Hank," said he in a whisper. "You asked me yesterday if I had been discharged, and that showed that you were a friend of mine. I told you the truth; I have been discharged, and I am going out to Denver. This is my uniform. Take it and wear it, and think of me." Julian did not wait for the boy to raise any protests, but laid the bundle down on his seat, and then turned toward Mr. Wiggins. "I haven't gone yet," said he. "We are going to-morrow night." "Well, come in and say good-bye before you go," said Mr. Wiggins. Julian took the opportunity to introduce Jack, who raised his cap respectfully. He listened while Mr. Wiggins congratulated him on his good fortune, and heard some very good advice in regard to saving his money. "I tell you what it is, Julian," said he, when they had left the office behind them, "everybody who is anybody is glad that we are going to improve ourselves, and many seem to think there is going to be an end to that hundred thousand dollars." "I'll bet you that it don't come to an end with _me_," said Julian, emphatically. "I am going to purchase some things that I need, but I shan't touch the principal at all." The first thing was to go to a store and buy a trunk. Up to this time they had never had any receptacle for their clothes, carrying all their belongings in a traveling-bag. They concluded that one trunk was enough, and, after they had purchased it, Jack shouldered it and was going to take it home. "Come, now, that won't do," whispered Julian; "it is three miles to our room." "No matter if it is a thousand," said Jack; "I can take it there." "Put it down, and I will get a carriage." "Well, I won't pay for it." "I _will_; I don't see what's the use in our being so particular." Jack put the trunk down, and Julian went out, and very soon returned with a carriage. The boys held a consultation, and decided that, now that they had a conveyance, they might as well stop at some places on the way home and invest in some other articles they needed. "But I'll tell you one thing," said Jack; "you are keeping this rig too long; I won't pay for it." It was three hours before the friends got home, and then they had their trunk more than half-filled with new clothing. The hackman carried it upstairs for them, and Julian, having paid him his price, threw himself into a chair to wait until Jack did the packing. In addition to the trunk, the boys bought small traveling-bags, in which they carried several handy little articles they thought they might need during their journey, such as towels, comb and brush; and Julian stowed away in his a book that he had long desired to possess--"The Last Chronicle of Barset," by Anthony Trollope. Jack could hardly conceal his disgust; he was going to look out of the window when they were fairly on the train, and he would see more fun in that than Julian could in reading his book. "There, sir, I guess it's all done," said Jack, going to the closet to make sure that they had left nothing behind. "All right; lock the trunk and put the key in your pocket," said Julian. "Now give me half of what this room will come to during the present month, and I will go down and pay the landlady. We haven't anything to eat, so I guess we will have to go down to a restaurant and get dinner and supper all in one." "I think a sandwich and a cup of coffee would go pretty well," said Jack. "Oh! I am going to have a better meal than that. Where's the money?" Jack counted out his share of the rent, and Julian posted off to see the landlady. He was gone a long time, but he came back with a receipt in his hand which he showed Jack, and then the two boys went out to get their dinner. Jack ordered what he had said he would; but anyone who could have seen what Julian sent for would have thought he was a millionaire already. Jack looked on but did not say anything; he was old enough to know that the change in Julian's circumstances would make him reckless for a while. He remarked that he might as well go down to the shop and bid the fellows good-bye, and then it would be done with; so they turned their faces in that direction when they came out, and in a short time they were among the railroad shops. Jack knew where to go; and, after leading his companion through a long workshop, where Julian would certainly have got in somebody's way if he had not stuck close to his heels, finally ushered him into the helpers' room. He shook hands with them one after the other--dirty, begrimed fellows they were, too, looking very unlike the well-dressed men they were when dressed up for Sundays--and presently he came to the master mechanic. The latter threw his arm around Jack, led him away out of earshot of the others, and held an earnest conversation with him. He even put his hand into his pocket, but Jack shook his head and turned away. "Come on, Julian; I guess I have said good-bye to them all," said he, as he led the way to the street. "Every one of those fellows wanted to give me money--as if they didn't know I have enough already. Well, I hope the last one of them will be successful. If they want any money, they can apply to me." Julian had never seen Jack look sad before. After going a little way on the street, Jack turned and looked at the shop as if he thought he never would see it again. Julian did not know that Jack had so much heart in him. The next day was devoted to Julian, who went down to the office and took leave of all his friends. Even the boy who had accused him of being a spy came in for a good, hearty hand-shake. He did not know how to take it, but stammered out something about being sorry he had treated Julian in the way he did. "That's all right," said the boy; "only, the next time don't you accuse any boy of being a spy on you unless you know whereof you speak." Mr. Wiggins had something more to say to Julian. He conducted him into the back room, and kept him there until Jack began to be impatient. When he came out again, Julian was wiping his eyes. "I tell you, Jack," said he, when they were well on their way to the railroad depot to purchase their tickets, "when one has been here and done the best he could in the office, it comes hard to say good-bye. Every boy--and man, too--has used me white, if I except that fellow who accused me of being a spy. But this isn't the last time we will see St. Louis, I hope. When we get out to Denver, and get fairly settled, we will come back again." The friends waited a long time at the depot, for the ticket office was not open; but they had much to talk about. What sort of a looking place was Denver? They had not read much about that, and they had somehow got it into their heads that it was a little settlement, and that they should find more wigwams there than houses. But at last the window was opened, and, falling in behind the others, they purchased tickets which were to carry them farther west than they had ever been before. "Now, the next thing is to get a sleeping-car," said Julian. "We don't want a sleeping-car," said Jack, catching Julian by the arm and leading him away. "You can lie down on one seat, and I can take the other, and we'll sleep just as well there as we would on a pile of down." Julian was obliged to give up, but told himself that it would not always be so. He wanted to spend money for something he really needed, and he thought he could sleep better in a sleeping-car than he could in another which was devoted to passengers who were wide awake. Nothing now remained but to get their supper and call a carriage to take them to the depot. The boys took coffee and sandwiches, and during the meal hardly spoke to one another. That was the last meal they would eat in St. Louis, and they wondered what the future had in store for them. Perhaps, when they got to Denver, they would find that Haberstro had been there already, and by some hook or crook had managed to get the property into his own hands. "But I don't see how that could be done," said Jack, when Julian hinted at this. "The deeds are in Winkleman's name, and we have them. How is he going to get the property, then?" "I don't know; but I am afraid he will get it some way." "If he does, all we have to do is to give it up." But this was going to be a hard job, in Julian's estimation. He did not confess that much, but it would be disastrous to him to have to surrender those blocks of buildings. He thought of it all that day, and while he was seated in the cars, going with as much speed as steam could put forth to carry him to his destination, it still bothered him. The master mechanic was there to bid them once more a good-bye, and Julian was certain, when he turned away and hung his head down, that there were tears in his eyes. As long as daylight lasted, Julian was busy looking out of the window as they rushed through the country; but when the lamps were lighted he began to grow sleepy. Julian was sitting on one bench, and Jack, having turned his seat over, was sitting on the other, and, having arranged their beds, they lay down on them; but it was a long time before they fell asleep. "Now, you see, if we had a sleeping-car we wouldn't have to go to all this trouble," said Julian. "Wait until you get too tired to keep your eyes open, and you won't know whether we are in a sleeping-car or not," said Jack; "I am most ready to go off this minute." Jack's words came out true, for after they had given up their tickets and been furnished with a slip to put in their caps, Julian speedily lost himself in the land of dreams, and the next thing he knew Jack was shaking him by the shoulder. It was broad daylight, and the train was still whirling them onward. "Can we get anything to eat along here?" said Julian, looking out of the window; "I am hungry." "There is a place a few miles ahead, so I heard the conductor tell a passenger, where we will stop to get breakfast," said Jack. "That was the reason I called you. If you are anything like me, you can eat a whole pan of baked beans." "Baked beans!" said Julian. "They have something better than that to eat on the railroad. I am going to get a breakfast that is worth the money." There was another thing that bothered Julian, and that was, he did not have any place to wash; but Jack told him that that would be remedied when they came to their stopping-place. They rode on for a dozen miles or so, and when the whistle sounded, and the brakeman announced fifteen minutes for breakfast, they left their valises in their racks and moved up nearer the door. "That wakes a fellow up," said Julian, as he plunged his face into a basin of water. "We have to hurry, Jack, for fifteen minutes is not a great while." The boys' breakfast was all that could be asked, although, if the truth must be told, they were not long in eating it. Julian boarded the train first, and led the way along to their seats; but where were the valises they left there when they went out to breakfast? "Is this our car?" said Julian, running his eyes over the passengers. "Why yes, this is our car," said Jack. "There is that red-faced man who sat behind you; he was sitting there when we left St. Louis. But what is the matter with you?" "Matter enough; our valises are gone!" "By George! So they are!" "Say!" said the red-faced man, leaning over the back of the seat. "I saw the man who took those valises, but I supposed he was a member of your party and that you had sent him for them; therefore I did not stop him." "What sort of a looking man was he?" "He was a very genteel fellow, but I noticed that he toed in, and that he had a very German cast of countenance." "I wonder if it was Claus?" said Julian. "I don't know what his name was, but he got the valises. Say! If I were you I would search the train, and if you find him you can make him give your property up." "We will do it. I wonder if we are ever going to see the last of that man?" The train had been gathering headway all the while, and was now running at the rate of thirty-five miles an hour. If Claus, or whoever stole the valises, was on the train, the boys were certain he could not jump off to escape them. CHAPTER XI. IN DENVER. "Did the man find anything of value in your valises?" asked the red-faced man, as the boys turned toward the front part of the car. "He could have bought everything I had in my valise for two dollars," said Jack, with a laugh. "It seems funny that he should want to put himself in danger of arrest for that" "He got a book in mine," said Julian. "Of course I have read it before, but I wanted to read it again. Say, Jack," he continued, when the latter reached the door and was about to open it, "if the man was Claus, don't you suppose he had an eye on that box?" Jack released the door and leaned up heavily against it. Such an idea had never occurred to him. "He watched us while we were in St. Louis, and when he saw us ready to come out, he got on the same train with us." "What a lucky thing it was that we sent that box off by express!" Jack almost gasped. "Of course it was Claus, and we shall not find him on this train, either. He jumped off at that station back there." "Let us go and see. If he is going to follow us in this way, we are going to be in a fix, the first thing you know." Jack opened the door and went out, and Julian followed close at his heels. They went slowly through the cars, looking sharply at every man they saw on the train, but nobody with "a very German cast of countenance" could be seen. The next thing was to try the other end of the train. Jack led the way, as before, and when they got into their own car the red-faced man, who seemed to take an interest in their success, said, in a low tone, "Did you find him?" "No," replied Jack; "he must have got off at the station. We are going through the sleeping-cars, and, if he is not there, we will have to give him up." In the next car there was no one who looked like Claus, and when they opened the door of the next car, and entered the vestibuled part of the train, they found themselves in an entry which was fitted up in the most gorgeous manner. A negro porter stood in front of the window looking out, and when he saw who the boys were, he stepped up in front of them. "Does you want to see somebody on dis train?" he asked. "Well, I should say we did," replied Jack. "Some one has stolen our valises, and we want to find him." "Dat's bad. Has you got a ticket?" "Of course we have. Don't you see the slips in our caps?" "But I mean a ticket for dis part of de train. If you hasn't got one, you can't go in." This was a new arrangement to Jack. The last time he travelled on the railroad it was when the hands connected with the railroad-shop gave an excursion and a picnic, and then he had no difficulty in going all over the train; but he saw the beauty of it at once. "Then we will have to give it up," said he, turning toward the door. "That man may be here and have our valises, and we can't help ourselves." "Mebbe not," said the negro. "What kind of a looking man was he? I will go over the train and look for him." Jack described the man as well as he could from the description the passenger had given him, and the negro went out. "Just see what we would have got we had taken a sleeping-coach," whispered Julian. "No one can come near you except those who purchased tickets at the depot." "We'll come to that after a while," said Jack. "Wait until we get our money. Just now it seems as though we shall have to be constantly on the watch." The negro was gone a long time, but our friends found themselves busy in taking a note of all their surroundings. There must have been a good deal of money spent upon that sleeping-car. There did not seem to be a cheap thing about it. One or two passengers, who had slept late and were just getting up, came in, and yawned, and stretched, and prepared to go through their ablutions. They merely glanced at the two boys, and went on with their work. They did not care for the eating-stations that were scattered along the route; when they were hungry, they could go into the dining-coach and get all they wanted. "I tell you, it is worth while to know where your money is coming from when you travel," thought Julian; "one feels so much safer." By the time he had reached this conclusion the negro appeared. "Dar ain't a man on dis train that looks like the one you spoke of," said he. "Dey's all Americans; the last man-jack of them." "Thank you," said Jack. "Our man has got off at the station. I hope he will get rich on what he found in those valises." The two friends went back to their own car, and to the inquiry of the passenger who sat behind them replied that the man had left the train as soon as he got the valises. Then they settled down and prepared to enjoy their journey; but it must be confessed that Claus came into their minds very frequently. If he was the one who took their valises, they were certain that they had not seen the last of him yet. "And to think that that fellow watched us all the while we were in St. Louis," said Jack, leaning over and whispering the words to Julian. "He may watch us after we get in Denver. Who knows?" But Claus, if that was the man, did not come near them any more during their journey. They grew weary, of course, and Julian, having no book to read, slept most of the way. Their night was passed in much the same way that the first one was, and about two o'clock in the morning they arrived at Denver. The appearance of the city, wrapped though it was in slumber, surprised them. There were as many people running about in the depot as there were in St. Louis, and all appeared to have work to do. The man to whom they had given their check was there to show them the way to their omnibus, and Julian, while he was on the way to it, looked all around for Indians, but did not see any. The hotel was as large as those they had left in St. Louis, and almost before they knew it they were in their room with two beds in it, the porter had carried up their trunk, had bid them good-night, and they were alone. "Say, Jack, there's more houses than wigwams here, is there not?" "I was just thinking so myself," said Jack. "Denver is a big city. Now, the next thing is something else. It is something I don't like to think of. That letter which Mr. Wiggins wrote to the agent here may help us some, but we have something to prove after that." "Well, don't let us worry about that to-night," said Julian. "Perhaps in the morning it will look different." Julian had never slept in so comfortable a bed before, and when sleep overpowered him he did not know a thing until he opened his eyes in the morning and saw Jack standing at the window, with his suspenders about his waist, looking through the window at some mountains which seemed to be looming up close at hand. "When we get settled, if we ever do, we must walk out there and take a view from the top," said he. "How far are they away from here?" "About two or three miles, probably. I believe if we get on the summit of those mountains we can see California." "I have just thought of another thing that may bother us some," said Julian. "I don't know whether the express clerks will want us to identify ourselves before they give us that box, but if they do--then what?" "Although we are in the right, there is always something to bother us," said Jack, seating himself in the nearest chair. "What will we do?" "We can't do anything except to write to St. Louis. There is nobody here that knows us from Adam." That was something that bothered Jack during breakfast, but at eight o'clock, the hour when the express offices are generally open, they were directed by the clerk how to reach it, and in process of time drew up before the counter. To Julian's inquiry if there was a box there addressed to himself the clerk placed the box before him, and never asked him who he was or where he came from. "Now, the next thing is to keep an eye out for the telegraph office. If you see a sign sticking out, let me know it." "I see a sign already," said Jack, pointing it out. Julian began to feel a little more at home. He had worked in a telegraph office, and he was certain that he was going among friends. The boys were there, and they came up to wait on him, but Julian went ahead until he confronted the operator at his desk. "Is Mr. Fay in?" Julian asked. "Yes, sir. He is in his private office. Would you like to see him?" "I would thank you first to give me a screw-driver so that I can take this cover off. There is a letter in here addressed to him." The screw-driver was soon forthcoming, and while Julian was at work at it, a hustling little man suddenly stood before him. "Do you want to see me?" he asked, in a business way. Julian had by this time taken out the letter, which was placed on top, and handed it to Mr. Fay, who leaned against the counter and read it. The boys watched him closely, and finally saw his eyes light up with surprise. "This letter has a stamp on it, so I know it is all right," said he. "But this man Wiggins I never heard of. Come into the office." The boys followed him, seating themselves in chairs that were pointed out to them, while Mr. Fay went on reading the letter. He was utterly amazed, and looked at the two friends as if he could scarcely believe it. "Which one of you boys is Julian Gray?" he asked. "You are? Then I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. You struck it rich once in buying 'old horse,' didn't you? How long have you been with Mr. Wiggins?" Julian began, and told as much of his history as he was willing that any stranger should know--all except about pulling him out from under the feet of the runaway horses. He thought that that was a sacred matter between him and Mr. Wiggins, and so he said nothing about it. "And how about your friend, here, John Sheldon?" said he. "You see, I want to get at the bottom of all your doings, so that I can explain it to Mr. Gibson, Mr. Winkleman's lawyer. We know of that man, and we know why he left; but we want to be certain that you have a right to the box." Jack began and related his story; and although Mr. Wiggins did not say much about it, never having been acquainted with Jack, the tale he told was so honest and truthful that Mr. Fay could not but believe him. "Well, boys, I will go with you to see Mr. Gibson," said the operator. "It all rests with him. You see, all these things happened eleven months ago, and he has collected considerable money in rent for all these places. You will come in for fifteen or twenty thousand dollars at the start. He may want to ask you some questions." What Mr. Fay said almost took the boys' breath away. They had hardly anything in their pockets, and to be told that they were worth ten thousand dollars apiece was almost too good for belief. They followed Mr. Fay out on the street--the way he moved proved that he had come up from the ranks--and up the stairs that led to Mr. Gibson's office. They found the lawyer in there, walking up and down, but he stopped long enough to bid Mr. Fay good-morning. "What have these young men been doing?" said he, pulling up a chair for each one to sit down. "More lawsuits, I suppose." "No, sir, there is no law in this except what you have a mind to tell us. Read this letter; but first let me introduce the boys." Mr. Gibson said he was glad to see them, and then commenced the letter, and before he had read it half-way through he whistled and looked at them with intense surprise. "Well, sir, you have done it, have you not?" said he. "Now, whom have you to prove that you bought this 'old horse' at the express office?" "Read on, sir, and I think the letter will answer that question for you," replied Julian. "I told Mr. Wiggins about it. That is all he knows of it." Mr. Gibson finished the letter at last, and then turned and gave the boys a good looking over. He evidently was not thinking about them at all, but about some point of law that had just occurred to him. Finally he said, "I want you to understand that I believe your story, but in order to be all right in everything, and leave nothing for anybody to pick a flaw with, I would like to know what you did to look up this man Haberstro." "If I were in your place, Gibson," said Mr. Fay, "I would write to Mr. Wiggins and the president of that bank, and get a full history of the boys. They will tell the truth." "Let me suggest to you, also, the name of Mr. Dawson," said Jack. "I used to work for him, and he knows all about me." The lawyer took down the three addresses of the men he wanted to write to. "Have you young fellows any money?" asked the lawyer. "Yes, sir, a little." "Will it last you two weeks?" The two friends were sure it would last them as long as that. "Where are you stopping?" Julian replied that they were stopping at some hotel, but they did not know which one. "Well, Fay will no doubt direct you to a cheaper boarding-house than that. What are you boys going to do with this?" said Mr. Gibson, placing his hand upon the box. "We want to put it somewhere so it will be safe," said Julian. "Shall I take charge of it for you? I will put it in the bank. It is most too valuable for me to carry around." "Yes, sir." After a little more conversation his two clients went out. The lawyer sat for a long time thinking the matter over, and at last he got up, took the box under his arm and started for the bank. He had decided that he would go to St. Louis that very night. CHAPTER XII. CASPER NEVINS, THE SPY. "No, sir," said Casper, leaning over and placing his elbows on his knees, his eyes gazing thoughtfully at the floor; "you don't get any more five cents out of me, yet awhile, to pay for cigars. I have got only ten dollars, and I am anxious to make that do. Now, what shall I go at next?" Casper Nevins was in a predicament the first thing he knew. He claimed to be an orphan, the same as Julian was; but those who were well acquainted with his history knew that he had a mother in a Western village who was a dressmaker, and who would have been glad to get every cent he could send her. But Casper never sent her any money. On the contrary, he often appealed to her to forward him a few dimes, to pay his debts for pool and cigars. Claus often got into him a dollar or two on the games he lost, and his mother was the only person he had to call on. Now he had lost his position, and the next thing was to find something else to do. He was really afraid he would have to go to work with his hands. He thought of Jack Sheldon, dirty and begrimed as he was when he came from the shop, and wondered how he would look in that fix. And, another thing, he wasn't satisfied that he could get as good a position as Jack held. Aside from being acquainted with the city and carrying the telegraphic dispatches, there was nothing else that he could do. "I tell you I am up a stump," said Casper to himself; "I shall soon be sweeping out saloons, as Julian did, to pay for my breakfast. I would rather die than do that." When he had reached this point in his meditations the door opened, and Claus came in with a couple of cigars in his hand. He did not seem to be at all worried over his failure to get his hands upon that box, but he was whistling a jig as he closed the door and offered a cigar to Casper. "What is the matter with you, any way?" he asked, when he saw the gloomy look on Casper's face. "You act as though you had lost your last friend." "What am I going to do now?" asked Casper. "I have no trade, no profession, and I must do something to keep myself in grub. There is no pool or cigars for me from this time on." "Well, let that thing go until I tell you my story," said Claus, who did not like to hear a man talk in this way. He knew that he was to blame for Casper's shortness of funds--a good deal of his hard earnings was located in Claus's own pockets--and he wanted to make him look on the bright side of things while he was in his presence. When he got away where he could not see him, then he could indulge in moody thoughts as often as he pleased. "I wish I had not played pool with you as often as I have," said Casper, showing a little spirit. "Every time I have crossed cues with you I have always been out three or four dollars. Why don't you play with somebody else?" "Well, if you are going to talk that way I'll go on," said Claus, getting up from his chair. "What I was going to say was that I don't believe that box is gone yet. I have tried twice to get it and have failed; but there is a charm in everything. Three times and out is what I go by; but if you don't want to hear what I have to say, why, good-night." "Well, sit down," said Casper, who couldn't bear to let Claus go away if he had anything to say concerning that box; "but you yourself would be angry if you were in my fix." "Oh, I have been that way lots of times. I have been so I didn't know where my next meal was coming from." "I have been that way, too," said Casper. "The other night you got ten cents of me, and it was the last cent I had in the world; I had to get my next meal at the free-lunch saloons." "I didn't know you were as hard up as that," said Casper, with surprise. "Have you money with which to get breakfast to-morrow?" "Not a cent." "Then here are twenty cents," said Claus, putting his hand into his pocket. "Two meals will do you. In the meantime, if you get hard up for something to eat, go to the saloons; that's the way I do." "Yes, but you always get something else. If I go in there and dabble with their lunch, the barkeeper will want to know why I don't get something to drink." "Then walk out and go to another saloon. You ain't posted. Now, I want to tell you my story. It isn't long, and I want to ask you a question before I get through." When Claus said this, Casper settled back in his chair and tried to look interested; but the trouble was, he only succeeded in looking guilty. "I have just come from Julian's room," continued Claus, "and I threatened him with the police. He called me by my own name, or Jack did, and I want to know who has been telling him that. Did you?" "I never said a word to him about you or anybody else," said Casper, looking Claus squarely in the eye. "Did you say anything to Mr. Wiggins about it?" "Never a word. There might have been a detective in the office while you were there." "A detective? Who was it?" "I am sure I don't know. But if he knew your name, there was where he got it. You went up to the pool-room after you got through there? Well, did anybody follow you up to see what your name was?" "There was nobody up there that I saw, and I took mighty good care to watch out. I threatened him with the police for addressing me by that name, and he just as good as told me to go and get them." "What made you say police at all? What had he done?" "I wanted him to get the box and let me read the papers in it, because I wanted to be sure that they were intended for me; but he would not do it." "Of course he would not!" exclaimed Casper, in disgust. "That was a pretty way to do business, wasn't it?" "I calculated, if he brought the box in there, to steal it away from them," said Claus. "If I once got out on the street, I would like to see anybody catch me. I would have hung around this city for a month but that I would have got away with it." "And what would I be doing in the meantime?" "You would have known where I was," said Claus, bending toward Casper and speaking in a whisper. "I would have found means to communicate with you. Of course if I had got that box you would have had a share of it." Casper did not know whether to believe this or not. Somehow he had felt suspicious of Claus ever since the first night he spoke to him about the box. If the German got it without any of his help, he was sure that he never would see any of it. "Well, you failed in that scheme, and I would like to know if you have some other means of getting hold of it." "Certainly I have. Three times and out is what I go by. My next scheme will be to steal the box from them on the train." "How are you going to do that?" "We will keep watch of them, and when they are ready to go to Denver, we will go, too. You know their habits better than I do, and by keeping your eyes on them--" "Well, I won't do it," said Casper, emphatically. "They may not go for a month yet, and I must have something to eat in the meantime." "I will give you twenty cents a day and enough to pay your rent," said Claus. "That will keep you going, won't it?" "You must give me more than that. I shall need a cigar once in a while, won't I?" "Then I will give you thirty cents. You don't want to smoke more than two cigars every day, do you?" The question where Claus earned the money he had was a mystery to every one except himself. When the police arrested him for vagrancy and the justice fined him ten dollars, believing that he was going to shut him up for two months, Claus pulled out a roll of greenbacks as large as one's wrist. The justice gazed at him in surprise and said, "I had no idea that you were so well heeled as that." "I have a relative in Europe who sends me money once in a while," said Claus. "Well, get out of here, and don't come into this station any more." "I won't," said Claus; "and I wouldn't have come in here this time, only the police brought me." "You must go easy on me, because I haven't too many ducats," said Claus, continuing the conversation which we have broken off. "I think thirty cents a day will see you through in good fashion." "Of course that puts a different look on the matter. Begin by giving me ten cents to get a cigar with to-night. Thank you. Now, what do you want me to do?" "You are to begin and keep your eye on Julian, and report to me every day at the pool-room. Whenever you see preparations made for them to go out to Denver, you must let me know it; then we will go, too." "But how are you going to steal their valises, if they have any?" "They will leave their valises behind them when they go out to get their meals, and I will slip up and get them. You won't have anything to do with stealing them at all." "That is a bargain," said Casper. "I believe that is the best way yet. But remember--you must keep out of their sight; and I will, too." A little more conversation was held on the subject, and then Claus took his leave. When the door closed behind him Casper arose to his feet, placed his thumb against his nose, and wiggled his fingers. That was his opinion of Mr. Claus's scheme. "I know what you mean to do," said he, in a voice that was choked with passion. "You are going to get me out there on the railroad and leave me. But I will see that you don't do it; I will stick closer to you than a brother, and when you get that box I will be close at hand. Now I will go off to some restaurant and get some supper." The next morning dawned clear and bright, and when Casper opened his eyes his first thought was to get up; but remembering that he had not to go to the office that day, he rolled over and dropped asleep again. But he had to get up at last; and after a good, hearty breakfast, and smoking a cigar, he strolled down toward the telegraph office. Julian was there, sitting in his chair, for he could see him through the window. He had not made preparations to go to Denver yet. And so it was during every day that the boys waited for Haberstro to show up. Julian was as impatient as Casper, and even Claus began to growl for fear there was being too big a haul made upon his money. "I am not an Astor, to be giving you thirty cents a day to watch those fellows," said he. "If they don't begin to make some move very soon I shall be sorry that I hired you." "They are going to Denver some time, and if you are bound to have a hand in the box, the best thing for you to do is to keep on hiring me," said Casper. "I know what you want," he added to himself. "If you were to give me every cent of money you have, I would just about get my own back." But not long after this, when Casper was strolling by the telegraph office to see what was going to happen, he saw Julian and Jack go in there. The two boys were dressed in citizens' clothes, too, and that proved that there was something up. While he was wondering whether or not he had better go back and report the matter to Claus, Mr. Wiggins came out and took his way toward the bank. In a little while he came back again with the box under his arm. Casper concluded to wait still longer, and the result proved satisfactory. The two friends came out of the office, and Julian held the door open long enough to say, "I haven't gone yet; I will come back and bid you good-bye before I start." "By gracious, they are going!" said Casper, so excited that he could not stand still. "Now, the next thing is to find out _when_ they are going. I guess I will go and see what Claus has to say about it." Claus was found in the pool-room, and he was playing a game with somebody. He drew off on one side, and Casper hurriedly related what he had to say to him. For a wonder Claus smiled. "They are going to-morrow night," said he. "You talk as though you knew all about it. How do you know?" asked Casper, with the accent on the adverb. "Because Julian has got his discharge, he is dressed in citizen's clothes, and they will have to take to-day in order to bid their friends good-bye and get some things that are necessary for the trip," said Claus. "Watch them closely, and when you see a carriage drive up to their door and a trunk put on, come to me here and I will be ready for you." "How are you going to get your own luggage down?" asked Casper. "I don't want any luggage," replied Claus; "I have more money than enough to buy--humph!" He had intended saying that he had money enough to buy all the clothing he wanted, but seeing Casper's eyes fastened upon him he caught his breath in time and said, "I have money enough to pay for a night's lodging, and that is all we want. Now you go and do just as I tell you." Claus turned again to his game and Casper went slowly out of the room. The German watched him, as he opened the door, and said to himself, "I wonder if that fellow knows what I am up to? He acts like it; but if he does, I would like to see him help himself." CHAPTER XIII. GETTING READY FOR WORK. "I know just what you are going to do," repeated Casper, as he ran down the stairs--"you are going to steal the box, and leave me out on the prairie to get back the best way I can. For two cents I would not have anything to do with it." But in spite of this resolution, Casper, as soon as he reached the street, turned his gaze in every direction in the hope of finding Julian and Jack; but the boys had disappeared. He walked along the streets looking everywhere for them, and finally came to a standstill opposite Julian's room. "They will have to come here some time, and I will just take my stand here in this door and watch for them," said Casper. "They will not take that box with them, anyhow; it is much too valuable to lug about in a valise. They will send it by express." This was something that had occurred to Casper on the spur of the moment, and he thought seriously of going back to Claus with it; but, on the whole, he decided to keep still about it. He was getting thirty cents a day for doing nothing, and he did not want to bring that to an end too speedily. Claus had plenty of money. Casper had seen the inside of his pocketbook when he took it out to pay him his money, and he might as well have thirty cents of it as not. At the end of three hours Casper saw the carriage coming up the street. He was certain that he was right in his suspicions, because carriages of that description were not often seen in that by-street; and, more than that, there was a trunk perched in front of the driver. He drew up in front of Julian's room, and a moment afterward the boys got out. Casper saw the driver catch up the trunk and carry it upstairs, and presently he came down again, mounted to his box, and disappeared up the street. "They are gentlemen now, and of course they could not carry that trunk upstairs," sneered Casper, coming out of his concealment. "Now, I wish I knew when they are going to start. If things were all right between Julian and myself I would go upstairs and find out; but as it is, I guess I had better keep away; he would not tell me, anyhow. I stole that box from him once, and that was where I missed it. I ought to have gone to Denver at once." After some time spent in rapid walking, Casper once more found himself in the pool-room, and saw Claus busy with his game. Claus drew off on one side, while Casper whispered the result of his investigations to him. "That is all right," said he, and a smile overspread his face. "You are much better at watching than I thought you were. Wait until I get through here and I will give you a cigar." "But, Claus, though they had a valise apiece in their hands, they have no idea of carrying the box in them," said Casper; "it is too valuable." "That's the very reason they will take it with them," whispered Claus. "They will not trust it out of their sight." "I'll bet you that they will send it by express," answered Casper; "that is what I should do with it." "But all persons are not as careful as you are," said Claus; and he turned to take his shot at the game. "You need not think you can soft-sawder me in that style," thought Casper, as he backed toward a chair and took his seat to see how the game was coming out. "You have some other little trick that you want me to play. Well, if it is not too dangerous I'll do it; if it is, I won't." "There is nothing more that we can do to-night, but I shall expect to see you bright and early to-morrow morning," resumed Claus, as he finished his game and hung the cue up in its proper place. "Here is a dollar. You may get yourself all the cigars you want." "Thank you for nothing," said Casper to himself, as he turned to leave the room. "The last game I played with you you got an even five dollars out of me. This does not make me straight with you by a long way." Casper did not rise bright and early the next morning, because he did not think there was any need of it. He spent a quarter of Claus's dollar for breakfast, smoked a cigar, and strolled leisurely down to the telegraph office. He was just in time to see Julian and Jack coming out. The face of the former wore a very sad expression, and there was a suspicious redness about his eyes, which looked as though he had been crying. "By gracious! I don't think I would shed tears if I were in your place," said Casper, in disgust. "And you are going away with a hundred thousand dollars in your pocket! It beats me, how many people go to make up a world! Julian has been bidding them good-bye in there, and so he must be getting ready to go off very soon. Now I will go and see Claus." Casper found his companion in guilt at the very place he said he would be; and, for a wonder, he was sitting there alone, in one corner of the room. He told what he had seen, adding that Julian could not keep back his tears when he came out. "We'll give him something to cry for when he goes out of that car," said Claus, with a wink; "he will be just a fortune out of pocket." Casper had several times been on the point of asking Claus how he was going to work in order to secure to himself the full possession of all that property. He thought there would have to be some legal steps taken before the agent, or whoever had charge of those blocks of buildings, would be willing for Claus to call them all his own. Suppose the agent should write to some of the many friends he was presumed to have in Chicago, and should get no answer from them; what would Claus do then? All the friends he had were in St. Louis; he did not know anybody in Chicago, and consequently he would receive a check at the very start. If the German thought of this, he did not say anything about it. He wanted first to get the box, and then he could settle these things afterward. "Well, there is only one thing for you to do now," said Claus, after thinking the matter over; "you must stay around Julian's room, and wait for them to go to the depot. You will find me right here." "I shall want a cigar to smoke in the meantime," said Casper. It was right on the end of Claus's tongue to make a flat refusal, but there was something in Casper's eye, which he turned full upon him, that made him hesitate. He growled out something about not being made of money, but finally put his hand into his pocket and produced another dollar. "You need not mutter so lustily every time I ask you for money," said Casper to himself as he left the pool-room. "I will have to give up this business before long, and I am going to make all I can." Casper went straight to a restaurant and got his dinner, and with a cigar for company took up his usual hiding-place in the doorway and waited to see what was going to happen. He stayed there until four o'clock in the afternoon, and then began to grow interested. He saw Julian come out and hasten away, and something told him that he had gone for a carriage. But why was it that Casper got so mad, and threw his cigar spitefully down upon the pavement? Julian was dressed in a suit of new clothes, and he looked like a young gentleman in it. The suit that Casper wore was the only one he had, and when that was gone he did not know what he should do to get another. "That fellow must have received a good many tips while he was in the office," muttered Casper, "or else he saved his money. I wish to goodness I had saved mine, instead of giving it all to Claus." Julian soon came back with a carriage, and it became evident that they were going to take the train for Denver. Julian and the hackman went upstairs, and when the boys came down again they each wore a traveling-coat and had a small valise in their hands. They got into the carriage and were driven away for the depot. "Now, then, I am going to see if Claus is fooled," thought Casper, as he hurried off in another direction. "The box is not in those gripsacks; they are not large enough. Now, you mark what I tell you." "What's the news?" said Claus, who was loitering at one of the windows of the pool-room. "Did you see them go?" he asked, in a whisper. "I did," answered Casper. "We have just time to get down there, and that is all. You are making a mistake by not taking some baggage along." "No, I am not. We shall go as far as the station at which the passengers take breakfast, and then we will stop and come back. That is as far as we want to go." "And come back as empty-handed as we went," said Casper to himself. "I'll bet there won't be anything worth having in those valises." It took Claus and Casper a long time to walk to the depot, although they went with all the speed they could command; but when, at last, they got there, they found that the ticket office was not open. It was no trouble at all for them to find the boys whom they were seeking; they occupied a couple of seats in the gentlemen's waiting-room, sitting pretty close together, too, and were engaged in earnest conversation. "Those are the ones, are they not?" questioned Claus. "They are dressed up so fine that I would not have known them." "Yes; they have new clothes on," said Casper. "They are going off as though they were business men starting out on a vacation." "That is the way we will travel when we get our money," said Claus, with a wink. "And when we do get it you may go your way and I will go mine," said Casper to himself; "I am not going to stay around where you are all the while bothering me to play a game with you. I am going to save my money; that's what I will do." It was shortly after they reached the depot that the ticket office was opened, and Julian went to purchase tickets for himself and companion. Casper watched them until they were safe in the train, and then Claus bought two tickets for Casper and himself, and they took seats in the car behind Julian's. In that way they would keep out of sight. They did not intend to show themselves until the train stopped for breakfast the next morning, and then they would show themselves to some purpose. The night was a long and wearisome one to Casper, who did not once close his eyes in slumber. He was wondering what was going to be the result of this new scheme of theirs, and telling himself over and over again that it would not amount to anything. It did not look reasonable that the boys should carry their box in a valise, and leave it behind when they went to breakfast while there was so much in it that needed their constant care. "And then, after he gets the valises and finds that there is nothing in them, that is the time for me to look out," thought Casper. "He won't get away from me if I have to stay awake for two or three nights to watch him." Finally, to Casper's immense relief, day began to dawn and some of the wakeful passengers to bestir themselves. He arranged his hair with the aid of a comb which he had in his pocket, and then sat on the seat and waited impatiently for Claus to wake up. All night long the German had slumbered heavily, as though he felt at peace with himself and all the world. That was something that Casper could not understand. Here he was, fully intending to steal a fortune from a boy who had come honestly by it, and yet he could sleep peacefully and quietly over it! "I wonder if I shall be the way he is?" soliloquized Casper. "I will try this once, and if we don't get the box I will go back and go to work--that's the best thing I can do." It was not long before a brakeman came in and told them that they were approaching the place where they would be allowed fifteen minutes for breakfast; whereupon Casper leaned over and shook Claus by the shoulder. "It was time you were getting up," said he in a whisper; "it is time to go to work." "I heard every word that was said," said Claus. "This is the place to which I bought tickets, and it is as far as we shall go. Go forward, and see if they are in the car ahead of us." "But suppose they see me?" said Casper. "You must not let them see you. Keep out of their sight. If they leave their valises behind when they go out to breakfast, it is all I want." Casper went, but he walked slowly, as if he did it under protest. When he arrived at the end of the car he found he could not see anything from there, so he opened the door and went out on the platform. He was gone a good while, but when he came back his face told Claus all he wished to know. "They are there," Casper whispered, "and are getting ready to go out. I saw the valises in the rack over their seats." "That's all right. Now, when we go out you must keep close behind me. I will come in at the front end of the car as if I had a perfect right there, and if I say anything to you, you must just nod your head." "What must I do that for?" asked Casper. "Because there may be somebody looking. I want to convince everybody that I have a right to the valises. Now, you go on ahead, and do as I tell you." Casper did not approve of this plan at all. The understanding between him and the German was that he was to have no hand in stealing the valises, but this looked as though he was the prime mover in the affair. Before he could make any further objection the cars stopped, the gong sounded for breakfast, and the passengers began to move toward the door. CHAPTER XIV. HOW CASPER WAS SERVED. "Come on, now, and remember what I told you," said Claus, getting on his feet. "There they go! All we have to do, now, is to go in there and get the valises. You know where they sat, don't you?" Casper glanced toward the front end of the car, and saw Julian and Jack step down and hurry toward the dining-room. Claus waited until most of the passengers got off, and then, with a motion to Casper to follow him, he went boldly forward and climbed the steps. He opened the door, and, when Casper went in, he said, "Now tell me exactly where they sat, so that I can pick up the valises without exciting anybody's suspicions." "Do you see that red-faced man sitting on the right-hand side?" whispered Casper. "And do you see those valises in the rack directly in front him? Well, they are the ones you want." "All right! We will have them out of there in a jiffy." "I don't like the way that man looks at us," Casper ventured to remark; "perhaps he knows them." "It don't make any difference to me whether he does or not. If he says anything to us, we will tell him the valises belong to us, and that we have come after them." Calling a smile to his face, Claus went down the passage-way, looking at the various valises stowed away in the racks. When he arrived opposite the seat where Julian had sat before he left the train, a look of surprise spread over his countenance, and he stepped in and took them down, one after the other. "These are ours, ain't they?" he asked, turning to Casper. "Yes--they are the ones." "I don't see what those boys put them in here for. Now we will take charge of them ourselves." He passed one valise to Casper, who took it and made his way out of the car, while Claus kept close at his heels. "Now we want to go somewhere and get out of sight as soon as we can," said Casper, looking around guiltily, and almost expecting a policeman to take him by the collar. "I shall not feel easy until this train goes." "Well, we don't want to get out of sight just yet," said Claus. "That red-faced man kept his eyes on us, didn't he? Let us see what he will make of it now." "Why, Claus, you are not going in there?" queried Casper, when his companion led the way toward the waiting-room. "Julian and Jack went in there, and they will be certain to discover us." "No, they won't. You follow me, and do just as I do." Casper turned his eyes and looked back at the train. There was the red-faced man, sitting by the car window, closely watching all their movements, and when he saw them enter the waiting-room into which Julian and Jack had gone a few moments before, his suspicions, if he had any, were set at rest, and he settled back in his seat and picked up a newspaper which he had just purchased. Claus kept on to the waiting-room, but he did not stop when he got there. He kept right on through and went out at the other door, and after walking briskly for a few minutes, and turning several corners until he was sure that the depot had been left out of sight, he seated himself on the steps of a deserted house, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead. "It was not such an awful thing to get those valises, after all," said he. "When that train goes, we will go and get our breakfast." "But I would like to know what is in those valises first," said Casper. "I tell you, you are fooled. I have felt this valise all over on the outside, and there is nothing in it that feels like a box." "I don't suppose you could feel anything of that kind in it, because I don't believe the box was put in there," said Claus. "My only hope is that they took the papers out of the box and put them in here; consequently they left the box at home." "Good enough!" exclaimed Casper, catching up his valise and feeling the outside of it, to see if he could feel anything that seemed like papers that were stowed away on the inside of it; "I never thought of that. Now, how shall we go to work to get the valises open? I haven't a key in my pocket that will fit them." "I haven't, either; but as soon as we get our breakfast we will go up the road a little distance and cut them open. These gripsacks will never be worth anything to anybody after we get done with them." Even while they were talking in this way they heard the shriek of the whistle twice, followed by the ringing of the bell, and knew that their train was getting ready to start on again; whereupon Claus got up and said he was as hungry as a wolf, and that he must procure a breakfast somewhere. "I shall not eat much till I find out what those valises are hiding from us," said Casper. "It would be just dreadful if we should fail, after all the trouble we have been to." By the time they got back to the depot the train was well under way; but Claus went out and looked after it, to satisfy himself that the coast was clear. Then they placed their valises in charge of the clerk at the desk, enjoyed a good wash, and went in and took their seats at the table. Their meal was a better one than they had had served up to them at St. Louis, especially when they were hard up for money; and, after taking their time in eating it, Claus settled the bill, took his valise, and started up the railroad track. "Have you a cigar?" he asked, before they had gone a great ways. "That is all right. We will go on until we get into that sagebrush, and then we will stop and look into these things. I will take just a hundred thousand dollars for my find." "I'll bet you will take less than that," said Casper; for, somehow, he could not get over the idea that the box had been sent by express. "There is nothing in them that you want." It did not take them more than a quarter of an hour to get into the sagebrush; and, after looking all around to make sure that there was no one in sight, they stepped down from the track and seated themselves on the bank beside it. Claus did not waste any time in trying his keys upon the valise, but stretched out his legs and put his hand into his pocket, and when he pulled it out again he held a knife in it. "The shortest way is the best," said he, thrusting the blade into the valise he held in his hand. "Come out here, now, and let us see what you have." His knife made short work of the valise, but nothing in the way of papers could be found. It was Jack's valise that he had destroyed, and all he found in it was a brush and comb, and half a dozen handkerchiefs. "I just knew how it would be," said Casper, despairingly. "You will find the same things in here." He had never seen Claus look so angry and disappointed as he was at that moment. With a spiteful kick of one foot he sent the valise out of sight in the sagebrush, and was about to send the other things to keep it company, when he happened to think of something. "I guess I'll keep the handkerchiefs and brush and comb for the good they may do me," said he. "Where's your valise?" Casper handed it over, and in a moment more that valise was a wreck, also. They found things in it similar to those found in Jack's gripsack, with the exception of a book which Julian had purchased to read on his journey, the leaves of which were uncut. Casper took possession of the handkerchiefs and the brush and comb, while Claus slowly rolled up the book and sat with his eyes fastened on the ground. He was mad--Casper could easily see that, and he dared not interrupt his train of thought. Claus sat for some moments communing with his own thoughts, then broke into a whistle and got upon his feet. "To say that I am disappointed, and angry, too, would not half express my feelings," said he, pulling off his hat with one hand and digging his fingers into his head with the other. "I did not suppose they would send those papers by express, for I know it is something that I would not have done. I would have kept them by me all the while, so that I could see that they were safe. Now, the next thing is to determine upon something else." "Do you intend to make another effort to get the money?" asked Casper, very much surprised. "Your 'three times and out' did not amount to anything--did it?" "No, I don't suppose it did," said Claus, who was evidently thinking about something else. "I guess you have done about all you can do, and so you had better go back to St. Louis." This was nothing more than Casper expected. He had his ten dollars stowed away somewhere about his clothes, together with small sums which he had saved from the amount that Claus had paid him, and so he could pay his way back to St. Louis easily enough; but what should he do when he got there? He shuddered when he thought of it. Here was winter coming on, and unless he should obtain work very soon he would have to go out to where his mother lived, which was all of two hundred and fifty miles from there. And what should he say when he got home? He had gone to St. Louis with big boasts of what he intended to do when he got there, and for him to turn up penniless and friendless at his mother's house was rather more than he had bargained for. "And what will _you_ do?" asked Casper. "I haven't had time to think the matter over," said Claus, who was rather surprised that his companion took his discharge, or whatever you might call it, so easily, "but I think I shall go on to Denver." "And I can't be of any use to you there?" "No, I don't think you can. I may not be back to the city before next spring." "I wish you would tell me what you are going to do when you get there. You can't get the box; that will be safe in the bank." "But perhaps I can pass myself off for Mr. Haberstro. I have some of his cards in my pocket." "But you will only get yourself into trouble if you try that game. There are people out there who know Haberstro." "Well, that is so," said Claus, looking reflectively at the ground. "I shall have to think up some way to get around that. At any rate, you cannot be of any further use to me, and so you had better start by the next train." "Well, you had better give me some money before you turn me off in this way," said Casper. "How am I going to get back to the city without money?" "Where is that ten dollars you got out of the telegraph office when your time was up?" asked Claus, who did not like it whenever the subject of giving some of his hard earnings was brought up before him. "You have not spent all of that, I know." "Yes, I have. I have just a quarter, and there it is," said Casper, pulling out of his pocket the coin in question. "I wish to goodness I had never seen you!" said Claus, shoving his hand into the pocket in which he kept his money. Casper heard the jingling of some silver pieces, and thought that perhaps his companion might be tempted to give him a few dollars. That would be better than nothing, and he would have some money left when he reached St. Louis. "If I had never seen you, I would have more dollars left in my pocket than I have now," said Claus, bringing out a handful of small change. Casper said nothing in reply. He wanted to see how much Claus was going to give him; and, once he had the money in his hand, he could talk to him as he pleased. "There are five dollars that I will give you, and you need not ask me for any more," said Claus, counting out the money; "for, if you do, you won't get it." "I don't know whether five dollars will pay my fare to St. Louis or not," said Casper. "Give me six." "No, sir; that's all I have to spare. It will take you so close to the city that you can easily walk in," said Claus, turning on his heel and starting toward the town they had just left. "You can walk twenty-five miles very easily." It was right on the point of Casper's tongue to "open out" on Claus, and give him as good as he sent. Wouldn't he have had more dollars in _his_ pocket if he had never met the man who was anxious at all times to play a game of billiards or pool with him, especially on pay-day, when Casper was known to have money in his pocket? But, on thinking the matter over, he decided that he would say nothing about it. Claus was a pretty big man, and there was no knowing what he would do if the boy made him angrier than he was now. "He is going to be fooled again," said Casper, as he fell in behind Claus, who walked toward the town as if he were in an awful hurry to get there. "What good will it do him to go on to Denver? He can't get the box there, neither can he cheat Julian out of his money. Julian will find any amount of friends there--I never heard of a boy with a hundred thousand dollars in his pocket who could not find somebody to stand by him--and they will tell him what to do. Oh! why did I make so great a mistake! I ought to have started for Denver the moment I got my hands on that box. Well, I got five dollars out of Claus, anyhow." Casper sauntered along behind Claus, who was walking rapidly, and when he reached the depot he looked all around for his companion, but failed to see him. Claus had gone off somewhere, and Casper was there alone. CHAPTER XV. HOW A MINE WAS HAUNTED. "Well, boys," said Mr. Fay, when they had reached the street and were walking toward their hotel, "I have somehow taken a great interest in you, and I am anxious to see you come out all right. It is the most remarkable thing I ever heard of. You did not know what was in that box when you bought it, did you?" "No, sir," replied Julian; "it was all sealed up. The auctioneer said something about a miner having hidden the secret of a gold-mine in it, and I bought it for thirty cents." "The auctioneer happened to hit the matter right on the head. I will go with you in search of a cheaper boarding-house than the one at which you are now stopping, and you had better remain there until Mr. Gibson hears from those people in St. Louis. That will be two weeks, probably. If, at any time, you grow weary of walking about our city, looking at what little there is worth seeing, come down to the office, and we'll sit there and swap a few lies." Mr. Fay continued to talk in this way while they were walking along the streets, meanwhile turning several corners, and the longer he talked the more the boys saw the traits of his Western character sticking out all over him. He talked like a gentleman, and then spoiled it all by remarking that they would "swap a few lies" when they came around to his office. He had probably been out West so long that he had become accustomed to Western ways of conversation. At length Mr. Fay turned off from the sidewalk, ascended the steps that led to the door of a house, saying, as he did so, "Now we will go in here and see what we can do," and rang the door-bell. It was a very different-looking house from the one they had been in the habit of living in when in St. Louis. There were no broken-down doors to be opened before they went in, nor any rickety steps to be climbed, but everything was neat and trim, and kept in perfect order. A motherly-looking old lady answered Mr. Fay's pull at the bell. "Ah! good-morning, Mrs. Rutherford," was the way in which Mr. Fay greeted her. "Let me introduce Julian Gray and John Sheldon. They are looking around for a cheap boarding-house,--not too cheap, mind you,--and I have called to see if you have any place in which to hang them up for the night." Mrs. Rutherford was glad to meet Julian and Jack, invited them into the parlor, and asked them if they wanted a room together. The boys replied that they did, and she conducted them upstairs, to show them a room that was vacant. They were gone not more than five minutes, and when they came downstairs again Mrs. Rutherford was putting some bills away in her pocket-book, and the boys acted as though they were well satisfied. "Well, you have found a place, have you?" said Mr. Fay. "Have you jotted down the street and number?" No, the boys had not thought of that, and Julian quickly pulled his note-book from his pocket. "Your city is somewhat larger than we expected to find it," began Julian. "You don't find many wigwams around here now," answered Mr. Fay. "We keep spreading out all the time. Can you boys find the way back to your hotel?" Julian and Jack thought they could find it if they were given time enough, but Mr. Fay thought he had better go with them. It was right on the road to his office, and he walked off so rapidly that his young companions were obliged to increase their speed in order to keep up with him. Before they had gone a great way, Julian, who was anxious to learn all he could about their surroundings, asked how far it was to the mountains behind them. Mr. Fay had evidently answered such questions before, for all he said in reply was, "How far do you think it is?" "I think two miles would cover the distance," he answered, for he was determined he would guess enough while he was about it. "How far do _you_ say it is, John?" said Mr. Fay, turning to Jack. "I would rather be excused from expressing an opinion, but I think we could walk out there in two hours." "And come back the same day?" "Why, yes; certainly." "Now, let me tell you," said Mr. Fay: "If you have made up your minds to go out to the mountains, hire a good, fast walking-horse, and go out one day and come back the next." "Is it as far as that?" exclaimed the boys, looking at each other with amazement. "It is all of twelve miles. You must take into consideration that the air is very rare up here, and that things appear nearer than they are. You are 5135 feet above the level of the sea." "My goodness! I didn't think we were so far out of the world!" "We have awfully uncertain weather here," continued Mr. Fay, "but still we regard our climate as healthy. Our thermometer sometimes changes as much as forty degrees in twenty-four hours. Since Professor Loomis took charge of the matter, the mercury has changed forty-five times in one day. What sort of a place did you expect to find Denver, anyway?" "Well, I did not know what sort of a place it was," said Julian. "We thought we should find more wigwams here than houses, and you can't imagine how surprised we were when we found ourselves in a depot full of people." "Denver used to be full of wigwams, but it is not so now. Until the year 1858 the Indians lived in peace; but in that year gold was discovered by W. G. Russell, a Georgian, on the banks of the river Platte, which is but a little way from here, and that settled the business of the Indians in a hurry. Denver, Black Hawk, Golden City, and many other cities that I can't think of now, were founded in 1859, and a host of immigrants appeared. Since that time we have been spreading out, as I told you, until we have a pretty good-sized city." "It shows what Western men can do when they once set about it," said Jack. "Now, answer another question while you are about it, if you please. If the mercury changes forty degrees in twenty-four hours, working in the mines must be dangerous business." "That depends upon where you are working," said Mr. Fay. "If you are at work in a placer-mine, you stand a good chance of leaving your bones up there for somebody to bring home; but if you are working under the ground, it does not make any difference. Are you thinking of going out to Dutch Flat to try your hand at it? I don't know where that is, but you can find plenty of men here who can tell you." "I have not said anything to Julian about it, but I think that would be one of the best things we could do. You see, we are not settled in that property yet." "I see," said Mr. Fay. "Gibson may get word from those fellows in St. Louis that you are impostors, and that you stole that box instead of buying it at a sale of 'old horse.' That would be rough on you." The boys did not know how to take this remark. They looked at Mr. Fay, but he was walking along as usual, with his hands in his pockets, bowing right and left to the many persons he met on the streets, and did not seem to think anything of it. Perhaps it was his ordinary style of talking. "I am not at all afraid of that," remarked Jack. "If he finds us impostors, we are willing to go to jail." Mr. Fay threw back his head and laughed heartily. "I have no idea of anything of the kind," said he, as soon as he could speak. "I was just wondering what you would think of it. But what were you going to say?" "This property is not settled on us yet," replied Jack, "and we may want something to keep us in grub while we are here. We have a perfect right to work that mine, have we not?" "If you can find it--yes. Go up there, and if nobody else is working it, pitch in and take fifty thousand dollars more out of it." "And what will we do if somebody else is working it?" "You had better give up to them, unless you think you are strong enough to get the better of them. But you need not worry about that. The mine is haunted, and you won't catch any of the miners going around where ghosts are." "Who do you suppose are haunting it?" asked Julian. "That letter says the writer worked the mine alone, and took lots of money out of it, and never saw a thing to frighten him." "Perhaps somebody has been murdered up there; I don't know. You won't see anything until you get down in the mine, and then you want to look out. I heard of a mine up at Gold Cove that was haunted in that way. There were a dozen miners tried it, and each one came away without getting anything, although the gold was lying on top of the ground. As often as a miner went below (it was about thirty feet down to the bottom), he was sure to see somebody at work there before him. He was picking with a tool at the bottom of the shaft in order to loosen it up, accompanying every blow he made with a sonorous 'whiz!' which showed that he was an Irishman. Some of the miners retreated to their bucket and signaled to their helper to pull them up, and you couldn't hire them to go into the mine again. Others, with a little more bravery than they had, went up to put their hands on the man, but as fast as they advanced he retreated; and when they got to the end of the shaft, the phantom miner was still ahead, and picking away as fast as ever." "Then the mine is deserted?" "Yes, and has been for years. It is one of the richest mines around here, too." "Why, I should think somebody would shoot him," said Jack. "Shoot him! He has been shot at more times than anybody could count; but he pays no attention to it. He is a ghost, and he knows you can't hurt him. I never saw it, and, what is more, I don't want to; but I would not go down into that mine for all the gold there is in the hills." "Did anybody think a murder had been committed somewhere around there?" said Julian. "I never heard that there was." "Well, I just wish our mine would be haunted with something like that," said Jack. "I would find out what he was, and what business he had there, or I would know the reason why." "Well, you may have a chance to try it. Does this look like your hotel? Now I will bid you good-bye, and I will see you again to-morrow, if you come around." Mr. Fay departed, taking with him the hearty thanks of the boys for all his kindness and courtesy, and then they slowly ascended the steps to the office. They had secured one thing by his attentions to them--a boarding-house at which the money they had in their pockets would keep them safely for a month, if it took Mr. Gibson that long to hear from St. Louis; but, on the whole, Jack wished Mr. Fay had not used his Western phraseology so freely. "Does he want us to work that mine or not?" asked Jack. "I don't know. He talked pretty readily, did he not?" "I wonder if that is the way all Westerners talk? Did he scare you out of going up there to that mine?" "No, sir," replied Julian, emphatically. "Do you know that I rather like that man? He reminds me of Mr. Wiggins, and talks exactly like him." "What do you suppose it was that those fellows saw in that mine?" "I give it up. Some of these Western men are good shots with a revolver, and it seems to me they might have struck the fellow if they had had a fair chance at him." "But he was a ghost, you know." "Oh, get out! If they saw him there, you can bet that there _was_ somebody there. Some of the miners had their minds all made up to see something, and of course they saw it." "But how do you account for that 'whiz!' that he uttered every time he struck with his pick?" "They never heard any 'whiz!' coming from that man; they only imagined it." "Do you think their ears could be deceived, as well as their eyes?" "Jack, I am surprised at you. You are big enough and strong enough to whip any ghost that I ever saw, and yet you are afraid to go down in that mine!" "Wait until we find it, and then I'll show you whether I am afraid or not. Now, if you will go on and pay our bill and have our trunk brought down, I'll go and get a carriage." In five minutes this was done, and the boys were soon on their way to their boarding-house. CHAPTER XVI. GOOD NEWS. For a week after Julian and Jack went to their new boarding-house they had much to occupy their attention--so much, indeed, they did not think of going down to the telegraph office and "swapping a few lies" with the chief operator. Their new home charmed them in every particular. Mr. Fay had not forgotten that _he_ had been a boy in the not so very long ago, and the boarding-house he had chosen for them was such as he would have chosen for himself. The boarders were young men who, like themselves, had come out West to seek their fortunes, and they were all employed in various avocations in the city. Jack noticed one thing, and that was they did not run around of evenings to any extent; or, if they did, they went down to the library, where they spent their time in reading. "Do you know that that is something that strikes me," said Jack one night when they went upstairs to their room. "We ought to join the Young Men's Christian Association." "Have you forgotten our mine?" asked Julian. "No, I have not; but I don't believe in going up there in winter. A thermometer that can change so many times within twenty-four hours is something that I want to keep clear of." "Well, where is the money to come from?" "Humph!" said Jack, who had not thought of that before; "that's so. Where is it?" The first thing the boys thought of, when they got up the next morning, was to take a trip to the mountains. Jack was in favor of walking. It was only twelve miles, and the amount they would have to pay out for a horse would keep one of them a week at their boarding-house. But Julian could not see it in that light. "I tell you, you have never walked twenty-four miles in a day," remarked the latter. "I have done it many a time, but I am not going to do it now, when there is no need of it." "You act as though you had that money in your hands already," retorted Jack. "Now, I'll tell you what's a fact: I am going to have the same trouble with you that I had in St. Louis. There won't be any 'old horse' for you to spend your money on, but you will squander it in some other way." "You will see," said Julian, with a laugh. "Come on, now; I am going to get a saddle-horse--one that can take me out there in an hour." Jack reluctantly yielded to his companion, who made his way toward a livery-stable which he had seen when they came to their boarding-house. There they engaged a couple of saddle-horses which seemed to know what they were expected to do, for when allowed the rein they put off toward the mountains, and went along at a brisk pace. Jack could not get over grumbling about hiring horses to do what they could do themselves, but Julian did not pay the least attention to it. When they had gone a long distance on the road they met a teamster, and of him Jack inquired how many miles they had yet to travel to reach their destination. "Them mountains?" asked the man, facing about in his seat. "They are a matter of six miles from here." "If I had a good start for a run I believe I could jump that far," said Jack. "Yes, it does look that way," said the man; "but it would be a mighty lengthy jump for you. I guess you are a tenderfoot--ain't you?" "I never was so far West as this in my life." The man had evidently heard all that he wanted to hear, for he started his team, smiling and nodding his head as if to say that Jack would learn more about distances on the prairie before he had been there long. The distance was fully as great as the boys expected to find it; and, when they drew up in front of a little hotel in the foothills, the mountains seemed to be as far off as ever. The proprietor came to the door, bid them good-morning in his cheery way, and asked if there was anything that he could do for them. "How far off are those peaks from here?" questioned Jack. "Twenty miles," said the man. "You are not going out there to-day, are you?" "Why, the folks in Denver told us that the mountains were twelve miles away," said Jack, greatly surprised. "Well, you are twelve miles from Denver now. These little hills here are the beginning of the mountains." "I guess you may feed our horses and give us some dinner, and then we will go back," said Julian. "Well, Jack, we've seen the mountains." "Yes, and laid out six dollars for the horses besides," replied Jack, in disgust. "The next time you want anything to carry you, we will go on foot." The man laughed heartily as he took charge of their horses, and the boys went into the hotel, where they found a fire on the hearth, and were glad to draw up close to it. "I declare, I did not know it was so cold," said Julian. "I suppose it is warm enough in St. Louis. How high is that city above the sea-level?" "I don't know," answered Jack, who could not get over the feeling that those people in Denver had played too much on his credulity. "Twenty miles! I guess we won't go up to the top of those mountains, yet a while, and look for California. I wish those horses were back in the stable where they belong." "We will have them back there in three hours," answered Julian, "and if you don't want me to hire any more horses, I won't do it." The boys got back to Denver without any mishap, and after that they were eager to see the city. Jack did not have anything to grumble about during the week that followed, for they went on foot, and there were no horses hired. Finally, after viewing all the fine buildings that were to be seen, they thought of the telegraph operator, and decided to take him in the next day; so on Monday they presented themselves at his office. Mr. Fay was there; and, unlike Mr. Wiggins, he did not seem to have much to do, for he was sitting in an easy-chair, with his feet perched upon the desk in front of him, playing with a paper-cutter. The boy who came forward to attend to their wants seemed to have made up his mind that Mr. Fay was the man they wanted to see, and so he conducted them into his private office. "Halloo! boys," he cried, taking down his feet and pushing chairs toward them; "you are here yet, are you? Have you been out to look at your gold-mine?" "No, sir," replied Julian; "we could hardly go out there and come back in a week--could we?" "No, I don't believe you could. I have been thinking about you," continued Mr. Fay, depositing his feet on the desk once more, "and if you know when you are well off you won't go out there this fall. I was talking with a man who has come in from Dutch Flat, and he says it is getting most too cold up there to suit him. He has made a heap of money, and has come here to spend it. I suppose that is what you will be doing when you get to work out there--make all you want in summer, and come here in winter and spend it." "No, sir," asserted Julian, emphatically; "we have worked hard for what little money we have, and we know how to take care of it. I thought it would not make any difference to us how cold it was if we were working under the ground; I thought you said something like that." "Certainly, I said so," affirmed Mr. Fay; "but you will have to take provisions with you to last you six months. If you don't, you will get snowed up in the mountains; the drifts will get so deep that you can't get through them." "I did not think of that," said Julian. "Well, you had better think of it, for if you get up there, and get blocked by drifts, my goodness!--you will starve to death!" "Did you say anything to the man about our claim up there?" "No, I did not, for I did not know where it was located. I will tell you what you can do, though. He is going back in the spring, and he can assist you in getting everything you need." "We are very much obliged to you for saying that," responded Jack, who felt that a big load had been removed from his and Julian's shoulders. "I am only speaking of what I know of the man," remarked Mr. Fay. "Miners are always ready to help one another, and I know he will do that much for you. I will tell you where you can see him. Do you know where Salisbury's hotel is?" The boys replied that they did not. They had been all over the city, but did not remember having seen any sign of that hostelry. "Well, I will go with you," said Mr. Fay "Come around about two o'clock and we'll start. By the way, that lawyer has got back." "What lawyer, and where has he been?" "I mean Gibson--the lawyer that you employed to do your business for you. He has been to St. Louis." "Good enough!" exclaimed Jack. "He has found out by this time more than we could tell him." "I saw him last night just as he got off the train, and he desired me to tell you, if I happened to see you before he did, that he would be glad to see you around at his office as soon as you could get there," said Mr. Fay. "So you can run down there as soon as you please. You know where he hangs out--don't you?" Yes, the boys were certain they could find his office without any help, and arose and put on their caps. They told Mr. Fay they would be sure to come around at two o'clock, to go with him to call upon the miner who had recently come from Dutch Flat, bade him good-bye, and left the office. "What do you think of the situation now?" asked Julian, as they hurried along toward the place where the lawyer "hung out." "Are you still sorry that I bid on that 'old horse?'" "I only hope there will be no hitch in the business," said Jack. "If he should ask us some questions that we could not answer--then what?" "We will tell him the truth," said Julian. "He can't ask us any questions that we can't answer. Claus and Casper could go in on telling lies, but that way would not suit us." As the boys had taken particular note of the location of Mr. Gibson's office, they went there as straight as though they had been in Denver all their lives, ran up the stairs to the first floor, and opened the lawyer's door. Mr. Gibson was there, as well as two men whom he was advising on some law-point they had brought to him to clear up. When the boys came in he stopped what he was saying, jumped up, and extended a hand to each of them. "I was coming around in search of you fellows as soon as I got through with these men," said he. "How have you boys been, out here, so far away from home? Please excuse me for fifteen minutes or so." The boys took the chairs he offered them, and for a few minutes kept track of what he was saying; but that did not last long. It was about a fence that a neighbor of the two men had built, but which their cattle had broken down, and they were anxious to get out of a lawsuit for the field of wheat their cattle had ruined. They heard the lawyer advise them, honestly, that they must either compromise the matter or get into a lawsuit, in which case they would have to pay full damages; and while he was talking to them he proved that he was a man who could do two things at once. He opened a drawer and took out two photographs, which he compared with the boys, one after the other. It did not take him long to decide upon this business, and then he devoted himself to the question of fences again. "It is as plain as daylight to me," said he, as he arose to his feet. "Your cattle broke the fence down, went in, and ate up the man's wheat. It was a good, strong, staked-and-ridered fence, too. There are only two ways out of it: Yon can either settle the matter with him, or you can go to law; and if you do that, you will get beaten." One of the men then asked him how much he charged for his advice, and when he said "Five dollars," the boys cast anxious glances at each other. If he charged that way for advising a man to keep out of law, what price would he demand for taking care of one hundred thousand dollars? Mr. Gibson showed them to the door, bowed them out, and then turned to the boys. "I ought to have charged that man ten dollars," he declared, with an air of disgust. "He is always in a row; he never comes here to seek advice but that he wants to beat somebody. Do you recognize these pictures?" "Of course I do," replied Julian. "This is a photograph of me, and that is my signature on the back; the other one is Jack's." "I have been to St. Louis since you were here," Mr. Gibson went on. "I called upon the men whose addresses you gave me, and found out all about you. I tried my best to find Mr. Haberstro, but could not do it, and so I have concluded that the money is yours." "Everything?" exclaimed Julian. "The gold-mine and all?" "Everything belongs to you," answered Mr. Gibson; and one would have thought, from the way in which he announced the fact, that somebody had left the fortune all to Julian. "Of course, if Mr. Haberstro ever turns up you will have to surrender the money; but I don't take any stock in his turning up. Julian, you now have very nearly twenty thousand dollars coming to you." "But Jack must have half," said Julian, earnestly. "He has stuck to me like a good fellow, and I don't know what I should have done without him." "Well, then, that makes you worth ten thousand dollars apiece." Julian drew a long breath and looked at Jack. The latter leaned his elbows on his knees, whirled his cap in his hand, and looked at the floor. CHAPTER XVII. MR. BANTA IS SURPRISED. "You fellows look surprised," said Mr. Gibson, running his eyes from one to the other of the boys. "It seems to me, if a man told me I had that amount of money coming to me, and that I had ten thousand dollars where I could draw on it at my leisure, this room would not hold me; I should want the whole city to splurge in." The boys made no reply. Jack drew his hand once or twice across his forehead, as if to brush away some wrinkles, while Julian got up and walked to the window. "You did not expect to get it--did you?" continued Mr. Gibson. "No, sir, we did not," replied Julian; "but we hoped to get it. We tried our level best to find Mr. Haberstro, following the advice of Mr. Wiggins in everything he told us to do; but he was out of our reach." "He is dead, probably," said Mr. Gibson. "I know just what you tried to do, and all about it. Of course there will be some law to go through with before you can step into the property. Do you wish me to take charge of it for you?" "Oh, Mr. Gibson, we really wish you would. We know nothing about law, and consequently we should not know how to act." "And do you wish me to take charge of the rental of your blocks of buildings?" "Yes, sir; go on just as you did before, and when we want money we will come to you." "Well, that is a different thing altogether," said Mr. Gibson, looking down at the floor. "The twenty thousand dollars that I told you of is now in the bank, subject to my order. I guess I had better go up there with you and have it changed. You can then get money whenever you want it. By the way, Julian, Mr. Wiggins sent his kindest regards to you; and, furthermore, he gave me a letter which he wished me to hand to you. I've got one for you, Jack, from your boss; what do you call him?" "Master mechanic," replied Jack. Mr. Gibson opened his desk and took out two letters, which he gave to the boys. The sight of Mr. Wiggins's handwriting on the envelope was almost too much for Julian, for he put the letter into his pocket and walked to the window again. "There is some good advice in those letters, and I want you boys to follow it out implicitly," said the lawyer. "You will always find me here, ready to tell you what to do in case you get into trouble. You must come to me or to Mr. Fay every time you get into a box. But, first and foremost, don't have anything to do with strangers. There are some of them who are bound to hear of your good fortune, and will take every means in their power to get hold of it. Don't sign any papers unless you bring them to me." "We have already had a little experience in that line," said Julian, with a smile. "Claus came up to us and tried to pass himself off for Mr. Haberstro, and he is the one who stole our valises on our way here; but he didn't make anything by it." "Yes--I heard all about this man Claus, and about that friend of yours, Casper Nevins. You know enough to steer clear of such fellows in future. Now, if you are all through, we'll go up to the bank." The boys followed Mr. Gibson out of the office, along the street, turning three or four corners, until they reached the bank. He did not have any business to do with the man who stood behind the desk counting out the money, but he simply asked him, "Is E. A. in?" "Yes, sir; he is in his private office," replied the cashier. The boys did not know who E. A. was, but they found out a moment later, for the lawyer led them into the presence of the president of the bank. He was gray-headed and wore a pair of gold spectacles, but he stopped his work and shook Mr. Gibson warmly by the hand. He looked curiously at the boys, but when the lawyer began his story, talking very rapidly, for there was a card hung up over his desk which said on it, "This is my busy day," he laid down his pen and glanced at Julian and Jack with some interest. "And you want the twenty thousand dollars changed, so that it will be subject to their order?" said he. "Yes, sir, that is my errand up here." The president got upon his feet and walked into the room where the cashier was. When he went, the boys had not more than ten dollars in their pockets that they could call their own; when he came back, they had a small fortune coming to them. "It is all right," said he. "And which of you boys was it who bid on the 'old horse?'" he continued, extending a hand to each of them. "You are the one? Well, my son, remember that there is an end to your money somewhere, and if you go to work and spend it all without waiting for some more to come in, the end of it is not far off. I wish you good luck." The boys retraced their steps to the cashier's desk, and the transfer of the property from Mr. Gibson's order to their own was easily completed. Mr. Gibson signed a check, the boys attached their names to a big book which was thrust out at them, and then the cashier wanted to know if they needed any money. "We would like about one hundred dollars apiece," said Julian. "Very well; make out a check for it and sign your names to it, and you can get it all right. You will find the checks there on that desk." The boys accordingly made out their checks for the money, and Mr. Gibson stood watching them, smiling to himself when he saw how the boys' hands trembled, and how anxious they were to have everything correct. The money was paid on the checks, and Julian and Jack put it into their pockets. "You got it, didn't you?" said the lawyer. "Yes, sir; thanks to you, we have got it," said Julian. "Mr. Gibson, I can't begin to tell you how much we thank you----" "Oh, that is all right," said the lawyer, opening the door of the bank; "only, don't get into a fuss and lose it all." "When we came here," continued Julian, "we had no money at all; now see how different it is! I assure you that we are not going to get into any fuss. The money is safe where it is." "Well, let it stay there. I am pretty busy this morning, so I beg that you will excuse me. Good-bye." The lawyer hurried away, and Julian stood a little on one side of the door of the bank, one hand thrust into his pocket where he had placed the bills, and his eyes fastened upon Mr. Gibson as long as he remained in sight. "Say, Jack," said he, suddenly; "I don't believe Mr. Gibson had any right to give us this money." "He hadn't?" exclaimed Jack. "Why, it was his." "No, it was not; it belongs to that Haberstro estate. It seems to me he ought to have got an order from the court before giving any of the money up to us." "Perhaps he has an order," said Jack. "Then why did he not say something about it? I would like to know when the court sits. If the Judge finds any blundering in the business, why, then we are up a stump. What will we do if this man Haberstro comes up, all on a sudden, and tells us he wants this hundred dollars?" "Whew!" said Jack; "I did not think of that." "But Mr. Gibson probably knew what the decision of the court was going to be or he would not have done this," added Julian, after a moment's pause. "I guess we are all right, but I shall feel better when we have all that property in our hands." Julian wished now, when it was too late, that he had not spoken to Jack about this. During the dinner hour he was unusually silent and thoughtful, and the landlady's questioning could not get a word out of him. He would arouse up long enough to reply, and then he would fall to thinking again. "I will never tell you another piece of news as long as I live," said Julian, as they went up to their room to get ready to accompany Mr. Fay to call on the miner. "You always have enough to say at dinner, but to-day you were as solemn as an owl." "I could not help it," said Jack. "If that man who owns this property turns up here, I tell you we shall be in a fix. We shall spend this before the winter is over, and how are we to get a hundred dollars to pay him? I'll speak to Mr. Gibson about that the next time I see him." "I believe that would be a good plan," said Julian, after thinking the matter over. "I'll bet you that he has some good reason for it." In due time the boys arrived at Mr. Fay's office, and found him ready to accompany them. All he said was that he was going out for half an hour, and if anybody came to see him he was to be told that he would soon be back; and then he set off, with his long strides, to lead the way to Salisbury's hotel. The boys found it as much as they could do to keep up with him. "I guess you have been a messenger-boy in your day," said Julian. "I was a messenger-boy for six years," replied Mr. Fay. "Of course I did not want to hold that position all my life, so I learned telegraphy at odd times, and got my promotion as fast as I was qualified for it, until at last I got where you see me now. That's the way that young men ought to do--look out for promotion." "We received good news down there at Mr. Gibson's office," continued Julian. "I knew you would. Have you the property all in your hands?" "No; there is some law-business to go through with, first. We told Mr. Gibson to go ahead with it, as he did before." "That was the best thing that you ever did," said Mr. Fay, earnestly. "Gibson is an honest man, even if he is a lawyer, and you will get every cent that is coming to you. Now, then, here we are. You will find this rather a different hotel from the one you first stopped at when you came here, but the old fellow makes lots of money out of the miners. There is nobody stays here except those who have shovelled dirt." Mr. Fay opened the door as he spoke, and the boys speedily found themselves in the living-room of the hotel. Before they had time to look around them the chief telegraph operator walked up and laid his hand upon the shoulder of a man who sat with his back to him. "You are here yet, are you, Banta?" said he. "Yes," replied the miner, looking up to see who it was that accosted him. "I am on hand, like a bogus coin made out of iron pyrites; you can't get rid of me." "I have brought some boys with me who would like to know something about the mines at which you are working," said Mr. Fay; and he proceeded to introduce Julian and Jack. Banta speedily proved that he was a gentleman, for he straightway got upon his feet to shake hands with the boys. "All right," said the miner; "if anybody can tell them about Dutch Flat, I am the man." "They are going to stay here this winter, and go out with you next spring," Mr. Fay went on. "All right," said the miner, again; "I will put them where they can dig gold so fast that you won't see anything but gold coming out of the pit." "But they have a gold-mine up there already." "They have? Where is it located?" Mr. Fay could not answer this question, so he stood aside and waited for Julian to tell him the whereabouts of the mine. The boy began by asking him, "Do you know the mine that Winkleman used to work when he was here?" Mr. Banta started, and looked at Julian to see if he was in dead earnest. The boy gazed fixedly at him, and the miner finally settled back in his chair and pulled himself down until his neck rested on the back of it. "Of course I know that mine," said he. "You don't think of working there, do you?" "We thought some of trying it," replied Julian. "Pete, what do you think of that?" asked Mr. Banta, pushing his hand against the shoulder of the man who sat nearest him, with his eyes closed, as if he were fast asleep. "Here are two boys going up to Dutch Flat next spring to work the Winkleman mine." "Well," replied Pete, without lifting his head, "I am glad I am not going up there." "Are the ghosts so awful thick up there?" asked Julian, who felt his courage oozing out at the ends of his fingers. "You know something about it--don't you? The ghosts are so thick up there that you can't go down in the mine to shovel a bucketful of dirt without scaring some of them up." "Well, you will have to excuse me," said Mr. Fay. "I should like to see what those ghosts are, but my work calls me. You will take charge of the boys next spring, will you, Mr. Banta?" "Sure I will; but they are plumb dunces if they try to work that mine. I will go with them as far as I can, and the balance of the way they will have to depend on themselves." Mr. Fay said he believed they could do that, opened the door and went out, and Julian and Jack were left alone. CHAPTER XVIII. GRUB-STAKING. "Sit down," said Banta, pushing chairs toward the two boys with his foot; "I want to talk to you about that mine. What loon has been so foolish as to grub-stake you?" "Grub-stake us?" repeated Julian, for the words were quite new to him. "Yes; he does not expect to get his money back again very soon. I mean the fellow who has furnished you with grub and tools, and such things, to work the mine with." "We never heard that before; we did not know there was anybody who _could_ grub-stake us." "Say, Pete, what do you think of that?" said Banta, once more pushing the man who sat nearest him. "Here are a couple of tenderfeet, come away out West from--where did you come from?" "From St. Louis; this is as far West as we have ever been." "Here are a couple of tenderfeet from St. Louis who didn't know that they could get anybody to grub-stake them," continued Banta. "What do you think of that?" Pete, who had by this time got his wits about him, straightened up, pushed his hat on the back of his head, and regarded the boys with some curiosity. Julian and Jack looked at him, too, and concluded that he and Banta were partners in working a mine. He was roughly dressed, but there was a good-natured look about him that made the boys take to him at once. There were other men, dressed as miners, in the room, and they all seemed to be interested in the conversation. "Then I reckon I shall have to tell you about this grub-staking business," said Banta, squaring around in his chair so as to face the boys. "You are going to lay in a supply of things yourselves, I suppose?" "Yes, we are; and we shall have to depend on you to tell us what to get." "Well, there is plenty of time between this and spring, and we will have time to talk that over afterward. Now, about this grub-staking business. There are lots of fellows who come out here who haven't got the money to enable them to go prospecting, and what do they do but hunt up some fellow who is willing to buck against a hole in the ground, and get their provisions and tools of him. He gets half of what they make. The men stay out there until they have eaten up all their provisions and then come in; and if they have had good luck, so much the better. But if they have wasted their time in looking for gold where there wasn't any to be found, why, so much the worse; that man is just so much out of pocket. "Well, along in '90 Pete and me struck this very town, and we flew so light that we couldn't hardly stay on the ground. We didn't have enough to buy our next meal with; but we struck a gang whom we knew, and headed along with them for the gold country. Of course we had nothing, but we managed to strike a grub-stake and went prospecting up there behind Dutch Flat. We lit into that rock and dirt, working like beavers, but the sign didn't come right. It looked well enough at the start, but it did not pan out much. We stuck to it for nearly three months, and then concluded that we had better go down and get another grub-stake and strike in somewhere else. So I stayed up there alone, and Pete went down and brought up the man that employed us. He looked at the hole, liked the looks of it, and wanted us to go farther; but Pete and I couldn't see it in that light. One word brought on another, and he offered us three hundred dollars for the hole." "For the hole!" exclaimed Julian. "And there was not a sign of gold about it?" "Now, hold on till I tell you," returned Banta. "There was a little sign of gold about it, but there was not enough to pay Pete and me for digging. We snapped him up quicker'n a flash, and what does that man do? He went down to Dutch Flat, brought up his tools, and set in to working the hole, and before he had gone two feet farther he struck the richest vein you ever clapped your eyes on. He took sixty thousand dollars out of it. Now, some of you fellows talk about hard luck. If any of you can beat that story, I'll give you what little I made on Dutch Flat this summer." "That _was_ hard luck, I must say," said Julian. "And you lacked only two feet of being rich?" "Only just two feet," returned Banta, "We might have been running around now with two niggers to drive the team--one dressed as a coachman and the other as a footman. Pete didn't get over pulling his hair for a month after that." "But we are going to stake ourselves next summer," said Julian. "If we lose, it will come out of our own pockets. Have you been anywhere near this mine that we are going to work?" "What do you think of that, Pete?" exclaimed Banta. "He wants to know if we have been near his mine. Not much! I'll bet there are two hundred miners on Dutch Flat this minute, and not one of them has ever seen that mine. They have heard about it, they know there is plenty of gold up there, but nobody has ever been near it. The last two that went up there came away so badly frightened that they packed up and left the country so quick that you could not see them for the dust they kicked up along the trail. They saw something down there in the pit, and it took all the pluck out of them." "What did they see?" asked Julian. "Well, perhaps I was a little too fast in saying that they saw something," said Banta. "They heard something, and that was as good as though they had seen it. It first began with a scurrying on the ground, as if somebody was hurrying over it. Where it came from nobody knew; it seemed to fill the air all around them. Before they had time to get frightened at this there was a shriek that made it appear as if the pit was full of unearthly spirits, and then all was still; but the fellows had heard enough. The man down below yelled to his partner to pull him up, and when he found himself safe on top he laid down on the ground and swore he would never go down there again. Oh, you boys have something to face, if you are going up there!" "Could not the sound they heard have been occasioned by bats that had been disturbed while trying to take a rest?" asked Julian. "He had a light, of course." "Bats!" exclaimed Banta, with deep disgust; "it was a great deal larger than bats. And he could have seen them if he had a light, could he not?" "And, besides, bats don't shriek that way," said a miner who had not spoken before. "There used to be a miner who was working that pit along with Winkleman----" "You hold your yawp," exclaimed Banta, fiercely; "I am telling the boys nothing but facts. I want them to know just what they have to face. I don't go into any of this cock-and-bull story about a dead miner. If that man died up there, and was buried, he's there yet, and he can't come out to work in the pit any more." "What about him?" asked Julian. "We want to know everything connected with the mine, then we will be prepared for anything." "But this thing is not connected with the mine," said Banta; "it is some sort of a story the miners have, and there is not a word of truth in it. They tell about a miner being seen there by everyone who goes down, and when you try to get up to him, he is not there. He goes farther and farther away every time you approach him." "We have heard that story before," said Julian, with a smile; "Mr. Fay knows all about it." "Then of course you don't believe it. I have told you the truth about the mine, and now you can go up with me next spring or stay away, just as you have a mind to." "Oh, we will go with you," said Julian. "I never was interested in any property yet that I was afraid to work just on account of some things you could not see. When we bid you good-bye at Dutch Flat we shall know what there is in that mine before we come back." "I like your pluck," said Banta; and the look of admiration he bestowed upon Julian more than confirmed his words. "If you live up to that, I hope you will get some gold." "They say that gold is plenty up there," said another miner. "They say it is lying around under your feet." "And you never went there to get it!" exclaimed Julian with surprise. "It isn't as thick as that," said Banta. "Probably every bucketful you send up to be washed will yield you from ten to fifty dollars. You will get rich at that rate." "Well, I guess we have troubled you long enough," said Julian, rising to his feet. "We are really obliged to you, Mr. Banta, for offering to take charge of us, although we are nothing but tenderfeet. There are no Indians out there, are there?" "Indians!--no; and if there were some on the warpath, we have miners enough up there to make them hunt their holes." "I am glad of that; we don't want anything to do with those savages, after what we have read about them. We will see you again, Mr. Banta." "Do so, and the next time I will tell you what things you want to buy, to make your enterprise successful. Good-morning." "There's two boys that have gone plumb crazy," said one of the miners, after the door had closed upon Julian and Jack. "I wonder how they got that mine, in the first place?" "The boys are bound to get gold there, if they can stick it out," said another. "One of the men who came down from there showed me a piece of metal as big as a marble, which he had picked up on the bottom of that pit; but the trouble is, can they stick it out?" "I believe _they_ will," said Banta, settling down in his chair once more. "That boy who did most of the talking is one who has plenty of 'sand' to see him through. After they get fairly settled, I believe I'll go up and see how they are getting along." "Then you will go without me," said Pete; "I am as close to that mine as I want to be." "Well, Jack," said Julian, as he buttoned his coat, "what do you think of our mine? Shall we go up and try it? The miners all think there is gold up there." "We will have plenty of time to talk about that between this time and spring," returned Jack. "Mr. Haberstro may come up before we get ready to start, and demand his money." "I have no fears on that score," replied Julian. "Did not the lawyer say that he did not look for that? But, Jack, I really believe you are afraid of that mine." "You need not be. When we get up there, and get things fixed, I will be the first to go into it." "All right. I'll stand back and let you. Now, Jack, what are we going to do this winter? We can't sit around all the time without something to occupy our minds." "I have been thinking about that. Let us call on Mr. Fay, and see what he says." Julian thought this a piece of advice worth acting upon, and they bent their steps toward Mr. Fay's office, where they found him seated, as before, with his feet on the desk in front of him. When he saw who his visitors were, he jumped up hastily and seized each of them by the arm with a firm grip. "Oh, boys, you surely haven't made up your minds to go up to that mine next spring, have you?" he asked, almost in a whisper. "Why, yes, sir," said Julian, somewhat surprised by the man's actions. "I reckon it is ours, and we want to see what gold is to be found in it." "But think of the ghosts you will have to contend with," said Mr. Fay. "You will hear scurrying of feet--What was that?" he continued, looking toward a distant part of his office and pulling the boys around in front of him. "I am certain there is a ghost there." Julian and Jack began to see into the matter now. The man was so full of his fun that he could not keep it in under any circumstances, and it had come to the surface when he saw the boys come into his office. Perhaps a lingering smile around his mouth had something to do with it. "I don't believe you heard any ghost there," said Julian; "they are so busy up there at the mine that they have no time to come down here to trouble you." "All right, boys; sit down. What did Banta say the spirits looked like?" Julian replied that he could not tell, for he had not seen them; and with this as an introduction he went on and repeated the miner's conversation as nearly as he could recall it. Mr. Fay listened, highly amused, and when Julian ceased speaking he said, "If you can see them, what's the use of your being afraid? And as for that phantom miner, that happened a long ways from here. I ought to be kicked for trying to frighten you." "It will take something more than that to scare us out," said Julian. "Now, Mr. Fay, we want to ask your advice." "I am ready to give it. Do you want to invest some property in a gold-mine?" No; Julian assured him that it had no reference to their property, which was not theirs yet until the court had passed upon it, but it was in regard to their going to school in order to learn something. Mr. Fay was all attention now, and when Julian spoke of joining some mercantile academy, he slapped his hands down upon his knees as if that was the best thing the boys could do. "I have no fears that your money will not prove useful to you," said he; "the idea of your wanting to go to school is a big feather in your caps. Some young men, with such an amount of money as you have coming to you, would loaf around and do nothing until their funds were all gone; but you don't act that way. Believe me, there is an end to that hundred thousand dollars somewhere." "That is just what the president of the bank told us when we called upon him," said Julian. "We have worked so hard for the little money we have that we intend to take care of it. But, Mr. Fay, we don't believe that Mr. Gibson did right in giving us these funds." "What's the reason you don't?" "Why, he said he would have to get word from the court before all the property could be turned over to us--" "Oh, that's all right; Mr. Gibson knew what he was doing. You will find it all right when the Judge hears the case. Now, do you know where the business college is situated?" Julian was not so sure about that, but he received certain instructions from Mr. Fay that made him think he could find it; so the boys put on their caps and went out. CHAPTER XIX. GOING TO SCHOOL. "Is the boss mechanic anywhere about?" asked Jack, who chanced to be the first who entered the college when they found it. They had opened a door, and found themselves in one of the study-rooms of the school. There were fifty men and women there, all interested with their books, and the best of order prevailed. A young man, whose seat was near the door, on seeing that the boys were strangers, had arisen and asked them what he could do for them. "The boss mechanic?" he repeated, in a surprised tone. "He means the man who is at the head of this institution," said Julian. We want to see him for a few minutes, if you please." "Oh, yes," said the young man, as he gave Jack a looking over. "I guess you have worked at manual labor all your life." "Yes, I have," replied Jack; "I have done nothing but lift heavy iron for a good many years, and now I want to find an easier way of making a living." "You have come to the right place to find it. Step this way." The student led the way around the room, passing close to the scholars, some of whom merely glanced up, others paying not the least attention to them, until he opened a door and ushered them into a private office. He introduced the boys as persons who had come there to see the "boss mechanic," and then went out; while a pleasant-faced, elderly gentleman replied that he was the "boss mechanic" of that school, and asked them what they wanted. Jack, who had made a blunder by the first question he asked, remained silent, leaving Julian to do all the talking. "We want to get an education," said Julian. "Well, that is what this school can give you," said the man. "What do you want to study?" "Stenography and type-writing." "And you?" he added, turning to Jack. "Bookkeeping and writing; I write a fearful hand." The superintendent, having made a start with the boys, invited them to sit down, and in a few minutes he learned something of the boys' history, and what occupation they had been engaged in previous to coming to Denver. Without telling him anything of their circumstances, they chanced to mention the names of Mr. Fay and Mr. Gibson, and after that Julian thought he seemed to take more interest in them. After a little conversation the boys pulled out their roll of bills and paid for six months' instruction and the books they would need, and then arose to go, after telling him they would be on hand in the morning, ready to go to work. "I'll tell you what's a fact," said Jack, pausing on the stairs and pulling out his diminished roll of bills; "we will have to go to the bank and get some more money, the first thing you know." "That is so," replied Julian. "And I have just thought of another thing. Did you see how neatly all those students were dressed? I am going to draw two hundred dollars--" "Man alive!" said Jack, appalled by the sum mentioned. "Suppose Mr. Haberstro comes up--" "I don't bother my head about him. We will go and get some money, and then we will go to a tailor's and get some clothes worth having. If Mr. Haberstro is going to appear, Mr. Gibson will show us the way out." Jack was not convinced by any means, but he kept close by Julian's side until he reached the bank. Julian made out the check for him and he signed his name, and the money was paid to each of them without a word of protest. Jack felt a little uneasy after that. He did not like to have so much money about him. He carried his left hand in the pocket where he had placed the bills, and looked at every roughly-dressed man he met, as if he were afraid that somebody would rob him. "I don't feel exactly right," said he to Julian. "As soon as we get home I'll put this money in my trunk, and then I know it will be safe." "Don't keep your hand on it all the while, or you will lead somebody to suspect something," said Julian. "Now, here is a tailor shop; let us go in and see what we can do." Jack fairly gasped when Julian said he wanted the finest suit of clothes there was in the store. He wanted two suits--one for every day and one for Sundays. Of course the merchant was eager to show them to him, and the result was that he ordered the best suits he had ever had in his life. Jack did not believe in expensive clothes, but Julian urged it upon him, telling him that he would look as though he came from the country among all those nicely-dressed students, and Jack finally yielded to him. "That's the worst expenditure of money that I was ever guilty of," said he, when they were fairly on the street. "Grumbling again, are you?" was Julian's comment. "Never mind; you will get used to it after a while." The next thing the boys had in view was to join the Young Men's Christian Association, so that they could get some books to take home with them; and when that was done they considered themselves settled for the winter. They went to school the next day, and from that time until spring opened they never missed a lesson. Jack was rather awkward at first. The hands which had been in the habit of lifting heavy bars of iron could not accommodate themselves to a pen very readily; and oftentimes, when Julian sat in his room, of nights, reading, Jack was there learning to write. No two boys ever behaved themselves better than they did, and it was not long before they became favorites, both with the boarders and others who came there to visit. Jack soon got used to his fine clothes, and wore them as if he had been accustomed to them all his life. They took an evening now and then to call upon Mr. Banta, and they always found him as talkative as ever. Sometimes they became so interested in his tales of life in the gold-camps that it was ten o'clock before they returned home. Mr. Fay and Mr. Gibson also came in for visits occasionally, and once the latter took out a bundle of papers, which he handed to Julian. "What are these?" he asked. "They are your property," said the lawyer. "You can keep the papers yourself, or you can let me keep them, and I will put them in my till in the bank." "Do you mean that all comes to us?" inquired Julian, while a thrill shot all through him. "Yes, sir; the court decided so a week ago." "Jack," said Julian, turning to his companion, "are you sorry, now, that I went to the express office and invested in that 'old horse'?" Jack could not say anything. He remembered how he had scolded Julian for that, and he did not want it thrown up to him so often. Julian then went on and told Mr. Gibson what had happened in their room the night he brought the "old horse" home, and the lawyer laughed loudly at his description of it. "Mr. Gibson, we really wish you would take charge of this matter for us," said Julian. "You hope so, too--don't you, Jack?" "Of course; we don't know what to do with it." And so the matter was settled, and the boys breathed a good deal easier while they were on their way home. There was one thing that often came into their minds, and that was, What had become of Claus and Casper Nevins? Had they given up all hopes of gaining possession of that hundred thousand dollars? Jack scouted the idea. Casper might have given it up, but Claus would stick to his idea until he got into jail by it. He was not a man who gave up so easily. It is true they had not seen anything of him since they came to Denver, but Jack was sure they would hear from him at some other time. "You will see," exclaimed Jack, when he confided his opinions to Julian. "You want to be on the watch, or the first thing you know he will jump down on us." "I guess Mr. Gibson can shut him up very easily," said Julian. "Yes; but it may happen when Mr. Gibson is not around." "Eh? Do you mean that he will come down on us while we are up at the mine?" "Such things as that have happened. When you see a German you want to look out." Things went along in Denver as they usually did, and when winter fairly opened on them the boys thought they had never experienced such cold weather before. But it did not interfere with their business in any way. It was not long before Mr. Banta began to talk to them about the things that would be necessary for them to have if they were going to operate their mine successfully, and the boys had a lengthy list of things they would have to buy. They thought they could get along without some of them, but Banta assured them that everything they had down would be of use to them sooner or later. As time wore on, the prospect of leaving Denver and going off to the mountains alone, where they were destined to encounter some risks that they did not know whether they could stand up against or not, made the boys silent and thoughtful. In Denver they had friends--they were sure of that; but when they got out to their mine they would be left all to themselves, and Julian and Jack did not know what they would make of it. Jack had less to say about it than his companion, but it was plain enough to see that he was not going to back out. "I tell you I hate to go away and leave all the kind friends we have gathered about us," said Julian, as they left Salisbury's hotel after Mr. Banta had told them that by two weeks from Monday they must be on hand bright and early, all ready to start for the mountains. "I wish I knew what was in that mine." "So do I; and the only way we can find out is to go and see," replied Jack. "I don't believe in ghosts, but I have heard so much about the things up there in that mine that I am almost ready to give in to them." There was another thing that Jack thought of, although he did not mention it. Julian had always been one of the first to talk about going to the mine, and he was ready to accuse Jack of cowardice; but when the time for their departure drew near, Julian did not open his mouth. Jack thought of that, but said nothing. Mr. Banta told them, finally, that they had better go to work and get their things ready, and they set about it in earnest. The first thing they did was to take leave of the students at the college. The boys were all sorry to see them go, and the superintendent said he hoped Julian and Jack had given up the idea of a gold-mine, for they were getting on so rapidly in their studies that he trusted to see them complete the course. He predicted they would come back poorer than when they went away. He had heard of such things before; and, after the young men had eaten up all their provisions, they would be glad to find somebody to grub-stake them back to Denver. "You will see us back here in the fall," said Julian, confidently. "We are not going to give up our chances of learning something." "But you may meet your death up there," said the superintendent. "I have often heard of such things." "I was awfully afraid you were going to say something about the ghosts in our gold-mine," said Jack, as they went down the stairs. "You looked at me several times as though you wanted to say something about it." "It was right on the end of my tongue," said Julian, "but I thought I had better keep still about it. If we should come back here before fall, they would say right away that we had been frightened out and dared not go back." Mr. Banta was busy getting his own things together, but he found time now and then to overlook the boys' expenditures. Under his instructions they bought three horses,--two of them for riding, the other intended as a pack-horse to carry their utensils,--and then he led the boys away to a gun-shop, where they were to purchase rifles. "Look here, Mr. Banta," said Julian; "we don't need anything in here. We have got a revolver apiece, and, if the truth must be told, we have spent a good deal of time in practicing with them." "What good will a revolver do you?" asked Banta, greatly surprised. "If we chance to meet any Indians----" "But you told us there were no Indians," said Julian. "We don't want to shoot at anybody unless they are close at hand. Maybe they will come in handy on the ghosts, you know." "Well, you don't know anything about the plains--I can see that, plain enough. If you think revolvers are going to do you, why, I am done with you." "Then we have purchased everything we want, have we?" "I think so. Be on hand on Monday morning, because we shall be off before the sun gets an hour high." The boys drew a long breath when they heard this. If they had not talked so much about visiting their mine it is probable that both of them would have backed squarely out. CHAPTER XX. WATERSPOUTS AND BLIZZARDS. "Hi! Nellie; get on, there! Strike a trot! We won't get to the mountains in seven years, at this gait." It was Mr. Banta who spoke, and he emphasized his remarks by making the whip he carried in his hand crack loudly. The old, white bell-mare pricked up her ears and slowly quickened her pace, closely followed by all the pack-mules and horses belonging to the train. "That old pack-mare knows where we are going as well as we do," said Banta, squaring around and throwing his leg over the horn of his saddle so that he could face the two boys whom he was addressing. "She has been up here so often that she knows every foot of the way. If we get hard up for deer meat, all we have to do is to take her bell off, and then we can go twenty miles out on the prairie, and she will bring us back home again. You can't get lost if you are on her." "Why do you take the bell off when you want to go hunting with the mare?" asked Julian of Mr. Banta, who, by reason of his age and experience, acted as leader of the company. "Does the noise of the bell frighten the game?" "That is one reason," replied Banta; "and the other is, we don't want all the pack-mules and horses to follow us. Wherever they hear the bell, they will go to it. If we were on the other side of a wide river, even though it was swimming-deep, and some of these mules don't like water any too well, and should sound that bell a few times, they would all come over. If anything should happen to that old bell-mare, and she should die, we'd send a man on with that bell, and the mules would follow him wherever he went." It was Monday morning, and the sun was just rising. The cavalcade had been on its way for two hours, for they left the hotel, amid wishes for good luck from all who saw them go, at the first peep of day. They went directly past the hotel at which Julian and Jack had stopped to eat dinner when they first came there, and were now alone in the foothills which arose on all sides of them. There were at least a dozen miners in the company, and they had all set out for Dutch Flat in the hope of digging up a fortune before the winter's storms overtook them. Julian and Jack were there, dressed in rough miners' clothing, and the horse which bore their provisions and tools was with the others who were following the bell-mare. Anybody could see at a glance that these boys were tenderfeet, and they did not attempt to deny it. Every other miner had a heavy Winchester slung at his back, while the only firearms the boys exhibited were Smith & Wesson revolvers, which they carried strapped to their waists. They did not look forward to the future with as brave hearts as most of the miners did. They could not get the idea out of their minds that the gold they wanted to find was protected by something which they did not want to see. The miners now and then cast curious looks at them, to see if they were not afraid of the prospect before them, but finally came to the conclusion that the boys were "going through with it." The miners were happy, and sang rude songs and cracked jokes with each other; but the boys were busy with their own thoughts, and took no part in what was going on around them. "And I don't blame them, either," said one miner, in a low voice, to his companion. "I wouldn't take any part in the singing if I were in their place. They are brave enough now, but wait until they have been up to that mine about two days; then we will see them at our camp, frightened to death." "Banta has rather taken them under his care, judging by the way he keeps watch over them," said the other miner. "Yes; he was made acquainted with them by some high man in Denver, and so he keeps an eye on them. But he can't go up to their mine with them. More than that, those ghosts will not stop for him or anybody else." Julian and Jack were not accustomed to being in the saddle from daylight until dark, and the ride was long and wearisome to them. They stopped at noon to eat their lunch and to let their animals crop the grass for a few minutes; but their packs were never removed from them until they halted for the night at a place which showed that there had been a camp before. Lean-to's were scattered around, partly unroofed by the storms of winter, and remnants of fires were to be seen; and Banta said that no one had been there since he and his party made the camp last fall. "We made this camp while we were going down to the city," said he. "It was raining when we stopped here, and that accounts for the lean-to's. We had a waterspout that night, this little stream was filled twenty feet deep, and some of us began to look wild." "A waterspout?" queried Jack. "What is that?" "Why, I don't know that I can describe it so that you can understand it," answered Banta, scratching his head. "It is caused by the large quantity of water that sometimes falls among the hills up-country, and when it all rushes into these ravines--well, you can imagine how it looks, but I cannot describe it. This stream has not much water in it now--you can step across it anywhere; but I have seen it bank full from rains in the up-country, while there was not a drop of it fell here. I remember that night. I was sound asleep in a lean-to. I had told the boys that before morning we would have to get farther up the bank or run the risk of having some of our things carried off, and about midnight I awoke with a feeling that there was something going on. You don't know anything about that, do you? Well, you wait until you have acted as guide for two or three mule-trains, and then you'll know it. Everything depends upon you to see that the train comes out all right. "I could not go to sleep again when once I woke up, and so I arose and went out. It was still raining heavily, but the brook didn't show much sign of it. I placed myself on the edge of the bank, and hardly had I got there before a long, creamy wave, which extended clear across this gully, crept with a hissing sound across the sand and rocks. Following with equal speed, and about a hundred feet behind it, was another wave, an unbroken mass of water at least five feet in height. It was not rounded into a wave, as at sea or on the lakes, but rose sheer and straight, a perfect wall of water. I knew that in five minutes this little creek would be brim full, so I raised a yell and awoke everybody in camp. The men I had with me were all veterans, and there was no need that I should explain matters. They took just one look at the water, and then grabbed their things and made a rush for the high bank behind the lean-to's. After placing them where they would be safe, they came back and made a rush for the horses. Pete, there, caught the bell-mare, and by dint of pulling and boosting we finally got them to that level spot you see up there." Mr. Banta pointed to the bank, which seemed almost as straight as the side of a house, and the boys looked on with perfect astonishment. "How in the world did you get the mules and horses up there?" inquired Julian. "A man can do a heap of things when he is working for his life and for things that he can't afford to lose," said Banta, with a laugh. "Pete has a heap of strength in those arms of his, and when I get hold of a mule's tail and begin to twist it, he goes somewhere as soon as he can. We got them up easy enough, and there we stayed for two whole days, until the water had all passed away. We didn't lose so much as a pound of bacon. But if I had been asleep, like the rest of the fellows were, we would have had a time of it; somebody would have had to swim for his life, and the current ran like lightning, too." "I did not know you had to look out for water on the plains," remarked Julian. "Is there anything you don't stand in fear of out here? You see, we want to know it all." "Well, a waterspout is one thing, and a blizzard is the next," said Banta. "I mean a blizzard where the clouds send down chunks of ice at you as big as your fist. Oh, you needn't laugh. Look at that." Banta stripped up his leggings, and showed the boys a long, ragged scar which he had received in one of the commotions of nature referred to. The wound must have been a dangerous one. "And the worst of it was, I did not have a doctor look at it for two weeks," Banta went on. "You see, I was out alone, and making the best track I could for the fort. The sky had all along been hazy, and on this day I had to go across the Twenty-mile desert, where there was not a willow-twig big enough for me to get under. When I was about half-way over it began to rain, and in less than an hour afterward the blizzard came a-ripping. My horse and mule were made so frantic by the pelting of the ice that I finally let them go; but before I released the horse I took my knife and cut the saddle and blankets off him. What did I do that for? Because I was too cold to use my fingers. I settled down there on the prairie, put the saddle and blankets over my head, and waited for the storm to cease; but before I did that, there came a big bunch of ice and struck me on the leg. I never had anything hurt so bad in my life." "How long did you have to stay there?" asked Jack. "I hear that some of these storms last two or three days." "This one lasted one day, and I was glad to see the ice quit dropping. I was thirty miles from the fort, and I'll bet I didn't do two miles of walking in all that distance. I left everything except my weapons and crawled all the way. This is the saddle, right here." "I should keep that for the good it had done," said Julian. "Your saddle probably saved your life." "It will stay with me while I live," said Banta, casting an affectionate look upon the article in question. "Now, boys, suppose you get ready and chop some wood and start the fire. I'll take the things off the animals and straighten up the lean-to. You boys don't know how to make a lean-to, do you? If you take a good look at this one, you will see how it is done." There was one satisfaction the boys had in listening to Mr. Banta's stories--they were true, every word of them. If any of the "boys" tried to make things different from what they were, Banta always shut them up. That was the reason the boys thought so much of him, and anything he had to say in regard to working their mine was always listened to with the keenest interest. The change that a few experienced men made in that deserted camp in a short time was wonderful. Every stroke of the axe counted for something, and every step the men made to and from the places they had chosen to make their beds seemed to count for something else; so that by the time Julian and Jack had cut wood enough to last them all night the lean-to's were covered with fresh boughs, those who did not choose to sleep under shelter had their beds made up under the protecting branches of trees, the animals were staked out, and two of the cooks were busy getting supper. It was all done without the least commotion, for each man knew what his duty was. "If a rain-storm was coming up you couldn't have made this camp quicker," said Julian. "It beats the world how soon men can get ready for the night." "Yes, but that comes from experience, you know," said Banta. "Do you know that I have been thinking of something? When we get up to Dutch Flat, and you get ready to go up to your mine, I believe I will go with you." "That's the best piece of news I have heard for a long time," declared Julian, who was delighted beyond measure. "We don't ask you to go down in the mine, you understand, but if you will just stay there until we get things fixed you will confer a great favor upon us." "Yes, I guess I had better see to your wants a little," said Banta. "You are tenderfeet, you have never lived alone in the mountains, and perhaps I can tip you a wink now and then that will be of use to you. You will need the mine cleared away--it has all grown up to grass by this time--and you will need a windlass and a lean-to; and maybe I can be of assistance." "I know you can; and of great assistance, too. I tell you, I feel easier. I have often wondered how that mine looked, and how we were going to get it in shape to work it, but I don't worry about it now. We are much obliged to you for your offer." "Oh, that's all right. I remember that I was a boy myself, and any such little help as I have offered you would have been a regular blessing to me. Now let us go and see if supper is ready." Supper was almost ready, and the neat manner in which it was served up, and the way it was cooked, told the boys that if the miners could always get such food as that, they could work their claims to the best possible advantage. "Can we help you a little?" said Julian to one of the cooks after the meal was over and the man began gathering up the dishes. "What a-doing?" asked the cook. "We want to help you wash the dishes," said Julian. "Why, bless you, that's no trouble. There is only one way you can help us, and that is by sitting by and looking on. I never yet saw a tenderfoot that didn't get in the way. You will have enough of it to do when you get up to that ghost-haunted mine of yours and have to cook your own meals. You had better take my advice," said the cook, in a lower tone, "and stay down on Dutch Flat with us. There are no spirits down there." "But it is ours, and I don't see why we can't work it," replied Julian. "If there is anybody there, we will make him show himself." "You will see," said the cook, going to the camp-fire for a bucket of water. "The next time we see you, you will be all ready to go back to Denver." The cook struck up a whistle as he began washing the dishes, and the boys, taking this as a gentle hint that he would rather be alone, walked off to another fire which had been kindled in the upper end of the camp. All the miners were gathered about there, and each one of them had a story to tell about some wonderful "find" which he had almost struck, and then ceased digging because he was discouraged by the way the gold "showed up." Banta was there, and after relating three or four stories of his own, he began to stretch and yawn as though he were sleepy, and finally arose and went into his lean-to. The boys followed him, hoping he would say something more about going up to their mine with them; but he talked on other topics until he got into bed, and then he became silent. He had already decided what he would do when they reached Dutch Flat, and there the matter ended. CHAPTER XXI. THE CAMP AT DUTCH FLAT. The boys slept as comfortably as if they had been at home in their boarding-house. It is true their blankets were rather hard, and their pillows were not as soft as they might have been, being simply their saddles with nothing but the horse-blankets over them, but they never knew a thing from the time they went to bed until they heard Mr. Banta's voice roaring out "Catch up!" They found all in the camp busy. Some were raking the embers of the fire together, others were getting ready to cook breakfast, but most of them were engaged in packing the animals. This last was a task that the boys always wanted to see, for the operation was so complicated that they did not think they could ever learn how to do it. The mules were blinded, in the first place, so that they could not kick when the heavy pack was thrown upon their backs, and the man on the near side, who seemed to "boss" the business, placed his foot against the mule's side and called lustily for the rope which the other fellow held in his hands. "You have more rope there, and I know it," was the way in which he began the conversation. "Here you are," said his companion, and the rope was passed over the pack to where the other fellow was waiting to receive it. "Come, let's have a little more rope," repeated the first man. "There's oceans of it here, and you can have all you want of it." "Are you all fast there?" "I will be in a minute. Here's your end." "All fast here. Now let us see him kick it off," said the first man; whereupon a dexterous twist tore off the blinders, and the mule was free to go and join his companions. It was all done in two minutes, and the pack was safe to last until the train halted for the night. "Come on, boys," said Mr. Banta, turning to Julian and Jack, who stood, with towel and soap in their hands, watching the operation of packing the animals. "You must get around livelier than this. When you get to digging out gold by the bucketful you won't wait to wash your faces or get breakfast; you'll be down in that mine before the sun is up." "Are we not going to eat at all?" asked Julian, who was amused at the man's way of telling them that they would be so anxious to find the gold that they would not spend time to cook their meals. "Yes, I suppose you will have to eat sometimes, but you will hold your grub in one hand and use the spade with the other." The miners were in a hurry, now, to resume their journey, and it took them about half as long to eat breakfast as they devoted to their supper. Five minutes was about the time they applied themselves to their meal, and when Mr. Banta arose from his seat on the ground and drew his hairy hand across his mouth to brush away the drops of coffee that clung to his mustache the miners all arose, too. In less time than it takes to tell it they were all in their saddles and under way, and when they stopped again for the night they were in a camp which they had occupied on the way down to Denver. Mr. Banta was as talkative as usual, and when he had got his pipe going, and had taken three or four puffs to make sure that it was well started, he began his round of stories, which the boys were always ready to listen to. They were all of a week in making their journey; and about three o'clock in the afternoon, when the old bell-mare struck a trot, Mr. Banta turned to Jack and gave him a poke with his finger. "We are almost home," said he, joyfully. "I don't suppose this will seem like home to you, but it does to me, for it is the only home I have." "Do you never get tired of this business?" asked Julian. "I should think you would like to go back to the States, where you belong." "How do you know that I belong in the States?" asked Mr. Banta. "I judge by your way of talking, as much as anything. You were not raised in this country--I am certain of it." "Well, I will go back when I get enough." "How much do you call enough?" "Half a million dollars." Julian and Jack opened their eyes and looked surprised. "I've got three hundred thousand now in the bank at Denver." "Then you are not so badly off, after all. I think I could live on the interest of that much." "There are some objections to my going back," said Mr. Banta, looking off toward the distant mountains. "When I get back there I will have to settle down to a humdrum life, and there won't be nothing at all to get up a little excitement. Here the thing is different. We live here, taking gold in paying quantities all the time, and the first thing we know we hear of some new placers, which have been found somewhere else, that make a man rich as fast as he can stick a shovel into the ground. Of course we pack up and go off to find the new placers. We have a muss or two with some outlaws, and when we get rid of them we go to work and find out that there is nothing there." "Then you wish yourself back at Dutch Flat," said Jack. "That's the way it happens, oftentimes. It is the excitement that keeps us a-going. Now, in the States I would not have any of that." "Did you find many outlaws in this country when you first came here?" "They were thicker than flies around a molasses barrel," answered Mr. Banta. "But we have got rid of them all, and your life is just as safe here as it would be in St. Louis. Whenever we go to a new country, the outlaws are the first things we look out for. There's the camp, all right and tight, just as we left it." The camp covered a good stretch of ground; but then Mr. Banta had not told them that there were fully two hundred miners in it, and of course such a multitude of men, where nobody owned the land, would spread over a good deal of territory. The boys had a fine opportunity to take a survey of the first mining camp they had ever seen. They were surprised at the neatness of it. Things in the shape of old bottles or tin cans were not scattered around where somebody would stumble over them, but such articles were thrown into a ravine behind the camp, out of sight. The most of the miners had erected little log cabins to protect them from the storms of winter, and the others had comfortable lean-to's which served the same purpose. Most of the men were busy with their mines, but there were three or four of them loafing about, and when the noise made by the pack-animals saluted their ears they turned to see who was coming. One glance was enough; they pulled off their hats and waved them by way of welcome. "Well, if here ain't Banta!" they all exclaimed in a breath. "Did you drop your roll down at Denver and come back to get more?" "Nary a time," replied Mr. Banta, emphatically. "We got just what we could eat and drink, and that is all the money we spent. Who has passed in his checks since I have been gone?" (This was a miner's way of asking "Who's dead?") "None of the boys who are here shovelling for gold," said the man, coming forward to shake hands with Mr. Banta, "but those four outlaws who came up here from Denver to deal out some whiskey and start a faro bank could tell a different story, if they were here." "They did not get a foothold here, did they?" asked Mr. Banta. "I'll bet they didn't. We hardly gave them time to unpack their goods before we jumped on them and spilled their traps on the ground. One of the bums grew huffy at that, and he took a wounded arm down for the doctor to bandage up." "Have any of the boys made their pile?" "Some have, and some have not. Tommy Moran has struck a vein with sixty thousand dollars in it, and has been loafing around for the last two months, doing nothing. He went out to-day to see if he can get some more. He wants to go home, now." "I should not think he would like to travel between here and Denver with that amount of money about him," said Mr. Banta. "Well, there will be plenty more to join in with him when he is ready to go. The discouraged ones number a heap. The sign looks right, but the paying-stuff don't pan out first-rate. Some are going home, and the rest are going off to hunt up new diggings." Having briefly got at the news of what had been going on at the camp while he had been away, Mr. Banta led the way toward his own log cabin, which was fastened up just as it was when he left it. There was one bed, made of rough boards, an abundance of dishes, a fireplace, and one or two chairs, and that was all the furniture to be seen. But Mr. Banta thought his cabin just about right. "It don't matter how hard it rains or blows, this little house has sheltered me for a year, and has got to do so until my vein gives out. Now, boys, catch the pack-animals and turn them over to me, and I'll soon make things look as though somebody lived here." Julian and Jack managed to secure the pack-animals by catching the bell-mare and leading her up to the door of the cabin, and it was not long before the bundles which they had borne for two hundred miles were placed on the ground, and Mr. Banta was engaged in carrying the things into his house. He unpacked all the bundles except the one that belonged to the boys, and that would not be opened until they reached their mine. "Are you fellows decided on that matter yet?" he asked. "Had you not better stay with us here on the Flat? We will promise you that no spooks will trouble you here." "The more you talk about that mine, the more determined we are to see what is in it," answered Jack. "You need not think you can scare us out in that way." "I like your pluck, and if you are determined to go there, why, I am going with you. It is only five miles, and we can easily ride over there in two hours." "Where is it you are going?" asked one of the miners, who stood in the doorway unobserved. "You know that haunted mine, don't you?" "Great Moses! You ain't a-going up there!" said the man; and as he spoke he came into the cabin and sat down in one of the chairs. "The boys are going there, and I thought I would go with them to see them started," said Mr. Banta. "The mine is all grown up to grass, because there hasn't been anybody up there for some time now." "No, I should say not!" exclaimed the miner, as soon as he had recovered from his astonishment. "Are the boys plumb crazy? I tell you, lads, when you see----" "Tony, shut your mouth!" cried Mr. Banta. "The boys won't see anything, but they'll hear something that will take all the sand out of them. I have talked to the boys many times about that mine, during the past winter, but they have their heads set on it, and I don't see any other way than to let them go." "Well, if we hear anything, there must be something that makes the noise," asserted Julian. "It will be something that you can't see," said the miner, shaking his head and looking thoughtfully at the ground. "Two fellows went up there since I knew the mine, and when they got down to the bottom of the pit they were so frightened that they came down here as fast as they could and struck out for Denver. They were both big, stout men, and were armed with Winchesters and revolvers. If they had seen what made the noise, they would have been apt to shoot--wouldn't they?" "I should think they would," answered Jack. "Will you go down into the mine when you get there?" asked the man, turning to Mr. Banta. "Not much, as anybody knows of," declared the latter, shivering all over. "The ghosts don't bother anybody working at the top, so I shall get along all right." "Well, that puts a different look on the matter," remarked Tony, evidently much relieved. "Then I shall expect to see you back in two or three days." "Yes, I'll be back by that time," asserted Mr. Banta; and he added to himself, "if anything happens to the boys after that, why, I shall be miles away." This was the first time that Mr. Banta had anything to say to the miners about what he intended to do when he reached Dutch Flat, but it was all over the camp in less than five minutes. The miner went slowly and thoughtfully out of the cabin, as if he did not know whether it was best to agree to his leader's proposition or not, and it was not long before the men who were busy with things about their houses came up in a body to inquire into the matter. They were filled with astonishment; and, furthermore, they were anxious to see the boys who were going to take their lives in their hands and go up to work that pit, from which strong men had been frightened away. And it was so when six o'clock arrived, and the men all came in to get their supper. Some of the miners declared that it was not to be thought of, and some said that if Mr. Banta was bound to go, they would go with him to see that he came out all right. "You see what the miners think of this business," remarked Mr. Banta, as he began preparations for their supper. "They think you are out of your heads." "Well, you will not see anything of it, because you won't go into the mine," said Jack. "You are mighty right I won't go into the mine," declared Mr. Banta, looking furtively about the cabin, as if he expected to see something advancing upon him. "We will go up there and put the pit all right, and then you will have to work it." "I wonder if there is any gold up there?" asked Julian. "There is more gold up there than you can see in Dutch Flat in a year's steady digging. The men who have been down in the mine say so." "Well, when we come back you may expect to see us rich," said Julian, compressing his lips. "And you may be sure that the spooks won't drive us out, either." This was all that was said on the subject--that is, by those in the cabin; but when the men had eaten their suppers they all crowded into it, and the stories that would have been told of ghosts interfering with miners who tried to take away their precious belongings would have tested the boys' courage; but Mr. Banta did not allow them to go on. "As I told these boys down at Denver, I am telling them nothing but facts in regard to this mine, and I want you to do the same," said he. "Don't draw on your imagination at all." Before the miners returned to their cabins, it came about that the boys were going to have a small army go with them on the morrow. At least a dozen miners declaimed their readiness to go with Banta "and see him through," and Banta did not object. "The more, the merrier," said he, when they had been left alone and he turned down his bedclothes. "Now, you boys can spread your blankets on the floor in front of the fire and go to sleep; I will have you up at the first peep of day." CHAPTER XXII. THE HAUNTED MINE. Mr. Banta kept his word the next morning, for the day was just beginning to break when he rolled out on the floor and gave the order to "Catch up." All the miners were astir soon afterward; but there was no joking or laughing going on in the camp, as there usually was. The men went silently about their work of cooking breakfast, or sat smoking their pipes in front of the fire, for their thoughts were busy with that mine up in the mountains. Even the talkative Mr. Banta had nothing to say. He seemed to have run short of stories, all on a sudden. "Say, Julian," remarked Jack, as they stood by the stream washing their hands and faces, "why don't Banta talk to us the way he usually does? I'll bet he is thinking about what is going to happen to us." "I was just thinking that way myself," replied Julian. "But we have gone too far to back out; we have got to go on." "Of course we have. I wouldn't back out now for anything." Breakfast was cooked and eaten, and the same silence prevailed; and that same silence did more to shake the boys' courage than all that had been said against their mine. Mr. Banta answered their questions in monosyllables, and when he had satisfied his appetite he put the dishes away unwashed and went out to catch his horse. "Take hold of the bell-mare and lead her up the path," said he, addressing the miners who were getting ready to accompany him. "We have to take her and all the stock along, or the boys' pack-horse won't budge an inch." The miners were talkative enough now, when they saw the boys getting ready to start on their journey. They crowded around them, and each one shook them by the hand. "Good-bye! kids," said one. "The next time I see you, you will be so badly scared that you won't be able to tell what happened to you up there; or, I sha'n't see you at all. I wish you all the good luck in the world, but I know that will not amount to anything." "Do you think they can whip all these men?" asked Jack, running his eye over the miners, who were getting on their horses and making ready to go with Mr. Banta. "That ain't the thing; you won't see anybody; but the sounds you will hear when you get fairly on the floor of that pit you will never want to hear again." The bell-mare was caught and led along the path, the stock all followed after her, and the miners brought up the rear. Then Mr. Banta opened his mouth and proceeded to talk all the way to the mine. "You boys may come along here pretty sudden, some time, and if you don't find Dutch Flat you will stray off into the mountains and get lost; so I will just blaze the way for you." As Mr. Banta spoke he seized a handful of the branches of an evergreen and pulled them partly off, so that they just hung by the bark. "Now, whenever you see that, you are on the right road," said he; "but if you don't see it, you had better turn back and search for a blaze until you find it." For once the boys did not pay much attention to Mr. Banta's stories, for their minds were fully occupied with their own thoughts. At last--it did not seem to them that they had ridden a mile--the man with the bell-mare sung out "Here we are!" and led the way into a smooth, grassy plain which seemed out of place there in the mountains, and to which there did not appear to be any outlet except the one by which they had entered it. It was surrounded by the loftiest peaks on all sides except one, and there the plain was bounded by a precipitous ravine which was so deep that the bottom could not be seen from the top. Near the middle of the plain was a little brook, placed most conveniently for "washing" their finds, which bubbled merrily over the stones before it plunged into the abyss before spoken of; and close on the other side were the ruins of the mine--a strong windlass, which had hauled up fifty thousand dollars' worth of gold--and the rope that was fast to the bucket, or rather to the fragments of it, for the bucket itself had fallen to pieces from the effects of the weather, and lay in ruins on the ground. Still farther away stood the lean-to--firmly built, of course, but not strong enough to stand the fury of the winter's storms. Taken altogether, a miner could not have selected a more fitting camp, or one better calculated to banish all symptoms of homesickness while they were pulling out the gold from the earth below. Mr. Banta kept a close watch on the boys, and saw the pleased expression that came upon their faces. "I know it looks splendid now, but it will not look so before long," said he, with a knowing shake of his head. "Now, boys, let us get to work. We want to get through here, so as to get back to Dutch Flat to-night." The miners unsaddled their horses, grabbed their axes and spades, and set in manfully to make the "mine all right," so that the boys could go to work at it without delay. Some repaired the lean-to, others laboriously cleared the mouth of the pit from the grass and brush which had accumulated there, and still another brought from the boys' pack the new bucket and rope which they expected would last just about long enough for one of them to go down and up--and they were positive that the boy would come up a great deal faster than he went down. The boys did not find anything to do but to get dinner, and they were rather proud of the skill with which the viands were served up. "I didn't know you boys could do cooking like this," said Mr. Banta, as he seated himself on the grass and looked over the table--a blanket spread out to serve in lieu of a cloth. "If the cooking was all you had to contend with you could live like fighting-cocks as long as you stay here." "We had hardly enough money to pay for a housekeeper while we were in St. Louis, and so we had all this work to do ourselves," said Julian. "You must give Jack the credit for this. We kept bachelor's hall while we were at home. He cooked, and I swept out and helped wash the dishes." "Now, boys," said Mr. Banta, after he had finished his pipe, "I guess we have Julian and Jack all ready to go to work whenever they feel like it. Look over your work, and see if there is anything you have missed, and then we will go back to Dutch Flat. I tell you, I hate to leave you up here in this sort of a way." "You need not be," said Jack. "If you will come up here in two weeks from now, we will have some gold-dust to show you." Mr. Banta did not say anything discouraging, for he had already exhausted all his powers in that direction. He inspected all the work, to satisfy himself that it was properly done, and then gave the order to "catch up." "Of course your stock will go back with us," said he. "You could not keep them here away from that old bell-mare." "That was what we expected," said Julian; "we may be so badly frightened that we won't think to bring our weapons with us." "I am not afraid to say that I'll risk that," said Mr. Banta, leaning over to shake Julian by the hand. He told himself that the miner's heart was in that shake. It was very different from the clasp of the hand that he gave him when he was first introduced to him in Denver. "Good-bye, Julian. That is all I can say to you." The other miners rode up to take leave of them, and all looked very solemn. Some had a parting word to say, and some shook them by the hand without saying anything, the man with the bell-mare led off, the stock followed, the miners came last, and in two minutes more they were alone. Julian sat down on the grass feeling lonely indeed, but Jack jumped up and began to bestir himself. "Come on, boy--none of that!" said he, beginning to gather their few dishes together. "We must get these things out of the way and I must get ready to go into that mine." "Are you going down to-day?" asked Julian. The time had come at last. For long months Julian had talked about going down into that mine--not boastingly, to be sure, but he had said enough to make people believe he would not back out, and now the opportunity was presented for him to do as he had agreed. "Why can't you let it go until to-morrow?" "Because I am just ready to go now," said Jack; and there was a determined look on his face which Julian had never seen there before. "I am fighting mad, now, and to-morrow I may be as down-hearted as you are." "Do you think I am afraid?" exclaimed Julian, springing up and beginning to assist his chum. "I'll show you that I am not! If you want to go first you can go, and I will go the next time." Julian went to work with a determination to get the dishes done as soon as possible. When they had got them all stowed away where they belonged, Jack stopped to roll up his sleeves, examined his revolver, which he strapped to his waist, lighted his lamp, and led the way toward the mine without saying a word. Julian gave a hasty glance at him and saw that his face was as calm as it usually was, and he began to take courage from that. "It looks dark down there, does it not?" asked Julian, leaning on the windlass and peering down into the pit. "It is dark enough now, but it will be lighter when I get down there with my lamp," replied Jack. "Now, Julian, are you sure you can hold me up?" "Of course I can. If I can't, we had better get another man up here." Jack stopped just long enough to shake Julian by the hand, then seized the rope and stepped into the bucket, his partner holding the windlass so that he would not descend too rapidly. Slowly he went down, until finally the bucket stopped. "All right!" called Jack; and his voice sounded strangely, coming up from thirty feet underground. "This hole is bigger down here than it is at the top. Somebody has cut away on each side to try to find gold," and at last he started off toward the gully. Julian leaned over the pit and followed his companion's movements by the light of his lamp. He saw him as he went around to the "false diggings," and finally his lamp disappeared from view as Jack went down toward the ravine. His face was very pale; he listened intently, but could not hear that rustling of feet nor that moaning sound that had frightened two men away from there, and his courage all came back to him. "I wonder what those men were thinking of when they started that story about this mine being haunted?" Julian muttered to himself. "There is nothing here to trouble anyone." Hardly had this thought been framed in Julian's mind than there came a most startling and thrilling interruption. The boy was leaning over the pit with his head turned on one side, so that he could hear any unusual sounds going on below, and all of a sudden he sprang to his feet and acted very much as though he wanted to go below to Jack's assistance. He distinctly heard that rustling of feet over the rocks below, some of them made by Jack as he ran toward the bucket, and the other by something else that made Julian's heart stand still. And with that sound came others--moans or shrieks, Julian couldn't tell which--until they seemed to fill the pit all around him. This lasted but a few seconds, and then came the report of Jack's revolver and the sound was caught up by the echoes until it appeared to Julian that a whole battery of artillery had been fired at once. "There!" said Julian, greatly relieved to know that Jack had seen something to shoot at. "I guess one ghost has got his death at last!" A moment afterward came Jack's frantic pull on the rope, accompanied by his frightened voice-- "Pull me up, Julian! For goodness' sake, pull me up!" Julian jumped for the windlass and put every atom of his strength into it. At first the resistance of the bucket was just about what it would have been if Jack had stepped into it; but suddenly the resistance ceased, the crank was jerked out of his hand, and Julian was thrown headlong to the ground. "What was that?" exclaimed the boy, regaining his feet as quickly as he could. "Jack, did you fall out of the bucket?" There was no response to his question. He leaned over and looked into the pit; but Jack's light had gone out, and everything was silent below. The rustling of feet had ceased, the moans had died away, and the mine was as still as the grave. "Something has happened to Jack!" exclaimed Julian, running to his lean-to after his revolver and lamp. "I am going down there to see about it if all the ghosts in the Rocky Mountains should be there to stop me!" Julian worked frantically, and in less time than it takes to tell it he was ready to go down to Jack's help. He hastily unwound the rope until all the length was out except the extreme end, which was fastened to the windlass by a couple of staples, and swung himself into the mine. He went down much faster than Jack did, and when he reached the bottom he let go his hold on the rope, and, holding his revolver in readiness for a shot, he turned slowly about, as if he were expecting that whatever had frightened Jack would be upon him before he could think twice. But nothing came. In whatever direction he turned his light, everything seemed concealed by Egyptian darkness, and finally he resolved to let the ghosts go and turned his attention to Jack. There he lay, close to Julian's feet, his lamp extinguished and his revolver at a little distance from him; and it was plain that he was either frightened or dead, for Julian had never seen so white a face before. His own face, if he only knew it, was utterly devoid of color, and his hands trembled so that he could scarcely use them. "I would like to know what it was that could make Jack faint away in this fashion," muttered Julian, first looking all around to make sure that nothing had come in sight before he laid his revolver down. "How to get him into that bucket, and the bail over him, is what bothers me just now; but he must go in, and get out of this." Jack was a heavyweight, and if any boy who reads this has ever been called upon to handle a playmate who remained limp and motionless in his arms he will know what a task Julian had to put him into the bucket. And remember that he must go inside the bail, otherwise he could not pull him out; and the bail would not stay up without somebody to hold it. But Julian worked away as only a boy can under such circumstances, and was just getting him in shape, so that in a moment more he would have had him in, when he noticed that one of his hands was wet. He stopped for a moment to look at it, and at the sight of it he seemed ready to sit down beside Jack and faint away, too. "It is blood!" murmured Julian. "My goodness! you must get out of here, and be quick about it! What was that?" Julian straightened up again, but he had his revolver in his hand. That moaning sound was repeated again, but the boy could not tell where it came from. It was not so great in volume as the first one that had saluted Jack, but it was a complaining kind of a sound, such as one might utter who was being deserted by the only friend he had upon earth. Julian stood there with his revolver in his hand, but, aside from the sound which rung in his ears for many a night afterward, his eyes could not reveal a single thing for him to shoot at. Julian thought now that he had got at the bottom of the mystery. Hastily slipping his revolver into his belt, he turned his attention to Jack, and in a few moments had him ready to hoist to the top. Then he seized the rope, and, climbing it hand over hand, he reached the surface, when, throwing off his hat and revolver, he turned around to haul up Jack. CHAPTER XXIII. HAUNTED NO LONGER. This time Julian laid out all his strength on the windlass; but the bucket resisted, and he knew that Jack's weight was safely within it. Presently his head and shoulders appeared above the pit, whereupon Julian slipped a bucket over the crank, and in a few minutes Jack was safe above ground. To tumble him out of the bucket and dash into his face some water that he dipped up from the stream with his hat occupied but little of his time, and almost at once Jack opened his eyes and looked about him. "Well, sir, you saw them, did you not?" asked Julian, with a smile. "I tell you, you wouldn't have smiled if you had been in my place," replied Jack. "That thing looked awful as it came at me." "What thing?" "There is some animal down there who is not going to let us work this mine if he can help it," said Jack, feeling around with his right hand to examine his shoulder. "As I stepped into the bucket with one foot he jumped--my goodness! I don't like to say how far it was; but I saw his eyes shining green in the darkness, and just as I pulled on him he sprang at me, dug his claws into my shoulder, and pulled me out. I thought I was gone up, sure; then all was blank to me. Did you see him?" "I did not see anything," said Julian. "When the bucket came up easily, as though you were not in it, I went down after you; but I did not see a thing. What was it?" "You tell. It was some kind of an animal that I never saw before. And didn't he make a howling just before he jumped! I wish you would look at my shoulder; it smarts awfully." Jack could handle himself well enough now, and it was no trouble for him to roll over on his face and give Julian a chance to view his wounds. His shirt was torn completely off, and underneath were four scratches which went the whole length of his back and spent themselves on the thick waistband of his trousers, which they had ripped in two. Very little blood came from the wounds, and Julian assured him that they were not deep enough to cause him any inconvenience. "You must have killed him before he got to you," said Julian. "A bear could not jump that far, and if it were a panther--why, you have done something to be proud of. You have done it anyway, for you have cleared up something that scared those two men away from here." "Do you really think so?" asked Jack. "I know it." "But think of the howling he made! It seemed as if the pit was full of bears and panthers, and I didn't know which way to look. Have you got all the blood off? Then let us go down there and see about it. We can't work our mine with those fellows in there. If I killed him at once, how did he come to jump so far? And then he took himself off after clawing me; that is something I don't understand." "You have to shoot one of those fellows through the brain or in the spine, in order to throw him in his tracks. Did you have a fair chance at his heart?" "I don't know. I simply shot a little ways below that green spot, in the darkness, and the next thing I knew I didn't know anything." "Because, if you had a fair chance at his heart, a wild animal will sometimes run a good way before he drops. He is down there somewhere, and I'll bet you will find him. But, Jack, there are others that we must get rid of before we own this mine." "What do you mean by that? I was in hopes I had shot the last one of them." "Well, you did not. While I was working over you I heard those moans repeated. That proves others are there--don't it?" "I am going down to clear it up," persisted Jack, who had got upon his feet by this time and started toward the lean-to. "Hold on till I get cartridges to put in this revolver. I used to grumble at you because you spent so much money in Denver, last winter, in shooting at a mark, but I begin to believe you were right and that I was wrong. If I had been as awkward with this shooting-iron as I used to be, you would have got the whole of that hundred thousand dollars to spend for yourself." "Don't speak about it!" exclaimed Julian, who wondered what he should do if Jack was taken away from him. "I need somebody to grumble at me, and you will do as well as anybody. Are you not going to put on another shirt?" "Not much, I ain't. Maybe I did not kill that animal, whatever it was and he will come for me again. Now, you hold up and let me go," said Jack, when he saw Julian place one foot in the bucket." "I am a better shot than you are, and if I pull on one of those ghosts you will see him drop," returned Julian, drawing the other foot in. "Take hold of the windlass and let me down easy. If I halloo, you must lose no time in hauling me up." Jack was obliged to submit to this arrangement, and he carefully lowered Julian out of sight. When the bucket stopped he seized the rope, and in a moment more stood beside him. "I am glad it is animals that are interfering with us, for I am not at all afraid of them," declared Jack. "Now, where is that other sound you heard?" The question had hardly been formed on Jack's lips when that sound came to their ears--not faint and far off, as was the one that caused Julian to handle his revolver, but louder and clearer, as though the animal that made it was close upon them. Sometimes they thought it was in front, and they held their revolvers ready to shoot at a moment's warning, and then, again, it sounded behind them; and in a second more it appeared as if the rocks on each side of them concealed the enemy that was uttering those startling sounds. "It is the echo--that's what it is," said Julian. "There is only one animal in here, and we can't shoot him any too quick." Julian, aided by his lamp, led the way cautiously along the subterranean passage, which would have been level but for the carelessness or haste of the men who had worked the pit before them, peering into every little cavity he saw, until at last he stopped suddenly and pointed his revolver at something that lay upon the floor. "What is it, Julian?" whispered Jack, pressing eagerly to his side. "Well, sir, you have done it now," answered Julian, bending over and examining the animal as well as he could by the light of his lamp. "This is the thing that frightened the other two men away." "What is it?" repeated Jack. "A panther?" "No, sir; this animal will make two of the biggest panthers you ever saw. It is a lion!" "In America?" said Jack, in astonishment. "It is what the miners call them, anyway. When we get it into the bucket I will let you have the crank, and we will see if it does not weigh almost as much as you do. This animal is a mother, and her babies are crying for her." Jack was surprised when he saw what a monster animal his lucky shot had put out of the way, for he did not lay any claim to his skill as a marksman in making that shot. He must have shot her plumb through the heart, or else she would not have died so quickly. She looked as big as a yearling, marked for all the world like the panthers he had seen in the shows which he had attended; but it was her size more than anything else which impressed him. It was wonderful, too, what a change the sight of this animal made in Jack. His courage all came back to him, and after taking a hasty glance at his trophy he took the lead and pressed on toward the farther end of the passage. Every few feet he found what the miners called "false diggings"--that is, places that they had dug, either on the right-hand side or the left, to see if the vein they were following turned that way. In one of these "false diggings" Jack stopped and pointed silently before him. Julian looked over Jack's shoulder, and saw that the miner had dug through the embankment there and into a cave which extended through into the gulch--the boys could see that by the little streaks of light which came in at the other end. On a slight shelf which formed one side of the passageway some leaves had been gathered, and in this bed were two cubs about the size of full-grown cats, while a third had crawled out and was trying, in his clumsy way, to follow his mother into the mine. The little thing was wild, and set up a furious spitting as the boys approached. "These things account for the noise you heard," remarked Jack, picking up the cub and beating its head against the floor. "What made you do that, Jack?" exclaimed Julian. "We ought to save the young ones alive." "Well, suppose we do; what will we raise them on? It is true that we might tell the milkman to leave us an extra quart or two to feed them on, for such little things can't eat bacon and hard-tack. Now, after we get through--" "By gracious, Jack--look out!" exclaimed Julian, suddenly. "The old man is coming home to see what's the matter with his young ones!" Jack dropped the cub he had picked up, and which he was about to serve as he had the first, and, looking toward the farther end of the passageway, saw that the light was shut off by the head and shoulders of another monstrous lion that had stopped when he discovered the boys. In an instant two revolvers were aimed at the white spot on his chest. "Be sure you make as good a shot as you did before," whispered Julian, whose face was as pale as Jack's was when he pulled him out of the pit. "It's a matter of life and death with us." The revolvers cracked in quick succession, raising an echo that almost deafened them. Without a moment's delay they fired again, then threw themselves prone upon the floor of the cave, for they saw the lion coming. He had evidently got all ready for a spring, and when the first two bullets struck him he made it, jumping over them and landing in the pit beyond. The moment he touched the ground two more balls went into him, and then the boys jumped to their feet; for they did not want the lion to spring upon them while lying down. But the animal made no effort to recover his feet; he was too badly hurt for that. He struggled frantically, springing from the ground as high as the boys' heads, and his motions were so quick and rapid that there was no chance to shoot him again; but this lasted only for a few seconds. His struggles grew weaker, and he soon lay upon the floor, stone dead. "There, sir," said Julian, who was the first to speak; "this is a haunted mine no longer. Our little 44-caliber revolvers did as good work as Banta would have done with his Winchester." "Whew! I am glad it is all over, and that we were not frightened out of coming here. I don't believe in ghosts, anyway." "How do you account for that man in the mine up the country who always gets farther and farther away every time anybody tries to touch him?" asked Julian. "I believe that story originated in the minds of some miners who were afraid to go there. And as for their shooting at him, I don't take any stock in that, either. Now, I will finish what I was going to say when the old gentleman came in and interrupted me. After I have killed these cubs, we will go to work and fill this cave so full of the rocks which some of the miners have left scattered about that there won't be a chance for any other animal to make a commotion in this mine." The work of dispatching the cubs was very soon accomplished, and then the boys wanted to get the lions above ground, so that they could see how they looked. But when they undertook to lift the "old gentleman," to carry him to the bucket, they found they had more than they could do; so they each took hold of a hind leg and dragged him to the shaft. When they came to put him in, they saw there was not room enough for the cubs, for the bucket would not hold any more. "I'll go up and haul the old fellow out," said Jack. "I tell you, he is big enough to scare anybody--is he not?" "Yes," answered Julian, with a laugh; "and if we had been frightened away, and somebody else had found out that they were lions, and not unearthly spirits, it would have been all over Denver inside of a month." Jack, who said he thought that was so, seized the rope and began working his way toward the top. Then the bucket began to move, and presently Julian saw it go out over the top. In a few minutes Jack came down again, and they got the mother of the family ready to be hoisted up. Julian went up this time, tumbled the lion out beside his mate, and let down the bucket for the dead cubs and Jack, who, when he stepped out, found Julian with his hat off and drawing his shirt-sleeves across his forehead. "I tell you, Jack, if the dirt you send up weighs as much as these ghosts did, the one who pulls it out will have the hardest part of the work," said Julian. "Now let us sit down and take a good look at them." The longer the boys looked, the larger seemed to grow the animals that had created so great an uproar in the country for miles around. They regretted they had not brought a tape-line with them, that they might take measurements; but they came to one conclusion--if they found an animal like either of those in the mountains, they would give it a wide berth. They had read of encounters with them by men, and during their stay in Denver had listened to some thrilling stories, told by miners, of their fierceness, and they decided that those men had more pluck than they had. "Let us take the skins off, and by that time it will be night," said Julian. "We can fill up the hole to-morrow." "I don't know how to go to work at it--do you?" asked Jack, taking off his hat and scratching his head. "I never did such a piece of business in my life." "We are not going to take them off with the intention of selling them; we are going to show them to the miners. If we tell them our story without anything to show for it, they will think we are trying to shoot with a long bow. If we make a few holes in the skins by a slip of our knives, who cares?" The boys went to work on the cubs first, one holding the hind legs and the other doing the skinning, and they got along so well with them that they went to work on the big ones with more confidence. By the time it grew dark the skins were removed, and the carcasses were dragged away and thrown into the ravine. Then the boys began supper with light hearts. The mystery of the haunted mine had been unearthed, and Julian and Jack were ready to dig up the treasure--that is, if there was any there waiting for them. CHAPTER XXIV. "THAT IS GOLD." "Jack, come up here; I have something to show you." "What is it? Have you made yourself rich by washing out the last bucket of earth I sent up?" "I have something, and it looks like gold. Wait until I haul this bucket up, and then I'll send it down for you." This conversation took place between Julian and his chum on the third morning after their arrival at the mine. The hole that led into the cave which the lions had made their habitation had been filled up so tight that even a ground-squirrel would have found it a hard task to work his way through; all the little rocks had been cleared away from the floor of the pit, making it an easy matter for them to carry the earth in a basket to the bottom of the shaft, and the digging had been going on for two days without any signs of "color" rewarding their anxious gaze. The buckets of dirt, as fast as they were sent up, were washed in the brook by the aid of a "cradle" which the boys had brought with them, but their most persistent "rocking" failed to leave a sediment behind. All the dirt went out with the water, and the cradle was as clean when they got through rocking it as it was before they began. "I believe the fellow who wrote that letter must have taken all the gold in the mine," remarked Julian, one night, after they had spent a hard day's work at the pit. "Fifty thousand dollars! That's a heap of money to take out of one hole in the ground." "I think so myself," replied Jack; "but we will keep it up until our provisions are gone, and then we will go back to Dutch Flat." But on this particular day Julian, who was washing the dirt at the head of the shaft, thought he saw some settlings in the bottom of his cradle, and forthwith began to handle it a little more carefully. The longer he rocked the more the sediment grew, until at last he had a spoonful, which he gathered up and then approached the mouth of the pit. "If you have any gold to show me I'll come up before the bucket does," declared Jack; "the bucket can wait." "I have enough here to buy another block of houses," exclaimed Julian, as Jack's head and shoulders appeared. "What do you think of that?" "Is it gold or not?" asked Jack, who was inclined to be suspicious. "Maybe it is some of that iron that Mr. Banta told us about." "That is just what I was afraid of," said Julian; "but I reckon iron pyrites comes in lumps, don't it? If it does, this is gold, sure enough." The boys did not know what to make of it, and they finally decided that they would put it away until Mr. Banta came up to see how they were getting along, which he had agreed to do at the end of two weeks. The boys spoke of their "find" as iron pyrites, for they did not like to think they would be lucky enough to dig gold out of the ground, and this was not the only spoonful of dust that went into their bag. The bag grew in size as the days wore on, and finally, at the end of two weeks, it was almost full. "I tell you, Jack, I don't like to show this to Mr. Banta," declared Julian, holding up the bag, and looking ruefully at it. "Perhaps we have done all our best digging all for nothing." "Well, it can't be helped," was Jack's reply. "They were inexperienced when they first came out here, and there was nobody to tell them whether they had iron pyrites or gold. But we have done one thing that he can't laugh at--we have worked the haunted mine." Two weeks had never passed so slowly to the boys before. They worked early and late, but they found time now and then to glance toward the entrance of the valley, to see if Mr. Banta was approaching. All this while the bag grew heavier and fuller, until Julian declared that it would not hold another spoonful. "Then we must tie it up tight and hide it somewhere," said Jack. "What is the use of hiding it?" asked Julian. "Nobody knows that we have been so successful in our haunted mine." "No matter; such things have happened, and we want to be on the safe side. We must hide it a little way from the lean-to, for there is the first place anybody will look for it." Julian readily gave in, although he could not see any necessity for it, took a spade, and went with Jack to what he considered to be a good hiding-place. A hole was dug, the bag put in, some leaves were scattered over the spot, and then Jack drew a long breath of relief. "One would think we are surrounded by robbers," said Julian. "Who do you suppose is going to steal it?" "I don't know; but I have never had so much money, or what is equivalent to money, in my charge before, and, as I said before, I think it best to be on the safe side." "Our two weeks have passed, and Mr. Banta ought to be here to-morrow," observed Julian, leading the way back to the lean-to. "I expect he will look for us to be all chawed up." The very next day Mr. Banta appeared. The boys had found an extra "find" that morning. Julian was rocking the cradle back and forth, and Jack was leaning over his shoulder to see what gold there was in it, when they heard the sound of horses' hoofs on the rocks, and looked up to find the miner and his partner, Pete, standing in the entrance to the valley. "Now we will soon have this thing cleared up," exclaimed Julian, joyfully. "Mr. Banta, you don't know how glad we are to see you again!" Mr. Banta did not say anything in reply. He and his partner rode slowly toward them, looking all around, as if they expected to discover something. "Is it the ghosts you are looking for?" asked Jack. "Come along, and we will show them to you." "Boys," stammered Mr. Banta, as if there was something about the matter that looked strange enough to him, "you are still on top of the ground. Put it there." The boys readily complied, and they thought, by the squeeze the miner gave their hands, that he was very much surprised to see them alive and well, and working their mine as if such things as ghosts had never been heard of. "Did you see them?" he continued. "You are right, we did," answered Julian. "Jack, pull off your shirt. He has some marks that he will carry to his grave." Jack did not much like the idea of disrobing in the presence of company, but he divested himself of his shirt and turned his back to the miners. On his shoulder were four big welts, which promised to stay there as long as he lived. "It was a lion!" exclaimed Mr. Banta. "That is just what it was. Now come with me and I will show you the skins. We have something to prove it." The miners followed after the boys, when, as they were about to pass their pit, Julian said he wanted to see them about something that had been worrying them a good deal ever since they first discovered it. "What do you call that?" he asked, gathering up a pinch of the sediment that still remained in the cradle. "Good gracious! Do you gather much of this stuff?" exclaimed Mr. Banta, who was all excitement now. "It is not iron pyrites, is it?" "Iron your grandmother!" retorted Mr. Banta. "It is gold, and a bag full of that stuff will be worth about ten thousand dollars to you!" "We have a bagful of it hidden away," asserted Julian; while Jack was so overcome with something, he didn't know what, that he sat right down on the ground. "Jack thought we had best hide it, but I will get it and show it to you." "Well, well! this beats anything in the world that I ever heard of! Don't it you, Pete?" asked Mr. Banta, dismounting from his horse. "Here's you two, come out here as tenderfeet from St. Louis, who never saw or heard of a gold-mine before, and you come up to this pit, which has all manner of ghosts and other things wandering about it at will,--so much so that they scared away two of the best men we had on Dutch Flat,--and then you get the upper hand of the spirits and make ten thousand dollars out of the mine in two weeks! I tell you that bangs me; don't it you, Pete?" Jack came up to take the horses and hitch them to swinging limbs, and Mr. Banta turned to Julian and told him he was anxious to see that bag with the ten thousand dollars in gold in it; whereupon Julian caught up a spade and hurried out, and Jack, who had returned to the lean-to, was told to sit down and tell them the story about the haunted gold-mine. "There isn't much to tell," said Jack, who, like all modest fellows, disliked to talk about himself. "I went down to see what the inside of the mine looked like, and one of the lions pitched onto me and I shot him." "There's more in the story than that comes to," declared Mr. Banta. "Let us go out and look at the skins; we will hear the straight of the matter when Julian comes in." The skins were rolled up,--they had been stretched on the ground until the sun dried them,--but Jack quickly unrolled them, and the miners looked on as if greatly surprised. They could not understand how one ball, fired in the dark, had finished the lion so speedily. "It is a wonder she did not tear you all to pieces," said Pete. "You must have made a dead-centre shot." The other skin was unrolled, too, and by the time the miners had examined it to their satisfaction Julian came up with the bag. Mr. Banta untied it, and one look was enough. "That is gold," said he; "there is no iron pyrites about that. Now, Jack, you go on and get dinner for us, and we will listen while Julian tell us about those ghosts." "I told you I did not believe in such things," remarked Julian. "And the whole thing has come out just as I said it would." "What have you in this pack?" asked Jack. "It looks like provisions." "That is just what it is. We thought you must be nearly out by this time, and so we brought some along. Let the mule go home, if she wants to; she misses that old bell-mare." The story which Jack did not tell lost nothing in going through Julian's hands. He described things as nearly as he could see them before Jack's light went out, and told of the lucky shot and the savage shrieks that came up to him through the pit. "Those shrieks were what got next to me," declared Julian, with a shudder. "I can't get them out of my mind yet. I thought that the ghost had Jack, sure." "Well, go on," said Mr. Banta, when Julian paused. "There were two lions there--how did you get the other one?" When Julian told how Jack had taken charge of the matter, and had gone ahead in order to hunt up the other ghost, Mr. Banta acted as though he could scarcely believe it; while Pete thrust his spurred heels out before him and broke out into a volley of such quaint oaths that Julian threw back his head and laughed loudly. "If you had not done anything else since you have been up here but go to hunt up that lion with revolvers, I should know you were tenderfeet pure and simple," declared Mr. Banta. "Why, boys, that was the most dangerous thing you ever did!" "Well, we did not know what else to do," explained Julian, modestly. "Jack said the lion would not let us work the mine if he could help it, and so we had to go and find him." "I know some miners down at Dutch Flat who would think twice before going for that lion with their Winchesters," declared Pete, "and you had nothing but little popguns!" "They did the work, anyhow," asserted Julian. "Well, boys, you have been very lucky," said Mr. Banta. "Take your bag of dust and hide it where nobody will ever think of looking for it. And remember--if any person comes here and asks you for money, you are to give him what is in the other bag, and keep still about this full one." Julian's eyes began to open wide as this hint was thrown out. He looked at Jack, who was by this time engaged in dishing up the dinner; but the latter only shook his head at him, as if to say, "Didn't I say we had better hide that gold while we had the opportunity?" "Who do you think is going to rob us?" asked Julian, as soon as he could speak. "I am sure I don't know; but we have some men down at the Flat who would not be any too good to come up here and see how you are getting along. Of course this thing will get all over the Flat in less than five minutes after we get there. We must tell just how we found you; for, if we try to keep it secret, the miners will suspect something and come up here in a body. But if they do that, then you will be safer than if you were alone." "We don't want any truck with such people," declared Jack. "If we shoot as well as we did at the lion that wore that big skin, you will hear something drop. Now sit up and eat some dinner." "Jack, I believe you have the most pluck," said Pete. "He has it all," replied Julian. "He don't say much, but he keeps up a dreadful lot of thinking." Dinner over, the miners lit their pipes, and then Mr. Banta said they wanted to go down into the mine to see how it looked. "It is my opinion that you won't get much more gold out of here," said he, as he stepped into the bucket. "You are gradually working your way toward the ravine, and when you break through the wall, you will find no color there." "I don't care," replied Julian. "If it will hold out until we get another bag filled, that will be all we want. We can say, when we get back to Denver, that we have been in the mines." "And had some adventures there, too," remarked Mr. Banta. "Lower away." Julian and Pete followed Mr. Banta down to the bottom of the mine, and Jack stayed up above to manage the bucket. They were gone a long time, for Julian was obliged to tell his story over again; and, when they were pulled up, Mr. Banta repeated what he had said before he was let down, namely, that the boys had about reached the end of their vein. "But even with these bags full, you have got more than some men have who have been on the Flat for two years," said he. "Now, boys, is there anything we can do for you before we bid you good-bye?" No, Julian and Jack could not think of anything they wanted. They thanked the miners for bringing them some provisions, and offered payment on the spot; but Mr. Banta said they would let that go until the boys had got through working their mine. They shook them by the hand, wished them all the good luck in the world, turned their faces toward home, and in a few moments the sound of their horses' hoofs on the rocks had died away in the distance. CHAPTER XXV. CLAUS, AGAIN. "There!" said Mr. Solomon Claus, as he entered at a fast walk the railroad depot, passed through it, and took up the first back street that he came to; "I guess I have got rid of him. Now, the next thing is to go somewhere and sit down and think about it." Claus kept a good watch of the buildings as he passed along, and at last saw a hotel, into which he turned. He bought a cigar at the bar, and, drawing a chair in front of one of the windows, sat down to meditate on his future course; for this German was not in the habit of giving up a thing upon which he had set his mind, although he might fail in every attempt he undertook. He had set his heart upon having a portion of that money that Julian had come into by accident, and, although something had happened to upset his calculations, he was not done with it yet. "That was a sharp trick, sending off the box by express, when they might as well have carried its contents in their valises," said Claus, settling down in his chair and keeping his eyes fastened upon the railroad depot. "Wiggins was at the bottom of that, for I don't believe the boys would ever have thought of it. I wonder how they felt when they found their valises gone? Now, the next thing is something else. Shall I go home, get my clothes, and spend the winter in Denver, or shall I go home and stay there? That's a question that cannot be decided in a minute." While Claus was endeavoring to come to some conclusion on these points he saw Casper Nevins coming along the railroad and entering the depot. By keeping a close watch of the windows he discovered him pass toward the ticket office, where he made known his wants, and presently Claus saw him put a ticket into his pocket. "So far, so good," muttered Claus, as he arose from his chair. "I guess I might as well get on the train with him, for I must go to St. Louis anyhow. Perhaps something will occur to me in the meantime." Casper was sitting on a bench, with his hands clasped and his chin resting on his breast, wondering what in the world he was going to do when he got back to St. Louis, when he heard Claus's step on the floor. He first had an idea that he would not speak to him at all; but Solomon acted in such a friendly manner, when he met him, that he could not fail to accost him with "You were trying to shake me, were you?" "Shake you! my dear fellow," exclaimed Claus, as if he were profoundly astonished. "Such a thing never entered my head! I simply wanted to get away by myself and think the matter over. Have a cigar." "I don't want it!" declared Casper, when Claus laid it down upon his knee. "I don't believe I shall want many cigars or anything else very long." "Disappointed over not finding that wealth, were you?" asked Claus, in a lower tone. "Well, I was disappointed myself, and for a time I did not want to see you or anybody else. I have wasted a heap of hard-earned dollars upon that 'old horse.'" "Have you given it up, too?" inquired Casper. "What else can I do? Of course I have given it up. I will go back home again and settle down to my humdrum life, and I shall never get over moaning about that hundred thousand dollars we have lost." "Do you think we tried every plan to get it?" "Every one that occurred to me. They have it, and that is all there is to it. What are you going to do when you get back to St. Louis?" inquired Claus, for that was a matter in which he was very much interested. He was not going to have Casper hanging onto him; on that he was determined. "I suppose I shall have to do as others do who are without work," replied Casper. "I shall go around to every store, and ask them if they want a boy who isn't above doing anything that will bring him his board and clothes. I wish I had my old position back; I'll bet you that I would try to keep it." "That is the best wish you have made in a long time," said Claus, placing his hand on Casper's shoulder. "If I was back there, with my money in my pocket, I would not care if every one of the express boys would come and shove an 'old horse' at me. I tell you, 'honesty is the best policy.'" Casper was almost ready to believe that Claus had repented of his bargain, but he soon became suspicious of him again. That was a queer phrase to come from the lips of a man who believed in cheating or lying for the purpose of making a few dollars by it. For want of something better to do, he took up the cigar which Claus had laid upon his knee and proceeded to light it. "Well, I guess I'll go and get a ticket," remarked Claus, after a little pause. "I don't know how soon that train will be along." "'Honesty is the best policy,' is it?" mused Casper, watching Claus as he took up his stand in the door and looked away down the railroad. "Some people would believe him, but I have known him too long for that. I wish I knew what he has in his head. He is going to try to get his hands on that 'old horse'; and if he does, I hope he will fail, just as we have done. He need not think that I am going to hold fast to him. I have had one lesson through him, and that is enough." Claus did not seem anxious to renew his conversation with Casper. He had heard all the latter's plans, as far as he had any, and now he wanted to think up some of his own. He walked up and down the platform with his hands behind his back, all the while keeping a bright lookout down the road for the train. "I must go to Denver, because I shall want to make the acquaintance of some fellows there whom I know I can trust," soliloquized Claus. "I can get plenty of men in St. Louis, but they are not the ones I want. I must have some men who know all about mining, and perhaps I can get them to scrape an acquaintance with Julian. That will be all the better, for then I can find out what he is going to do. Well, we will see how it looks when I get home." For half an hour Claus walked the platform occupied with such thoughts as these, and finally a big smoke down the track told him the train was coming. He stuck his head in at the door and informed Casper of the fact, and when the train came up he boarded one of the forward cars, leaving his companion to do as he pleased. "You are going to shake me," thought Casper, as he stepped aboard the last car in the train. "Well, you might as well do it at one time as at another. I have all the money I can get out of you, but I am not square with you by any means. From this time forward I'll look out for myself." And the longer Casper pondered upon this thought, the more heartily he wished he had never seen Claus in the first place. He did not sleep a wink during his ride to St. Louis, but got off the train when it reached its destination and took a straight course for his room. The apartment seemed cheerless after his experience on the train, but he closed the door, threw himself into a chair, and resumed his meditations, for thus far he had not been able to decide upon anything. "I am hungry," thought he, at length, "and after I have satisfied my appetite I will do just what I told Claus--go around to the different stores and ask them if they want a boy. I tell you that will be a big come-down for me, but it serves me right for having anything to do with Claus." We need not go with Casper any further. For three nights he returned from his long walks tired and hungry, and not a single storekeeper to whom he had applied wanted a boy for any purpose whatever. Sometimes he had sharp words to dishearten him. "No, no; get out of here--you are the fifth boy who has been at me this morning;" and Casper always went, for fear the man would lay violent hands on him. On the fourth night he came home feeling a little better than usual. He had been hired for a few days to act as porter in a wholesale dry-goods store, and he had enough money in his pocket to pay for a good supper. The wages he received were small--just about enough to pay for breakfast and supper; but when the few days were up the hurry was over, and Casper was once more a gentleman of leisure. And so it was during the rest of the summer and fall. He could not get anything to do steadily, his clothes were fast wearing out, and the landlord came down on him for his rent when he did not have a cent in his pocket. Utterly discouraged, at last he wrote to his mother for money to carry him to his home; and so he passes out of our sight. As for Claus, we wish we could dispose of him in the same way; but unfortunately we cannot. Everybody was glad to see him when he entered the pool-room where he had been in the habit of playing, and more than one offered him a cigar. He told a long story about some business he had to attend to somewhere out West, and when he talked he looked up every time the door opened, as if fearful that Casper would come in to bother him for more money. But Casper was sick of Claus. The lesson he had received from him was enough. Claus remained in St. Louis for two months; and he must have been successful, too, for the roll of bills he carried away with him was considerably larger than the one which Casper had seen. When he was ready to go he bade everybody good-bye, and this time he carried his trunk with him. He was going out West to attend to "some business," which meant that he was going to keep watch of Julian and Jack in some way, and be ready to pounce upon them when they worked their mine--that is, if they were successful with it. "That will be the only thing I can do," decided Claus, after thinking the matter over. "They have the buildings by this time, at any rate, so that part of it has gone up; but when they get out alone, and are working in their mine, that will be the time for me to take them. They will have all the work, but I will have the dust they make." When Claus reached this point in his meditations, he could not help remembering that some of the men who were interested in the mines were dead shots with either rifle or revolver, and that if he robbed the boys he would be certain to have some of them after him, and what they would do if they caught him was another matter altogether. "I can shoot as well as they can," thought he, feeling around for his hip pocket to satisfy himself that his new revolver was still in its place. "If I have some of their money in my pocket, I would like to see any of the miners come up with me." When Claus reached Denver, his first care was to keep clear of Julian and Jack, and his next was to find some miners who were familiar with the country in the region bordering on Dutch Flat; for thus far Claus had not been able to learn a thing about it. Dutch Flat might be five miles away or it might be a hundred, and he wanted somebody to act as his guide. He put up at a second-rate hotel, engaged his room, and then came down into the reading-room to keep watch of the men who tarried there. "I must find somebody whose face tells me he would not be above stealing a hundred thousand dollars if he had a good chance," decided Claus; "but the countenances of these men all go against me--they are too honest. I guess I'll have to try the clerk, and see what I can get out of him." On the second day, as Claus entered the reading-room with a paper in his hand, he saw before him a man sitting by a window, his feet elevated higher than his head, watching the people going by. He was a miner,--there could be no doubt about that,--and he seemed to be in low spirits about something, for every little while he changed his position, yawned, and stretched his arms as if he did not know what to do with himself. Claus took just one look at him, then seized a chair and drew it up by the man's side. The man looked up to see who it was, and then looked out on the street again. "Excuse me," began Claus, "but you seem to be a miner." "Well, yes--I have dabbled in that a little," answered the man, turning his eyes once more upon Claus. "What made you think of that?" "I judged you by your clothes," replied Claus. "Have a cigar? Then, perhaps you will tell me if you know anything about Dutch Flat, where there is--" "Don't I know all about it?" interrupted the man. "Ask me something hard. A bigger fraud than that Dutch Flat was never sprung on any lot of men. There is no color of gold up there." "Then what made you go there in the first place?" asked Claus. "It got into the hands of a few men who were afraid of the Indians, and they coaxed me and my partner to go up," replied the man. "But there were no Indians there. I prospected around there for six months, owe more than I shall ever be able to pay for grub-staking, and finally, when the cold weather came, I slipped out." "I am sorry to hear that," remarked Claus, looking down at the floor in a brown study. "I have a mine up there, and I was about to go up and see how things were getting on there; but if the dirt pans out as you say, it will not be worth while." "You had better stay here, where you have a good fire to warm you during this frosty weather," said the man, once more running his eyes over Claus's figure. "If you have a mine up there you had better let it go; you are worth as much money now as you would be if you stayed up there a year." "But I would like to go and see the mine," replied Claus. "There was a fortune taken out of it a few years ago, and it can't be that the vein is all used up yet." "Where _is_ your mine?" "That is what I don't know. I have somehow got it into my head the mine is off by itself, a few miles from everybody else's." "Do you mean the haunted mine?" asked the man, now beginning to take some interest in what Claus was saying. "I believe that is what they call it." "It is five miles from Dutch Flat, straight off through the mountains. You can't miss it, for there is a trail that goes straight to it." "Do you know where it is?" "Yes, I know; but that is all I do know about it. I saw two men who went there to work the pit, and who were frightened so badly that they lit out for this place as quick as they could go, and that was all I wanted to know of the mine." "Then you have never been down in it?" "Not much, I haven't!" exclaimed the man, looking surprised. "I would not go down into it for all the money there is in the mountain." "Did those men see anything?" "No, but they heard a sight; and if men can be so badly scared by what they hear, they don't wait to see anything." "Well, I want to go up there, and who can I get to act as my guide?" "I can tell you one thing," answered the man, emphatically--"you won't get me and Jake to go up there with you. I'll tell you what I might do," he added, after thinking a moment. "Are you going to stay here this winter?" "Yes, I had thought of it. It is pretty cold up there in the mountains--is it not?" "The weather is so cold that it will take the hair right off of your head," replied the man. "If you will stay here until spring opens, you might hire me and Jake to show you up as far as Dutch Flat; but beyond that we don't budge an inch." "How much will you charge me? And another thing--do I have to pay you for waiting until spring?" "No, you need not pay us a cent. We have enough to last us all winter. I was just wondering what I was going to do when spring came, and that made me feel blue. But if you are going to hire us--you will be gone three or four months, won't you?" Yes, Claus thought that he would be gone as long as that. Then he asked, "How far is Dutch Flat from here?" "Two hundred miles." The two then began an earnest conversation in regard to the money that was to be paid for guiding Claus up to Dutch Flat. The latter thought he had worked the thing just about right. It would be time enough to tell him who Julian and Jack were, and to talk about robbing them, when he knew a little more concerning the man and his partner. He had not seen the other man yet, but he judged that, if he were like the miner he was talking to, it would not be any great trouble to bring them to his own way of thinking. CHAPTER XXVI. CLAUS HEARS SOMETHING. Never had a winter appeared so long and so utterly cheerless as this one did to Solomon Claus. The first thing he did, after he made the acquaintance of Jake and his partner, was to change his place of abode. Jake was as ready to ask for cigars as Claus had been, and the latter found that in order to make his money hold out he must institute a different state of affairs. He found lodgings at another second-rate hotel in a distant part of the city, but he found opportunity to run down now and then to call upon Bob and Jake,--those were the only two names he knew them by,--to see how they were coming along, and gradually lead the way up to talking about the plans he had in view. It all came about by accident. One day, when discussing the haunted mine, Claus remarked that he knew the two boys who were working it, and hoped they would have a good deal of dust on hand by the time he got here. "Then they will freeze to death!" declared Bob. "What made you let them go there, if you knew the mine was haunted?" "Oh, they are not working it now," said Claus. "They are in St. Louis, and are coming out as soon as spring opens. They are plucky fellows, and will find out all about those ghosts before they come back." "Yes, if the ghosts don't run them away," answered Bob. "I understood you to say they are boys. Well, now, if they get the better of the ghosts, which is something I won't believe until I see it, and we should get there about a month or two after they do, and find that they have dug up dust to the amount of ten or fifteen thousand dollars--eh?" "But maybe the gentleman is set on those two boys, and it would not pay to rob them," remarked Jake. "No, I am not set on them," avowed Claus, smiling inwardly when he saw how readily the miners fell in with his plans. "I tried my level best to get those boys to stay at home, for I don't want them to dig their wealth out of the ground, but they hooted at me; and when I saw they were bound to come, I thought I would get up here before them and see what sort of things they had to contend with." "What sort of relationship do you bear to the two boys?" asked Bob. "I am their uncle, and I gave them a block of buildings here in Denver worth a hundred thousand dollars and this haunted mine; but, mind you, I did not know it was haunted until after I had given it to them. But, boy like, they determined to come up, brave the ghosts, and take another fifty thousand out of it." Bob and Jake looked at each other, and something told them not to believe all that Claus had said to them. If he was worth so much money that he was willing to give his nephews a hundred thousand dollars of it, he did not live in the way his means would allow. "And another thing," resumed Claus. "I would not mind their losing ten thousand dollars, provided I got my share of it, for then they would learn that a miner's life is as full of dangers as any other. But remember--if you get ten thousand, I want three thousand of it." This was all that Claus thought it necessary to say on the subject of robbing the boys, and after finishing his cigar he got up and went out. Jake watched him until he was hidden in the crowd on the street, and then settled back in his chair and looked at Bob. "There is something wrong with that fellow," he remarked. "His stories don't hitch; he has some other reason for wishing to rob those boys. Now, what is it?" "You tell," retorted Bob. "He has something on his mind, but he has no more interest in that pit than you or I have. He never owned it, in the first place." "Then we will find out about it when we show him the way to the Flat," said Jake. "Oh, there will be somebody there working the mine--I don't dispute that. But he is no uncle to them two boys. But say--I have just thought of something. We are not going up there for three dollars a day; and if we don't make something out of the boys, what's the reason we can't go to headquarters?" Jake understood all his companion would have said, for he winked and nodded his head in a way that had a volume of meaning in it. The two moved their chairs closer together, and for half an hour engaged in earnest conversation. There was only one thing that troubled them--they did not like the idea of staying at Dutch Flat, among the miners, until they heard how the boys were getting on with their mine. "You know they did not like us any too well last summer," said Bob, twisting about in his chair. "If we had not come away just when we did, it is my belief they would have ordered us out." "Yes; and it was all on your account, too. You were too anxious to know how much the other fellows had dug out of their mines. You must keep still and say nothing." Claus went away from the hotel feeling very much relieved. Bob and Jake had come over to his plans, and they had raised no objection to them. The next thing was to bring them down to a share in the spoils. He was not going to come out there all the way from St. Louis and propose that thing to them, and then put up with what they chose to give him. "I must have a third of the money they make, and that is all there is about it," said he to himself. "They would not have known a thing about it if it had not been for me. Who is that? I declare, it is Julian and Jack!" The boys were coming directly toward him, and this was the first time he had seen them since his arrival in Denver, although he had kept a close watch of everybody he had met on the street. He stepped into a door, and appeared to be looking for some one inside; and when the boys passed him, he turned around to look at them. The latter were in a hurry, for it was a frosty morning, and they felt the need of some exercise to quicken their blood; besides, they were on their way to school, in the hope of learning something that would fit them for some useful station in life. They were dressed in brand-new overcoats, had furs around their necks and fur gloves on their hands, and Julian was bent partly over, laughing at some remark Jack had made. He watched them until they were out of sight, and then came out and went on his way. "I tell you we are 'some,' now that we have our pockets full of money," soliloquized Claus, who grew angry when he drew a contrast between his and their station in life. "Most anybody would feel big if he was in their place. But I must look out--I don't want them to see me here." Fortunately Claus was not again called upon to dodge the boys in his rambles about the city. He kept himself in a part of the city remote from that which the boys frequented. The winter passed on, and spring opened, and he did not again see them; but he heard of them through Bob and Jake, who made frequent visits to the hotel where Mr. Banta was located. "I guess we saw your boys to-day," said Bob, who then went on to give a description of them. "They have it all cut and dried with Banta, and he is going to show them the way to their mine. No, they did not mention your name once. They are going to buy a pack-horse, and load him up with tools and provisions, and are going out as big as life." "That is all right," said Claus. "Now, remember--I am to have a third of the dust you get." "Of course; that is understood," answered Jake, who now seemed as anxious to go to Dutch Flat as he had before been to keep away from it. "It would not be fair for us to take it all. Where are you going after you get the money?" "I haven't got it yet," remarked Claus, with a smile. "Those ghosts may be too strong for the boys, and perhaps they will come away without anything." "Then we will pitch in and work the mine, ourselves," said Bob. "They say that gold is so thick up there that you can pick it up with your hands. We won't come away and leave such a vein behind us." "What about the ghosts?" queried Claus, who could not deny he was afraid of them. "They may be too strong for you, also." "If they can get away with cold steel we'll give in to them," said Jake. "But I'll risk that. Where are you going when you get the money? Of course you can't go back to St. Louis." "No; I think I shall go on to California. I have always wanted to see that State." "Well, we will go East. Three thousand dollars, if they succeed in digging out ten thousand, added to what we shall make--humph!" said Bob; and then he stopped before he had gone any further. It was a wonder that Claus did not suspect something, but his mind was too fully occupied with other matters. Where was he going when he got the money? That was something that had not occurred to Claus before, and he found out that he had something yet to worry him. "You fellows seem to think you will get rich by robbing those boys," remarked Claus, knowing that he must say something. "No, we don't," answered Jake; "but that will be enough to keep us until we can turn our hands to some other kind of work. Now about our pack-horse, tools and provisions. You have money enough to pay for them, I suppose?" "Oh, yes--that is, I have a little," Claus replied, cautiously, for he was afraid the miners might want more of it than he felt able to spend. "But I tell you I shall be hard up after I get those things." "You have other money besides what you gave the boys," said Bob. "You can write to St. Louis for more." "But I don't want to do that. I have with me just what I can spare, for my other funds are all invested." "Oh, you can get more for the sake of what is coming to you," said Jake, carelessly. "Now, we want to start for Dutch Flat in about a week. That will give the boys time to fight the ghosts and get to work in their pit. Suppose we go and see about our pack-horse and tools." Claus would have been glad to have put this thing off for a day or two, but he could not see any way to get out of it. He went with the miners, who knew just where they wanted to go, and the horse he bought was a perfect rack of bones that did not seem strong enough to carry himself up to Dutch Flat, let alone a hundredweight of tools and provisions with him. The tools he bought were to be left in the store until they were called for, and the miners drew a long breath of relief, for that much was done. If Claus at any time got sick of his bargain, and wanted to haul out, he could go and welcome; but they would hold fast to his tools and provisions, and use them in prospecting somewhere else. The morning set apart for their departure came at last, and Claus and his companions put off at the first peep of day. They made the journey of two hundred miles without any mishap, and finally rode into the camp of Dutch Flat just as the miners were getting ready to have their dinner. They all looked up when they heard the newcomers, and some uttered profane ejaculations under their breath, while others greeted them in a way that Claus did not like, for it showed him how his partners stood there with the miners. "Well, if there ain't Bob I'm a Dutchman!" exclaimed one, straightening up and shading his eyes with his hand. "You are on hand, like a bad five-dollar bill--ain't you? I was in hopes you were well on your way to the States by this time." "No, sir; I am here yet," answered Bob. "You don't mind if I go and work my old claim, do you? I don't reckon that anybody has it." "Mighty clear of anybody taking your claim," said another. "You can go there and work it, for all of us; but we don't want you snooping around us like you did last summer." "What is the matter with those fellows?" asked Claus, when they were out of hearing. "What did you men do here last summer?" "Just nothing at all," replied Jake. "We wanted to know how much gold everybody was digging, and that made them jealous of us." "But if you can't mingle with them as you did then, how are you going to find out about the haunted mine?" "Oh, we'll mix with them just as we did last year, only we sha'n't have so much to say to them," said Jake. "Here is our claim, and it don't look as though anybody had been nigh it." Claus was both surprised and downhearted. If he had known that the miners were going to extend such a reception as that to him he would have been the last one to go among them. There he was, almost alone, with two hundred brawny fellows around him, each one with a revolver strapped to his waist, and their looks and actions indicated that if necessity required it they would not be at all reluctant to use them. He managed to gather up courage to visit the general camp-fire, which was kindled just at dark, where the miners met to smoke their pipes and tell about what had happened in their mines during the day. This one had not made anything. The dirt promised fairly, and he hoped in a few days to strike a vein that would pay him and his partner something. Another had tapped a little vein, and he believed that by the time he got a rock out of his way he would stumble onto a deposit that would make him so rich that he would start for the States in short order. "Well, partner, how do you come on?" asked the man who was sitting close to Claus, who was listening with all his ears. "Does your dirt pan out any better than it did last summer?" "We have not seen the color of anything yet," replied Claus. "I do not believe there is any gold there." "You are a tenderfoot, ain't you?" "Yes; I never have been in the mines before." "And you will wish, before you see your friends again, that you had never seen them this time. If you get any dust, you hide it where your partners can't find it." There was one man, who did not take any part in the conversation, that kept a close watch on Claus and listened to every word he said. It was Mr. Banta, who wondered what in the world could have happened to bring so gentlemanly appearing a man up there in company with Bob and Jake. "He must have money somewhere about his good clothes, and that is what Bob is after," said he to himself. "But if that is the case, why did they not jump him on the way here? I think he will bear watching." Three nights passed in this way, Claus always meeting the miners at the general camp-fire, while his partners stayed at home and waited for him to come back and tell them the news, and on the fourth evening Banta seemed lost in thought. He sat and gazed silently into the fire, unmindful of the tales that were told and the songs that were sung all around him. At last one of the miners addressed him. "Well, Banta, I suppose this is your last evening with us," he remarked. "Yes; I go off to-morrow." "Don't you wish you had not promised to go up there?" "No, I don't; I shall find out if the boys are all right, anyway. That is what I care the most about. I shall take some provisions with me, and if the boys are above ground I will leave them; otherwise, I shall bring them back." "Oh, the boys must have the better of the ghosts by this time," said another; "they would have been here before this time if they had not. You will find them with more gold stowed away than they know what to do with." "And didn't they see the ghosts at all?" "Why, as to that, I can't say. But they have beaten them at their own game. You will see." Claus pricked up his ears when he heard this, and when the miners had all drawn away, one by one, and sought their blankets in their lean-to's, he asked of the man who sat near him, and who was waiting to smoke his pipe out before he went to bed, "Where is Banta going?" "Up to the haunted mine," was the reply. "You see, he went up there two weeks ago with the boys, and promised to come back in two weeks to see how they were coming on. His two weeks are up to-night." "What is up there, anyway?" "Well, you can ask somebody else to answer that question," said the miner, getting upon his feet. "I don't know what is up there, and I don't want to know." The miner walked off and left Claus sitting there alone. He was certain that he was on the right track at last. As soon as Banta came back they would know something about the haunted mine. CHAPTER XXVII. BOB TRIES STRATEGY. "Well, what did you hear this time?" asked Bob, who lay on his blanket with his hands under his head and a pipe in his mouth. "Everybody kept still about the haunted mine, I suppose?" "No, sir; I heard about it to-night for the first time," answered Claus. "Banta is going up there to-morrow." "Then we will know something about it when he comes back," remarked Bob. "I hope the boys have got the better of those ghosts in some way, and that they are working their mine. Go on, and tell us what you have heard." Claus did not have much to tell, for the miners had cut the conversation short; but what little he did say created great excitement between those who heard it now for the first time. The boys had got the better of those unearthly spirits in some way, for if the ghosts had driven them out and not allowed them to work their mine, the miners would have found it out long before this time. "I don't see why Banta put it off for two weeks," said Jake; "I reckon he was afraid of them spirits." The next day was one which Claus often remembered. There was much excitement in the camp, although it did not show itself. There was none of that singing and whistling going on, but every man worked in silence. Banta and his partner had got off at daylight, and ten hours must pass away before they could look for their return; but evening came on apace, the camp-fire was lighted, and the miners gathered around it and smoked their pipes without making any comments on the long delay of Mr. Banta and the man who had gone with him. There was one thing that troubled them, although no one spoke of it--the mule which had carried their pack-saddle came home alone, and was now feeding in company with the old bell-mare. That looked suspicious, but the men said nothing. For an hour they sat around the fire, and then one of them broke the stillness. He was an old, gray-headed man, experienced in mining, and of course all listened to what he had to say. He spoke in a low tone, as if there had been a patient there and he was afraid to arouse him. "Ten miles in ten hours," said he, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "Boys, something's got the better of those two men. I remember that several years ago I was waiting for a partner of mine who had gone away to prospect a mine----" "What was that?" exclaimed a miner, jumping to his feet. "I heard something, but I don't know what it was," said another. It was done quicker than we could tell it. In less than a second two hundred men sprang to their feet, and two hundred hands slipped behind them and laid hold of as many revolvers. Of all those men, there was not one who would have hesitated to fight Indians with the fear of death before their eyes, but there was not a single instance of a miner who did not change color at the sound of a noise which seemed to come upon them from no one could have told where. "Which way did the noise come from?" asked a miner. "What did it sound like?" queried another. "There it is!" said the miner who had at first detected it--"it sounds like a horse's hoofs on the rocks. There! Don't you hear it?" And so it proved. The noise was heard plainly enough by this time, and in a few moments more two men came out of the willows and rode into the circle of light that was thrown out by the camp-fire. They were Banta and his partner; and one look at their faces was enough--they were fairly radiant with joy. "Halloo! boys," cried Banta. "I declare, you act as though you had lost your best friend; and some of you have revolvers drawn on us, too!" "Say, pard," said one of the miners, shoving his revolver back where it belonged and extending a hand to each of the newcomers, "where have you been so long? Your pack-mule has been home all the afternoon, and has kept the camp in an uproar with her constant braying. She acted as though she wanted to see your horses. Did you see the boys?" "Yes, sir, we saw the boys," answered Banta. He did not seem in any particular hurry to relieve the suspense of his friends, which was now worked up to the highest degree, but dismounted from his horse very deliberately and proceeded to turn him loose. "Well, why don't you go on with it?" asked another miner. "Were the boys all right?" "The boys were all right and tight, and digging away as hard as they could." "Did they--did they see the ghosts?" "Of course they did; and the ghosts are now lying up there with their skins off." "Were they animals?" "You are right again. Now, hold on till I light my pipe and I'll tell you all about it. Tony, you ought to have gone up there; you would be ten thousand dollars better off than you are this minute." Tony was a man who was noted far and near for his success in killing the lions which were so abundant in the mountains. He would rather hunt them than dig for gold, because he was almost sure to get the animal he went after. He was filling his pipe when Banta was speaking, but he dropped it and let it lay on the ground where it had fallen. "It is the truth I am telling you," declared Banta. "If you don't believe it, you can go up there to that haunted mine and find out all about it. The boys killed them with nothing but revolvers." Banta had his pipe lit by this time, and the miners crowded around him, all eager for his story. Bob and Jake were there, and no one seemed to pay the least attention to them; but they were impatient to learn all the particulars of the case. There was one question they wanted answered immediately, and that was, Did the boys really have a bagful of dust, or was Banta merely joking about that? Fortunately Tony recovered his wits and his pipe at the same time and asked the question for them. "Did the boys get ten thousand dollars in two weeks?" he asked. "Well, they brought a bag out for us to examine, and they thought it was nothing but iron pyrites," said Banta; and then he went on smoking his pipe. "We took one look at the bag," said his partner, "and we took a big load off the boys' minds when we told them it was gold, and nothing else. Yes, sir--they have it fair and square." "The boys are going ahead as though there had never been any ghosts there," said Banta; and then he went on to tell the miners everything that had happened during their trip to the haunted mine; and when he got started, he followed Julian's narrative, and paid no attention to Jack's. It was certain that the story did not lose anything by passing through his hands. "Jack pulled off his shirt," said he, in conclusion, "and he has some wounds on his back that will go with him through life." "And is the gold as thick as they say it is--so thick that one can pick it up with his hands?" "It is not quite as thick as that," replied Banta, with a laugh. "But every time one washes out a cradleful he finds anywhere from a teaspoonful to three or four which he wants to put in his bag. I tell you, the boys have been lucky." "I am going up there the first thing in the morning," said a miner. "Here I have been slaving and toiling for color for six months, and I can hardly get enough to pay for my provisions, but I'll bet it won't be that way, now, much longer." "Wait until I tell you something," answered Banta. "Neely, you can go up there, if you are set on it; there's no law here that will make you stay away. There are plenty of places where you can sink a shaft without troubling the boys any, but whether or not it will pay you is another question. The boys will be down here themselves in less than two weeks' time." "How do you account for that?" "Their vein is giving out. It will end in a deep ravine that is up there, and there their color ends." "Why don't they go back farther and start another?" asked the miner. "It won't pay. The man who started that shaft upon which they are now at work was a tenderfoot, sure enough. There is not the first sign of color about the dirt anywhere. He thought it was a pretty place and so went to work, and the consequence is, it has panned out sixty thousand dollars. But go ahead if you want to, Neely." Neely did not know whether or not he wanted to go ahead with such a warning in his ears. Banta was an experienced prospector, and he could almost tell by looking at the ground if there was any gold anywhere about there. A good many who had been on the point of starting for the haunted mine with the first peep of day shook their heads, and concluded they would rather stay where they were than go off to a new country. There were three, who did not say anything, whose minds were already made up as to what they would do. They waited until the miners were ready to go to their blankets, and then Bob attracted the attention of those nearest him by saying, "What Banta says throws a damper on me. The haunted mine is going to play out in a day or two, this place here is not worth shucks, and we are going off somewhere at break of day to see if we can't do better than we are doing here." "Where are you going?" asked one. "I don't know, and in fact I don't care much. I'll go to the first good place I hear of, I don't care if it is on the other side of the Rocky Mountains. I came out here expecting to get rich in a few days, and I am poorer now than I was ten years ago. These mountains around here have not any gold in them for me." "And I say it is good riddance," whispered the miner to some who stood near him. "If you had acted as you did last year, you would have been sent out before this time." Having paved the way for the departure of himself and companions, Bob joined them and led the way into his own cabin. They seated themselves close together, for they did not want to talk loud enough to be heard by anyone who was passing their camp. "Well, they have it!" exclaimed Claus, who was so excited that he could not sit still. "And it is gold, too," declared Jake. "Banta says so, and that is enough." "In the morning, after we get breakfast," said Bob, "we'll hitch up and take the back trail toward Denver. We will go away from the haunted mine, and that will give color to what I told them a while ago." "What if you should chance to miss your way?" asked Claus. "You can't lose me in these mountains; I have prospected all over them, and I have seen where the haunted mine is located a hundred times. What a pity it was that I did not stay there. Sixty thousand dollars! Jake, if we had that sum of money we would be rich." Jake did not say anything--that is, anything that would do to put on paper. He stretched himself out on his blanket and swore softly to himself, so that nobody but his companions could hear him. "That will be three thousand three hundred dollars apiece," said Claus, who did not like the way that Bob and Jake left him out entirely. "Remember, I am to have a third of it." "Of course; and it will be more than that. The boys will have some time to do more digging, and maybe they'll have another bagful. I understood you to say that the boys were pretty plucky." "You may safely say that," replied Claus. "The way they stood up against those lions, when they did not know what was onto them, is abundant proof of that. You will have to go easy when you tackle them, or some of you will get more than you want." The three continued to talk in this way until they grew tired and fell asleep--that is, all except Claus, who rolled and twisted on his blanket for a good while before he passed into the land of Nod. But he was out before daybreak and busy with breakfast, while the others brought up the animals and packed them for their journey. There was only one man who came near them, and that was Banta, who wanted to make sure they were not going toward the haunted mine. "Well, boys, are you going to leave us?" he inquired. "Where are you going?" "Not giving you a short answer, we don't care much _where_ we go," replied Bob. "There is nothing here for us, and we will go elsewhere. We are going to take the back track." "Are you not deciding on this matter suddenly?" "We determined on it yesterday. We decided to go up to the haunted mine if you came back with a favorable report of the condition of things, but you say the lead is played out, and of course that knocks us. Wherever we go, we can't find a much worse place than this." "Well, boys, I wish you luck, and we'll all go away from here before a great while." "Why are you so anxious to find out about where we are going?" asked Bob. "Because I wanted to remind you to keep away from that mine up the gully," answered Banta, looking hard at Bob while he spoke. "The boys have that mine all to themselves, and we are going to stand by them." "We have no intention of going near that haunted mine," asserted Bob, rather sullenly. "If those boys have gold, let them keep it." "All right! Then I have nothing further to say to you." So saying, Banta turned on his heel and walked away. There was nothing insulting in what he said, but Bob and his companions knew that he was in earnest about it. They all kept watch of him as long as he remained in sight, and then looked at each other with a broad grin on their faces. "I guess Banta didn't make anything by trying to pump me," said Bob. "When we get a mile or two down the gully, we'll save what little provisions we want, push our horses over the bluff----" "What do we want to do that for?" exclaimed Claus, in great amazement. "Can't we turn them loose?" "Yes, and have them come back here and join the old bell-mare," said Jake, in disgust. "We have to be in a hurry about what we do, for we must get a long start of the men here. If our nags appeared among the other horses here, the miners would know we had been fooling them and would start for the haunted mine at once." "Couldn't we tie them up?" asked Claus; "or, we could shoot them. That would be an easier way than pushing them over the bluff." "But there's the report our pistols would make," replied Bob, turning fiercely upon Claus. "The easiest way is the best. Now, if we have everything we want, let us dig out from here." The men in the camp saw them when they mounted their horses and started down the gully toward Denver, but there was not one who shouted a farewell after them. When they disappeared from view, Banta drew a long breath of relief. "It is just as well that they took themselves off before we had a chance to tell them that their room was better than their company. I do not like the way they have been acting since they have been here." CHAPTER XXVIII. AN INHUMAN ACT. "I'll bet no men ever went away from a camp before without somebody said good-bye to them," said Jake. "They don't care where we go, or what luck we have, provided we don't go near the haunted mine. If they will just stay that way until to-morrow, they can all come on at once, if they have a mind to." Claus was the soberest man in the party. He was waiting and watching for that bluff at which their faithful steeds were to give up their lives to make it possible for their owners to get away with the amount they expected to raise at the haunted mine. There was something cold-blooded about this, and Claus could not bring himself to think of it without shivering all over. "I don't see why you can't tie them there," Claus ventured to say; "they won't make any fuss until we are safely out of the way. It looks so inhuman, to kill them." "Look here!" said Bob, so fiercely that Claus resolved he would not say anything more on the subject--"if you don't like the way we are managing this business, you can just go your way, and we'll go ours." "But you can't go yet," interrupted Jake; "we are not going to have you go back to Dutch Flat and tell the men there what we are going to do. You will stay with us until we get that money." "Of course he will," assented Bob. "When we get through with that haunted mine we'll go off into the mountains, and then you'll be at liberty to go where you please." "Of course I shall stay with you," said Claus, not a little alarmed by the threat thus thrown out. Then he added to himself, "I reckon I played my cards just right. If I can keep them from searching me, I'll come out at the big end of the horn, no matter what happens to them." For the next hour Claus held his peace; but he noticed that his horse turned his head and looked down the gully as if he feared they were not going the right away. He did not remember that he had come that route before, but concluded that Bob was gradually leaving the trail behind them, and was veering around to get behind the camp at Dutch Flat. Then the mule which bore their pack-saddle began to be suspicious of it, too, for he threw up his head and gave utterance to a bray so long and loud that it awoke a thousand echoes among the mountains. "Shut up!" exclaimed Jack, jerking impatiently at his halter. "I hope that bluff is not far away. We'll soon put a stop to your braying when we get there." In another hour they came upon the bluff, one side of which was bounded by a deep ravine that seemed to extend down into the bowels of the earth, and the other was hemmed in by lofty mountains which rose up so sheer their tops seemed lost in the clouds above. Here again the mule became suspicious, for, in spite of the jerks which Jake gave at his halter, he set up another bray that sounded as if the mountains were full of mules. "Hold fast to him, Jake, until I take his saddle off," said Bob, hastily dismounting from his horse; "I can soon stop that, if you can't. There--his pack is off. Take him by the foretop--don't let him get away from you. Now, then, look at you!" The mule got away in spite of all Jake's efforts to hold fast to him. The moment the bridle was out of his mouth he dodged the grab that Jake made for his foretop, and with a flourish of his heels and another long bray made for the gully by which he had entered the bluff. The horses made a vain attempt to follow him, and the animal on which Claus was mounted seemed determined to go away, but he was finally stopped by his rider before he reached the gully. Bob and Jake were fairly beside themselves with anger. Bob stamped up and down so close to the ravine that the least misstep would have sent him over the brink, and Jake sat down on the ground and swore softly to himself. "I tell you, this won't do!" said Bob, coming back to the horses. "Let us put them over without the least delay; and, mind you, we won't take their bridles off at all. That mule will be in camp in less than an hour, so we must make tracks. Let their saddles go, too." The men went to work at pushing the horses over into the ravine as if they were in earnest. First Bob's horse went; then Jake's; and finally they took Claus's bridle out of his hands and shoved his horse over, too. Claus did not see any of this work. The animals went over without making any effort at escape beyond putting out their feet and trying to push themselves away from the brink; but the miners got behind them, and all their attempts to save themselves amounted to nothing. He heard the horses when they crashed through the branches of the trees below him, and then all was silent. "What else could we do?" exclaimed Bob, who thought Claus looked rather solemn over it. "Dutch Flat is not a mile from here, and some one there would have heard their whinnying. I am sorry to do it, too, but when there is ten thousand dollars in sight, I don't stop at anything. Now pitch that mule's things over, also, and then we'll get away from here." This being done, the three, with a small package of provisions on their shoulders, set out once more at a rapid pace, Bob leading the way. For a long time no one spoke, the travelling being so difficult that it took all their breath to keep pace with Bob; but finally he turned about and made a motion of silence with his hand, and then they began to pick their way through the bushes with more caution. After a few moments he stopped, pushed aside the branches of an evergreen, and after taking a survey of the scene presented to his gaze he made another motion, which brought his companions up beside him. "We have caught them at it!" said he. 'Julian is on top, and Jack is down below, shovelling dirt. Where are your revolvers?" "Those fellows from the Flat have not come yet," said Jake, looking all around to make sure that the boys were alone. "Lead ahead, Bob, and remember that we are close at your heels." Leaving his provisions behind him, Bob arose to his feet, stepped out of his place of concealment and advanced toward the pit. Julian was so intent on watching his companion below that he did not hear the sound of their footsteps until they were so close to him that he could not pull his partner up; so he simply raised his head, and was about to extend to them a miner's welcome, when he saw something that made him open his eyes and caused him to stare harder than ever. There was something about that short, fleshy man which he was sure he recognized. It did not make any difference in what style of clothing Claus was dressed in,--whether as a gentleman of leisure or as a miner,--his face betrayed him. He saw that it was all up with him, for he had no time to go to the lean-to after his revolver. "Pitch that dirt out of the bucket and come up, Jack," called Julian, shaking the rope to attract the attention of his comrade. "Claus is up here." There was a moment's silence; then Jack's voice came back in no very amiable tones. "Get away with your nonsense!" he exclaimed. "If I come up there again for just nothing at all, I pity _you_! If Claus is there, make him show himself." "Why, he's your uncle," asserted Bob, who began to wonder if that was the first lie that Claus had told them. "That man?" exclaimed Julian. "Not much, he ain't. Jack, is Claus your uncle?" "Tell him to come down here and I'll see about it," said Jack, who could not yet be made to see that there was something really going on at the top. "That makes two I have against you, old fellow." "No, you haven't got anything against me," said Julian. "Here is Claus. Don't you see his face? Any man who would claim such an uncle as that--" "That is enough out of you!" interrupted Jake. "Fetch that partner of yours up, and then bring out your money--we must get away from here in a hurry." "Well! well!" cried Jack, who happened to look up and catch a glimpse of Claus's face. "I will come up directly." "Say, you, down there," called Bob, bending over the shaft, "if you have a revolver down there, be careful that you keep it where it belongs." "Don't worry yourself," answered Jack; "I haven't anything in the shape of a revolver about me. Hoist away, Julian." The dirt was emptied out by this time, and Jack stepped into the bucket and was promptly hoisted to the top. Then he stood waiting for the three men to make known their wants; but he devoted the most of his time to scrutinizing the face of Claus, to whom he was indebted for the presence of the other two. "Do you think you could recognize me if you should chance to meet me again anywhere?" asked Claus. "Certainly, I could," answered Julian; "I would recognize you if I saw you in Asia. You are bound to have some of that money, are you not?" "That is just what I am here for," said Claus, with a grin. "You have one bagful and another partly full, and we want them both as soon as you can get them." Jack was astonished when he heard this, for Mr. Banta had told him to keep the full bag hidden where no one could find it. How, then, did Claus know anything about it? Julian was equally amazed; but, after thinking a moment, he turned on his heel and led the way toward their lean-to. Bob and his companion kept close by the side of the two boys, for they did not want them to find their revolvers before they knew something about it. They had heard from various sources that the boys were fair shots, and they did not want to see them try it on. "Well, Claus, you slipped up on one thing," said Julian; "you didn't get any of that block of buildings--did you?" "Come, now, hurry up!" insisted Bob. "Where are those bags?" "Here's one you have been talking about," answered Jack, pulling the head of his bed to pieces and producing the article in question. "Julian, you know where the other one is." While Jack was engaged in performing this work the revolvers were kept pointed straight at him, for fear he might pull out another one and turn it loose upon them before they could draw a trigger. But the boys did not seem to care any more about the revolvers than if they had been sticks of wood that were aimed at them. Claus had a revolver, but he did not seem inclined to use it. "Are you sure it is gold in here, and not something else?" asked Bob. "You have got the bag in your hands, and you can look and see for yourself," said Jack. "Go out in front of the lean-to and sit down on the ground so that I can watch you," said Bob. "Jake, go with that boy and dig up the other one. Is this all you have made since you have been here?" "Yes, that's all. Now, what are you going to do with us?" "I'll tell you when Jake comes back. Is there much more of that lead down there?" "Well, you have charge of the mine, now, and there is no law to hinder you from going down and finding out," retorted Jack. "Claus, where are you going? I don't expect to see these gentlemen any more, but I should like to keep track of you." Claus did not see fit to answer this question, and in the meantime Julian and Jake returned with the other bag. CHAPTER XXIX. A TRAMP WITH THE ROBBERS. "Oh, it is gold!" exclaimed Jake, as Bob took the bag and bent over it; "it is not iron pyrites." "Stow that about your clothes, Jake, and then we'll go on," said Bob; "and we want you boys to gather up provisions enough to last you for three or four days. But, in the first place, where are your revolvers?" "Don't you see them hung up there, in plain sight?" asked Jack, pointing to the articles in question, which were suspended from the rack of the lean-to, in plain sight. "What are you going to do with us?" "We are going to take you a three days' journey with us, and then turn you loose." "Why can't you let us go now?" queried Julian. "We have nothing else that is worth stealing." "No, but you are too close to Dutch Flat," Jake replied. "We haven't got anything against you, and when we get out there in the mountains--" "You might as well shoot us on the spot as to lose us among these hills. I pledge you my word that we will not stir a step--" "That is all very well," interrupted Bob with a shake of his head which told the boys that he had already decided on his plan; "but, you see, it don't go far enough. If you don't go to the miners, the miners will come here to you, so we think you would be safer with us. Gather up your grub and let us get away from here." The boy saw very plainly that Bob and Jake wanted to make their escape from the miners sure; so Julian collected some bacon and hard-tack, which he wrapped up in a blanket and fixed to sling over his shoulders. There was one thing that encouraged him--"if he did not go to the miners, the miners would come after him"--and proved that they must in some way have had their suspicions aroused against Bob and Jake. Jack also busied himself in the same way, and in a very few minutes the boys were ready to start. "I must say you are tolerably cool ones, to let ten or fifteen thousand dollars be taken from you in this way," remarked Bob, who was lost in admiration of the indifferent manner in which the boys obeyed all orders. "I have seen some that would have been flurried to death by the loss of so much money." "If Claus, here, told the truth, they have a whole block of buildings to fall back on," answered Jake. "But maybe that is a lie, too." "No, he told you the truth there," said Julian. "He tried to cheat us out of those buildings while we were in St. Louis--" "I never did it in this world!" declared Claus, emphatically. "Did you not claim to be our uncle?" asked Julian. "Uncle!" ejaculated Jack. "Great Scott!" Claus did not attempt to deny this. Bob and Jake were almost within reach of him, and they looked hard at him to see what he would say, and he was afraid to affirm that there was no truth in the statement for fear of something that might happen afterward. He glanced at the boys, who were looking steadily at him, and Jack moved a step or two nearer to him with his hands clenched and a fierce frown on his face, all ready to knock him down if he denied it; so Claus thought it best not to answer the question at all. "You won't think it hard of me if I hit him a time or two?" asked Jack. "Come here and behave yourself," said Julian, walking up and taking Jack by the arm. "I think, if the truth was known, he is in a worse fix than we are." "But he claims to be my uncle!" exclaimed Jack. The tone in which these words were uttered, and Jack's anger over the claim of relationship, caused Bob and Jake to break out into a roar of laughter. "We'll take your word for it," said Bob, as soon as he could speak; "but we can't waste any more time here. Follow along after me, and Jake will bring up the rear." Bob at once set off to the spot where they had left their provisions, and, having picked them up, led the way down the almost perpendicular side of the ravine until they reached the bottom. Now and then he would look over his shoulder at Jack, who was following close behind him, and would break into another peal of laughter. "So you didn't want that fellow to claim relationship with you?" said he. "Well, I don't blame you. He has done nothing but tell us one pack of lies after another ever since we met him. The only thing that had the least speck of truth in it was that we should find you here at the haunted mine." This remark was made in a low tone, so that it did not reach the ears of Claus, who was following some distance behind. If Claus had not seen already that he was in a "fix," he ought to have seen it now. "Now, perhaps you wouldn't mind telling us what you are going to do with us," Jack ventured to say, in reply. "Well, the men there at Dutch Flat are hot on our trail now," asserted Bob. "How do you know that?" "Because our mule got away from us when we tried to shove him over the bluff. We wanted to destroy everything we had that we could not carry on our backs, but he got away from us. Banta warned us against coming up here, and we fooled him by making him believe we were going straight down to Denver; but he will be after us now. If he comes, he had better take us unawares; that's all." "We don't want to see that fight," remarked Jack. "You'll let us go before that comes off?" "Oh, yes; when we get you so deep in the mountains that you can't find your way back readily, why, then we'll let you go. If you behave yourselves, you won't get hurt." Bob led the way at a more rapid pace when they reached the bottom of the gorge, jumping from rock to rock, and climbing over fallen trees that lay in their road, and Jack followed his example. He knew that Bob was making the trail more difficult to follow, but it was done in order to keep out of argument with his charge; for Bob often stopped, whenever he came to a place that took some pains to get over, and saw that those who were following him left no tracks behind them. "There!" said Bob, pulling off his hat and looking back at the way they had come; "I reckon Banta will find some trouble in tracking us up here. I am hungry, and we'll stop here and have something to eat." After they had satisfied their appetites they took a little time to rest, and then set off again at a more rapid pace than ever. It was almost dark when they stopped to camp for the night. The boys were tired, and they showed it as soon as they had disposed of their bacon and hard-tack by wrapping their blankets about them and lying down to sleep, with their feet to the fire. Their slumber was as sound as though they were surrounded by friends instead of being in the power of those who had robbed them of their hard-earned wealth. It seemed to them that they had scarcely closed their eyes when they were awakened by the sound of footsteps moving about, and threw off their blankets in time to see Bob cutting off a slice of bacon. It was as dark as pitch in the woods, and the boys did not see how Bob was to find his way through them. "It will be light enough by the time we have our breakfast eaten," said he, in response to the inquiry of Julian. "You have a watch with you. What time is it?" Julian had a watch with him, it is true, but he had been careful how he drew it out in the presence of Bob and Jake. It had no chain attached to it, and the boy was not aware that Bob knew anything about it; but he produced the gold timepiece and announced that it was just five o'clock. This was another thing over which Julian had had an argument with Jack, who believed that, with the money he had at his disposal, he ought to have the best watch that could be procured, and, in spite of Jack's arguments, he had purchased the best American patent lever he could find. Jack's watch was an ordinary silver one, and he said that by it he could tell the time when dinner was ready as well as he could by a good timepiece. "Do you want this watch?" asked Julian, because he thought the man who would steal his money would not be above stealing his watch also. "Oh, no," replied Bob, with a laugh; "you can keep that. I wanted your money, and, now that I have it, I am satisfied." By the time breakfast was cooked and eaten there was light enough to show them the way, and Bob once more took the lead. There was no trail to guide them--nothing but the gully, which twisted and turned in so many ways that Julian almost grew heart-sick when he thought of finding his way back there in company with Jack. More than once he was on the point of asking Bob if he did not think they had gone far enough, but the man had been so friendly and good-natured all the time that he did not want to give him a chance to act in any other way. So he kept with him during that long day's tramp, looking into all the gullies he crossed, and once or twice he slyly reached behind him and pulled down a branch of an evergreen that happened to come in his way. "That's the way our women used to do in old Revolutionary times when they were captured and wanted to leave some trail for their rescuers to follow," soliloquized Julian; "but Bob doesn't take any notice of it." "Well, I reckon we'll stop here for the night," remarked Bob, when it got so dark that he could scarcely see. "This is as far as we shall ask you to go with us, Julian. I suppose you are mighty glad to get clear of us." "Yes, I am," assented Julian, honestly. "If you will give us what you have in your pockets, you can go your way and we will make no attempt to capture you." "Oh, we couldn't think of that! You have wealth enough to keep you all your lives, and I have struggled for ten years to gain a fortune, and to-day I have just got it." "What would you do if somebody should catch you along the trail, somewhere? You would come in for a hanging, sure." "Don't you suppose we know all that? It is a good plan for you to catch your man before you hang him. We have two revolvers apiece, and you know what that means." "You don't count Claus worth anything, then," remarked Jack. "Eh? Oh, yes, we do," exclaimed Bob, who wondered what Claus would think of him for leaving him out entirely. "But Claus is not used to this sort of business, you know. He could make a noise, and that is about all he could do." "We know we should come in for a hanging if those fellows at Dutch Flat should ever get their hands on us, but when they do that we'll be dead. You need not think we are going to stay in this country, where everybody has got so rich, and we be as poor as Job's turkey all the while. We have just as good a right to be rich as they have." When Jake got to talking this way it was a sure sign that he was rapidly getting toward a point which Bob called "crazy." He was always mad when he spoke of others' wealth and his own poverty; and the boys, who were anxious to get him off from that subject, began their preparations for supper. They were glad to know they had gone far enough with the robbers to insure their escape, and they were disposed to be talkative; but they noticed that Claus was more downhearted than he had ever been. He lit his pipe, leaned back against a tree, and went off into a brown study. "I suppose he'll get a portion of the money that was stolen from us," said Jack, in a low tone. "No, he won't," answered Julian in the same cautious manner. "He has been promised some of that money, but I'll bet you he don't get a cent of it. He is here in these fellows' power, and they'll take what they please out of him." The boys, although as tired as they were on the previous day, were not by any means inclined to sleep. In fact they did not believe they had been asleep at all until they heard Bob moving around the fire. It was five o'clock by Julian's watch, and his first care was to find out what had become of Claus, who lay muffled up, head and ears, in his blanket; but he would not have stayed there if he knew what was going to happen to him during the day. "Now perhaps you will be good enough to tell us what route we have to travel in order to get out of here," said Jack. "Have you a compass with you?" asked Jake. No, the boys had none; they did not think they would need one when they were surrounded by friends who knew the woods, and consequently they had not brought one with them. "You know which way is east, don't you? Well, place your backs to the sun, and keep it there all the time. Dutch Flat lies directly west of here." "That will be good if the sun shines all the time," said Julian. "But if it goes under a cloud--then what?" "Then you will have to go into camp, and stay until it comes out again," replied Bob. "But at this time of the year you have nothing to fear on that score. Are you going already? Well, good-bye. Why don't you wish us good luck with that money we took from you?" "Because I don't believe it will bring you good luck," said Jack. "We worked hard for it, and we ought to have it. I wish you good-bye, but I don't wish you good luck." "Shake hands with your uncle, why don't you?" asked Bob. "Not much!" returned Jack. "If that money doesn't bring him some misfortune I shall miss my guess." Julian and Jack shouldered the blankets which contained the few provisions they had left, plunged into the thicket, and were out of hearing in a few minutes. The robbers sat by the fire without making any effort to continue their journey, and presently Bob turned his eyes upon Claus. "Now, my friend, it is time for you to go, too," said he. CHAPTER XXX. HOME AGAIN. Claus had been expecting something of this kind. It is true he had a revolver, but by the time he could reach back to his hip pocket and draw it he could be covered by Jake, whose weapon lay close at hand. There was but one thing to be done--he had to surrender. Instead of getting three thousand dollars for his share in the robbery, he would be turned loose in that country, two hundred miles from anybody, without a cent left in his pockets--that is, if Bob searched him. "Well," said Claus, "I suppose you want all the money I have around me. I should think you might leave me a little." "How much have you?" asked Bob. Without saying a word, Claus unbuttoned his vest, worked at something on the inside, and presently hauled out a belt, which he handed over to Bob. It did not stick out as though there was much money in it, and when Bob began to investigate it, all he drew forth was twenty-five dollars. "You are a wealthy millionaire, I understood you to say," exclaimed Bob, in great disgust. "This looks like it!" "I told you, when I had purchased the pack-mule, provisions and tools, that I should not have much left," answered Claus. "That's all I have, and if you take it from me I shall starve." "Stand up!" commanded Jake, who was as disgusted as Bob was. "You are sure you haven't got any about your clothes? But, first, I'll take possession of that revolver." The revolver having been disposed of, Jake then turned his attention to feeling in all Claus's pockets, but he found nothing more there--Claus had evidently given them the last cent he had. "Take your little bills," said Bob, throwing Claus's belt back to him. "If you are careful of them, they will serve you till you get back to Denver." "And when you get there, you can go to one of those men who own that block of buildings and borrow another thousand or two. Now, get out of here!" put in Jake. "I thank you for this much," returned Claus. "But I should thank you a good deal more if you would give me my revolver. I may want it before I reach Denver." "Give it to him, Jake. He hasn't pluck enough to shoot at us or anybody else. Make yourself scarce about here!" "They think they are awful smart!" thought Claus, when he had placed some bushes between him and the robbers. "Why didn't they think to look in my shoe? I have three hundred dollars that they don't know anything about. Now I guess I'll go back to St. Louis; and if anybody ever says anything to me about an 'old horse,' I'll knock him down." We are now in a position to take a final leave of Claus, and we do it with perfect readiness. Did he get back to St. Louis in safety? Yes, he got there in due course, but he had some fearful sufferings on the way. In the first place, he was nearly a week in finding his way out of the mountains; and by the time he reached a miner's cabin he was so weak from want of food that he fell prone upon the floor, and stayed there until the miner came from his work and found him there. Of course he was taken in and cared for, and when he was able to resume his journey he offered to present the miner with every cent he had,--twenty-five dollars,--to pay him for his kindness; but the miner would not take it. "You will need every cent of that before you get to Denver," said he. "The food and care I have given you don't amount to anything. Good-bye, and good luck to you." He was nearly three times as long in finding his way back to Denver. He tried to buy a horse on the way, but no one had any to sell. He now and then found a chance to ride when he was overtaken by a teamster who was going somewhere for a load, but the most of his journey was accomplished on foot. His long tramp never cost him a cent, for everybody pitied his forlorn condition. "I tell you, if I had been treated this way by those robbers I wouldn't look as bad as I do now," Claus often said to himself; "I would have seen California before I went home." All this while, Claus was on nettles for fear he would see some of the men from Dutch Flat who were in pursuit of him; but the trouble was, the miners all went the other way. They never dreamed that Claus was going home, but saddled their horses at Mr. Banta's command, and, making no attempt to follow the devious course of the robbers through the mountains, took the "upper trail," and did their best to shut them off from the towns toward which they knew the men were hastening to buy some more provisions. What luck they met with we shall presently see. No man ever drew a longer breath than Claus did when he came within sight of Denver. He went at once to the hotel where he had left his clothes, but the landlord did not recognize him and ordered him out of the house; but he finally succeeded in making himself known; and, now that he was safely out of reach of the miners at Dutch Flat, he had some fearful stories to tell of his experience. "You know I left my clothes with you on condition that you would keep them for me for a year," said Claus, who thought that was the wisest thing that he ever did. "Well, I want them now. I have the key to my trunk, so everything is all right." Claus was not long in recovering from the effects of his journey, for he could not help thinking that Mr. Banta, or some other man who belonged to the Flat, would find out that he had gone to Denver and come after him; so he remained there but two days before he took the cars for home. "Now I am safe," said he, settling down in his seat and pulling his hat over his eyes; "I would like to see them catch me. But what shall I do when I get back to St. Louis? I must settle down into the same old life I have always led, and that will be a big come-down for me." Claus is there now, spending his time at the pool-rooms, where he makes the most of his living, and ready at any time to talk about the mines and the terrible experience he had there. And where were Julian and Jack all this while? To begin with, they were in the ravine, making all the haste they could to leave the robbers behind and reach the haunted mine before their provisions gave out. That troubled them worse than anything. "If our grub stops, where are we going to get more?" asked Jack. "I don't believe there is a house any nearer than Dutch Flat." "And we can't get there any too soon," returned Julian. "At any rate, we are better off than Claus is. What do you suppose they intend to do with him?" "I suppose they intend to divide the money with him. What makes you think they would do anything else?" "From the way they treated him. If we could learn the whole upshot of the matter, you would find that they don't intend to give him a dollar." "I wish we could see Mr. Banta for about five minutes," said Jack. "I don't like to give up that money. It is the first we ever earned by digging in the ground, and I was going to suggest to you that we keep some of it." Julian replied by lengthening his steps and going ahead at a faster rate than ever. He, too, did not like to confess that the money was lost,--that is, if they could only get word to Mr. Banta in time. He did not know where the robbers were heading for; but, with two hundred men at his back, Julian was certain he could come up with them before they had left the country entirely. "But I hope they will not hurt the robbers," said Julian. "If they will just get the dust, that is all I shall ask of them." About five o'clock in the afternoon, when it began to grow dark in the ravine, Julian, who had been all the time leading the way, stopped and pointed silently before him. Jack looked, and there was the camp they had occupied two nights before. "We are on the right road, so far," said he. "If we don't miss our way to-morrow we are all right." The boys had not stopped to eat any dinner, and for that reason they were hungry. They spent a long time in cooking and eating their bacon, and Julian said there was just enough for two more meals. He did not like to think of what might happen when it was all gone, and, after replenishing the fire, bade his companion good-night, wrapped his blanket about him, and laid down to rest; but sleep was out of the question. A dozen times he got up to see the time, and there was Jack, snoring away as lustily as he had done at the haunted mine. Julian wished that he, too, could forget his troubles in the same way, but when morning came he had not closed his eyes. Julian proved to be an invaluable guide, for that night they slept in the first camp they had made after leaving the haunted mine. If he had always known the path, he could not have brought his companion straighter to it. "Now keep your eyes open for the trail we made when we came down from our mine, and then we are at home. But I say, Julian, I shall not be in favor of staying here. All our money is gone, I don't feel in the humor to work for any more, and we will go down to Dutch Flat." "And we'll stay there just long enough to find somebody starting out for Denver, and we'll go with him," replied Julian. "I don't want anything more to do with the mines as long as I live." The night passed away, and the next morning, without waiting to cook breakfast, the two boys started to find the trail that led up the bluff to the haunted mine. They were a long time in finding it--so long, in fact, that Julian began to murmur discouraging words; but finally Jack found it; and now began the hardest piece of work they had undertaken since they left the robbers. The cliff was as steep as it looked to be when they gazed down into its depths from the heights above, and they did not see how they had managed to come down it in the first place. "Are you sure the mine is up here?" asked Julian, seating himself on a fallen tree to rest. "I should not like to go up there and find nothing." "Didn't you see the trail we made in coming down?" inquired Jack. "Of course we are on the right track; but if you spend all your time in resting, we shall never be nearer the top than we are this minute." Julian once more set to work to climb the hill, and in half an hour more Jack pushed aside some branches that obstructed his way and found himself in plain view of the mine. Julian was satisfied now, but declared he could not go any farther until he had recovered all the wind he had expended in going up the bluff; but Jack wanted to see that everything in the camp was just as they left it. He walked on toward the lean-to, and the first thing that attracted his attention was that his goods had been disturbed. The skins were gone, some of the blankets were missing, and there were hardly provisions enough to get them a square meal. Julian came up in response to his call, and was obliged to confess that there had been other robbers while they were absent. "Let us dish up the few provisions left, take those things we want to save, and dig out for the Flat," said Julian. "I am sure there is nothing here to keep us, now." "And we'll leave the dirt-bucket here for somebody else to use," added Jack. "If he thinks there is a lead down there, let him go and try it. I did not send up enough dust the last time I was down there to pay for the rope." At the end of an hour the boys resumed their journey, each one loaded with a few things they wanted to save, and in two hours more they arrived within sight of Dutch Flat. Some few of the men had already given up their workings and were sitting in front of the store, smoking their pipes; but one of them speedily caught sight of the boys, and the miners broke out into a cheer. In a few seconds more they were surrounded, shaking hands with all of them, and trying in vain to answer their questions all at once. "This is no way to do it," declared Julian. "Let us put our things in the cabin and get our breath, and I will tell you the story." "In the first place," began Jack, as he deposited the things with which his arms were filled and came out and seated himself on the doorsteps of Mr. Banta's cabin, "let me ask a few questions. I won't delay the story five minutes. Where is the man who owns this house?" "Mr. Banta?" said one of the miners. "He took the upper trail two or three days ago, and rode with all possible speed in the direction of Mendota. He hopes in that way to cut off those villains." "He will do it, too, for they have no horses," said Julian. "No horses? What did they do with them?" "I don't know, I am sure," answered Julian, in surprise. "They were on foot when they came to rob us." "Why, their mule came up here a few hours after they left, and made the biggest kind of a fuss, and Banta suspected something at once. He called for some men to go with him, and he went as straight as he could to your mine. You were not there, and that proved that those miners had paid you a visit." "We are going to get our dust again!" said Julian, slapping Jack on the shoulder. "But I hope they won't hurt the robbers after they catch them." "Well, that is rather a difficult thing to tell. A man who comes into a mining-camp and watches his chance to steal money instead of working for it, takes his life in his hand." "Then they must have been the ones who disturbed our things," said Jack. "Probably they were. They brought the skins of the ghosts back, and also some of your provisions. They are there in his cabin now. Now let us have that story." CHAPTER XXXI. CONCLUSION. When Julian had fairly settled down to tell his story, which he did by crossing his right leg over his left leg and clasping his hands around his knee, he discovered that there was not so much to be told as he had thought for. His adventure with the robbers was nothing more than might have happened to any one of the miners who were standing around him; the only question in his mind was, would the other miner have fared as well as he did? "They came to our mine and stole our dust; but I don't see how they found out about the full bag. Mr. Banta told us to be careful about that." "Why, Mr. Banta told it himself!" remarked one of the miners. "He said you had a bagful hidden away." "You see, he had to do it, or the men here would have become suspicions and gone up to your mine in a body," explained another. "Go on--what next?" "They took the full bag, as well as the half-empty one, and told us we would have to go with them on a three days' journey into the mountains, so as to keep you fellows here in ignorance of the robbery as long as possible but they took us only a two days' journey, and then told us we had gone far enough. That's all there was of it." "Is that all you have to tell?" asked one. "Well, no. They went away from here on horseback, you said. Now, what did they do with their animals? They were on foot when they came to see us, and they never said 'horses' once during the two days we were with them." "Probably they rode their horses as far as they could, and then killed them." "No doubt they pushed them over a bluff," said a man who had not spoken before. "We did not see any horses; of that much we are certain. The only thing I can't see into is, what they did with Claus after we went away. Of course they agreed to give him a portion of the money they got off us." "Maybe so, but I don't think they did it. Go on--how did they treat you?" "As well as they knew how," answered Julian, emphatically. "That is the reason why I hope Mr. Banta will be kind to them if he catches them." "Well, you'll see how he'll treat them," retorted a miner. "You'll never see those three men again." Julian became uneasy every time the men spoke of the way the miners would use their prisoners if they found them, but he knew it would be of no use to say a word. If anything was done to them, he was in hopes the miners would get through with it before they came to camp. He was not used to any Western way of dealing with criminals, and he thought he was getting too old to become used to it now. This was the way Julian told his story, in answer to numerous questions of the miners, who finally heard all they wanted to know. In regard to what had happened to Claus, none of the miners had any idea. He did not get any of the dust that was stolen from the boys, and he would be lucky if he got away with a dollar in his pocket. "Do you know, I have been on the watch for them fellows to get into a squabble of some kind before we saw the last of them?" remarked a miner. "That Bob was a regular thief--one could tell that by looking at him. The short, pursy fellow--you called him Claus, didn't you?--looked like a gentleman; but his face did not bear out his good clothes." The miners then slowly dispersed, one after the other,--some to their work, and some to lounge in front of the grocery, smoking their pipes,--and the boys were left to themselves. Their first care was to get something to eat, for they had not had a sufficient quantity of food, the bacon and hard-tack they first put into their blankets having disappeared until there was none left. Provisions were handy in Mr. Banta's cabin, and when they had got fairly to work on it they heard a sound from the miners whom they had left outside. "Here they come!" shouted a voice. "Now we'll see what will be done with those prisoners!" The boys looked at each other in blank amazement. They had caught the robbers, so their dust was safe; but what were they going to do with the culprits, now that they had captured them? "I declare," said another miner, at length, "they haven't brought any prisoners with them! And there's Tony, with his arm tied up in a sling!" The boys had by this time reached the door, and saw Mr. Banta, accompanied by a dozen miners, ride into the camp. The boys looked closely at them, but could not see anybody that looked like Bob and Jake; but Tony did not seem to have left all the fight there was in him up in the mountains, for he raised his rifle and flourished it over his head. "Halloo! Mr. Banta," shouted Julian. "You meant to catch them, did you? But I guess you came out at the little end of the horn." "Well, there!" exclaimed Mr. Banta, stopping his horse and addressing himself to his men; "didn't I tell you those boys would come back all right? Put it there, kids!" Julian and Jack shook hands with all the returning miners before they saw an opportunity to propound any other questions; and then, when they did ask them, they did not get any satisfactory answers. "Did you get our dust?" asked Jack. "Yes, sir! And the men--ah!" said Mr. Banta, who stopped and looked around at the miners as if he hardly knew what to say next. "Well, what about the men?" inquired Julian. "You saw them, of course." "Oh, yes, we saw the men; and when we asked them where the dust was that they stole down here at the haunted mine, they took it out of their clothes and gave it to us. Ain't that so, boys?" The men around him nodded their heads emphatically, as if to say their leader had told nothing but the truth, but there was something in their faces that told a different story. The boys concluded they would ask no more questions while Mr. Banta was around, but when he went away they were sure they would get at the truth of the matter. "And, Julian, there's your money," continued Mr. Banta, who had been trying to take something out of his coat-pocket. "There is the full bag, and there is the other. The next time I leave you with such an amount of money to take care of, I'll give you my head for a football." "Why, Mr. Banta, _you_ told them all about this!" asserted Jack, laughingly. "No, I never!" shouted Mr. Banta. "Didn't you tell the men what we had done and all about the dust we had?" asked Julian. "You _did_ tell them, and the robbers were sitting by the camp-fire, and heard it all." "Eh? Oh, well--I did say--I could not well help it--let us go into the cabin and see what you have to eat." Mr. Banta lost no time in getting into the cabin, for the boys had asked a question he could not answer, and when they followed him in he was engaged in filling his pipe. "We rode to the haunted mine and found you were not there, so we came back and took the upper trail on the way to Mendota," said the miner, talking rapidly, as if he hoped to shut off any questions the boys might have ready to ask him. "We had a good time. We found the men there and asked them for the money, and they gave it over as peaceable and quiet as could be. Now, don't let us hear any more about it. You know the whole of the story. Is this all you have to ease a man's appetite? Why, I could eat it all myself!" "That's a funny story," whispered Jack, as he and Julian went to the spring after a bucket of water. "Well, keep still," said Julian. "He told us not to say anything more about it, and that's just the same as an order. We'll get the straight of the matter yet." "Who will you go to?" "We'll go to Tony for it. He was the man who was shot in the fracas, and he will tell us all about it." It was two days before Julian had an opportunity to speak to Tony in private. Tony's right arm was injured so badly that he could not use a shovel, and the boys volunteered to go down in his mine and help him--a voluntary act on their part which gained them the good-will of all the miners. One day, when Tony was sitting by his mine smoking his pipe and Julian was waiting for Jack to fill up their bucket, the latter thought the chance had come, for Tony was unusually talkative that morning. "Now, there is no need that you should keep this thing away from us any longer," said Julian, suddenly. "Who shot those two men?" Tony was taken off his guard and looked all around as if he was waiting for some one to suggest an answer. Finally he took off his hat and dug his fingers into his hair. "Who said anything about shooting a man?" he asked. "No one has said anything about it this morning, but I just want to know if everything I suspect is true," answered Julian, with his eyes fastened on Tony's face. "Some one who was there can't keep his mouth shut," remarked Tony, in great disgust. "Mr. Banta said he didn't want you to know anything about it, and here that man has gone and blowed the whole thing! But you'll remember that I didn't say a word about it--won't you?" "No one shall ever know what you tell me," asserted Julian. "Did you shoot them?" "Well, I couldn't help it--could I? We came up with them just before we got to Mendota. We rode right plump onto them before we knew it, and without saying a word they began to shoot. If they had had rifles, some of us would have gone under; but they had nothing but revolvers, and the first thing I knew something went slap through my arm, and I began to shoot, too. I got in two shots while you would be thinking about it, and then Mr. Banta looked through their clothes and got the dust. We went down to Mendota and reported the matter to the sheriff, and he sent up and buried them." "It is a wonder to me that they didn't arrest you," said Julian. "Who--me? What did I do? The men were shooting at us, and I was defending myself. It would have taken more men than they had there to arrest me, for any man would have done the same. Anyhow, we got your money back. Say! Don't lisp a word of this to Mr. Banta. He would go for me hot and heavy." Julian was obliged to promise again that Mr. Banta should never hear a word of what Tony had told him; but that night he told it to Jack, who said that his "funny story" had come out just as he thought it would. "You said you didn't want them to deal with the culprits here in camp, and you have your wish," said Jack. Not long after that the miners, discouraged, packed up, by companies of half a dozen or more, bid good-bye to their associates, and struck out for other localities. Dutch Flat was "played out," there was no gold there for them, and they were going where they could do better. Some of them talked of going home, while others, whose "piles" were not quite as large as they wished, were going to try it again for another year. Mr. Banta lingered there for some time, and then he, too, astonished the boys by bringing up his tools and telling them that next day he would strike for Denver. "And when I get there I don't think I shall stop," said he. "I have been away from my home in the granite hills so long that I won't know how to act when I get there, and I can't learn any younger than I can now. I am going as far as St. Louis with you, and then I shall strike off alone." This put new life into the boys. As soon as it became known in camp that Mr. Banta was going away, a dozen others joined in with his party, and when they rode away from the camp the few miners who were left behind cheered themselves hoarse. The boys had been "to the mines," had met with some adventures while there, and they were ready to go back among civilized people once more. Their stay in Denver did not last more than a week, and the boys were made to promise, over and over again, that after they had seen their friends in St. Louis they would go back there to live. Everything they had in the world was there, the Western country seemed to agree with them, and there they would remain. They had not yet completed their course at the business school, and when that was done they must look for some useful occupation in which to spend their lives. Mr. Banta proved that he had some money in the bank before he had been in Denver two days. The boys left him at his old hotel, clad in a miner's suit, and looking altogether, as he expressed it, "like a low-down tramp," and when they saw him again they could hardly recognize him. The barber had been at work on him, the tailor had done his best to fit him out; but the squeeze he gave their hands proved that he was the same "old Banta" still. The boys never forgot him; his kindness had saved them many a dollar. After taking leave of Mr. Banta at St. Louis the boys took up their quarters at a leading hotel, and for two weeks devoted themselves to calling upon their friends. As they signed their names to the register Julian whispered, "I have often thought, while I have been carrying messages here in the city and looked into this hotel while hurrying past it, that the men who could put up at a first-class house like this must be a happy lot, and now I have a chance to see how it goes myself. Jack, let us go down and have a glass of soda water. Why don't you grumble about that the way you did the last time we were here?" But Jack did not feel like grumbling--he was too happy for that. He did not think, while he was finding fault with Julian for the wages he had spent at the express office in buying 'old horse,' that he was one whose fortunes hung upon the letter that was to tell him about The Haunted Mine. THE END. THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.'S POPULAR JUVENILES. HARRY CASTLEMON. HOW I CAME TO WRITE MY FIRST BOOK. When I was sixteen years old I belonged to a composition class. It was our custom to go on the recitation seat every day with clean slates, and we were allowed ten minutes to write seventy words on any subject the teacher thought suited to our capacity. One day he gave out "What a Man Would See if He Went to Greenland." My heart was in the matter, and before the ten minutes were up I had one side of my slate filled. The teacher listened to the reading of our compositions, and when they were all over he simply said: "Some of you will make your living by writing one of these days." That gave me something to ponder upon. I did not say so out loud, but I knew that my composition was as good as the best of them. By the way, there was another thing that came in my way just then. I was reading at that time one of Mayne Reid's works which I had drawn from the library, and I pondered upon it as much as I did upon what the teacher said to me. In introducing Swartboy to his readers he made use of this expression: "No visible change was observable in Swartboy's countenance." Now, it occurred to me that if a man of his education could make such a blunder as that and still write a book, I ought to be able to do it, too. I went home that very day and began a story, "The Old Guide's Narrative," which was sent to the _New York Weekly_, and came back, respectfully declined. It was written on both sides of the sheets but I didn't know that this was against the rules. Nothing abashed, I began another, and receiving some instruction, from a friend of mine who was a clerk in a book store, I wrote it on only one side of the paper. But mind you, he didn't know what I was doing. Nobody knew it; but one day, after a hard Saturday's work--the other boys had been out skating on the brick-pond--I shyly broached the subject to my mother. I felt the need of some sympathy. She listened in amazement, and then said: "Why, do you think you could write a book like that?" That settled the matter, and from that day no one knew what I was up to until I sent the first four volumes of Gunboat Series to my father. Was it work? Well, yes; it was hard work, but each week I had the satisfaction of seeing the manuscript grow until the "Young Naturalist" was all complete.--_Harry Castlemon in the Writer._ GUNBOAT SERIES. 6 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $6.00 Frank the Young Naturalist. Frank on a Gunboat. Frank in the Woods. Frank before Vicksburg. Frank on the Lower Mississippi. Frank on the Prairie. ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00 Frank Among the Rancheros. Frank in the Mountains. Frank at Don Carlos' Rancho. SPORTSMAN'S CLUB SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.75 The Sportsman's Club in the Saddle. The Sportsman's Club Afloat. The Sportsman's Club Among the Trappers. FRANK NELSON SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.75 Snowed up. Frank in the Forecastle. The Boy Traders. ROUGHING IT SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00 George in Camp. George at the Fort. George at the Wheel. ROD AND GUN SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00 Don Gordon's Shooting Box. The Young Wild Fowlers. Rod and Gun Club. GO-AHEAD SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00 Tom Newcombe. Go-Ahead. No Moss. WAR SERIES. 6 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $6.00 True to His Colors. Marcy the Blockade-Runner. Rodney the Partisan. Marcy the Refugee. Rodney the Overseer. Sailor Jack the Trader. HOUSEBOAT SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00 The Houseboat Boys. The Mystery of Lost River Cañon. The Young Game Warden. AFLOAT AND ASHORE SERIES. 3 vols. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. $3.00 Rebellion in Dixie. A Sailor in Spite of Himself. The Ten-Ton Cutter. COMPLETE CATALOG OF BEST BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS MAILED ON APPLICATION TO THE PUBLISHERS THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., PHILADELPHIA The Roundabout Library For Young People THIS WELL-KNOWN SERIES OF BOOKS is recognized as the best library of Copyright Books for young people, sold at popular prices. THE AUTHORS represented in the Roundabout Library are not only the best well-known writers of juvenile literature, but the titles listed comprise the best writings of these authors, OVER 100 TITLES are now in this Library and all new titles will be selected with the same care as in the past, for stories that are not only entertaining but equally _instructive_ and _elevating_. This respect for wholesome juvenile literature is what has made and kept _the Roundabout Library better than any other library of books for Boys and Girls_. OUR AIM is to maintain the supremacy of these books over all others _from every viewpoint_, and to make the superior features so apparent that those who have once read one, will always return to the Roundabout Library for more. _Bound in Extra cloth, with gold title and appropriate cover designs stamped in colors, attractive and durable, printed on the best paper from large clear type. Illustrated, 12mo._ PRICE PER. VOLUME, $.75 Catalogue mailed on application to the Publishers. THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., Publishers PHILADELPHIA ROUNDABOUT LIBRARY FOR YOUNG PEOPLE Selected from the works of Alger, Castlemon, Ellis, Stephens, Henty, Mrs. Lillie and other writers. Price, per volume, $0.75 =Across Texas.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Adventures in Canada; or, Life in the Woods.= By John C. Geikie. =Alison's Adventures.= By Lucy C. Lillie. =American Family Robinson, The; or, The Adventures of a Family Lost in the Great Desert of the West.= By W. D. Belisle. =Bear Hunters of the Rocky Mountains, The.= By Anne Bowman. =Ben's Nugget; or, A Boy's Search for a Fortune.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. =Bob Burton; or, the Young Ranchman of the Missouri.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. =Bonnie Prince Charlie; A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden.= By G. A. Henty. =Brave Billy.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Brave Tom; or, The Battle that Won.= By Edward S. Ellis. =By England's Aid; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585-1604).= By G. A. Henty. =By Pike and Dyke; A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic.= By G. A. Henty. =By Right of Conquest; or, With Cortez in Mexico.= By G. A. Henty. =By Love's Sweet Rule.= By Gabrielle Emelie Jackson. =Cabin in the Clearing, The.= A Tale of the Frontier. By Edward S. Ellis. =Camping Out, As Recorded by "Kit."= By C. A. Stephens. =Camp in the Foothills, The.= By Harry Castlemon. =Cornet of Horse, The.= A Tale of Marlborough's Wars By G. A. Henty. =Cruise of the Firefly.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Dear Days, A Story of Washington School Life.= By Ada Mickle. =Diccon the Bold.= A Story of the Days of Columbus. By John Russell Coryell. =Do and Dare; or, A Brave Boy's Fight for Fortune.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. =Dog Crusoe, The. A Tale of the Western Prairies.= By R. M. Ballantyne. =Dog of Cotopaxi, The.= By Hezekiah Butterworth. =Doris and Theodora.= By Margaret Vandegrift. =Dr. Gilbert's Daughters.= By Margaret H. Matthews. =Dragon and the Raven, The; or, The Days of King Alfred.= By G. A. Henty. =Elam Storm, the Wolfer; or, The Lost Nugget.= By Harry Castlemon. =Elinor Belden; or, The Step Brothers.= By Lucy C. Lillie. =Esther's Fortune.= By Lucy C. Lillie. =Floating Treasure.= By Harry Castlemon. =Four Little Indians.= By Ella Mary Coates. =Family Dilemma.= By Lucy C. Lillie. =Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands, The.= By R. M. Ballantyne. =For Honor's Sake.= By Lucy C. Lillie. =Four Boys; or, The Story of the Forest Fire.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Fox Hunting, As Recorded by "Raed."= By C. A. Stephens. =Freaks on the Fells.= By R. M. Ballantyne. =Gascoyne, the Sandalwood Trader.= By R. M. Ballantyne. =Girl's Ordeal, A.= By Lucy C. Lillie =Gorilla Hunters, The.= By R. M. Ballantyne. =Great Cattle Trail, The.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Hunt on Snow Shoes, A.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Hartwell Farm, The.= By Elizabeth B. Comins. =Hector's Inheritance; or, The Boys of Smith Institute.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. =Helen Glenn; or, My Mother's Enemy.= By Lucy C. Lillie. =Helping Himself; or, Grant Thornton's Ambition.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. =Honest Ned.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Haunted Mine, The.= By Harry Castlemon. =In Freedom's Cause.= A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G. A. Henty. =In the Reign of Terror; The Adventures of a Westminster Boy.= By G. A. Henty. =Jack Midwood; or, Bread Cast Upon the Waters.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Joe Wayring at Home; or, The Adventures of a Fly Rod.= By Harry Castlemon. =Kangaroo Hunters, The; or, Adventures in the Bush.= By Anne Bowman. =King's Rubies, The.= By Adelaide Fulaer Bell. =Lady Green Satin.= By Baroness Deschesnez. =Left on Labrador; or, The Cruise of the Yacht "Curlew."= By C. A. Stephens. =Lena Wingo, the Mohawk.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Lenny, the Orphan.= By Margaret Hosmer. =Lion of the North. The; A Tale of the Times of Gustavus Adolphus.= By G. A. Henty. =Luke Walton; or, The Chicago Newsboy.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. =Lynx Hunting.= By C. A. Stephens. =Limber Lew, the Circus King.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Marion Berkley.= By Elizabeth B. Comins. =Missing Pocket-Book, The.= By Harry Castlemon. =Mysterious Andes, The.= By Hezekiah Butterworth. =Northern Lights.= Stories from Swedish and Finnish Authors. =Off to the Geysers; or, The Young Yachters in Iceland.= By C. A. Stephens. =On the Amazon; or, The Cruise of the "Rambler."= By C. A. Stephens. =On the Trail of the Moose.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Orange and Green; A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick.= By G. A. Henty. =Oscar in Africa.= By Harry Castlemon. =Our Boys in Panama.= By Hezekiah Butterworth. =Our Fellows; or, Skirmishes with the Swamp Dragoons.= By Harry Castlemon. =Path in the Ravine, The.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Plucky Dick; or, Sowing and Reaping.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Queen's Body Guard, The.= By Margaret Vandegrift =Question of Honor.= By Lynde Palmer. =Righting the Wrong.= By Edward S. Ellis. =River Fugitives, The.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Romain Kalbris.= His Adventures by Sea and Shore. Translated from the French of Hector Malot. =Rose Raymond's Wards.= By Margaret Vandegrift. =Ruth Endicott's Way.= By Lucy C. Lillie. =Shifting Winds; A Story of the Sea.= By R. M. Ballantyne. =Snagged and Sunk; or, The Adventures of a Canvas Canoe.= By Harry Castlemon. =Squire's Daughter, The.= By Lucy C. Lillie. =Steel Horse, The; or, The Rambles of a Bicycle.= By Harry Castlemon. =Store Boy, The; or, The Fortunes of Ben Barclay.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. =Storm Mountain.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Struggling Upward; or, Luke Larkin's Luck.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. =Tam; or, Holding the Fort.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Through Forest and Fire.= By Edward S. Ellis. =True to the Old Flag; A Tale of the American War of Independence.= By G. A. Henty. =Two Bequests, The; or, Heavenward Led.= By Jane R. Sommers. =Two Ways of Becoming a Hunter.= By Harry Castlemon. =Under Drake's Flag. A Tale of the Spanish Main.= By G. A. Henty. =Under the Holly.= By Margaret Hosmer. =Under the Red Flag; or, The Adventures of Two American Boys in the Days of the Commune.= By Edward King. =Ways and Means.= By Margaret Vandegrift. =Where Honor Leads.= By Lynde Palmer. =Wilderness Fugitives, The.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Wild Man of the West, The.= By R. M. Ballantyne. =With Clive in India; or, The Beginning of an Empire.= By G. A. Henty. =With Wolfe in Canada; or, The Winning of a Continent.= By G. A. Henty. =Wyoming.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Young Adventurer, The; Tom's Trip Across the Plains.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. =Young Circus Rider, The.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. =Young Conductor, The; or, Winning His Way.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Young Explorer, The; or, Among the Sierras.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. =Young Miner, The; or, Tom Nelson in California.= By Horatio Alger, Jr. =Young Ranchers, The; or, Fighting the Sioux.= By Edward S. Ellis. =Young Wreckers The.= By Richard Meade Bache. THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.'S POPULAR JUVENILES J. T. TROWBRIDGE. Neither as a writer does he stand apart from the great currents of life and select some exceptional phase or odd combination of circumstances. He stands on the common level and appeals to the universal heart, and all that he suggests or achieves is on the plane and in the line of march of the great body of humanity. The Jack Hazard series of stories, published in the late _Our Young Folks_, and continued in the first volume of _St. Nicholas_, under the title of "Fast Friends," is no doubt destined to hold a high place in this class of literature. The delight of the boys in them (and of their seniors, too) is well founded. They go to the right spot every time. Trowbridge knows the heart of a boy like a book, and the heart of a man, too, and he has laid them both open in these books in a most successful manner. Apart from the qualities that render the series so attractive to all young readers, they have great value on account of their portraitures of American country life and character. The drawing is wonderfully accurate, and as spirited as it is true. The constable, Sellick, is an original character, and as minor figures where will we find anything better than Miss Wansey, and Mr. P. Pipkin, Esq. The picture of Mr. Dink's school, too, is capital, and where else in fiction is there a better nick-name than that the boys gave to poor little Stephen Treadwell, "Step Hen," as he himself pronounced his name in an unfortunate moment when he saw it in print for the first time in his lesson in school. On the whole, these books are very satisfactory, and afford the critical reader the rare pleasure of the works that are just adequate, that easily fulfill themselves and accomplish all they set out to do.--_Scribner's Monthly._ THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.'S POPULAR JUVENILES. JACK HAZARD SERIES. 6 vols. By J. T. TROWBRIDGE $7.25 Jack Hazard and His Fortunes The Young Surveyor. Fast Friends. Doing His Best. A Chance for Himself. Lawrence's Adventures. CHARLES ASBURY STEPHENS. This author wrote his "Camping Out Series" at the very height of his mental and physical powers. "We do not wonder at the popularity of these books; there is a freshness and variety about them, and an enthusiasm in the description of sport and adventure, which even the older folk can hardly fail to share."--_Worcester Spy._ "The author of the Camping Out Series is entitled to rank as decidedly at the head of what may be called boys' literature."--_Buffalo Courier._ CAMPING OUT SERIES. By C. A. STEPHENS. All books in this series are 12mo. with eight full page illustrations. Cloth, extra, 75 cents. CAMPING OUT. As Recorded by "Kit." "This book is bright, breezy, wholesome, instructive, and stands above the ordinary boys' books of the day by a whole head and shoulders."--_The Christian Register_, BOSTON. LEFT ON LABRADOR; OR, THE CRUISE OF THE SCHOONER YACHT "CURLEW." As Recorded by "Wash." "The perils of the voyagers, the narrow escapes, their strange expedients, and the fun and jollity when danger had passed, will make boys even unconscious of hunger."--_New Bedford Mercury._ OFF TO THE GEYSERS; OR THE YOUNG YACHTERS IN ICELAND. As Recorded by "Wade." "It is difficult to believe that Wade and Read and Kit and Wash were not live boys, sailing up Hudson Straits, and reigning temporarily over an Esquimaux tribe."--_The Independent_, New York. LYNX HUNTING: From Notes by the Author of "Camping Out." "Of _first quality_ as a boys' book, and fit to take its place beside the best."--_Richmond Enquirer._ FOX HUNTING. As Recorded by "Raed." "The most spirited and entertaining book that has as yet appeared. It overflows with incident, and is characterized by dash and brilliancy throughout."--_Boston Gazette._ ON THE AMAZON; OR, THE CRUISE OF THE "RAMBLER." As Recorded by "Wash." "Gives vivid pictures of Brazilian adventure and scenery."--_Buffalo Courier._ 
21038	----	A Dog with a Bad Name By Talbot Baines Reed ________________________________________________________________________ The story opens in a rather run-down school. There is an unfortunate incident in which a boy is almost killed, and a boy of the name of Jeffreys, not a very popular chap, is held to have been responsible. Thus the dog acquires a bad name. Throughout the next few years of Jeffreys' life this incident is brought up against him. He is brought lower and lower, till eventually he finds somewhere to live in the utmost poverty, amongst the very poor. Here by a twist of fortune he ends up looking after some abandoned children. There is a fire, and he rescues somebody, but it is only when he gets that person back to his room that he realises it is the very person whom he had almost killed all those years before. This book is very well written. I have been wondering whether it is a book for teenagers, or a book for adults, and have come to the conclusion that it's for teenagers, but only the really bright ones, as there is so much food for thought in it. NH. ________________________________________________________________________ A DOG WITH A BAD NAME BY TALBOT BAINES REED CHAPTER ONE. DRY-ROT. Bolsover College was in a bad temper. It often was; for as a rule it had little else to do; and what it had, was usually a less congenial occupation. Bolsover, in fact, was a school which sadly needed two trifling reforms before it could be expected to do much good in the world. One was, that all its masters should be dismissed; the other was, that all its boys should be expelled. When these little changes had been effected there was every chance of turning the place into a creditable school; but not much chance otherwise. For Bolsover College was afflicted with dry-rot. The mischief had begun not last term or the term before. Years ago it had begun to eat into the place, and every year it grew more incurable. Occasional efforts had been made to patch things up. A boy had been now and then expelled. A master had now and then "resigned." An old rule had now and then been enforced. A new rule was now and then instituted. But you can't patch up a dry-rot, and Bolsover crumbled more and more the oftener it was touched. Years ago it had dropped out of the race with the other public-schools. Its name had disappeared from the pass list of the University and Civil Service candidates. Scarcely a human being knew the name of its head- master; and no assistant-master was ever known to make Bolsover a stepping-stone to pedagogic promotion. The athletic world knew nothing of a Bolsover Eleven or Fifteen; and, worse still, no Bolsover boy was ever found who was proud either of his school or of himself. Somebody asks, why, if the place was in such a bad way, did parents continue to send their boys there, when they had all the public-schools in England to choose from? To that the answer is very simple. Bolsover was cheap--horribly cheap! "A high class public-school education," to quote the words of the prospectus, "with generous board and lodging, in a beautiful midland county, in a noble building with every modern advantage; gymnasium, cricket-field, and a full staff of professors and masters," for something under forty pounds a year, was a chance not to be snuffed at by an economical parent or guardian. And when to these attractions was promised "a strict attention to morals, and a supervision of wardrobes by an experienced matron," even the hearts of mothers went out towards the place. After all, argues many an easy-going parent, a public-school education is a public-school education, whether dear Benjamin gets it at Eton, or Shrewsbury, or Bolsover. We cannot afford Eton or Shrewsbury, but we will make a pinch and send him to Bolsover, which sounds almost as good and may even be better. So to Bolsover dear Benjamin goes, and becomes a public-school boy. In that "noble building" he does pretty much as he likes, and eats very much what he can. The "full staff of professors and masters" interfere very little with his liberty, and the "attention to morals" is never inconveniently obtruded. He goes home pale for the holidays and comes back paler each term. He scuffles about now and then in the play-ground and calls it athletics. He gets up Caesar with a crib and Todhunter with a key, and calls it classics and mathematics. He loafs about with a toady and calls it friendship. In short, he catches the Bolsover dry- rot, and calls it a public-school training: What is it makes Benjamin and his seventy-nine school-fellows (for Bolsover had its full number of eighty boys this term) in such a particularly ill-humour this grey October morning? Have his professors and masters gently hinted to him that he is expected to know his lessons next time he goes into class? Or has the experienced matron been overdoing her attention to his morals? Ask him. "What!" he says, "don't you know what the row is? It's enough to make anybody shirty. Frampton, this new head-master, you know, he's only been here a week or two, he's going to upset everything. I wish to goodness old Mullany had stuck on, cad as he was. He let us alone, but this beast Frampton's smashing the place up. What do you think?--you'd never guess, he's made a rule the fellows are all to tub every morning, whether they like it or not. What do you call that? I know I'll get my governor to make a row about it. It won't wash, I can tell you. What business has he to make us tub, eh, do you hear? That's only one thing. He came and jawed us in the big room this morning, and said he meant to make football compulsory! There! You needn't gape as if you thought I was gammoning. I'm not, I mean it. Football's to be compulsory. Every man Jack's got to play, whether he can or not. I call it brutal! The only thing is, it won't be done. The fellows will kick. I shall. I'm not going to play football to please a cad like Frampton, or any other cad!" What Benjamin says is, for a wonder, the truth. A curious change had come over Bolsover since the end of last term. Old Mr Mullany, good old fossil that he was, had resigned. The boys had heard casually of the event at the end of last term. But the old gentleman so seldom appeared in their midst, and when he did, so rarely made any show of authority, that the school had grown to look upon him as an inoffensive old fogey, whose movements made very little difference to anybody. It was not till the holidays were over, and Mr Frampton introduced himself as the new head-master, that Bolsover awoke to the knowledge that a change had taken place. Mr Frampton--he was not even a "Doctor" or a "Reverend," but was a young man with sandy whiskers, and a red tie--had a few ideas of his own on the subject of dry-rot. He evidently preferred ripping up entire floors to patching single planks, and he positively scared his colleagues and pupils by the way he set to work. He was young and enthusiastic, and was perhaps tempted to overdo things at first. When people are being reformed, they need a little breathing time now and then; but Mr Frampton seemed to forget it. He had barely been in his post a week when two of the under-masters resigned their posts. Undaunted he brought over two new men, who shared his own ideas, and installed them into the vacancies. Then three more of the old masters resigned; and three more new men took their places. Then the "experienced matron" resigned, and Mrs Frampton took her place. No sooner was that done than the order went out that every boy should have a cold bath every morning, unless excused by the doctor. The school couldn't resign, so they sulked, and gasped in the unwelcome element, and coughed heart-rendingly whenever they met the tyrant. The tyrant was insatiate. Before the school could recover from his first shock, the decree for compulsory football staggered it. Compulsory football! Why, half the fellows in the school had never put their toes to a football in their lives, and those who had had rarely done more than punt the leather aimlessly about, when they felt in the humour to kick something, and nobody or nothing more convenient was at hand. But it was useless to represent this to Mr Frampton. "The sooner you begin to play the better," was his reply to all such objections. But the old goal posts were broken, and the ball was flabby and nearly worn-out. "The new goals and ball are to arrive from London to-day." But they had not got flannels or proper clothes to play in. "They must get flannels. Every boy must have flannels, and meanwhile they must wear the oldest shirts and trousers they had." Shirts and trousers! Then they weren't even to be allowed to wear coats and waistcoats this chilly weather! Hadn't they better wait till next week, till they could ask leave of their parents, and get their flannels and practise a bit? "No. Between now and Saturday they would have two clear days to practise. On Saturday, the Sixth would play the School at three o'clock." And Mr Frampton, there being nothing more to say on this subject, went off to see what his next pleasant little surprise should be. Bolsover, meanwhile, snarled over the matter in ill-tempered conclaves in the play-ground. "It's simple humbug," said Farfield, one of the Sixth. "I defy him to make me play if I don't choose." "I shall stand with my hands in my pockets, and not move an inch," said another. "I mean to sit down on the grass and have a nap," said a third. "All very well," said a youngster, called Forrester; "if you can get all the other fellows to do the same. But if some of them play, it'll look as if you funked it." "Who cares what it looks like?" said Farfield. "It will look like not being made to do what they've no right to make us do--that's all I care about." "Well, I don't know," said Pridger, another of the Sixth; "if it came to the School licking us, I fancy I'd try to prevent that." "And if it came to the Sixth licking us," said young Forrester, who was of the audacious order, "I fancy _I'd_ try to put a stopper on that." There was a smile at this, for the valiant junior was small for his age, and flimsily built. Smiles, however, were not the order of the day, and for the most part Bolsover brooded over her tribulations in sulky silence. The boys had not much in common, and even a calamity like the present failed to bring them together. The big boys mooned about and thought of their lost liberties, of the afternoons in the tuck-shop, of the yellow- backed novels under the trees, of the loafings down town, and wondered if they should ever be happy again. The little boys--some of them--wept secretly in corners, as they pictured themselves among the killed and wounded on the terrible football field. And as the sharp October wind cut across the play-ground, they shuddered, great and small, at the prospect of standing there on Saturday, without coats or waistcoats, and wondered if Frampton was designedly dooming them to premature graves. A few, a very few, of the more sensible ones, tried to knock up a little practice game and prepare themselves for the terrible ordeal. Among these were two boys belonging to the group whose conversation the reader has already overheard. One of them, young Forrester, has already been introduced. Junior as he was, he was a favourite all over Bolsover, for he was about the only boy in the school who was always in good spirits, and did not seem to be infected with the universal dry-rot of the place. He was a small, handsome boy, older indeed then he looked (for he was nearly fifteen), not particularly clever or particularly jocular. To look at him you would have thought him delicate, but there was nothing feeble in his manner. He looked you straight in the face with a pair of brown saucy eyes; he was ready to break his neck to oblige any one; and his pocket- money (fancy a Bolsover boy having pocket-money!) was common property. Altogether he was a phenomenon at Bolsover, and fellows took to him instinctively, as fellows often do take to one whose character and disposition are a contrast to their own. Besides this, young Forrester was neither a prig nor a toady, and devoted himself to no one in particular, so that everybody had the benefit of his good spirits, and enjoyed his pranks impartially. The other boy, who appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen, was of a different kind. He, too, was a cut above the average Bolsoverian, for he was clever, and had a mind of his own. But he acted almost entirely on antipathies. He disliked everybody, except, perhaps, young Forrester, and he found fault with everything. Scarfe--that was his name was a Sixth Form boy, who did the right thing because he disliked doing what everybody else did, which was usually the wrong. He disliked his school-fellows, and therefore was not displeased with Mr Frampton's reforms; but he disliked Mr Frampton and the new masters, and therefore hoped the school would resist their authority. As for what he himself should do, that would depend on which particular antipathy was uppermost when the time came. Curiously enough, Bolsover by no means disliked Scarfe. They rather respected a fellow who had ideas of his own, when they themselves had so few; and as each boy, as a rule, could sympathise with his dislike of everybody else, with one exception, he found plenty of adherents and not a few toadies. Forrester was about the only boy he really did not dislike, because Forrester did not care twopence whether any one liked him or not, and he himself was quite fond of Scarfe. "What do you think the fellows will do?" said the junior, after attempting for the sixth time to "drop" the ball over the goal without success. "Why, obey, of course," said Scarfe scornfully. "Shall you?" "I suppose so." "Why, I thought you were going to stick out." "No doubt a lot of the fellows would like it if I did. They always like somebody else to do what they don't care to do themselves." "Well, you and I'll be on different sides," said the youngster, making another vain attempt at the goal. "I'm sorry for you, my boy." "So am I; I'd like to see the Sixth beaten. But there's not much chance of it if the kicking's left to you." "I tell you what," said Forrester, ignoring the gibe. "I'm curious to know what Cad Jeffreys means to do. We're bound to have some fun if he's in it." "Cad Jeffreys," said Scarfe, with a slight increase of scorn in his face and voice, "will probably assist the School by playing for the Sixth." Forrester laughed. "I hear he nearly drowned himself in the bath the first day, and half scragged Shrimpton for grinning at him. If he gets on as well at football, Frampton will have something to answer for. Why, here he comes." "Suppose you invite him to come and have a knock up with the ball," suggested the senior. The figure which approached the couple was one which, familiar as it was to Bolsover, would have struck a stranger as remarkable. A big youth, so disproportionately built as to appear almost deformed, till you noticed that his shoulders were unusually broad and his feet and hands unusually large. Whether from indolence or infirmity it was hard to say, his gait was shambling and awkward, and the strength that lurked in his big limbs and chest seemed to unsteady him as he floundered top- heavily across the play-ground. But his face was the most remarkable part about him. The forehead, which overhung his small, keen eyes, was large and wrinkled. His nose was flat, and his thick, restless lips seemed to be engaged in an endless struggle to compel a steadiness they never attained. It was an unattractive face, with little to redeem it from being hideous. The power in it seemed all to centre in its angry brow, and the softness in its restless mouth. The balance was bad, and the general impression forbidding. Jeffreys was nineteen, but looked older, for he had whiskers--an unpardonable sin in the eyes of Bolsover--and was even a little bald. His voice was deep and loud. A stranger would have mistaken him for an inferior master, or, judging from his shabby garments, a common gardener. Those who knew him were in no danger of making that mistake. No boy was more generally hated. How he came by his name of Cad Jeffreys no one knew, except that no other name could possibly describe him. The small boys whispered to one another that once on a time he had murdered his mother, or somebody. The curious discovered that he was a lineal descendant of Judge Jeffreys, of hanging celebrity. The seniors represented him as a cross between Nero and Caliban, and could not forgive him for being head classic. The one thing fellows could appreciate in him was his temper. A child in arms, if he knew the way, could get a rise out of Cad Jeffreys, and in these dull times that was something to be thankful for. Forrester was perhaps the most expert of Jeffreys' enemies. He worried the Cad not so much out of spite as because it amused him, and, like the nimble matador, he kept well out of reach of the bull all the time he was firing shots at him. "Hullo, Jeff!" he called out, as the Cad approached. "Are you going to play in the match on Saturday?" "No," said Jeffreys. "You're not? Haven't you got any old clothes to play in?" Jeffreys' brow darkened. He glanced down at his own shabby garments, and then at Scarfe's neat suit. "I've got flannels," he said. "Flannels! Why don't you play, then? Do you think you won't look well in flannels? He would, wouldn't he, Scarfe?" "I don't see how he could look better than he does now," replied Scarfe, looking at the figure before him. Then noticing the black looks on his enemy's face, he added-- "Forrester and I were having a little practice at kicking, Jeff. You may as well join us, whether you play in the match or not." "Why, are you going to play?" asked Jeffreys, not heeding the invitation. "Frampton has no right to make us do it." "Why not? He's head-master. Besides, you can get a doctor's certificate if you like." "No, I can't; I'm not ill." "Then you'll have to play, of course. Everybody will, and you'd better come and practise with us now. Do you know how to play?" "Of course I do," said Jeffreys, "I've played at home." "All serene. Have a shot at the goal, then." The Cad's experience of football at home must have been of a humble description, for his attempt at a kick now was a terrible fiasco. He missed the ball completely, and, losing his balance at the same time, fell heavily to the ground. "Bravo!" cried Forrester, "I wish I'd learnt football at home; I couldn't do that to save my life." "I slipped," said Jeffreys, rising slowly to his feet, and flushing crimson. "Did you?" said the irreverent youth. "I thought it was part of the play. Stand out of the way, though, while I take a shot." Before, however, Jeffreys could step aside, a neat and, for a wonder, accurate drop-kick from Forrester sent the ball violently against the side of the unwieldy senior's head, knocking off his hat and nearly precipitating him a second time to the earth. The storm fairly burst now. As the fleet-footed junior darted past him the other struck out wildly; but missing his blow, he seized the ball and gave a furious kick in the direction of the retreating enemy. It was a fine drop-kick, and soared far over the head of its intended victim, straight between the goal posts, an undoubted and brilliant goal. Forrester stopped his retreat to applaud, and Scarfe scornfully joined. "Awfully good," said he; "you certainly must play on Saturday. We've nobody can kick like that." "I meant it to hit Forrester," said Jeffreys, panting with his effort, and his lips nearly white with excitement. "Would you like another shot?" called out the young gentleman in question. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, losing your temper like that," said Scarfe bitterly. "Couldn't you see he hit you by accident?" "He did it on purpose," said Jeffreys savagely. "Nonsense. He was aiming at the goal and missed. You did the same thing yourself, only you aimed at him." "I wish I had hit him!" growled Jeffreys, glaring first at Scarfe, than at Forrester, and finally shambling off the ground. "There's a nice amiable lamb," said Forrester, as he watched the retreating figure. "I'm sometimes half ashamed to bait him, he does get into such tantrums. But it's awfully tempting." "You'd better keep out of his way the rest of the day," said Scarfe. "Oh, bless you, he'll have worked it off in half an hour. What do you bet I don't get him to do my Latin prose for me this afternoon?" Forrester knew his man; and that afternoon, as if nothing had happened, the junior sat in the Cad's study, eating some of the Cad's bread and jam while the Cad wrote out the junior's exercise for him. CHAPTER TWO. A FOOTBALL TRAGEDY. The two days' grace which Mr Frampton had almost reluctantly allowed before putting into execution his new rule of compulsory athletics told very much in his favour. Bolsover, after the first shock, grew used to the idea and even resigned. After all, it would be a variety, and things were precious dull as they were. As to making a rule of it, that was absurd, and Frampton could hardly be serious when he talked of doing so. But on Saturday, if it was fine, and they felt in the humour--well, they would see about it. With which condescending resolution they returned to their loafings and novels and secret cigarettes, and tried to forget all about Mr Frampton. But Mr Frampton had no idea of being forgotten. He had the schoolmaster's virtue of enthusiasm, but he lacked the schoolmaster's virtue of patience. He hated the dry-rot like poison, and could not rest till he had ripped up every board and rafter that harboured it. Any ordinary reformer would have been satisfied with the week's work he had already accomplished. But Mr Frampton added yet another blow at the very heart of the dry-rot before the week was out. On the day before the football match Bolsover was staggered, and, so to speak, struck all of a heap by the announcement that in future the school tuck-shop would be closed until after the dinner hour! Fellows stared at one another with a sickly, incredulous smile when they first heard the grim announcement and wondered whether, after all, the new head-master _was_ an escaped lunatic. A few gifted with more presence of mind than others bethought them of visiting the shop and of dispelling the hideous nightmare by optical demonstration. Alas! the shutters were up. Mother Partridge was not at the receipt of custom, but instead, written in the bold, square hand of Mr Frampton himself, there confronted them the truculent notice, "The shop will for the future be open only before breakfast and after dinner." "Brutal!" gasped Farfield, as he read it. "Does he mean to starve us as well as drown us?" "Hard lines for poor old Mother Partridge," suggested Scarfe. This cry took. There was somehow a lurking sense of shame which made it difficult for Bolsover to rise in arms on account of the injury done to itself. Money had been wasted, appetites had been lost, digestions had been ruined in that shop, and they knew it. If you had put the question to any one of the boys who crowded down, hungry after their bath, to breakfast on the day of the football match, he would have told you that Frampton was as great a brute as ever, and that it was a big shame to make fellows play whether they liked it or not. For all that, he would tell you, _he_ was going to play, much as he hated it, to avoid a row. And if you had pressed him further he would have confided to you that it was expected the School would beat the Sixth, and that he rather hoped, as he must play, he would get a chance at the ball before the match was over. From all which you might gather that Bolsover was reluctantly coming round to take an interest in the event. "Fortune favours the brave," said Mr Steele, one of his assistants, to the head-master at dinner-time. "You have conquered before you have struck, mighty Caesar." Mr Frampton smiled. He was flushed and excited. Two days ago he had seemed to be committed to a desperate venture. Now, a straight path seemed to open before him, and Bolsover, in his enthusiastic imagination, was already a reformed, reinvigorated institution. "Yes, Steele," said he, as he glanced from the window and watched the boys trooping down towards the meadow. "This day will be remembered at Bolsover." Little dreamed the brave head-master how truly his prophecy would be fulfilled. An arrangement had been made to give the small boys a match of their own. The young gladiators themselves, who had secretly wept over their impending doom, were delighted to be removed beyond the reach of the giants of the Sixth. And the leaders of the School forces were devoutly thankful to be disencumbered of a crowd of meddlesome "kids" who would have spoiled sport, even if they did not litter the ground with their corpses. The sight of the new goal posts and ball, which Mr Freshfield, a junior master, was heard to explain was a present from the head-master to the school, had also a mollifying effect. And the bracing freshness of the air and the self-respect engendered by the sensation of their flannels (for most of the players had contrived to provide themselves with armour of this healthy material) completed their reconciliation to their lot, and drove all feelings of resentment against their tyrant, for the present at any rate, quite out of their heads. In a hurried consultation of the seniors, Farfield, who was known to be a player, was nominated captain of the senior force; while a similar council of war among the juniors had resulted in the appointment of Ranger of the Fifth to lead the hosts of the School. Mr Freshfield, with all the ardour of an old general, assisted impartially in advising as to the disposition of the field on either side; and, for the benefit of such as might be inexperienced at the game, rehearsed briefly some of the chief rules of the game as played under the Rugby laws. "Now, are you ready?" said he, when all preliminaries were settled, and the ball lay, carefully titled, ready for Farfield's kick-off. "Wait a bit," cried some one. "Where's Jeffreys?" Where, indeed? No one had noticed his absence till now; and one or two boys darted off to look for him. But before they had gone far a white apparition appeared floundering across the meadow in the direction of the goals; and a shout of derisive welcome rose, as Jeffreys, arrayed in an ill-fitting suit of white holland, and crowned with his blue flannel cap, came on to the scene. "He's been sewing together the pillow-cases to make his trousers," said some one. "Think of a chap putting on his dress shirt to play football in," cried another. "Frampton said we were to wear the oldest togs we'd got," said a third, "not our Sunday best." Jeffreys, as indeed it was intended, heard these facetious remarks on his strange toilet, and his brow grew heavy. "Come on," said Scarfe, as he drew near, "it wasn't fair to the other side for you not to play." "I couldn't find my boots," replied the Cad shortly, scowling round him. "Perhaps you'll play forward," said Farfield, "and if ever you don't know what to do, go and stand outside those flag posts, and for mercy's sake let the ball alone." "Boo-hoo! I _am_ in such a funk," cried Forrester with his mocking laugh. "Thank goodness I'm playing back." "Come now," called Mr Freshfield impatiently, "are you ready? Kick off, Farfield. Look out, School." Next moment the match had begun. As might have been expected, there was at first a great deal more confusion than play. Bolsover was utterly unused to doing anything together, and football of all games needs united action. There was a great deal of scrimmaging, but very few kicks and very few runs. The ball was half the time invisible, and the other half in touch. Mr Freshfield had time after time to order a throw-in to be repeated, or rule a kick as "off-side." The more ardent players forgot the duty of protecting their flanks and rear; and the more timid neglected their chances of "piling up" the scrimmages. The Sixth got in the way of the Sixth, and the School often spoiled the play of the School. But after a quarter of an hour or so the chaos began to resolve itself, and each side, so to speak, came down to its bearings. Mr Frampton, as he walked across from the small boys' match, was surprised as well as delighted to notice the business-like way in which the best players on either side were settling down to their work. There was Farfield, flushed and dogged, leading on his forwards, and always on the ball. There was Scarfe, light and dodgy, ready for a run or a neat drop-kick from half-back. There was Ranger and Phipps of the Fifth, backing one another up like another Nisus and Euryalus. There was young Forrester, merry and plucky, saving his goal more than once by a prompt touch-down. There, even, was the elephantine Jeffreys, snorting and pounding in the thick of the fray, feeling his feet under him, and doing his clumsy best to fight the battle of his side. The game went hard against the School, despite their determined rallies and gallant sorties. Young Forrester in goal had more than one man's share of work; and Scarfe's drops from the rear of the Sixth scrimmage flew near and still nearer the enemy's goal. Once, just before half-time, he had what seemed a safe chance, but at the critical moment Jeffreys' ungainly bulk interposed, and received on his chest the ball which would certainly have carried victory to his side. "Clumsy lout!" roared Farfield; "didn't I tell you to stand out of the way and not go near the ball--you idiot! Go and play back, do." Jeffreys turned on him darkly. "You think I did it on purpose," said he. "I didn't." "Go and play back!" repeated Farfield--"or go and hang yourself." Jeffreys took a long breath, and departed with a scowl to the rear. "Half-time!" cried Mr Freshfield. "Change sides." It was a welcome summons. Both sides needed a little breathing space to gird themselves for the final tussle. The School was elated at having so far eluded actual defeat, and cheerily rallied their opponents as they crossed over. Jeffreys, in particular, as he made moodily to his new station, came in for their jocular greetings. "Thanks awfully, Cad, old man!" cried one; "we knew you'd give us a leg up." "My word! doesn't he look pleased with himself!" said another. "No wonder!" "Is that the way they taught you to play football at home?" said young Forrester, emphasising his question with an acorn neatly pitched at the Cad's ear. Jeffreys turned savagely with lifted arm, but Forrester was far beyond his enemy's reach, and his hand dropped heavily at his own side as he continued his sullen march to the Sixth's goal. "Are you ready?" shouted Mr Freshfield. "Kick off. Ranger! Look out, Sixth!" The game recommenced briskly. The School, following up the advantage of their kick-off, and cheered by their recent luck, made a desperate onslaught into the enemy's territory, which for a while took all the energy of the Sixth to repel. Phipps and Ranger were irrepressible, and had it not been for the steady play of Scarfe and the Sixth backs, that formidable pair of desperadoes might have turned the tide of victory by their own unaided exertions. In the defence of the seniors, Jeffreys, it need hardly be said, took no part. He stood moodily near one of the posts, still glaring in the direction of his insulters, and apparently heedless of the fortunes, of the game. His inaction, however, was not destined to last long. The second half game had lasted about a quarter of an hour, and the School was still stubbornly holding their advanced position in the proximity of the enemy's goal, when the ball suddenly, and by one of those mysterious chances of battle, burst clear of the scrimmage and darted straight to where Jeffreys stood. "Pick it up and run--like mad!" shouted Farfield. With a sudden swoop which astonished his beholders the Cad pounced on the ball and started to run in the direction of the ill-protected goal of the School. Till they saw him in motion with an almost clear field ahead, no one had had any conception how powerfully he was built or how fast he could run. The School, rash and sanguine of victory, had pressed to the front, leaving scarcely half a dozen behind to guard their rear. Three of these Jeffreys had passed before the School was well aware what he was doing. Then a shout of consternation arose, mingled with the frantic cheers of the Sixth. "Collar him! Have him over! Stop him there! Look out in goal!" But Jeffreys was past stopping. Like a cavalry charger who dashes on to the guns heedless of everything, and for the time being gone mad, so the Bolsover Cad, with the shouts behind him and the enemy's goal in front, saw and heard nothing else. The two men who stepped out at him were brushed aside like reeds before a boat's keel; and with half the field before him only one enemy remained between him and victory. That enemy was young Forrester! There was something almost terrible in the furious career of the big boy as he bore down on the fated goal. Those behind ceased to pursue, and watched the result in breathless suspense. Even the saucy light on Forrester's face faded as he hesitated a moment between fear and duty. "Collar him there!" shouted the School. "He'll pass him easily," said the Sixth. Forrester stepped desperately across his adversary's path, resolved to do his duty, cost what it might. Jeffreys never swerved from his course, right or left. "He's going to charge the youngster!" gasped Farfield. Forrester, who had counted on the runner trying to pass him, became suddenly aware that the huge form was bearing straight down upon him. The boy was no coward, but for a moment he stood paralysed. That moment was fatal. There was a crash, a shout! Next moment Jeffreys was seen staggering to his feet and carrying the ball behind the goal. But no one heeded him. Every eye was turned to where young Forrester lay on his back motionless, with his face as white as death. CHAPTER THREE. GONE! It would be difficult to picture the horror and dismay which followed the terrible termination to the football match described in our last chapter. For a second or two every one stood where he was, as if rooted to the ground. Then with an exclamation of horror Mr Freshfield bounded to the side of the prostrate boy. "Stand back and give him air!" cried the master, as the school closed round and gazed with looks of terror on the form of their companion. He lay with one arm above his head just as he had fallen. His cap lay a yard or two off where he had tossed it before making his final charge. His eyes were closed, and the deathly pallor of his face was unmoved by even a quiver of life. "He's dead!" gasped Farfield. Mr Freshfield, who had been hastily loosening Forrester's collar, and had rested his hand for an instant on his heart, looked up with a face almost as white as the boy's and said-- "Go for the doctor!--and some water." Half a dozen boys started--thankful to do anything. Before the ring could close up again the ungainly form of Jeffreys, still panting from his run, elbowed his way to the front. As his eyes fell on the form of his victim his face turned an ashy hue. Those who watched him saw that he was struggling to speak, but no words came. He stood like one turned suddenly to stone. But not for long. With a cry something resembling a howl, the school by a sudden simultaneous movement turned upon him. He put up his hand instinctively, half-deprecatingly, half in self- defence. Then as his eyes dropped once more on the motionless form over which Mr Freshfield was bending, he took half a step forward and gasped, "I did not--" Whatever he had intended to say was drowned by another howl of execration. The sound of his voice seemed to have opened the floodgates and let loose the pent-up feelings of the onlookers. A score of boys rushed between him and his victim and hustled him roughly out of the ring. "Murderer!" cried Scarfe as he gave the first thrust. And amidst echoes of that terrible cry the Cad was driven forth. Once he turned with savage face, as though he would resist and fight his way back into the ring. But it was only for a moment. It may have been a sudden glimpse of that marble face on the grass, or it may have been terror. But his uplifted hand fell again at his side, and he dragged himself dejectedly to the outskirts of the crowd. There he still hovered, his livid face always turned towards the centre, drinking in every sound and marking every movement, but not attempting again to challenge the resentment of his school-fellows by attempting to enter the awe-struck circle. It seemed an age before help came. The crowd stood round silent and motionless, with their eyes fixed on the poor lifeless head which rested on Mr Freshfield's knee; straining their eyes for one sign of animation, yearning still more for the arrival of the doctor. Mr Freshfield did not dare to lift the form, or even beyond gently raising the head, to move it in any way. How anxiously all watched as, when the water arrived, he softly sponged the brow and held the glass to the white lips! Alas! the dark lashes still drooped over those closed eyes, and as each moment passed Bolsover felt that it stood in the shadow of death. At last there was a stir, as the sound of wheels approached in the lane. And presently the figure of the doctor, accompanied by Mr Frampton, was seen running across the meadow. As they reached the outskirts of the crowd, Jeffreys laid his hand on the doctor's arm with an appealing gesture. "I did not mean--" he began. But the doctor passed on through the path which the crowd opened for him to the fallen boy's side. It was a moment of terrible suspense as he knelt and touched the boy's wrist, and applied his ear to his chest. Then in a hurried whisper he asked two questions of Mr Freshfield, then again bent over the inanimate form. They could tell by the look on his face as he looked up that there was hope--for there was life! "He's not dead!" they heard him whisper to Mr Frampton. Still they stood round, silent and motionless. The relief itself was terrible. He was not dead, but would those deep-fringed eyes ever open again? The doctor whispered again to Mr Frampton and Mr Freshfield, and the two passed their hands under the prostrate form to lift it. But before they could do so the doctor, who never took his eyes off the boy's face, held up his hand suddenly, and said "No! Better have a hurdle," pointing to one which lay not far off on the grass. A dozen boys darted for it, and a dozen more laid their coats upon it to make a bed. Once more, amid terrible suspense, they saw the helpless form raised gently and deposited on the hurdle. A sigh of relief escaped when the operation was over, and the sad burden, supported at each corner by the two masters, Scarfe and Farfield, began to move slowly towards the school. "Slowly, and do not keep step. Above all things avoid a jolt," said the doctor, keeping the boy's hand in his own. The crowd opened to let them pass, and then followed in mournful procession. As the bearers passed on, Jeffreys, who all this time had been forgotten, but who had never once turned his face from where Forrester lay, stepped quickly forward as though to assist in carrying the litter. His sudden movement, and the startling gesture that accompanied it, disconcerted the bearers, and caused them for a moment to quicken their step, thus imparting an unmistakable shock to the precious burden. The doctor uttered an exclamation of vexation and ordered a halt. "Stand back, sir!" he cried angrily, waving Jeffreys back; "a jolt like that may be fatal!" An authority still more potent than that of the doctor was at hand to prevent a recurrence of the danger. Jeffreys was flung out of reach of the litter by twenty angry hands and hounded out of the procession. He did not attempt to rejoin it. For a moment he stood and watched it as it passed slowly on. A cold sweat stood on his brow, and every breath was a gasp. Then he turned slowly back to the spot where Forrester had fallen, and threw himself on the ground in a paroxysm of rage and misery. It was late and growing dark as he re-entered the school. There was a strange, weird silence about the place that contrasted startlingly with the usual evening clamour. The boys were mostly in their studies or collected in whispering groups in the schoolrooms. As Jeffreys entered, one or two small boys near the door hissed him and ran away. Others who met him in the passage and on the stairs glared at him with looks of mingled horror and aversion, which would have frozen any ordinary fellow. Jeffreys, however, did not appear to heed it, still less to avoid it. Entering the Sixth Form room, he found most of his colleagues gathered, discussing the tragedy of the day in the dim light of the bay window. So engrossed were they that they never noticed his entrance, and it was not till after standing a minute listening to their talk he broke in, in his loud tones-- "Is Forrester dead?" The sound of his voice, so harsh and unexpected, had the effect of an explosion in their midst. They recoiled from it, startled and half-scared. Then, quickly perceiving the intruder, they turned upon him with a howl. But this time the Cad did not retreat before them. He held up his hand to stop them with a gesture almost of authority. "Don't!" he exclaimed. "I'll go. But tell me, some one, is he dead?" His big form loomed out in the twilight a head taller than any of his companions, and there was something in his tone and attitude that held them back. "You will be sorry to hear," said Scarfe, one of the first to recover his self-control, and with a double-edge of bitterness in his voice, "that he was alive an hour ago." Jeffreys gave a gasp, and held up his hand again. "Is there hope for him, then?" "Not with you in the school, you murderer!" exclaimed Farfield, advancing on the Cad, and striking him on the mouth. Farfield had counted the cost, and was prepared for the furious onslaught which he felt certain would follow. But Jeffreys seemed scarcely even to be aware of the blow. He kept his eyes on Scarfe, to whom he had addressed his last question, and said-- "You won't believe me. I didn't mean it." "Don't tell lies," said Scarfe, "you did--coward!" Jeffreys turned on his heel with what sounded like a sigh. The fury of his companions, which had more than once been on the point of breaking loose in the course of the short conference, vented itself in a howl as the door closed behind him. And yet, some said to themselves, would a murderer have stood and faced them all as he had done? The long night passed anxiously and sleeplessly for most of the inhabitants of Bolsover. The event of the day had awed them into something like a common feeling. They forgot their own petty quarrels and grievances for the time, and thought of nothing but poor Forrester. The doctor and Mr Frampton never quitted his room all night. Boys who, refusing to go to bed, sat anxiously, with their study doors open, eager to catch the first sound proceeding from that solemn chamber, waited in vain, and dropped asleep where they sat as the night gave place to dawn. Even the masters hovered restlessly about with careworn faces, and full of misgivings as hour passed hour without tidings. At length--it was about ten o'clock, and the school bell was just beginning to toll for morning chapel--the door opened, and Mr Frampton stepped quickly out of the sick-room. "Stop the bell at once!" he said. Then Forrester must still be living! "How is he?" asked a dozen voices, as the head-master passed down the corridor. "There is hope," said Mr Frampton, "and, thank God! signs of returning consciousness." And with that grain of comfort wearied Bolsover filed slowly into church. As Mr Frampton reached his study door he found Scarfe and Farfield waiting for him. "Well?" said he wearily, seeing that they had something to say. "Come in." They followed him into the room. "Is there really hope?" said Scarfe, who truly loved the injured boy. "I think so. He never moved or showed sign of life, except the beating of his heart, till an hour ago. Then he moved his head and opened his eyes." "Did he know you, sir?" "The doctor thinks he did. But everything depends now on quiet and care." "We wanted to speak to you, sir, about the--the accident," said Farfield with a little hesitation. "Yes. I have hardly heard how it happened, except that he fell in attempting to collar Jeffreys. Was it not so?" "Yes, sir," replied Farfield. "But--" "Well, what?" asked Mr Frampton, noticing his hesitation. "We don't feel sure that it was altogether an accident," said Farfield. "What! Do you mean that the boy was intentionally injured?" "Jeffreys might easily have run round him. Anybody else would. He had the whole field to himself, and no one even near him behind." "But was it not Forrester who got in front of him?" "Of course he tried to collar him, sir," said Scarfe; "but he's only a little boy, and Jeffreys is a giant. Jeffreys might have fended him off with his arm, as he did the other fellows who had tried to stop him, or he might have run round him. Instead of that,"--and here the speaker's voice trembled with indignation--"he charged dead at him, and ran right over him." Mr Frampton's face clouded over. "Jeffreys is a clumsy fellow, is he not?" he asked. "Yes," said Scarfe; "and if it had been any one else than Forrester, we should all have put it down to his stupidity." "You mean," said the head-master, "that he had a quarrel with Forrester?" "He hated Forrester. Every one knew that. Forrester used to make fun of him and enrage him." "And you mean to tell me you believe this big boy of nineteen, out of revenge, deliberately ran over young Forrester in the way you describe?" "I'm sure of it, sir," said Farfield unhesitatingly. "No one doubts it," said Scarfe. Mr Frampton took an uneasy turn up and down the room. He hated tale- bearers; but this seemed a case in which he was bound to listen and inquire further. "Scarfe and Farfield," said he, after a long pause, "you know of course as well as I do the nature of the charge you are bringing against your schoolfellow--the most awful charge one human being can bring against another. Are you prepared to repeat all you have said to me in Jeffreys' presence to-morrow, and before the whole school?" "Certainly, sir," said both boys. "It was our duty to tell you, sir," said Scarfe; "and only fair to poor young Forrester." "Nothing less than a sense of duty could justify the bringing of such a terrible accusation," said the head-master, "and I am relieved that you are prepared to repeat it publicly--to-morrow. For to-day, let us thank God for the hope He gives us of the poor sufferer. Good-bye." Much as he could have wished it, it was impossible for Mr Frampton, wearied out as he was with his night's watching, to dismiss from his mind the serious statement which his two senior boys had made. The responsibility which rested on him in consequence was terrible, and it required all his courage to face it. That afternoon he sent for Mr Freshfield, and repeated to him the substance of the accusation against Jeffreys, asking him if he had noticed anything calculated to confirm the suspicion expressed by the boys. Mr Freshfield was naturally very much startled. "If you had not mentioned it," he said, "I should never have dreamed of such a thing. But I confess I have noticed that Forrester and Jeffreys were on bad terms. Forrester is a mischievous boy, and Jeffreys, who you know is rather a lout, seems to have been his special butt. I am afraid, too, that Jeffreys' short temper rather encouraged his tormentors." "Yes, but about the accident," said Mr Frampton; "you were on the ground, you know. Did you notice anything then?" "There was a little horseplay as the sides were changing over at half- time. Forrester, among others, was taunting Jeffreys with a bad piece of play, and threw something at him. I was rather struck by the look almost of fury which passed across Jeffreys' face. But it seemed to me he got better of his feelings with an effort and went on without heeding what was said to him." "That was not long before the accident?" "About a quarter of an hour. His run down the field at the last was really a good piece of play, and every one seemed surprised. But there was any amount of room and time to get past Forrester instead of charging right on to him. It's possible, of course, he may have lost his head and not seen what he was doing." Mr Frampton shrugged his shoulders. "Well," said he with a dejected look, "I wish you could have told me anything but what you have. At any rate, to-morrow morning the matter must be faced and decided upon. Jeffreys is unpopular in the school, is he not?" "Most unpopular," said Mr Freshfield. "That will make our responsibility all the greater," said the head- master. "He will have every one's hand against him." "And you may be quite certain he will do himself injustice. He always does. But what of Forrester?" "He is conscious, and has taken some nourishment; that is all I can say, except, indeed," added Mr Frampton, with a groan, "that if he lives the doctor says it will be as a cripple." The day dragged wearily on, and night came at last. Most of the boys, worn-out with their last night's vigil, went to bed and slept soundly. The doctor, too, leaving his patient in the charge of a trained nurse, specially summoned, returned home, reporting hopefully of the case as he departed. In two studies at Bolsover that night, however, there was no rest. Far into the night Mr Frampton paced to and fro across the floor. His hopes and ambitions had fallen like a house of cards. The school he had been about to reform and regenerate had sunk in one day lower than ever before. There was something worse than dry-rot in it now. But Mr Frampton was a brave man; and that night he spent in arming himself for the task that lay before him. Yet how he dreaded that scene to-morrow! How he wished that this hideous nightmare were after all a dream, and that he could awake and find Bolsover where it was even yesterday morning! The other watcher was Jeffreys. He had slept not a wink the night before, and to-night sleep seemed still more impossible. Had you seen him as he sat there listlessly in his chair, with his gaunt, ugly face and restless lips, you would have been inclined, I hope, to pity him, cad as he was. Hour after hour he sat there without changing his posture, cloud after cloud chasing one another across his brow, as they chased one another across the pale face of the moon outside. At length, as it seemed, with an effort he rose to his feet and slipped off his boots. His candle had burned nearly out, but the moon was bright enough to light his room without it, so he extinguished it and softly opened the door. The passage was silent, the only sounds being the heavy breathing somewhere of a weary boy, and the occasional creaking of a board as he crept along on tip-toe. At the end of the passage he turned aside a few steps to a door, and stood listening. Some one was moving inside. There was the rustle of a dress and the tinkle of a spoon in a cup. Then he heard a voice, and oh, how his heart beat as he listened! "I'm tired," it said wearily. That was all. Jeffreys heard the smoothing of a pillow and a woman's soothing whisper hushing the sufferer to rest. The drops stood in beads on his brow as he stood there and listened. In a little all became quiet, and presently a soft, regular breathing told him that some one was sleeping. He put his hand cautiously to the handle and held it there a minute before he dared turn it. At last he did so, and opened the door a few inches. The breathing went regularly on. Inch by inch he pushed the door back till he could catch a glimpse in the moonlight of the bed, and a dark head of hair on the pillow. An inch or two more, and he could see the whole room and the nurse dozing in the corner. Stealthily, like a thief, he advanced into the room and approached the bed. The sufferer was lying motionless, and still breathing regularly. Jeffreys took a step forward to look at his face. At that moment the moonlight streamed in at the window and lit up the room. Then, to his terror, he noticed that the patient was awake, and lying with eyes wide open gazing at the ceiling. Suddenly, and before Jeffreys could withdraw, the eyes turned and met his. For an instant they rested there vacantly, then a gasp and a shriek of horror proclaimed that Forrester had recognised him. In a moment he was outside the door, and had closed it before the nurse started up from her slumber. He had not been in his study a minute when he heard a sound of footsteps and whispered voices without. The boy's cry had reached the wakeful ears of Mr Frampton, and already he was on his way to the sick-chamber. Jeffreys sank down on his bed in an agony of terror and suspense. The boy's cry resounded in his ears and deafened him, till at last he could endure it no longer. Next morning, when the school was gathered in the hall, after prayers, Mr Frampton, looking round him, missed the figure that was uppermost in his thoughts. "Will some one tell Jeffreys to come here?" he said. Mr Freshfield went, but returned suddenly to announce that Jeffreys' study was empty, and that a rope formed of sheets suspended from his window made it evident he had escaped in the night and quitted Bolsover. CHAPTER FOUR. GONE AGAIN. On the evening following Jeffreys' departure from Bolsover, a middle- aged, handsome gentleman was sitting in his comfortable study in the city of York, whistling pleasantly to himself. The house in which he lived was a small one, yet roomy enough for an old bachelor. And what it wanted in size it made up for in the elegance and luxury of its furniture and adornments. Mr Halgrove was evidently a connoisseur in the art of making himself comfortable. Everything about him was of the best, and bespoke not only a man of taste but a man of means. The books on the shelves--and where can you find any furniture to match a well-filled bookcase?--were well chosen and well bound. The pictures on the walls were all works of art and most tastefully hung. The knickknacks scattered about the room were ornamental as well as useful. Even the collie dog which lay luxuriously on the hearthrug with one eye half open was as beautiful as he was faithful. Mr Halgrove whistled pleasantly to himself as he stirred his coffee and glanced down the columns of the London paper. If you had looked over his shoulder, you would have come to the conclusion that Mr Halgrove's idea of what was interesting in a newspaper and your own by no means coincided. He was, in fact, reading the money article, and running his eye skilfully among the mazes of the stocks and shares there reported. Suddenly there was a ring at the hall door and a man's voice in the hall. Next moment the study door opened, and amid the frantic rejoicings of Julius, John Jeffreys walked into the presence of his guardian. He was haggard and travel-stained, and Mr Halgrove, in the midst of his astonishment, noticed that his boots were nearly in pieces. Bolsover was fifty-five miles from York, and the roads were rough and stony. The guardian, whatever astonishment he felt at this unexpected apparition, gave no sign of it in his face, as he sat back in his chair and took several quiet whiffs of his weed before he addressed his visitor. "Ah!" said he, "you've broken up early." "No, sir," said Jeffreys. "Please may I have something to eat?" "Help yourself to the bread and butter there," said Mr Halgrove, pointing to the remains of his own tea, "and see if you can squeeze anything out of the coffee-pot. If not, ring for some more hot water. Lie down, Julius!" Jeffreys ate the bread and butter ravenously, and drank what was left in the coffee-pot and milk-jug. Mr Halgrove went on with his cigar, watching his ward curiously. "The roads are rough for walking this time of the year," observed he. "Yes," said Jeffreys; "I've walked all the way." "Good exercise," said Mr Halgrove. "How long did it take you?" "I left Bolsover at half-past four this morning." Mr Halgrove looked at his watch. "Fifteen hours--a fairly good pace," said he. A silence ensued, during which time guardian and ward remained eyeing one another, the one curiously, the other anxiously. "Why not sit down," said Mr Halgrove, when it became evident his ward was not going to open the conversation, "after your long walk?" Jeffreys dropped heavily into the chair nearest to him and Julius came up and put his head between his knees. "Do you often take country walks of this sort?" said the guardian. "No, sir; I've run away from Bolsover." Mr Halgrove raised his eyebrows. "Indeed! Was it for the fun of the thing, or for any special reason?" "It was because I have killed a boy," said Jeffreys hoarsely. It spoke volumes for Mr Halgrove's coolness that he took this alarming announcement without any sign of emotion. "Have you?" said he. "And was that for fun, or for any special reason?" "I didn't mean it; it was an accident," said Jeffreys. "Is the story worth repeating?" asked the guardian, knocking the ash off the end of the cigar, and settling himself in his chair. Jeffreys told the story in a blundering, mixed-up way, but quite clearly enough for Mr Halgrove. "So you meant to run at him, though you didn't mean to kill him?" said he, when the narrative was ended. "I did not mean to kill him," repeated the boy doggedly. "Of course it would not occur to you that you were twice his size and weight, and that running over him meant--well manslaughter." "I never thought it for a moment--not for a moment." "Was the accident fatal, at once, may I ask?" "No, sir; he was brought to the school insensible, and remained so for more than twelve hours. Then he became conscious, and seemed to be doing well." "A temporary rally, I suppose?" observed the guardian. Jeffreys' mouth worked uneasily, and his pale brow became overcast again. "No, I believe if it hadn't been for me he might have recovered." "Indeed," said the other, once more raising his eyebrows; "what further attention did you bestow on him--not poison, I hope?" "No, but I went to his room in the middle of the night and startled him, and gave him a shock." "Yes; playing bogey is liable to alarm invalids. I have always understood so," said Mr Halgrove drily. "I didn't mean to startle him. I fancied he was asleep, and just wanted to see how he seemed to be getting on. No one would tell me a word about him," said Jeffreys miserably. "And that killed him outright?" "I'm afraid it must have," said Jeffreys. "The doctor had said the least shock would be fatal, and this was a very great shock." "It would be. You did not, however, wait to see?" "No; I waited an hour or two, and then I ran away." "Did you say good-bye to the head-master before leaving?" "No; nobody knew of my going." "Of course you left your address behind you, in case you should be invited to attend the inquest." "They know where I live," said Jeffreys. "Indeed! And may _I_ ask where you live?" The ward's face fell at the question. "Here, sir," faltered he. "Pardon me, I think you are mistaken, John Jeffreys." Jeffreys looked hard at his guardian, as if to ascertain whether or not he spoke seriously. His one longing at that moment was for food and rest. Since Saturday morning his eyes had never closed, and yet, strange as it may seem, he could take in no more of the future than what lay before him on this one night. The sudden prospect now of being turned out into the street was overwhelming. "I think you are mistaken," repeated Mr Halgrove, tossing the end of his cigar into the fireplace and yawning. "But, sir," began Jeffreys, raising himself slowly to his feet, for he was stiff and cramped after his long journey, "I've walked--" "So you said," interrupted Mr Halgrove, incisively. "You will be used to it." At that moment Jeffreys decided the question of his night's lodging in a most unlooked-for manner by doing what he had never done before, and what he never did again. He fainted. When he next was aware of anything he was lying in his own bed upstairs in broad daylight, and Mr Halgrove's housekeeper was depositing a tray with some food upon it at his side. He partook gratefully, and dropped off to sleep again without rousing himself enough to recall the events of the past evening. When, however, late in the afternoon, he awoke, and went over in his mind the events of the last few days, a dismal feeling of anxiety came over him and dispelled the comfort of his present situation. He got out of bed slowly and painfully, for he was very stiff and footsore. He knew not at what moment his guardian might return to the unpleasant topic of last night's conversation, and he resolved to end his own suspense as speedily as possible. He took a bath and dressed, and then descended resolutely but with sad misgivings to the library. Mr Halgrove was sitting where his ward had left him yesterday evening. "Ah," said he, as the boy entered, "early rising's not your strong point, is it?" "I only woke half an hour ago." "And you are anxious, of course, to know whether you have been inquired for by the police?" said the guardian, paring his nails. Jeffreys' face fell. "Has some one been?" he asked. "Have you heard anything?" "No one has been as yet except the postman. He brought me a letter from Bolsover, which will probably interest you more than it does me. It's there on the table." Jeffreys took up a letter addressed in Mr Frampton's hand. "Am I to read it?" "As you please." Jeffreys opened the letter and read:-- "Bolsover, _October_ 12. "S. Halgrove, Esq. "Dear Sir,--I regret to inform you that your ward, John Jeffreys, left Bolsover secretly last night, and has not up to the present moment returned. If he has returned to you, you will probably have learned by this time the circumstances which led him to take the step he has. (Here Mr Frampton briefly repeated the story of the football accident.) The patient still lingers, although the doctors do not at present hold out much hope of ultimate recovery. I am not inclined to credit the statement current in the school with regard to the sad event, that the injury done to the small boy was not wholly due to accident. Still, under the grave circumstances, which are made all the more serious by your ward's flight, I suggest to you that you should use your authority to induce Jeffreys to return here--at any rate for as long as Forrester's fate remains precarious; or, failing that, that you should undertake, in the event of a legal inquiry being necessary, that he shall be present if required. "Faithfully yours,-- "T. Frampton." "Pleasant letter, is it not?" said Mr Halgrove as Jeffreys replaced it in its envelope and laid it again on the table. "I can't go back to Bolsover," said he. "No? You think you are not appreciated there?" Jeffreys winced. "But I will undertake to go there if--" "If the coroner invites you, eh?" "Yes," replied the boy. "The slight difficulty about that is that it is I, not you, that am asked to make the undertaking." "But you will, won't you?" asked Jeffreys eagerly. "I have the peculiarity of being rather particular about the people I give undertakings for," said Mr Halgrove, flicking a speck of dust off his sleeve; "it may be ridiculous, but I draw the line at homicide." "You're a liar!" exclaimed the ward, in a burst of fury, which, however, he repented of almost before the words had escaped him. Mr Halgrove was not in the slightest degree disturbed by this undutiful outbreak, but replied coolly,-- "In that case, you see, my undertaking would be worth nothing. No. What do you say to replying to Mr Frampton's suggestion yourself?" "I will write and tell him I will go whenever he wants me." "The only objection to that," observed the guardian, "will be the difficulty in giving him any precise address, will it not?" Jeffreys winced again. "You mean to turn me adrift?" said he bluntly. "Your perception is excellent, my young friend." "When?" Mr Halgrove looked at his watch. "I believe Mrs Jessop usually locks up about eleven. It would be a pity to keep her up after that hour." Jeffreys gulped down something like a sigh and turned to the door. "Not going, are you?" said the guardian. "It's early yet." "I am going," replied the ward quietly. "By the way," said Mr Halgrove, as he reached the door, "by the way, John--" Jeffreys stopped with his hand on the latch. "I was going to say," said the guardian, rising and looking for his cigar-case, "that the little sum of money which was left by your father, and invested for your benefit, has very unfortunately taken to itself wings, owing to the failure of the undertaking in which it happened to be invested. I have the papers here, and should like to show them to you, if you can spare me five minutes." Jeffreys knew nothing about money. Hitherto his school fees had been paid, and a small regular allowance for pocket-money had been sent him quarterly by his guardian. Now his guardian's announcement conveyed little meaning to him beyond the fact that he had no money to count upon. He never expected he would have; so he was not disappointed. "I don't care to see the papers," he said. "You are a philosopher, my friend," said his guardian. "But I have sufficient interest in you, despite your financial difficulties, to believe you might find this five-pound note of service on your travels." "No, thank you," said Jeffreys, putting his hand behind his back. "Don't mention it," said his guardian, returning it to his pocket. "There is, when I come to think of it," added he, "a sovereign which really belongs to you. It is the balance of your last quarter's allowance, which I had been about to send to you this week. I would advise you to take it." "Is it really mine?" "Pray come and look over the accounts. I should like to satisfy you." "If it is really mine I will take it," said the boy. "You are sensible," said his guardian, putting it into his hand. "You are perfectly safe in taking it. It is yours. It will enable you to buy a few postage stamps. I shall be interested to hear of your success. Good-bye." Jeffreys, ignoring the hand which was held out to him, walked silently from the room. Mr Halgrove stood a moment and listened to the retreating footsteps. Then he returned to his chair and rang the bell. "Mrs Jessop," said he, "Mr Jeffreys is going on a journey. Will you kindly see he has a good meal before starting?" Mrs Jessop went upstairs and found Jeffreys writing a letter. "Master says you're going a journey, sir." "Yes. I shall be starting in half an hour." "Can't you put it off till to-morrow, sir?" "No, thanks. But I want to finish this letter." "Well, sir, there'll be some supper for you in the parlour. It's master's orders." Jeffreys' letter was to Mr Frampton. "Sir," he wrote, "I left Bolsover because I could not bear to be there any longer. I did not mean to injure Forrester so awfully, though I was wicked enough to have a spite against him. I am not a murderer, though I am as bad as one. If I could do anything to help Forrester get better I would come, but I should only make everything worse. My guardian has turned me away, and I shall have to find employment. But the housekeeper here, Mrs Jessop, will always know where I am, and send on to me if I am wanted. I should not think of hiding away till I hear that Forrester is better. If he dies I should not care to live, so I should be only too glad to give myself up. I cannot come back to Bolsover now, even if I wanted, as I have only a pound, and my guardian tells me that is all the money I have in the world. Please write and say if Forrester is better. I am too miserable to write more. "Yours truly,-- "John Jeffreys." Having finished this dismal letter, he packed up one or two of his things in a small handbag and descended to the parlour. There he found an ample supper provided for him by the tender-hearted Mrs Jessop, who had a pretty shrewd guess as to the nature of the "journey" that her master's ward was about to take. But Jeffreys was not hungry, and the announcement that the meal was there by the "master's orders" turned him against it. "I can't eat anything, thank you," he said to Mrs Jessop, "you gave me such a good tea only a little while ago." "But you've a long journey, Master John. Is it a long journey, sir?" "I don't know yet," he said. "But I want you to promise to send me on any letter or message that comes, will you?" "Where to?" "To the head post-office, here." "Here? Then you're not going out of York?" "Not at first. I'll let you know when I go where to send on the letters." "Mr John," said the housekeeper, "the master's turned you away. Isn't that it?" "Perhaps he's got a reason for it. Good-bye, Mrs Jessop." "Oh, but Mr John--" But John interrupted her with a kiss on her motherly cheek, and next moment was gone. CHAPTER FIVE. FREDDY AND TEDDY. John Jeffreys, as he stood in the street that October evening, had no more idea what his next step was to be than had Mr Halgrove or the motherly Mrs Jessop. He was a matter-of-fact youth, and not much given to introspection; but the reader may do well on this particular occasion to take a hasty stock of him as he walked aimlessly down the darkening street. He was nineteen years old. In appearance he was particularly ugly in face and clumsy in build. Against that, he was tall and unusually powerful whenever he chose to exert his strength. In mind he was reputed slow and almost stupid, although he was a good classical scholar and possessed a good memory. He was cursed with a bad and sometimes ungovernable temper. He was honest and courageous. He rarely knew how to do the right thing at the right time or in the right place. And finally he had a bad name, and believed himself to be a homicide. Such was the commonplace creature who, with a sovereign in his pocket and the whole world before him, paced the streets of York that Tuesday night. On one point his mind was made up. He must remain in York for the present, prepared at a moment's notice to repair to Bolsover, should the dreaded summons come. With that exception, as I have said, his mind was open, and utterly devoid of ideas as to the future. He directed his steps to the poor part of the town, not so much because it was poor, as because it was farthest away from his guardian's. He resolved that to-night at any rate he would indulge in the luxury of a bed, and accordingly, selecting the least repulsive-looking of a number of tenements offering "Cheap beds for Single Men," he turned in and demanded lodging. To the end of his days he looked back on the "cheap bed" he that night occupied with a shudder. And he was by no means a Sybarite, either. Happily, he had still some sleep to make up; and despite his foul bed, his unattractive fellow-lodgers, and his own dismal thoughts, he fell asleep, in his clothes and with his bag under his pillow, and slept till morning. He partook of a cheap breakfast at a coffee-stall on one of the bridges, and occupied the remainder of the time before the opening of business houses in wandering about on the city walls, endeavouring to make up his mind what calling in life he should seek to adopt. He had not decided this knotty point when the minster chimes struck ten, and reminded him that he was letting the precious moments slip. So he descended into the streets, determined to apply for the first vacancy which presented itself. Wandering aimlessly on, he came presently upon a bookseller's shop, outside which were displayed several trays of second-hand volumes which attracted his attention. Jeffreys loved books and was a voracious reader, and in the midst of his wearisome search for work it was like a little harbour of refuge to come upon a nest of them here. Just, however, as he was about to indulge in the delicious luxury of turning over the contents of the tempting trays, his eye was attracted by a half-sheet of note-paper gummed on to the shop window and bearing the inscription, "Assistant wanted. Apply within." Next instant Jeffreys stood within. "I see you want an assistant," said he to the old spectacled bookseller who inquired his business. "That's right." "Will you take me?" The man glanced up and down at his visitor and said doubtfully,-- "Don't know you--are you in the trade?" "No, I've just left school." "What do you know about books?" "I love them," replied the candidate simply. The bookseller's face lit up and shot a glow of hope into the boy's heart. "You love them. I like that. But take my advice, young fellow, and if you love books, don't turn bookseller." Jeffreys' face fell. "I'm not afraid of getting to hate them," said he. The man beamed again. "What's your name, my lad?" "John Jeffreys." "And you've just left school? What school?" Alas! poor Jeffreys! It cost him a struggle to utter the name. "Bolsover." "Bolsover, eh? Do you know Latin?" "Yes--and Greek," replied the candidate. The bookseller took up a book that lay on the table. It was an old and valuable edition of Pliny's _Epistles_. "Read us some of that." Jeffreys was able fairly well to accomplish the task, greatly to the delight of the old bookseller. "Capital! You're the first chap I ever had who could read Pliny off." Jeffreys' face lit up. The man spoke as if the thing was settled. "How will fifteen shillings a week and your meals suit you?" said he. "Perfectly!" replied the candidate. "Hum! you've got a character, of course?" Poor Jeffreys' face fell. "Do you mean testimonials?" "No. You can refer to some one who knows you--your old schoolmaster, for instance." "I'm afraid not," faltered the boy. The man looked perplexed. "Couldn't get a character from him--why not?" "Because I ran away from school." "Oh, oh! Did they ill-treat you, then, or starve you? Come; better tell the truth." "No--it wasn't that. It was because--" Jeffreys gave one longing look at the shelves of beloved books, and an appealing glance at his questioner--"It was because I--nearly killed a boy." The man whistled and looked askance at his visitor. "By accident?" "Partly. Partly not. But I assure you--" "That will do," said the man; "that's quite enough. Be off!" Jeffreys departed without another word. Like Tantalus, the tempting fruit had been within reach, and his evil destiny had come in to dash it from his lips. Was it wonderful if he felt disposed to give it up and in sheer desperation go back to Bolsover? The whole of the remainder of that day was spent in spiritless wandering about the streets. Once he made another attempt to obtain work, this time at a merchant's office. But again the inconvenient question of character was raised, and he was compelled to denounce himself. This time his confession was even more unfeelingly received than at the bookseller's. "How dare you come here, you scoundrel?" exclaimed the merchant in a rage. "Don't call me a scoundrel!" retorted Jeffreys, his temper suddenly breaking out. "I'll call a policeman if you are not out of here in half a minute. Here, you boys," added he, calling his six or eight clerks, "turn this wretch out of the place. Do you hear?" Jeffreys spared them the trouble and stepped into the street, determined to die before he laid himself open to such an indignity again. His last night's experience at a common lodging-house did not tempt him to seek shelter again now, and as it was a fine mild night even at that time of year he trudged out of York into one of the suburbs, where at least everything was clean and quiet. He had the good fortune in a country lane to come across a wagon laid up by the roadside, just inside a field--a lodging far more tempting than that offered by Mr Josephs, and considerably cheaper. The fatigues and troubles of the day operated like a feather-bed for the worn-out and dispirited outcast, and he slept soundly, dreaming of Forrester, and the bookshop, and the dog Julius. Next morning the weary search began again. Jeffreys, as he trudged back to the city, felt that he was embarked on a forlorn hope. Yet a man must live, and a sovereign cannot last for ever. He passed a railway embankment where a gang of navvies were hard at work. As he watched them he felt half envious. They had work to do, they had homes to return to at night, they had characters, perhaps. Most of them were big strong fellows like himself. Why should he not become one of them? He fancied he could wheel a barrow, and ply a crowbar, and dig with a spade, as well as any of them; he was not afraid of hard work any more than they were, and the wages that kept a roof over their heads would surely keep a roof over his. As he sat on a bank by the roadside and watched them, he had almost resolved to walk across to the foreman and ask for a job, when the sound of voices close to him arrested him. They were boys' voices, and their talk evidently referred to himself, "Come along, Teddy," said one. "He won't hurt." "I'm afraid," said the other. "He's so ugly." "Perhaps that's how he gets his living--scaring the crows," said the first speaker. "He looks as if he meant to kill us." "I shall fight him if he tries." Jeffreys looked round and had a view of the valiant speaker and his companion. They were two neatly dressed little fellows, hand-in-hand, and evidently brothers. The younger--he who considered his life in danger--was about eight, his intrepid brother being apparently about a year his senior. They had little satchels over their shoulders, and parti-coloured cricket caps on their little curly heads. Their faces were bright and shining, the knees of their stockings were elaborately darned, the little hands were unmistakably ink-stained, and their pockets were bulged out almost to bursting. Such was the apparition which confronted the Bolsover "cad" as he sat slowly making up his mind to become a labourer. The younger brother drew back and began to cry, as soon as he perceived that the terrible villain on the bank had turned and was regarding them. "Freddy, Freddy, run!" he cried. "I shan't," said Freddy with a big heave of his chest. "I'm not afraid." The fluttering heart beneath that manly bosom belied the words, as Freddy, dragging his brother by the hand, walked forward. Jeffreys did not exactly know what to do. Were he to rise and approach the little couple the consequences might be disastrous. Were he to remain where he was or skulk away, he would be allowing them to believe him the ruffian they thought him, and that lane would become a daily terror to their little lives. The only thing was to endeavour to make friends. "What are you afraid of?" said he, in as gentle a manner as he could. "I won't hurt you." The sound of his voice caused the smaller boy to scream outright, and even the elder trembled a little as he kept himself full front to the enemy. "You little donkeys, I'm a schoolboy myself," said Jeffreys. This announcement had a magical effect. The younger brother stopped short in his scream, and Freddy boldly took two steps forward. "Are you a boy?" inquired the latter. "Of course I am. I was in the top form. I'm older than you, though." "I'm ten," replied the proud owner of that venerable age. "I'm nine in February," chimed in the still-fluttered junior. "I'm about as old as you two put together. How old's that, Freddy?" "Nineteen," said Freddy. By this time Jeffreys had gradually descended the bank and stood close to the two small brothers. "Bravo, young 'un, you can do sums, I see!" "Compound division and vulgar fractions," said Freddy confidentially. Jeffreys gave a whistle of admiration which won the heart of his hearer. "Are you going to school now?" inquired the latter. "No; I've left school," said Jeffreys, "last week." "Last week! why, it's only the middle of the term. Were you sent away?" Jeffreys began to feel uncomfortable in the presence of this small cross-examiner. "I got into trouble and had to leave." "I know why," said the younger brother, plucking up courage. "Why?" inquired Jeffreys, with an amused smile. "Because you were so ugly!" Jeffreys laughed. "Thank you," said he. "Was it because you killed the master?" asked the more matter-of-fact Freddy. Poor Jeffreys winced before this random shot, and hastened to divert the conversation. "Whose school do you go to?" he inquired. "Trimble's; we hate her," said the two youths in a breath. "Why? Does she whack you?" "No; but she worries us, and young Trimble's worse still. Do you know the school?" "No. What's the name of the house?" "Oh, Galloway House, in Ebor Road. It wasn't so bad when Fison was there," continued the open-hearted Freddy; "but now he's gone. Trimble's a cad." "We hate her," chimed in the original Teddy. "We hope the new master will be like Fison, but I don't believe Trimble can get any one to come," said Freddy. Jeffreys pricked up his ears and asked a good many questions about the school, which the youthful pair readily and gaily replied to, and then suggested that if Trimble was such a cad the boys had better not be late. "Have some parliament cake?" said Freddy, opening his satchel and producing a large square of crisp gingerbread. Jeffreys had not the heart to refuse a little piece of this delicacy, and enjoyed it more than the most sumptuous meal in an hotel. Teddy also insisted on his taking a bite out of his apple. "Good-bye," said the little fellow, putting up his face in the most natural manner for a kiss. Jeffreys felt quite staggered by this unexpected attention, but recovered his presence of mind enough to do what was expected of him. Freddy, on the other hand, looked rather alarmed at his young brother's audacity, and contented himself with holding out his hand. "Good-bye, little chap," said Jeffreys, feeling a queer lump in his throat and not exactly knowing which way to look. Next moment the two little brothers were trotting down the road hand-in- hand as gay as young larks. Jeffreys thought no more about the navvies, or the delights of a labourer's life. A new hope was in him, and he strolled slowly back into York wondering to himself if angels ever come to men in the shape of little schoolboys. It was still early when he reached the city. So he spent sixpence of his little store on a bath in the swimming baths, and another sixpence on some breakfast. Then, refreshed in body and mind, he called at the post-office. There was nothing for him there. Though he hardly expected any letter yet, his heart sunk as he thought what news might possibly be on its way to him at that moment. The image of Forrester as he lay on the football field haunted him constantly, and he would have given all the world even then to know that he was alive. Hope, however, came to his rescue, and helped him for a time to shake off the weight of his heart, and address himself boldly to the enterprise he had in hand. That enterprise the acute reader has easily guessed. He would offer his services to the worthy Mrs Trimble, _vice_ Mr Fison, resigned. He never imagined his heart could beat as quickly as it did when after a long search he read the words--"Galloway House. Select School for Little Boys," inscribed on a board in the front garden of a small, old- fashioned house in Ebor Road. The sound of children's voices in the yard at the side apprised him that he had called at a fortunate time. Mrs Trimble during the play-hour would in all probability be disengaged. Mrs Trimble was disengaged, and opened the door herself. Jeffreys beheld a stoutish harmless-looking woman, with a face by no means forbidding, even if it was decidedly unintellectual. "Well, young man," said she. She had been eating, and, I regret to say, had not finished doing so before she began to speak. "Can I see Mrs Trimble, please?" asked Jeffreys, raising his hat. The lady, finding her visitor was a gentleman, hastily wiped her mouth and answered rather lest brusquely. "I am the lady," said she. "Excuse me," said Jeffreys, "I called to ask if you were in want of an assistant teacher. I heard that you were." "How did you hear that, I wonder? I suppose he's a friend of that Fison. Yes, young man, I am in want of an assistant." "I should do my best to please you, if you would let me come," said Jeffreys. And then, anxious to avoid the painful subject of his character, he added, "I have not taught in a school before, and I have no friends here, so I can't give you any testimonials. But I am well up in classics and pretty good in mathematics, and would work hard, ma'am, if you would try me." "Are you a steady young man? Do you drink?" "I never touch anything but water; and I am quite steady." "What wages do you expect?" "I leave that to you. I will work for nothing for a month till you see if I suit you." Mrs Trimble liked this. It looked like a genuine offer. "Are you good-tempered and kind to children?" she asked. "I am very fond of little boys, and I always try to keep my temper." His heart sank at the prospect of other questions of this kind. But Mrs Trimble was not of a curious disposition. She knew when she liked a young man and when she didn't, and she valued her own judgment as much as anybody else's testimonials. "You mustn't expect grand living here," she said. "I was never used to anything but simple living," said he. "Very well, Mr --" "Jeffreys, ma'am." "Mr Jeffreys, we'll try how we get on for a month; and after that I can offer you a pound a month besides your board." "You are very kind," said Jeffreys, to whom the offer seemed a magnificent one. "I am ready to begin work at once." "That will do. You'd better begin now. Come this way to the schoolroom." CHAPTER SIX. GALLOWAY HOUSE. My business-like readers have, I dare say, found fault with me for representing a business conference on which so much depended as having taken place on the front doorstep of Galloway House, and without occupying much more than five minutes in the transaction. How did Jeffreys know what sort of person Mrs Trimble was? She might have been a Fury or a Harpy. Her house might have been badly drained. Mr Fison might have left her because he couldn't get his wages. And what did Mrs Trimble know about the Bolsover cad? She never even asked for a testimonial. He might be a burglar in disguise, or a murderer, or a child-eater. And yet these two foolish people struck a bargain with one another five minutes after their first introduction, and before even the potatoes which Mrs Trimble had left on her plate when she went to the door had had time to get cold. I am just as much surprised as the reader at their rashness, which I can only account for by supposing that they were both what the reader would call "hard up." Jeffreys, as we know, was very hard up; and as for Mrs Trimble, the amount of worry she had endured since Mr Fison had left was beyond all words. She had had to teach as well as manage, the thing she never liked. And her son and assistant, without a second usher to keep him steady, had been turning her hair grey. For three weeks she had waited in vain. Several promising-looking young men had come and looked at the place and then gone away. She had not been able to enjoy an afternoon's nap for a month. In short, she was getting worn-out. When, therefore, Jeffreys came and asked for the post, she had to put a check on herself to prevent herself from "jumping down his throat." Hence the rapid conference at the hall door, and the ease with which Jeffreys got his footing in Galloway House. "Come and have a bite of mutton," said Mrs Trimble, leading the way into the parlour. "Jonah and I are just having dinner." Jonah, who, if truth must be told, had been neglecting his inner man during the last five minutes in order to peep through the crack of the door, and overhear the conference in the hall between his mother and the stranger, was a vulgar-looking youth of about Jeffrey's age, with a slight cast in his eye, but otherwise not bad-looking. He eyed the new usher as he entered with a mingled expression of suspicion and contempt; and Jeffreys, slow of apprehension though he usually was, knew at a glance that he had not fallen on a bed of roses at Galloway House. "Jonah, this is Mr Jeffreys; I've taken him on in Fison's place. My son, Mr Jeffreys." Jonah made a face at his mother, as much as to say, "I don't admire your choice," and then, with a half-nod at Jeffreys, said,-- "Ah, how are you?" "Jonah and I always dine at twelve, Mr Jeffreys," said Mrs Trimble, over whom the prospect of the afternoon's nap was beginning to cast a balmy sense of ease. "You two young men will be good friends, I hope, and look well after the boys." "More than you do," said the undutiful Jonah; "they've been doing just as they please the last month." "It's a pity, Jonah, you never found fault with that before." "What's the use of finding fault? No end to it when you once begin." "Well," observed the easy-going matron, "you two will have to see I don't have occasion to find fault with you." Jonah laughed, and asked Jeffreys to cut him a slice of bread. Presently Mrs Trimble quitted the festive board, and the two ushers were left together. "Lucky for you," said young Trimble, "you got hold of ma and pinned her down to taking you on on the spot. What's she going to pay you?" The question did not altogether please the new assistant, but he was anxious not to come across his colleague too early in their acquaintanceship. "She pays me nothing the first month. After that, if I suit, I'm to have a pound a month." "If you suit? I suppose you know that depends on whether I like you or not?" "I hope not," blurted out Jeffreys--"that is," added he, seeing his mistake, "I hope we shall _get_ on well together." "Depends," said Trimble. "I may as well tell you at once I hate stuck- uppedness (this was a compound word worthy of a young schoolmaster). If you're that sort you'd better cry off at once. If you can do your work without giving yourself airs, I shall let you alone." Jeffreys was strongly tempted after this candid avowal to take the youthful snob's advice and cry off. But the memory of yesterday's miserable experiences restrained him. He therefore replied, with as little contempt as he was able to put into the words,-- "Thanks." Trimble's quick ear detected the ill-disguised scorn of the reply. "You needn't try on that sort of talk," said he; "I can tell you plump, it won't do. You needn't think because ma took you on for the asking, you're going to turn up your nose at the place!" "I don't think so," said Jeffreys, struggling hard with himself. "How many boys are there here?" "Forty-four. Are you anything of a teacher? Can you keep order?" "I don't know; I haven't tried yet." "Well, just mind what you're about. Keep your hands off the boys; we don't want manslaughter or anything of that sort here." Jeffreys started. Was it possible that this was a random shot, or did Trimble know about Bolsover and young Forrester? The next remark somewhat reassured him. "They're looking sharp after private schools now; so mind, hands off. There's one o'clock striking. All in! Come along. You'd better take the second class and see what you can make of them. Precious little ma will put her nose in, now you're here to do the work." He led the way down the passage and across a yard into an outhouse which formed the schoolroom. Here were assembled, as the two ushers entered, some forty boys ranging in age from seven to twelve, mostly, to judge from their dress and manners, of the small shopkeeper and farmer class. The sound of Trimble's voice produced a dead silence in the room, followed immediately by a movement of wonder as the big, ungainly form of the new assistant appeared. Jeffreys' looks, as he himself knew, were not prepossessing, and the juvenile population of Galloway House took no pains to conceal the fact that they agreed with him. "Gordon," said Trimble, addressing a small boy who had been standing up when they entered, "what are you doing?" "Nothing, sir." "You've no business to be doing nothing! Stand upon that form for an hour!" The boy obeyed, and Trimble looked round at Jeffreys with a glance of patronising complacency. "That's the proper way to do with them," said he. "Plenty of ways of taking it out of them without knocking them about." Jeffreys made no reply; he felt rather sorry for the weak-kneed little youngster perched up on that form, and wondered if Mr Trimble would expect him (Jeffreys) to adopt his method of "taking it out" of his new pupils. Just then he caught sight of the familiar face of Master Freddy, one of his friends of the morning, who was standing devouring him with his eyes as if he had been a ghost. Jeffreys walked across the room and shook hands with him. "Well, Freddy, how are you? How's Teddy?" "I say," said Trimble, in by no means an amiable voice, as he returned from this little excursion, "what on earth are you up to? What did you go and do that for?" "I know Freddy." "Oh, do you? Freddy Rosher, you're talking. What do you mean by it?" "Please, sir, I didn't mean--" "Then stay in an hour after school, and write four pages of your copy- book." It took all Jeffreys' resolution to stand by and listen to this vindictive sentence without a protest. But he restrained himself, and resolved that Freddy should find before long that all his masters were not against him. "That's your fault," said Trimble, noticing the dissatisfied look of his colleague. "How are we to keep order if you go and make the boys break rules? Now you'd better get to work. Take the second class over there and give them their English history. James the Second they're at. Now, you boys, first class, come up to me with your sums. Second class, take your history up to Mr Jeffreys. Come along; look alive!" Jeffreys thereupon found himself mobbed by a troop of twenty of the youngest of the boys, and haled away to a desk at the far end of the room, round which they congregated book in hand, and waited for him to commence operations. It was an embarrassing situation for the new usher. He had never been so fixed before. He had often had a crowd of small boys round him, tormenting him and provoking him to anger; but to be perched up here at a desk, with twenty tender youths hanging on the first word which should fall from his lips, was to say the least, a novel experience. He glanced up towards the far end of the room, in the hopes of being able to catch a hint from the practised Jonah as to how to proceed. But he found Jonah was looking at him suspiciously over the top of his book, and that was no assistance whatever. The boys evidently enjoyed his perplexity; and, emboldened by his recent act of friendliness to the unlucky Freddy, regarded him benevolently. "Will some one lend me a book?" at last said Jeffreys, half desperate. A friendly titter followed this request. "Don't you know it without the book?" asked one innocent, handing up a book. "I hope you do," said Jeffreys, blushing very much as he took it. "Now," added he, turning to the reign of James II, "can any one tell we what year King James II came to the throne?" "Please, sir, that's not the way," interposed another irreverent youngster, with a giggle. "You've got to read it first, and then ask us." Jeffreys blushed again. "Is that the way?" said he. "Very well. James II succeeded his brother Charles in 1685. One of his first acts on coming--" "Oh, we're long past that," said two or three of his delighted audience at a breath; "we've done to where Monmouth's head was cut off." This was very uncomfortable for the new master. He coloured up, as if he had been guilty of a scandalous misdemeanour, and fumbled nervously with the book, positively dreading to make a fresh attempt. At last, however, he summoned up courage. "The death of this ill-fated nobleman was followed by a still more terrible measure of retribution against those who had--" "Please, sir, we can't do such long words; we don't know what that means. You've got to say it in easy words, not what's put in the book." Jeffreys felt that all the sins of his youth were rising up against him that moment. Nothing that he had ever done seemed just then as bad as this latest delinquency. "After Monmouth's death they made it very--(hot, he was going to say, but he pulled himself up in time), they made it very (whatever was the word?)--very awkward for those who had helped him. A cruel judge named Jeffreys--" That was a finishing stroke! The reader could have sunk through the floor as he saw the sensation which this denunciation of himself caused among his audience. There was not a shadow of doubt in the face of any one of them as to his identity with the ferocious judge in question. What followed he felt was being listened to as a chapter or autobiography, and nothing he could say could now clear his character of the awful stain that rested upon it. "A cruel judge condemned more than three hundred persons--" "You forgot to say his name, please, sir," they put in. "Never mind his name; that is, I told you once, you should remember," stammered the hapless usher. "I remember it. Jeffreys, wasn't it, Mr Jeffreys?" said one boy triumphantly. "He condemned more than--" "Who, Jeffreys?" What was the use of keeping it up? "Yes; this wicked judge, Jeffreys, condemned more than three hundred people to death, just because they had helped Monmouth." There was a low whistle of horror, as every eye transfixed the speaker. "Did he repent?" asked one. "It doesn't say so," said the wretched Jeffreys, turning over to the next page in a miserable attempt to appear as if he was not involved in the inquiry. "How dreadful!" said another. "Besides this, 849 people were transported." "By Jeffreys, sir?" "Yes," replied the owner of the name, finally throwing off all disguise and giving himself up to his fate, "by this wicked Jeffreys." "Yes, sir; and what else did he do?" Trimble, as he looked every now and then down the room, was astonished to notice the quiet which prevailed in the lower class, and the interest with which every boy was listening to the new master. He did not like it. He couldn't manage to interest his class, and it didn't please him at all that this casual newcomer should come and cut him out before his face. After a while he walked down the room and approached the assistant's desk. He was convinced this, unwonted order could not result from any legitimate cause. "You don't seem to be doing much work here, I must say," said he. "Give me the book, Mr Jeffreys: I want to see what they know of the lesson. Where's the place?" Jeffreys handed the book, putting his finger on the place. Trimble glanced through a paragraph or two, and then pointing to a boy, one of the least sharp in the class, said,-- "Now, Walker, what happened after Monmouth's death?" "Oh, if you please, sir, a cruel judge, called Jeffreys, condemned--" "That will do. You, Rosher, how many people did he condemn to death?" "More than three hundred, sir," answered Freddy promptly. "What for, Bacon?" "Because they helped Monmouth." Trimble felt perplexed. He never had a class that answered like this. He tried once more. "Pridger, what else did he do?" "He had 849 transported, sir." Trimble shut the book. It was beyond him. If Pridger had said 848 or 850, he could have made something of it. But it floored him completely to find the second class knowing the exact number of convicts in one given year of English history. "Don't let me catch any of you wasting your time," he said. "Farrar, what do you mean by looking about you, sir? Stand on the form for half an hour." "Farrar has been very quiet and attentive all the afternoon," said Jeffreys. "Stand on the form an hour, Farrar," said Trimble, with a scowl. Jeffreys' brow darkened as he watched the little tyrant strut off to his class. How long would he be able to keep hands off him? The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. An unconscious bond of sympathy had arisen between the new master and his pupils. His historical importance invested him with a glamour which was nearly heroic; and his kind word on Farrar's behalf had won him an amount of confidence which was quick in showing itself. "We like you better than Fison, though he was nice," said Bacon, as the class was about to separate. "I hope Trimble won't send you away," said another. "I wish you'd condemn young Trimble to death, or transport him, Mr Jeffreys," said a third confidentially. "Good-bye, Mr Jeffreys," said Freddy, with all the confidence of an old friend. "Did you like that parliament cake?" "Awfully," said Jeffreys. "Good-bye." Every one insisted on shaking hands with him, greatly to his embarrassment; and a few minutes later the school was scattered, and Jeffreys was left to go over in his mind his first day's experience. On the whole he was cheerful. His heart warmed to these simple little fellows, who thought none the worse of him for being ugly and clumsy. With Mrs Trimble, too, he anticipated not much difficulty. Young Trimble was a rock ahead undoubtedly, but Jeffreys would stand him as long as he could, and not anticipate the day, which he felt to be inevitable, when he would be able to stand him no longer. "Well, Mr Jeffreys," said Mrs Trimble, as the dame and her two assistants sat down to tea, "how do you manage?" "Pretty well, thank you, ma'am," replied Jeffreys; "they are a nice lot of little boys, and I found them very good and quiet." "Of course you would, if you let them do as they like," said Jonah. "You'll have to keep them in, I can tell you, if you expect to keep order." It did occur to Jeffreys that if they were good without being kept in, Jonah ought to be satisfied, but he was too wise to embark on a discussion with his colleague, and confined his attentions to Mrs Trimble. The meal being ended, he said-- "Will you excuse me, ma'am, if I go into the city for about an hour? I have to call at the post-office for letters." "Look here," said Jonah, "we don't let our assistants out any time they like. It's not usual. They ought to stay here. There's plenty of work to do here." "It's very important for me to get the letters, Mrs Trimble," said Jeffreys. "Well, of course, this once," said the matron, glancing uneasily at her son; "but, as Jonah says, we like our young men to stay in, especially at night. We parted with Mr Fison because he was not steady." "Thank you, ma'am," said Jeffreys; "if the letters have come to-day I shall not have to trouble you again. Can I do anything for you in town?" "That chap won't do," said Jonah to his mother when at last Jeffreys started on his expedition. "I think he will; he means well. It wouldn't do, Jonah," said the good lady, "to have all the trouble again of finding a young man. I think Mr Jeffreys will do." "I don't," said Jonah sulkily, taking up a newspaper. Jeffreys meanwhile, in a strange frame of mind, hurried down to the post-office. The day's adventures seemed like a dream to him as he walked along, and poor Forrester seemed the only reality of his life. Would there be a letter? And what news would it bring him? During the last twelve hours a new hope and object in life had opened before him. But what was it worth, if, after all, at this very moment Forrester should be lying lifeless at Bolsover? "Have you any letter for John Jeffreys?" he asked; but his heart beat so loud that he scarcely heard his own voice. The man, humming cheerily to himself, took a batch of letters out of a pigeon-hole and began to turn them over. Jeffreys watched him feverishly, and marvelled at his indifference. "What name did you say--Jones?" "No, Jeffreys--John Jeffreys." Again he turned over the bundle, almost carelessly. At length he extracted a letter, which he tossed onto the counter. "There you are, my beauty," said he. Jeffreys, heeding nothing except that it was addressed in Mr Frampton's hand, seized the missive and hastened from the office. At the first shop window he stood and tore it open. "My dear Jeffreys,--I was glad to hear from you, although your letter gave me great pain. It would have been wiser in you to return here, whatever your circumstances might be; wiser still would it have been had you never run away. But I do not write now to reproach you. You have suffered enough, I know. I write to tell you of Forrester." Jeffreys gave a gasp for breath before he dare read on. "The poor fellow has made a temporary rally, but the doctors by no means consider him out of danger. Should he recover, which I fear is hardly probable, I grieve to say the injuries he has received would leave him a cripple for life. There is an injury to the spine and partial paralysis, which, at the best, would necessitate his lying constantly on his back, and thus being dependent entirely on others. If he can bear it, he is to be removed to his home in a day or two. He has asked about you, and on my telling him that I was writing to you, said, `Tell him I know it was only an accident.' I am sure that this letter will grieve you; I wish I could say anything which will help you. May God in His mercy bring good to us all out of this sorrow! As for yourself, I hope that your guardian's resentment will be short-lived, and that you will let me hear of your welfare. Count on me as a friend, in spite of all. "Yours always,-- "T. Frampton." "In spite of all!" groaned poor Jeffreys, as he crushed the letter into his pocket. "Will no one have pity on me?" CHAPTER SEVEN. WHAT A DAY FOR JONAH! The six months which followed Jeffreys' introduction into the classical atmosphere of Galloway House passed uneventfully for him, and not altogether unpleasantly. He had, it is true, the vision of young Forrester always in his mind, to drag him down, whenever he dwelt upon it, into the bitterest dejection; and he had the active spite and insolence of Jonah Trimble daily to try his temper and tax his patience. Otherwise he was comfortable. Mrs Trimble, finding him steady and quiet, treated him kindly when she had her own way, and indifferently when her son was with her. The boys of the second class maintained the mysterious respect they had conceived for him on the day of his arrival, and gave him wonderfully little trouble or difficulty. He had his evenings for the most part to himself, and even succeeded, after something like a battle-royal with the Trimbles, in carrying his point of having one "evening out" in the week. It nearly cost him his situation, and it nearly cost Jonah a bone-shaking before the question was settled. But Jeffreys could be stubborn when he chose, and stood out grimly on this point. Had it not been for this weekly respite, Galloway House would have become intolerable before a month was over. He heard occasionally from Mr Frampton; but the one question which would have interested him most was generally passed over. Mr Frampton probably considered that any reference to Forrester would be painful to his correspondent, and therefore avoided it. At last, however, in reply to Jeffreys' entreaty to know where the boy was and how he was progressing, the head-master wrote:-- "I really cannot tell you what you want to know about Forrester, as I have heard nothing of him. His father, as you know, is an officer in India, and his only relative in England was his grandmother, to whose house at Grangerham he was removed on leaving here. The last I heard was a month after he had left here, when he was reported still to be lingering. His grandmother, so I heard, was very ill. He himself, as a last hope, was to be removed to a hospital (I could not hear which) to receive special treatment. Since then--which is five months ago--I have heard nothing, and my last letter to Grangerham was returned by the Dead-Letter Office. I wish I could tell you more. You may depend on my doing so should I hear of him again," etc. It is hardly to be wondered at after this that poor Jeffreys felt the weight upon him heavier than ever. As long as he had known where Forrester was, and had the hope of hearing from time to time how he fared, he had been able to buoy himself up with the hope of some day making up to his victim for the injury he had inflicted; but when, suddenly, Forrester dropped hopelessly out of his life, the burden of his conscience grew intolerable. He struggled hard, by devoting himself to his boys and by hard private study in his leisure hours, to drive the haunting memory away, but the effort succeeded only for a time. At night, as he lay in bed, unable to escape from himself, the vision of that pale face and that cry of terror hardly once left him till merciful sleep came to his rescue. And by day, when his small pupils vexed him, or the spiteful Jonah tempted him to revenge, the thought of Forrester cowed him into submission, and left him no choice but to endure what seemed to be his penance. "Ma," said Mrs Trimble's hopeful, one afternoon after school had closed, "you've been nicely taken in over that Jeffreys, I can tell you." "What!" said the lady. "He doesn't drink, does he?" "Don't know. But there's something queer about him, and I mean to find it out. I'm not going to let it go on, I can tell you." "Why, what's he been doing, Jonah?" "Doing? You must go about with your eyes shut if you don't see he's been sulking ever since he came here. I tell you there's something wrong." "Oh, don't say that, Jonah." "You never took a character with him, did you?" "No; he hadn't been in a place before." "Depend on it, ma, he's skulking. He's done something, and finds this a convenient place to hide away in." "But, Jonah, he's never shown any signs of not being all right. He's very kind to the boys, and keeps them in wonderful order, better than you do almost." Jonah did not like this, because he knew it was true. His boys were neither fond of him nor obedient to his control, and the fact that Jeffreys' boys were both was additional proof that there was something wrong. "Do you suppose he can't manage to take you in, ma? Of course, any one could." "But he makes himself very pleasant, and studies, and keeps very quiet out of school." "Of course. Isn't that what I tell you? He's hiding. What do you suppose he skulks away into town for once a week--eh?" "Not to drink, I do hope?" said the lady. "Whatever it is, I mean to get to the bottom of it, for the sake of the school," said Jonah. "Fancy the mess we'd get into if it got known we had a shady character here as a teacher!" "But, Jonah, dear, it's only suspicion. He may be all right." "Oh, anything _may_ be," retorted the philosophic Jonah. "The thing is--is it?" As Mrs Trimble was unable to answer this question, she retired from the discussion, and hoped devoutly nothing was going to happen which would necessitate her doing more work about the school than she at present did. The unconscious Jeffreys meanwhile was upstairs, washing himself before starting for his weekly "evening out." He had more than usual before him on this particular evening, as, besides calling at the post-office-- an errand he never missed--he had discovered another old bookshop across the river which kept open till seven o'clock. And after that he had promised Freddy and Teddy, with whom from the first he had kept up a warm friendship, to call up at their house and help them mend their tricycle. With this full programme before him, he lost no time in starting on his travels; little dreaming that the quick pace at which he strode along gave unwonted exercise to Mr Jonah Trimble, who, animated by an amiable curiosity, dogged his footsteps at a respectful distance. It was about five o'clock when Jeffreys reached the post-office. The clerk knew him by this time, and this evening handed him a letter without being asked. It was a short friendly line from Mr Frampton with no news--at any rate about Forrester; and Trimble, as he watched him emerge from the office, letter in hand, and haggard in face, chalked down in in his own mind a first clue as to the mystery that was exercising him. From the post-office Jeffreys strolled leisurely down the streets toward the bridge, stopping to look into some of the shops by the way, and occasionally making Trimble's heart jump by looking behind him. In due time he pulled up at the bookseller's shop. Trimble saw the proprietor welcome his visitor with a nod which bespoke an acquaintance of some standing. He saw Jeffreys turning over the contents of some of the trays, taking up a book now and then and examining it, and sometimes propping himself up against the doorpost and reading page after page. It was not very entertaining work for the spy; but curiosity is patient, and Jonah as he watched the unconscious reader at a safe distance fortified himself by the conviction that he was watching the working-out of some deep-laid plot. Presently he saw Jeffreys disappear into the shop, and what was his amazement, when presently he "casually" passed the door, to see him seated with the bookseller at a table earnestly poring over and discussing a small faded sheet of paper which lay between them! Trimble would have given worlds to know what the mysterious document was, and what villainy was brewing. Had he known it, he might not have stood out there in the evening air quite as patiently as he did. For the mysterious document happened to be nothing but an old tattered and torn Commonwealth tract which Jeffreys had discovered folded up between the leaves of an ancient volume of poetry, and which he and his friend the bookseller were spending a very agreeable half-hour in piecing together and deciphering. About seven o'clock Jeffreys rose to go, pocketing the precious relic, which his friend had given him; and Trimble, having carefully noted down the name of the shop and the personal appearance of the suspicious bookseller, followed gingerly back across the bridge. The streets were getting less crowded, and Jonah had increasing difficulty in keeping himself concealed as he crawled along on the opposite side of the way some thirty or forty yards in the rear of his man. Just as Jeffreys was crossing the space opposite the grand front of the minster a dog sprang forward to meet him with every token of joy. It was Julius, and Jeffreys knew that the master could not be very far away. He turned round for a moment, as though he meditated flight, and gave Jonah a spasm by the unexpected movement. But before he could decide Mr Halgrove strolled pleasantly round the corner, and nodded to him as if he and his ward had not parted five minutes before. "Ah, John, fine evening for a stroll. On your way home?" Mr Halgrove till that moment had not had the faintest idea that his ward was still in York. "No," said Jeffreys, patting the dog's head and looking very much the reverse of comfortable. "They say the front of the minster is beginning to crumble at places," said Mr Halgrove, looking up at the noble pile before them; "I hope it's not true. Are you much here?" "No. I live in another part of the town." "Very odd my meeting you," said Mr Halgrove. "I was thinking of you only to-day. I had a letter from Mr Frampton." "Indeed, sir--about Forrester?" "About--oh, your little victim? Oddly enough, it was not. It was to remind me that your last half-term's fees were not paid. Don't you think it would be judicious to clear up this little score? Looks bad, you know--to run away with score against you." Jeffrey's face turned pale. He had at least supposed that up to the time of his expulsion from his guardian's house Mr Halgrove would have considered himself responsible for his maintenance. "I never dreamt," he faltered. "How much is it?" "Quite a little sum, isn't it? Come, you were last at school. Too bad to pose me with compound division at my time of life. Half a term at £40 a year?" "Seven pounds!" gasped Jeffreys. "Not quite, £6 13 shillings, 4 pence. Fancy my being better at mental arithmetic than you!" "I haven't got any money. I only get a pound a month and my board." "My dear boy, I congratulate you. Twelve pounds a year! Now, wasn't it a pity you didn't take that £5 note I offered you? Suppose you take it now!" Mr Halgrove put his hand to his pocket and took out his purse. "No!" exclaimed Jeffreys, in a tone that made Trimble, who was busy engaged in inspecting the architecture of the minster from behind a deep buttress close to the speaker, jump--"I'd sooner die!" "Don't do that, my dear fellow, don't do that," said Mr Halgrove, with a smile which belied the anger he felt at the refusal; "rather than that I'll keep the money. I have no wish to commit a murder. It's not in my line. That's one point in which you and I differ, isn't it?" Jeffreys made as though he would spring upon him. What was it checked him? Was it the solemn minster--was it a dread of his guardian's superior strength--was it fear of punishment? Or was it a momentary glimpse of a pale face in a moonlit room far away, which took the spirit out of him and made his arm drop at his side? "Well, I won't keep you," said Mr Halgrove, who had also for a moment looked uneasy. "I dare say you are in a hurry like myself. The fact is, I am going a trip to America next week and have a good deal to attend to. That makes me doubly glad to have met you. Good-bye, my dear boy, good-bye. Come, Julius." Julius as he slunk off at his master's heels, and heard the smothered oath which escaped Mr Halgrove's lips as soon as he found himself alone, looked round wistfully and pitifully, and wished he were allowed to go where he pleased. Jeffreys walked on like a man in a dream. For six months he had been working out what had been to him a penance, hoping to live down his bad name, even if he could never win a good. But now in a moment it seemed as if the labour of those patient months had been dashed to the ground, and his guardian's bitter words branded themselves on his heart as he paced on out of the shadow of the noble minster into the dusk of the city. Trimble, nearly bursting with excitement--for he had overheard all the latter part of the conversation--crept after him. What a time he was having! Jeffreys bent his steps almost aimlessly out of the city into the country beyond. It was only half-past seven, and Teddy and Freddy were expecting him. He had not the heart to fail them, though he would gladly have remained solitary that evening. The Roshers lived in a small cottage some distance down the lane in which six months ago Jeffreys had first encountered the sunshine of their presence. How long ago it seemed now! Ah! that was the very bank on which he sat; and there beyond was the railway embankment at which the navvies were working, now finished and with the grass growing up its sides. Trimble's little heart jumped to his mouth as he saw the man he was following stop abruptly and begin to climb the bank. He was too close behind to be able to turn back. All he could do was to crouch down in the ditch and "lie low." He heard Jeffreys as he gained the top of the bank sigh wearily; then he seemed to be moving as if in search of a particular spot; and then the lurker's hair stood on end as he heard the words, hoarsely spoken,-- "It was this very place." What a day Jonah was having! After a quarter of an hour's pause, during which the patient Jonah got nearly soaked to the skin in his watery hiding-place, Jeffreys roused himself and descended into the lane. Any one less abstracted could not have failed to detect the scared face of the spy shining out like a white rag from the hedge. But Jeffreys heeded nothing and strode on to Ash Cottage. Long before he got there, Freddy and Teddy, who had been on the look-out for him for an hour, scampered down to meet him. "Hurrah, Jeff!" shouted Teddy (I grieve to say that these irreverent brethren had long ago fallen into the scandalous habit of calling their teacher by a familiar contraction of his proper name, nor had the master rebuked them). "Hurrah, Jeff! we were afraid you weren't coming." "The tricycle won't go," said Freddy; "we've pulled it all to bits, and tried to make it right with a hammer, but it's very bad." "It's glorious you've come to do it. Isn't Jeff a brick, Teddy?" "Rather--and, oh, did you bring any oil? We used all ours up." "We've got a screw-driver, though!" said Freddy. "And lots of string!" shouted Teddy. "You _are_ a brick to come and do it," shouted both. Where in the world is there a tonic equal to the laugh of a light- hearted grateful little boy? How could Jeffreys help forgetting his trouble for a time and devoting himself heart and soul to the business of that tricycle? Trimble, as he dodged along after them perplexed and puffing, could hardly believe his eyes as he saw his morose colleague suddenly throw off the burden that was on him and become gay. "Come along, little chaps--let's see what we can do," said Jeffreys, as the three strode out to the cottage. "Where is he?" "In the shed. We've got a candle." Trimble saw them disappear into the garden, and, guided by their cheery voices, soon discovered the back of the shed in which the momentous surgical operation was to take place. It backed on the road, and might have been built for Trimble's purpose. For the woodwork abounded in most convenient cracks, through which a spy might peep and listen luxuriously. What a day Jonah was having! The Roshers conducted their friend into the place like anxious relatives who conduct a physician into a sick-chamber. The poor patient lay on the floor in a very bad way. Two wheels were off, the axle was bent, the wire spokes were twisted, the saddle was off, and the brake was all over the place. Jeffreys shook his head and looked grave. "It's a bad job," said he. "You see, we were giving mother a ride on it, and she's too heavy-- especially going downhill. She thought we were holding it, but it got away. We yelled to her to put on the brake, but she didn't, and it went bang into the wall." "And your mother?" inquired Jeffreys, somewhat anxiously. "Oh, her face is much better now. The doctor says there'll be hardly any marks left after all." It was a long business putting the unlucky tricycle in order. Jeffreys was not a mechanic. All he could do was to put the parts together in a makeshift way, and by straightening some of the bent parts and greasing some of the stiff parts restore the iron horse into a gloomy semblance of his old self. The boys were as grateful and delighted as if he had constructed a new machine out of space; and when at last a trial trip demonstrated that at any rate the wheels would go round and the saddle would carry them, their hearts overflowed. "You are a real brick, Jeff," said Teddy; "I wish I could give you a hundred pounds!" "I don't want a hundred pounds," said Jeffreys, with a smile; "if you and Freddy and I are good friends, that's worth a lot more to me." "Why?" demanded Freddy; "are we the only friends you've got?" Jeffreys looked out of the window and said,-- "Not quite--I've got one more." "Who--God?" asked the boy naturally. Poor Jeffreys! He sometimes forgot that Friend, and it startled and humbled him to hear the little fellow's simple question. "Of course, he's got Him," interposed Teddy, without giving him time to reply. "But who else, Jeff?" "I saw him not long ago," said Jeffreys. "His name's Julius." "You don't like him more than us, do you?" asked Teddy rather anxiously. "Not a quarter as much, old chap," said Jeffreys. There was a pause, during which Trimble chuckled to think how little the speaker guessed into whose ears he was betraying the name of his villainous accomplice! Presently, however, he started to hear the sound of his own name. "Jeff," said Teddy, "isn't Mr Trimble a beast?" "Let's talk about something pleasant," suggested Jeffreys, by way of begging the question. "Let's talk about hanging him; that would be pleasant," said Teddy. "Would you be sorry if he was dead?" demanded Teddy, in his matter-of- fact way. "I say, Jeff, wouldn't it be jolly if we could kill everybody we hated?" "Wouldn't it be jolly if every little boy who talked like a little donkey were to have his ears boxed?" said Jeffreys. "I wish he'd been on the tricycle instead of mother," continued Teddy, with a sigh of content at the bare idea. "Teddy, you are not as nice a little boy as I thought when you talk like that," said Jeffreys. "Come and let's have one more turn on the machine, and then I must hurry back, or Mrs Trimble will think I'm lost." Jeffreys got back to Galloway House about ten o'clock, and found Jonah sitting up for him. "So you _have_ come back," said that individual pompously. "I hope you've enjoyed your evening out." "Yes," said Jeffreys, "pretty well." "Oh!" said Jonah to himself, as he went up to bed, bursting with excitement. "If he only knew what I know! Let me see--" And then he went over in his mind the events of that wonderful evening, the visit to the post-office and the horrified look as he came out letter in hand; the mysterious conference with the bookseller, doubtless over this very letter. And how artfully he had been pretending to look at the books outside till he saw no one was looking! Then, the secret meeting with his accomplice in the minster yard--Mr Julius, yes, that was the name he had himself told the boys--and the altercation over the money, doubtless the booty of their crime, and Mr Julius's denunciation of Jeffreys as a murderer! Whew! Then that lonely country walk, and that search on the bank, and that exclamation, "It was this very place!" Whew! Jonah had tied a bit of his bootlace on the hedge just under the spot, and could find it again within a foot. Then the rencontre with the two boys and the strange, enigmatical talk in the shed, pointing to the plot of a new crime of which he--Trimble--was to be the victim. Ha, ha!--and the business over that tricycle too, in the candle-light. Jonah could see through that. He could put a spoke in a wheel as well as Jeffreys. Two things were plain. He must get hold of the letter; and he must visit the scene of the crime _with a spade_! Then-- Jonah sat up half the night thinking of it, till at last the deep breathing of his colleague in the next room reminded him that now at any rate was the time to get the letter. He had seen Jeffreys crush it into his side pocket after leaving the bookseller's and he had heard him before getting into bed just now hang his coat on the peg behind the door. And it was hot, and the door was open. What a day Jonah was having! Fortune favours the brave. It was a work of two minutes only. The pocket was there at his hand before he had so much as put a foot in the room. And there was the letter--two letters--and not a board creaked or a footstep sounded before he was safe back in his own room with the documentary evidence before him. There was only one letter after all. The other paper was a rubbishing rigmarole about General Monk and the Parliament 1660. This Jonah tossed contemptuously into the grate. But the other letter, how his flesh crept as he read it! It had no date, and was signed only in initials. "Dear J. There is no news. I can understand your trouble and remorse, and this uncertainty makes it all the more terrible to you. I know it is vain to say to you, `Forget,' but do not write about poor Forrester's blood being on your head! Your duty is to live and redeem the past. Let the dead bury their dead, dear fellow, and turn your eyes forward, like a brave man. Yours ever, J.F." Do you wonder if Jonah's blood curdled in his veins--"remorse," "uncertainty," "poor Forrester," "his blood on your head," eh? "bury your dead"! Whew! _What_ a day Jonah had had, to be sure! CHAPTER EIGHT. I KNOW A BANK. Jonah Trimble may not have been a genius of the first water, but he was at least wise enough to know that he could not both have his cake and eat it. His discovery of Jeffreys' villainy was a most appetising cake, and it wanted some little self-denial to keep his own counsel about it, and not spoil sport by springing his mine until all the trains were laid. Another consideration, moreover, which prevented his taking immediate action was that Jeffreys was extremely useful at Galloway House, and could not be spared just yet--even to the gallows. In a few months' time, when the good name of the school, which had rapidly risen since he came upon the scene, was well established, things might be brought to a climax. Meanwhile Jonah Trimble would keep his eye on his man, read his _Eugene Aram_, and follow up his clues. Jeffreys awoke on the following morning with a feeling of oppression on his mind which for a little time he could not define. It was not his guardian's words, bitter as they had been; it was not the insolence of his fellow-usher, intolerable as that was becoming. When at last his wandering thoughts came in and gave the trouble shape, he found it took a much more practical form. He was in debt seven pounds to Mr Frampton. It never occurred to him to wonder whether Mr Halgrove had been telling him the truth or not, nor to his unbusinesslike mind did it occur that his guardian, as the trustee responsible for what money he once had, was liable for the debt, however much he might like to repudiate it. No; all he knew was that Mr Frampton was owed seven pounds, and that he himself had nothing, or next to nothing, to pay. By hard saving during the six months he had managed to save a sovereign, but of this only last week he had spent the greater part in boots and clothing. Now his worldly wealth consisted of four shillings! He was down early that morning, and was relieved to find that Mrs Trimble was in the parlour alone, without her son. The good lady was in an amiable mood. The school was getting on, and something told her that it was not greatly due either to her own exertions or the influence of Jonah. Therefore, being a mathematical old lady, she subtracted herself and Jonah from the present school staff, and came to the conclusion that Jeffreys must have had a hand in the improvement. "Young man," said she, in reply to her assistant's greeting, "you've been with me six months. Are you comfortable?" "Pretty well," said Jeffreys. "I'm very fond of my boys, and I always get on comfortably with you." The mathematical dame once more went to work, and answered, "You and Jonah don't hit it, I suppose. You don't know Jonah, young man. He may not be easily satisfied, but he's a gentleman." "I'm sure," said Jeffreys, to whom this tribute seemed the last he should expect to hear bestowed on his amiable fellow-usher, "I try to get on with him, and shall go on trying." "That's right," said Mrs Trimble, once more shuddering at the prospect of being left short-handed. "What I was going to say to you was, that now you've been here six months, and are not a forward young man, and don't drink, I shall raise your wages, and give you thirty shillings a month instead of twenty. How will that suit you?" "You are very kind," said the grateful Jeffreys, with a tremble in his voice which quite moved the old lady's heart; "it will be very acceptable." "Very good. You need not mention it to Jonah," added she hurriedly, as that young gentleman's footsteps were heard that moment on the stairs. The only difference which the unconscious Jeffreys was aware of in the conduct of Jonah Trimble towards himself was that the young gentleman was a trifle more hectoring and a trifle more facetious than before. But even to the little mind of Jonah Trimble it had been revealed that at present it would be extremely awkward for Galloway House if Jeffreys went "on strike." He was a good teacher and manager; and his boys were devoted to him. Of course, when a boy goes home from school full of the praises of his teacher, his parents are pleased too, and think well of the school, and tell their friends what a nice place it is for boys, and so on. It is a good advertisement, in fact. Besides, with Mrs Trimble so lazy, and Jonah himself so unattractive, it would involve a great deal of trouble all round if Jeffreys deserted it. They knew by experience that young fellows of good education did not as a rule jump at the situation of second usher in Galloway House. And they knew, also, something of the horrors of a prolonged vacancy in their staff. Jonah was rather relieved when Jeffreys, immediately after school, shut himself up in his own room, and remained there studying for the rest of the evening. The proceeding favoured a little idea of his own, which was to revisit the spot where he had tied his bootlace the evening before, and see if an examination of that fatal spot would throw any fresh light on his investigation. Accordingly after tea he sallied forth with a trowel in his coat pocket. It was rather a dismal expedition, for it rained, and there was a cool breeze. The lane was muddy even in the roadway, and on the banks it was a quagmire. Still Jonah was too full of his mystery seriously to mind the weather. He trudged up and down the lane, sharply scrutinising the hedge for his bootlace. For a long time his perseverance was unrewarded. At length, however, his eye detected the welcome flutter of a bright tag among the leaves, and he recognised the scene of last night's damp sojourn. He clambered up onto the bank, regardless of his garments, and commenced an anxious scrutiny. The bank itself showed no signs of a "mystery." Even the traces of Jeffreys' visit to it the night before were obliterated by the soaking rain. The field on the other side was equally unsuggestive. Jonah trampled around in circles on the young corn, but never a pistol, or a rusty knife, or a bottle of poison, did he discover. Yet he had heard the villain say distinctly,-- "This was the very place!" He scrambled back rather crestfallen on to the bank. It was getting dark, and the rain came down ceaselessly, yet so strong was his certainty that here he should discover the evidence he was looking for, that for another half-hour he plied his trowel diligently. Sometimes when it struck on a stone or the roots of a bramble, he trembled with anticipation; and once, when, groping under a hedge, his hand suddenly encountered a dead rat, his hair literally stood on end. He began to get nervous and uncomfortable. The night became suddenly dark, and the wind whistled all sorts of weird tunes among the trees. Jonah did not exactly believe in ghosts; still, if there were such things, this was just the night and just the place for the ghost he was looking for to take its walk abroad. He did not like it, and began to wish he was safe at home. The bushes round him began to rustle noisily, and a gate in the field swung to and fro with an almost human groan. He fancied he could descry wandering lights and white gleams in the darkness, and the vague consciousness of something coming nearer and nearer. At last, with a great effort, he roused himself from his moist seat, and leaped down from the bank into the lane. The instant his feet touched the road he was conscious of a low growl, and next moment found himself pinned, with his back to the bank, by a furious dog. His yell of terror had mingled with the wind for a couple of minutes before he became aware of the red glow of a cigar in front of him, and behind that the dim countenance of the man whose talk with Jeffreys he had overheard the previous evening. "Oh, Mr Julius!" he howled; "help me. Call him off; I shall be torn to pieces." "And pray how come you to know the name of my dog?" said Mr Halgrove; "eh, my little highwayman?" "Please, sir, I'm not a highwayman. I was only looking for something on the bank. Oh, Mr Julius!" "My dog is not used to be called Mr," replied Mr Halgrove. "Oh, I--I thought that was your name," whimpered Jonah, not daring to stir an inch for fear of incurring the resentment of the dog. "And pray how came you to think my name was Julius?" said Mr Halgrove, becoming interested. "Oh! please sir, wasn't it you that was talking to Jeffreys last night in the minster yard?" It was too dark for Jonah to see Mr Halgrove's eyebrows go up at this unexpected question. "Julius, come in, sir. So you know the gentleman I was speaking to yesterday," said he, coolly. "What did you say his name was?" "Jeffreys, sir. He's an--" Jonah pulled up. This man, whatever his name was, was Jeffreys' accomplice. Jonah felt he must not commit himself. "I beg your pardon," said Mr Halgrove, noticing the abrupt pause. "I am saying--it's--it's rather a wet night, sir," said Jonah, making a move to walk on. Mr Halgrove snapped his fingers to Julius, and next instant the wretched Jonah was pinned again to the bank. "What did you say he was?" asked Mr Halgrove, lighting a fusee. "Oh, please, sir, please call him off. My assistant, sir." "Oh! your assistant--in what? Highway robbery?" "No, sir. In teaching a school. Please, sir, call him off." Mr Halgrove paid no heed to the entreaty, but proceeded to extract numerous particulars as to his ward's conduct and mode of life at Galloway House. "So he's taken to minding little boys, has he? and you are his employer? You are aware that you have a treasure of course?" Even Trimble was not so dense as to miss the sneer with which the inquiry was made. It emboldened him considerably. "I dislike him; so does ma. We consider him a dangerous character." Mr Halgrove laughed. "What makes you think that?" "There's a--oh, sir, please call off the dog--mystery about him. He's--" "Is that the reason you spied on him yesterday?" "No, sir--that is--" for at that moment Julius growled--"yes, sir. I thought if there was anything wrong it was my duty to the school to know it, sir." "Exemplary pedagogue! And now you know it? Eh?" "Well, sir, I have my suspicions." "No! And what might your suspicions be?" "Oh, sir," replied the wretched Jonah, feeling like a blue-bottle on a pin, "I believe he's a murderer in hiding. I really do." "Clever little ferret! You've found that out, have you?" "I feel no doubt about it," said Jonah, plucking up a little confidence. "Don't feel any. When and where did the interesting event take place?" "Oh, you could tell me that better than I can tell you," stammered Trimble. "Indeed!" said Mr Halgrove, his eyebrows going up ominously in the dark. "Of course I shouldn't--that is--I should never dream of getting _you_ into trouble, sir." Mr Halgrove took his cigar out of his mouth and stared at the speaker. "I'd wait till you were safe away in America, sir; and even then I wouldn't let your name be known, you know, as an accomplice." Mr Halgrove put his cigar back into his mouth, and changed his cane from his left hand to his right. "Fetch him here, Julius," said he, stepping back into the middle of the road. It was in vain the wretched Jonah howled and called for mercy. "So you won't let my name be known as an accomplice! How very kind!" And he gave practical proof of his gratitude by caning Jonah till both were tired. "Now good-night," said Mr Halgrove when he had done, "and thank you for a pleasant evening. I dare say Mr Jeffreys will make up for any little deficiencies on my part if you ask him. Ask him, with my compliments, to show you the little game he played with one of his old school- fellows. Good-night, Mr Trimble. Wish him good-night, Julius." Julius once more pinned his affrighted victim to the bank, and then following at his master's heels, left the bruised and bewildered Jonah to limp home as best he could. The day he had had yesterday had been nothing in comparison with to-day! In the school, meanwhile, there was jubilation and thanksgiving over the fact that Jonah had a bad headache. Jeffreys, with the first and second classes merged for the occasion into one, amazed Mrs Trimble by the order and industry which he commanded. "The young man's worth his money," said the good lady, with a sigh of relief, for she had counted on losing her nap for that day at least, and was grateful beyond measure to find her fears disappointed. As for the first class, they got completely spoiled by their day's change of teacher, and vowed they would all become dunces in order to be put back in the second class. "I say, Jeff," said Teddy confidentially, as the school was being dismissed, "_is_ there any chance of his dying? It's been so ripping to-day without him." "Hold your tongue, sir," said Jeffreys, in a tone which astonished his bloodthirsty young confidant; "you're old enough to know better than talk like that." Teddy looked very miserable at this rebuke. "Don't be in a wax with me, Jeff," he said appealingly. "Whatever would I do if you got to hate me?" Jeffreys was not proof against this, and walked home with his two young friends, beguiling the way with cheery talk, which effectually dispelled the cloud which his passing anger had roused. On his way back he felt impelled to climb for a moment on the bank at his favourite spot. It amazed him to see the ground all torn up, and to find a trowel lying half bedded in the turf at the top. Still more did it surprise and perplex him to find a penknife, which he recognised at once as belonging to Trimble, and which he distinctly recollected having seen in that hero's hand during school the afternoon of the preceding day. What did it all mean? CHAPTER NINE. A THUNDERSTORM. It did not add to Jonah's happiness to see the looks of evident disgust with which the first class greeted his reappearance in the schoolroom. Their pleasant experience yesterday had demoralised them, and they settled down listlessly at Jonah's bidding like voyagers who, after a day in still waters, put out once more to the rough sea. Teddy especially felt the hardships of the mighty deep. Jonah's eye transfixed him all day. If he spoke, if he fidgeted, if he looked about, the hand of the tyrant swooped down upon him. He spent the greater part of the day standing on the form. The contents of his pockets (including some priceless marbles) were impounded; he had two columns of dates to commit to memory before he could go home; and, hardest of all, because of a little blot, he was reduced to the ineffable humiliation of writing all his exercises on a slate! It took all the big heart of the little fellow to bear up against this mountain of calamity, and had it not been for an occasional glimpse of Jeffreys' face, turned sympathetically in his direction, his courage might have failed him. School closed, and still his dates were unlearnt. His legs ached with standing hour after hour on the narrow form, and his head, lifted three feet higher than usual into the heated atmosphere of the room, swam ominously. Freddy, after waiting about dismally for half an hour, had gone home alone. The voices of boys remaining to play or talk in the yard outside had one after another ceased. Jeffreys had long since taken himself and his books elsewhere, and only Jonah was left to keep watch over his prisoner. The boy made a tremendous effort to master the dates, but they went through him like water through a sieve. He could not even keep his eyes on the book, and when he turned them towards the master's desk, Jonah seemed to be half hidden in mist. He edged cautiously to the end of the form nearest the wall, where at least he might get a little support. It was a perilous voyage, for he was two feet away, and scarcely dare move at a greater rate than an inch a minute. He got there at last, nearly done up, and with a sigh of relief leaned his head against the cold plaster. "Rosher, stand at the other end of the form immediately, and learn twenty more dates for being idle." Alas poor Teddy! He had held out long, and braved much. But his heart quailed now. He seemed glued to the wall, and the form all of a sudden seemed to contract into a tight-rope over a chasm. "I'm so tired, sir, I--" "Silence, sir! and do what you're told," thundered Jonah. Teddy staggered forward half a step, but shrank back before he had finished it to the friendly wall. Trimble rose from his seat. "Do you hear me?" he shouted furiously. "Stand where I tell you." "Please, sir, I can't. I--" Here Trimble advanced towards him, and Teddy, fairly unnerved and almost fainting, slipped down from the bench and burst into tears. "That's it, is it?" said Jonah; "we'll see whether you can or--" At that instant the door opened, and Jeffreys entered the room. It did not require the boy's sobbing appeal, "Oh, Jeff, Jeff!" to enable him to take in the situation at a glance. Nor did it need a second glance at the face of the intruder to induce Jonah to turn pale. Jeffreys advanced without a word to the form, brushing Jonah out of his way with a swing that sent him staggering six paces down the floor, and putting his arm round Teddy, led him without a word from the room. "Come along, little chap," said he, when they got outside; "come home." The sound of his voice revived Teddy like a cordial. "Do you hate me for blubbering?" he asked anxiously; "wasn't it like a baby?" "How long had you been up there?" asked Jeffreys. "It was half-past one when he stood me up. I had only just been looking round to see where Freddy was; and oh, Jeff, I've got to write on a slate just because of a little blot. What's the time now?" "Half-past five," said Jeffreys, putting on his hat, and swinging Teddy's satchel over his own arm. "Are you coming with me Jeff?" asked the boy eagerly. "Of course you couldn't get home alone." Great was the content of the little fellow as he left Galloway House with his hand on the strong arm of his tutor. Greater still were his surprise and content when, as soon as the streets were past, Jeffreys took him up on his back and carried him the rest of the way to Ash Cottage. "Thanks, awfully, old Jeff," said the boy, as they parted at the gate of the cottage. "What makes you so kind to Freddy and me?" "I'm not good at riddles, Teddy. Good-night," and he went. Jonah, as he was not surprised to find, was expecting him, in a state of high ferment. Jeffreys would fain have avoided an interview. For he was constantly discovering that he was still far from sure of himself. That afternoon his passion had been within an ace of mastering him; and at any time he dreaded something might happen which would undo all the penance of those last six months. He therefore resolved wisely in the present instance to avoid altercation as far as possible. "Well, sir, and what have you got to say for yourself? Where have you been?" demanded Jonah, in tones of lofty bitterness. "I have just taken Rosher home. After standing four hours on the form he wasn't fit to walk himself." "Oh!" snorted Jonah, nearly bursting with indignation; "and pray how--" "Excuse me, Trimble. If you and Mrs Trimble wish me to leave, I'll do so. If not, don't talk to me. I don't want it." Poor Jonah nearly had a fit. He, head man of Galloway House, knowing what he did, to be spoken to like this by a stuck-up--murderer! He had prepared a scene, and had counted on coming to an understanding then and there. And lo and behold! before he had well opened his mouth, he had been ordered to shut it by the very being whom he had at his mercy. It passed Jonah's comprehension. Jeffreys waited a minute to give him a chance of accepting his former alternative. Then, concluding he had decided on the latter, he betook himself to his own room and remained there. Jonah, as soon as he could recover himself sufficiently to think at all, made up his mind that, come what would, he had had enough of this sort of life. With which conviction he crushed his hat on his head, and sallied forth into the open air. His feet almost instinctively turned in the direction of Ash Lane; but on this occasion they went past the fatal bank and brought their owner to a halt at the door of Ash Cottage. "Is Mr Rosher at home?" inquired he of the servant. Mr Rosher was at home--a jovial, well-to-do farmer, with a hearty Yorkshire voice and a good-humoured grin on his broad face. "Well, lad, what is't?" he asked, as Trimble, hat in hand, was shown into the little parlour. "Man, it's the little school-maister." "Yes, Mr Rosher," said Trimble; "I should like five minutes' talk with you if you can spare the time." "Blaze away, lad. A've nothin' else to do." "I'm rather anxious about your two dear little boys," began Trimble. "Thee needn't be that; they're tight lads, and learn quite fast enough." "It's not that, Mr Rosher, though I hope they do justice to the pains we take with them." "They nearly killed their mother t'other day on the tricycle," said Mr Rosher, laughing like a young bull. "Was't thee or t'other young chap came to mend t'auld bone-shaker? Twas a kindly turn to the little fellows, and I'm sorry thee didn't stay to tea, lad." "We always like to try to make them happy," said Jonah. "Indeed, that is what I came to see you about. I'm sorry to say--" "Thee's come to tell me why Teddy was blubbering when he got home. Thee'd better tell that to his mother," said the father. "I'm so sorry to say," pursued Jonah, beginning to wish he was over his task, "my assistant-master is disappointing me. I took him on half in charity six months ago, but lately he has been having a bad influence in the school, and I thought it, my duty--" "Tut, tut! The lads have been cheerier this last six months than ever before--" "Of course we try all we can to make them happy, and shield them from harm," pursued Trimble, "and I am glad you think we have made school happy for them--" "And is that all thee's come to say?" said the bewildered parent. "No, sir. Of course in school I can look after the boys and see they come to no harm; but after school hours of course they are out of my control, and then it is I'm afraid of their coming to mischief. My assistant, I hear, has been in the habit of walking home with them, and from what I know of him he is not a desirable companion for them, and I think it is my duty to put you on your guard, Mr Rosher. They should not be encouraged to see too much of him out of doors or bring him to the house." "It bothers me why you keep the man if he's that sort!" said Mr Rosher. "What's wrong with him?" "I'm afraid he's a bad character. I have only discovered it lately, and intend to dismiss him as soon as I get a new assistant." "What dost mean by a bad character? Is he a thief?" Trimble looked very grave. "I wish it was no worse than that." The farmer's jaw dropped. "What?" said he. "Dost mean to tell me the man's a murderer?" Jonah looked terribly shocked. "It's a dreadful thing to suspect any one," said he, "but it would not be right of me to let things go on without warning you. I shall keep your boys under my own eyes all school-time; and I advise you--" "I don't want thy advice. Take thyself off!" Jonah saw that to prolong the interview would only make matters worse. The good father was evidently roused; but whether against him, Jonah, or against Jeffreys, he could scarcely tell. He departed decidedly crestfallen, and more than half repenting of his amiable expedition. His misgivings were somewhat relieved next morning when Freddy and Teddy put in an appearance punctually at school-time. Jonah considered it expedient under the circumstances not to refer to Teddy's mutinous conduct on the preceding day--a determination which afforded great comfort to that young gentleman and which he put down by a mysterious process of reasoning to Jeffreys' good offices on his behalf. Jonah, however, on this particular morning felt far from comfortable. It may have been the hot sultry day, or it may have been the general oppression of his own feelings, which gave him a sense of something-- probably a thunderstorm impending. His class remarked that he was less exacting than usual, and even Jeffreys became aware that his colleague for once in a way was not himself. The clock had just struck twelve, and the boys were beginning to look forward to their usual break in half an hour's time, when the schoolroom door suddenly opened, and disclosed the broad figure of Mr Rosher, followed at a timid distance by Mrs Trimble. Jonah's face turned pale; Freddy and Teddy opened their eyes to their widest. Jeffreys, on hearing Freddy mutter "Father," looked round curiously, to get a view of the father of his little friends. Mr Rosher recognised Trimble with a nod. "I've coom, you see, lad. I want to have a look at this murderer fellow thee was talking about. Where is he?" It was a thunderclap with a vengeance! Only two persons in the room guessed all it meant. "Coom, trot him out, man," repeated the farmer, noticing the hesitation in Jonah's scared face. "Is that the chap yonder thee was telling me of?" added he, pointing to Jeffreys. It was all up with Galloway House, and Jonah knew it. "Yes," said he. Jeffrey's face became livid as he sprang to his feet. "Stay where thou art," said the brawny farmer, motioning him back. "Let's have a look at thee. So thee's a manslayer? Thou looks it." A terrible pause followed--the pause of a man who struggles for words that will not come. He looked terrible indeed; with heaving chest and bloodless lips, and eyes like the eyes of a hunted wolf. At length he gasped-- "Liar!" and advanced towards the affrighted Jonah. But the sturdy Yorkshire-man stepped between. "Nay, nay," said he, "one's enough. Stay where thou art, and let him give chapter and verse--chapter and verse. He came to me last night, and said thou wast a murderer, and I've coom to see if thou art. Thou looks one, but maybe thou'rt right to call him a liar." "Ask him," gasped Jonah, "what he did to his old schoolfellow, young Forrester, and then lot him call me a liar if he likes." "Dost hear, lad? What was it thee did to thy old schoolfellow young Forrester? That's a fair question. Out with it." If Jeffreys had looked terrible a moment ago, he looked still more terrible now, as he sank with a groan onto the bench, and turned a sickened look on his accuser. The dead silence of the room almost stunned him. He seemed to feel every eye that turned to him like a dagger in his heart, and there rose up in his mind a vision of that football field far away, and the senseless figure of the boy who lay there. Everything came back. The howl of execration, the frightened faces, the cap lying where the boy had flung it, even the chill autumn breeze in his face. He knew not how long he sat there stupefied. The voice of Mr Rosher roused him. "Coom, now, dost thou say liar still?" Jeffreys struggled to his feet, no longer furious, but still more terrible in his dejection. "Yes," snapped Jonah, astonished at the effect of his accusation, and just wise enough to see that to add to or take away from the story would be to spoil it. "What did you do to your poor schoolfellow, young Forrester? Do you suppose we don't see through you?" "Hold thy tongue, little donkey!" said the farmer; "let's hear what he has to say." For a moment it seemed as if Jeffreys was about to take him at his word, and say something. But his tongue failed him at the critical moment, and he gave it up. He had caught sight of Teddy's eyes fixed on his in mingled misery and terror, and the sight unmanned him. He moved slowly to the door. They watched him, spellbound, and in a moment he would have gone, had not Teddy with a big sob made a spring forward and seized him by the arm. "Oh, Jeff it's a wicked he; we don't believe it. Freddy, we don't believe it, do we? Father, he's been good to us; he never did anything unkind. Don't have him sent away!" This appeal fairly broke the spell. Freddy was at his brother's side in an instant, and the rest of the school, had not Mr Rosher motioned them back, would have followed him. "Teddy and Freddy, my lads," said the farmer, "go to thy seats like good lads. Let him say yea or nay to what this--little--peacher says." "Say you didn't, Jeff," implored the boys. Jeffreys shook his head sadly. "I can't," he said. "If he's dead--" "Oh, he's dead," put in Jonah; "I can tell you that." Jeffreys gave one scared look at the speaker, and then hurried from the room. Mrs Trimble followed him up to his room. "I don't believe it all," said she; "you never did it on purpose, you're not so bad as that. I won't believe it even if you tell me," said the good lady, bursting into tears. Jeffreys put together his few books and garments. "You're going," said she, "of course. It's no use hoping you won't. Here's two pounds you're owed--and--" Jeffreys took the money, and kept her hand for a moment in his. "You are kind," said he hoarsely. "Good-bye, Mrs Trimble." He kissed her hand and took up his bundle. At the foot of the stairs a boy's hand was laid on his arm. "Oh, Jeff," whispered Teddy--he had stolen out of the schoolroom. "Poor Jeff! I know you aren't wicked. Say good-bye, Jeff. What shall we do? What shall we do?" "Good-bye, little chap," said Jeffreys, stooping down and kissing the boy's wet cheek. "But, Jeff, where are you going? When will you--?" Jeffreys was gone. In the schoolroom meanwhile the inevitable reaction had taken place. As the door closed behind Jeffreys, Jonah, hardly knowing what he did, gave vent to a hysterical laugh. It was the signal for an explosion such as he had little counted on. "Thou little dirty toad!" said the farmer, rounding on him wrathfully; "what dost mean by that? Hey? For shame!" "Beast!" shouted Freddy, choking with anger and misery. "Beast!" echoed the school. Some one threw a wet sponge across the room, but Mr Rosher intercepted it. "Nay, nay, lads; don't waste your clean things on him. Freddy and Teddy, my lads--where's Teddy?--come along home. You've done with Galloway House." "Why, sir--" expostulated the wretched Jonah. "Hold thy tongue again," roared the farmer. "Coom away, lads. Thee can take a half-holiday to-day, all of you, and if thy parents ask why, say Farmer Rosher will tell them." "I'll have you prosecuted," growled Trimble, "for interfering with my--" "Dost want to be shut up in yon cupboard?" roared the hot-headed farmer. And the hint was quite enough. Galloway House on that day turned a corner. Farmer Rosher, who had sore doubts in his own mind whether he had done good or harm by his interference, spoke his mind freely to his neighbours on the subject of Jonah Trimble, a proceeding in which his two sons heartily backed him up. The consequence was that that worthy young pedagogue found his scholastic labours materially lightened--for a dozen boys are easier to teach than fifty--and had time to wonder whether after all he would not have served his day and generation quite as well by looking after his own affairs, as after the most unprofitable affairs of somebody else. CHAPTER TEN. TOSSED ABOUT. Jeffreys, as the reader will have discovered, did not possess the art of doing himself common justice. He had brooded so long and so bitterly over his fatal act of violence at Bolsover, that he had come almost to forget that accident had had anything to do with poor Forrester's injuries. And now, when confronted with his crime, even by a despicable wretch like Trimble, he had not the spirit to hold up his head and make some effort at any rate to clear himself of all that was charged against him. Jeffreys was still a blunderer, or else his conscience was unusually sensitive. You and I, reader, no doubt, would have put a bold face on the matter, and insisted the whole affair was entirely an accident, and that we were to be pitied rather than blamed for what had happened. And a great many people would have pitied us accordingly. But Jeffreys claimed no pity. He saw nothing but his own ruthless fault; and he chose to take the whole burden of it, and the burden of the accident besides, on his own shoulders. And so it was he left Galloway House without a word, and cast himself and his bad name once more adrift on a pitiless world. But as he walked on he was not thinking of Galloway House, or Farmer Rosher, or Freddy or Teddy. The last words of Trimble rang in his ears, and deafened him to all beside. "He's dead--_I_ can tell you that!" It never occurred to him to wonder whence Jonah had derived his information, or whether it was true or false. Mr Brampton's letter five months ago had left little hope of the boy's recovery, but not till now had Jeffreys heard any one say, in so many words "He is dead." Jonah apparently knew the whole story. How he had discovered it, it was useless to guess. And yet for a moment Jeffreys was tempted to return and seize his accuser by the throat and demand the truth of him. But he dismissed the notion with a shudder. His steps turned, half mechanically, half by chance, towards his guardian's house. He had never been in that quarter of York since the night of his expulsion, and he did not know why of all places he should just now turn thither. His guardian, as he well knew, was even more pitiless and cynical than ever, and any hope of finding shelter or rest under his roof he knew to be absurd. He might, however, be out; indeed, he had spoken of going to America, in which case Mrs Jessop might be there alone. One clings to the idea of a home; and this place, such as it was, was the only place which for Jeffreys had ever had any pretensions to the blessed name. His expectations--if he had any--vanished as he abruptly turned the corner of the street and stood in front of the house. The shutters on the lower floor were closed, and the windows above were curtainless and begrimed with dust. A notice "To let," stared out from a board beside the front door, and the once cosy little front garden was weed-grown and run to seed. Jeffreys felt a stronger man as he walked out of York in the deepening twilight. He was in the way of old associations just now, for almost without knowing it he found himself quitting York by way of Ash Lane, every step of which by this time was familiar--painfully familiar ground. The bank on which he had last found Jonah's knife had now new attractions for him. Not so a garden shed, by the back of which he passed, and whence proceeded the glimmer of a light, and the sound of boys' voices. He could not help standing a moment, and motioning Julius close to his heels, listening. "It's broken worse than ever now," said Freddy. "It's no use trying to mend it." "Jeff could have done it. I say, Freddy, whatever did father mean?" "I don't know. All I know is I'll never forget dear old Jeff; shall you?" "Rather not. I'm going to pray for him once a day, Freddy." "All serene--so shall I." Jeffreys stole one hurried glance through the cracked timbers, and then walked away quickly and with a heart brim full. Whenever in after days his soul needed music, he had only to call up the voices of those two little fellows in the shed as he last heard them. Little heeded they what came of their childish words. Little heeded they that they were helping to make a true man of the Jeff they loved, and that whatever true strength he came to possess for fighting life's battles and bearing life's burdens, he owed it beyond any one to them! He walked on rapidly and steadily for two hours, until the last lingering glow of the summer light had faded from the sky, and the lights of York behind him were lost in the night. A field of new-mown hay provided him with the most luxurious bedroom man could desire. The thought uppermost in his mind when he awoke next morning was young Forrester. He felt that it would be useless for him to attempt anything or hope for anything till he had ascertained whatever was to be known respecting the boy's fate. Trimble's words, which rang in his ears, had a less positive sound about them. At least he would find out for himself whether they were true or false. Grangerham, the small country town in which he had ascertained Forrester lived, and to which he had been removed from Bolsover, was far enough away from York. Jeffreys had many a time sought it out on the map, and speculated on how it was to be reached, should a summons arrive to call him thither. It was seventy miles away as the crow flies. Jeffreys had the way there by heart. He knew what time the trains left York, what were the junctions along the line, and how far the nearest railway station would take him to his journey's end. Now, however, it was a question of walking, not riding. The two pounds in his pocket, all he possessed, scarcely seemed his at all as long as Mr Frampton's school bill was unsettled. At any rate, it was too precious to squander in railway fares for a man who could walk for nothing. It was a long, harassing journey, over moors and along stony roads. It was not till the evening of the second day that the footsore traveller read on a sign-post the welcome words, "Four miles to Grangerham." He had eaten little and rested little on the way, and during the last twelve hours a broiling sun had beaten down pitilessly upon him. If the journey of the two last days had been exhausting, the fruitless search of the day that followed was fully as wearisome. Grangerham was a pretty big manufacturing town, and Jeffreys' heart sank within him as soon as he entered it. For who among these busy crowds would be likely to know anything of an invalid old lady and her cripple grandson? In vain he enquired in street after street for Mrs Forrester's address. Some had not heard the name. Some knew a public-house kept by one Tony Forrester. Some recollected an old lady who used to keep a costermonger's stall and had a baby with fits. Others, still more tantalising, began by knowing all about it, and ended by showing that they knew nothing. At the police-office they looked at him hard, and demanded what he wanted with anybody of the name of Forrester. At the post-office they told him curtly they could not tell him anything unless he could give the old lady's address. At length, late in the day, he ventured to knock at the door of the clergyman of that part of the town in which the only few residents' houses seemed to be, and to repeat his question there. The clergyman, a hard-working man who visited a hundred families in a week, at first returned the same answer as everybody else. No, he did not know any one of that name. "Stay," he said; "perhaps you mean old Mrs Wilcox." Jeffreys groaned. Everybody had been suggesting the name of some old lady to him different from the one he wanted. "She had a nephew, I think, who was a cripple. The poor fellow had had an accident at school, so I heard. I almost think he died. I never saw him myself, but if you come with me, I'll take you to the Wesleyan minister. I think he knows Mrs Wilcox." Thankful for any clue, however slight, Jeffreys accompanied the good man to the Wesleyan minister. "Mrs Wilcox--ah, yes," said the latter, when his brother pastor had explained their errand. "She died in Torquay five months ago. She was a great sufferer." "And her nephew?" inquired the clergyman. "Her grandson, you mean." Jeffreys' heart leapt. "What was his name?" he asked, excitedly. "Forrester; a dear young fellow he was. His mother, who died out in India, was Mrs Wilcox's only daughter. Yes, poor Gerard Forrester was brought home from school about six months ago terribly crippled by an accident. It was said one of his school-fellows had--" "But where is he now? tell me, for mercy's sake!" exclaimed Jeffreys. "I cannot tell you that," replied the minister. "His grandmother was ordered to Torquay almost as soon as he arrived home. He remained here about a month in charge of his old nurse; and then--" "He's not dead!" almost shouted Jeffreys. "Then," continued the minister, "when the news came of his grandmother's death, they left Grangerham. From all I can hear, Mrs Wilcox died very poor. I believe the nurse intended to try to get him taken into a hospital somewhere; but where or how I never knew. I was away in London when they disappeared, and have never heard of them since." "Isn't his father alive?" "Yes. I wrote to him by Mrs Wilcox's request. He is an officer in India in the Hussars. I have had no reply, and cannot be sure that the letter has reached him, as I see that his regiment has been dispatched to Afghanistan." "Did you never hear from the nurse?" asked Jeffreys. "Never." "And was it thought Forrester would recover?" "I believe it was thought that if he got special treatment in a hospital his life might be spared." This then was all Jeffreys could hear. Jonah Trimble might be right after all. How he abused himself for flying from York as he had done without extracting the truth first! It was too late now. He begged to be taken to see the house where Forrester lived. It was occupied by a new tenant, and all he could do was to pace up and down in front of it, in a lonely vigil, and try to imagine the pale face which only a few months back had gazed wearily from those windows on the active life without, in which he was never more to take a share. He had not the courage to wait that night in Grangerham, although the minister urged him and Julius, tramps as they were, to do so. He felt stifled in these narrow streets, and longed for the fresh heath, where at least he could be alone. He accepted, however, the hospitality of his guide for half an hour in order to write a short note to Mr Frampton. He said:-- "I have come here hoping to hear something of Forrester. But I can hear nothing more than what you told me four months ago. He has left here in charge of his old nurse, and has not been heard of since. You will wonder why I have left York. The story of what happened at Bolsover reached the ears of my employer's son. He accused me of it before all the school, and added that he knew Forrester was dead. I could not stand it, and came away--though I feel now I was foolish not to ascertain first how he had learned what you and I have not yet been able to hear. It is too terrible to believe! and I cannot believe it till I find out for myself. Where I shall go next I do not know, and feel I do not care. My guardian has left York. I saw him two days before I came away, and he told me then he should refuse to pay my last half-term's bill, which came to £7. I enclose thirty shillings now--all I have; and you may depend on my sending the rest as soon as I can earn it; for I shall be miserable as long as I owe a farthing to Bolsover." Having written this dismal letter, and having posted it with its enclosure, he bade farewell to Grangerham, and wandered forth with the sympathetic Julius out on to the quiet heath, and there lay down--not to sleep, but to think. CHAPTER ELEVEN. WILDTREE TOWERS. Jeffreys spoke truly when he wrote to Mr Frampton that he did not know and did not care where he was going next. When he awoke in his heathery bed next morning, he lay indolently for a whole hour for no other reason than because he did not know whether to walk north, south, east or west. He lacked the festive imagination which helps many people under similar circumstances. It did not occur to him to toss up, nor was he aware of the value of turning round three times with his eyes closed and then marching straight before him. Had he been an errant knight, of course his horse would have settled the question; but as it was, he was not a knight and had not a horse. He had a dog, though. He had found Julius in possession of the caretaker at his guardian's house, and had begged her to let him have him. "Which way are we going, Julius?" inquired the dog's master, leaning upon his elbow, and giving no sign which the dog could possibly construe into a suggestion. Julius was far too deep an animal not to see through an artless design like this. But for all that he undertook the task of choosing. He rose from his bed, shook himself, rubbed a few early flies off his face, and then, taking up the bundle in his teeth, with a rather contemptuous sniff, walked sedately off, in the direction of the North Pole. Jeffreys dutifully followed; and thus it was that one of the most momentous turns in his life was taken in the footsteps of a dog. Let us leave him, reader, tramping aimlessly thus o'er moor and fell, and hill and dale, leaving behind him the smoke of the cotton country and the noisy shriek of the railway, and losing himself among the lonely valleys and towering hills of Westmoreland--let us leave him, footsore, hungry, and desponding, and refresh ourselves in some more cheery scene and amidst livelier company. Where shall we go? for we can go anywhere. That's one of the few little privileges of the storyteller. Suppose, for instance, we take farewell of humble life altogether for a while, and invite ourselves into some grand mansion, where not by the remotest possibility could Jeffreys or Jeffreys' affairs be of the very slightest interest. What do you say to this tempting-looking mansion, marked in the map as Wildtree Towers, standing in a park of I should not like to say how many acres, on the lower slopes of one of the grandest mountains in the Lake country? On the beautiful summer afternoon on which we first see it, it certainly looks one of the fairest spots in creation. As we stand on the doorstep, the valley opens out before us, stretching far to the south, and revealing reaches of lake and river, broad waving meadows and clustering villages, wild crags and pine-clad fells. We, however, do not stand on the doorstep to admire the view, or even to ask admission. We have the storyteller's latchkey and invisible cap. Let us enter. As we stand in the great square hall, hung round in baronial style with antlers, and furnished in all the luxury of modern comfort, wondering through which of the dozen doors that open out of the square it would be best worth our while to penetrate, a footman, bearing a tray with afternoon tea, flits past us. Let us follow him, for afternoon tea means that living creatures are at hand. We find ourselves in a snug little boudoir, furnished and decorated with feminine skill and taste, and commanding through the open French windows a gorgeous view down the valley. Two ladies, one middle-aged, one young, are sitting there as the footman enters. The elder, evidently the mistress of the mansion, is reading a newspaper; the younger is dividing her time between needlework and looking rather discontentedly out of the window. It is quite evident the two are not mother and child. There is not the slightest trace of resemblance between the handsome aquiline face of the elder, stylishly-dressed woman, and the rounder and more sensitive face of her quietly-attired companion. Nor is there much in common between the frank eyes and mock-demure mouth of the girl, and the half- imperious, half-worried look of her senior. "Tell Mr Rimbolt, Walker," says the mistress, as she puts down her paper, and moves her chair up to the tea-table, "and Master Percy." A handsome gentleman, just turning grey, with an intellectual and good- humoured face, strolls into the room in response to Walker's summons. "I was positively nearly asleep," he says; "the library gets more than its share of the afternoon sun." "It would be better for you, dear, if you took a drive or a walk, instead of shutting yourself up with your old books." The gentleman laughs pleasantly, and puts some sugar in his tea. "You are not very respectful to my old friends," said he. "You forget how long we've been parted. Where's Percy?" "Walker has gone to tell him." "I think he is out," said the young lady; "he told me he was going down to the river." "I consider," said Mrs Rimbolt rather severely, "he should tell _me_ what he is going to do, not you." "But, aunt, I didn't ask him. He volunteered it." "Fetch your uncle's cup, Raby." Raby's mouth puckers up into a queer little smile as she obeys. Walker appears in a minute to confirm the report of Master Percy's absence. "He's been gone this three hours, mem." "Let some one go for him at once, Walker." "I get so terrified when he goes off like this," says the mother; "there's no knowing what may happen, and he is so careless." "He has a safe neck," replies the father; "he always does turn up. But if you are so fidgety, why don't you send Raby to look after him?" "If any one went with him, it would need to be some one who, instead of encouraging him in his odd ways, would keep him in hand, and see he did not come to any harm." "Oh," says Raby, laughing, "he wouldn't take me with him if I paid him a hundred pounds. He says girls don't know anything about science and inventions." "He is probably right," observes Mrs Rimbolt severely. "Certainly, as regards the science _he_ practises," says her husband. "What was it he had in hand last week? Some invention for making people invisible by painting them with invisible paint? Ha! ha! He invited me to let him try it on me." "He _did_ try it on me," chimes in Raby. "It is nothing to laugh about," says the mother; "it is much better for him to be of an inquiring turn of mind than--idle," adds she, looking significantly at her niece's empty hand. "It strikes me it is we who are of an inquiring turn of mind just now," said the father. "I fancy he'll turn up. He generally does. Meanwhile, I will go and finish my writing." And he politely retires. "Raby, my dear," says Mrs Rimbolt--Raby always knows what is coming when a sentence begins thus--"Raby, my dear, it does not sound nice to hear you making fun of your cousin. Percy is very good to you--" "Oh yes!" interrupts Raby, almost enthusiastically. "Which makes it all the less nice on your part to make a laughing-stock of him in the presence of his own father. It may seem unlikely that people should be rendered invisible--" Mrs Rimbolt stops, conscious she is about to talk nonsense, and Raby gallantly covers her retreat. "I'm sure I wish I knew half what he does about all sorts of things." "I wish so too," replies the aunt, severely and ungratefully. Several hours pass, and still Master Percy does not put in an appearance. As Mrs Rimbolt's uneasiness increases, half a dozen servants are sent out in various directions to seek the prodigal. It is an almost daily ceremony, and the huntsmen set about their task as a matter of course. No one can recollect an occasion on which Master Percy has ever come home at the right time without being looked for. If the appointed hour is four, every one feels well treated if his honour turns up at five. Nor, with the exception of his mother, and now and then Raby, does any one dream of becoming agitated for three or four hours later. When therefore, just as the family is sitting down to dinner at half- past six, Walker enters radiant to announce that Master Percy has come in, no one thinks any more about his prolonged absence, and one or two of the servants outside say to one another that the young master must be hungry to come home at this virtuous hour. This surmise is probably correct, for Percy presents himself in a decidedly dishevelled condition, his flannel costume being liberally bespattered with mud, and his hair very much in need of a brush and comb. You cannot help liking the boy despite the odd, self-willed solemnity of his face. He is between fourteen and fifteen apparently, squarely built, with his mother's aquiline features and his father's strong forehead. The year he has spent at Rugby has redeemed him from being a lout, but it is uncertain whether it has done anything more. The master of his house has been heard to predict that the boy would either live to be hanged or to become a great man. Some of his less diplomatic school- fellows had predicted both things, and when at the end of a year he refused point blank to return to school, and solemnly assured his father that if he was sent back he should run away on the earliest opportunity, it was generally allowed that for a youth of his age he had some decided ideas of his own. The chief fault about him, say some, is that he has too many ideas of his own, and tries to run them all together. But we are digressing, and keeping him from his dinner. "My dear boy, where have you been?" says the mother; "we have been looking for you everywhere." "Oh, out!" replies Percy, hastily taking stock of the bill of fare. "Well, run and dress yourself, or dinner will be cold." "I'm too fagged," says Percy, coolly taking a seat. "Some soup, please." "I can't have you sit down in that state, Percy," says Mr Rimbolt; "it is not polite to your mother and Raby." "If the poor boy is tired," says Mrs Rimbolt, "we must excuse him this once." So Mr Rimbolt, as has happened more than once before, gives in, and Percy does as he pleases. He does full justice to his dinner, and takes no part in the conversation, which is chiefly carried on by Mr Rimbolt, sometimes with his wife, sometimes with Raby. At length, however, the first cravings of appetite being subdued, he shows a readiness to put in his oar. "How goes the invisible paint, Percy?" asks his father, with a twinkle in his eye. "Used up," replies the boy solemnly. "I'm sure it would answer. I painted Hodge with it, and could scarcely see him at all from a distance." "I believe you paint yourself," says Raby, laughing, "and that's why the men can't find you." Percy is pleased at this, and takes it as a recognition of his genius. He has great faith in his own discovery, and it is everything to him to find some one else believing in it too. "If you like to come to the river to-morrow, I'll show you something," says he condescendingly. "It licks the paint into fits!" "Raby will be busy in the village to-morrow," says her aunt. "What is it you are doing at the river?" "Oh, ah!" solemnly responds the son, whose year at a public-school has not taught him the art of speaking respectfully to his parents; "wouldn't you like to know?" "I wish you'd play somewhere else, dear. It makes me so uneasy when you are down by the river." "Play!" says Percy rather scornfully; "I don't play there--I work!" "I fear you are neglecting one sort of work for another, my boy," says Mr Rimbolt; "we never got through Virgil yet, you know--at least, you didn't. I've been through three books since you deserted our readings." "Oh, Virgil's jolly enough," replied the boy; "I'm going to finish it as soon as my experiments are over." "What experiments?" "Oh, it's a dodge to--I'd show it you as soon as it's finished. It's nearly done now, and it will be a tremendous tip." This is all that can be extracted from the youthful man of science--at least, by the elders. To Raby, when the family retires to the drawing- room, the boy is more confidential, and she once more captivates him by entering heart and soul into his project and entreating to be made a party in the experiments. "I'd see," says he; "but mind you don't go chattering!" Mr Rimbolt gravitates as usual to his library, and here it is that half an hour later his son presents himself, still in his working garb. "Father," says the hopeful, "please can you give me some money?" "Why, you have had ten shillings a week since you came home!" "Aren't you a millionaire, father?" "Some people say so." "Doesn't that mean you've got a million pounds?" "That's what `millionaire' means." "Ten shillings a week is only twenty-six pounds a year." "Quite right, and few boys get such good pocket-money." "When I come into the property I shall allow my son more than that," says Percy gravely. "Not if you love him as much as I love my son," says Mr Rimbolt, with a pleasant smile. "Good-night, father." "Good-night! Why, it's only half-past seven." "I know. I'm going to _get_ up early; I've got a lot of work to do. Besides, I'm miserable." "Why?" "Because I can't get any money." "Why not earn some? I want some one to catalogue my books for me. What do you say to doing it? I shall pay half a crown a shelf." Percy hesitates a bit, and looks at the bookcases, and makes a mental calculation. "That will be about twelve pounds, won't it? Have you got a book to write the names on?" "What! Are you going to begin now?" "Yes." And Percy sits up till eleven o'clock, and succeeds in that time in cataloguing after a fashion, and not badly for a first attempt, two of the smallest shelves in the library, for which he receives then and there five shillings, much to his own comfort and to his father's amusement. Mrs Rimbolt comes into the library just as the business is concluded. "Why, Percy, not in bed--and so tired too!" "Oh, I've been doing some work for father," says the boy, chinking the two half-crowns in his pocket. "But your father, I'm sure, would not wish you to injure your health." "Certainly not. Percy was hard up, and has just been earning five shillings." "What do you mean--earning five shillings?" "Yes--father's been tipping me for cataloguing his books. Jolly hard work, but he pays on the nail, don't you, father?" "My dear boy," said the mother, as she and her son walks across the hall, "why did you not tell me you wanted money? You know I do not grudge it. I don't like you to stay up so late to earn it, when you ought to be resting." "Well, I wouldn't mind another five shillings, mother." The mother gives him a half-sovereign and kisses him. Percy, as he walks up the stairs, ruminating on his good luck, feels considerably more self-respect when he looks at the two half-crowns than when looking at the half-sovereign. At the top of the stairs he shouts down to Walker:-- "I say, wake me at six, will you? and leave my waterproof and top-boots on the hall table; and, I say, tell Mason to cut me a dozen strong ash sticks about a yard long; and, I say, leave a hammer and some tacks on the hall table too; and tell Appleby to go by the early coach to Overstone and get me a pound of cork, and some whalebone, and some tar. Here's five shillings to pay for them. Don't forget. Tell him to leave them at the lodge before twelve, and I'll fetch them. Oh, and tell Raby if she wants to see what I was telling her about, she had better hang about the lodge till I come. I'm sure to be there somewhere between twelve and four." With which the young lord of creation retires to his cubicle, leaving Walker scratching his head, and regarding the five shillings in his hand in anything but a joyful mood. "He ought to be put on the treadmill a week or two; that's what would do him good," observed the sage retainer to himself; "one thing at a time, and plenty of it. A dozen ash sticks before six o'clock in the morning! What does he want with ash sticks? Now his schoolmaster, if he'd got one, would find them particular handy." With which little joke Walker goes off to agitate Appleby and Mason with the news of their early morning duties, and to put the servants' hall in a flutter by announcing for the fiftieth time that summer that either he or the young master would have to leave Wildtree Towers, because, positively--well, they would understand--a man's respect for himself demanded that he should draw the line somewhere, and that was just what Master Percy would not allow him to do. We have changed the scene once already in this chapter. Just before we finish let us change it once more, and leaving beautiful Wildtree and its happy family, let us fly to a sorry, tumbledown, desolate shed five miles away, on the hill-side. It may have once belonged to a farm, or served as a shelter for sheep on the mountain-slopes. But it now scarcely possesses a roof, and no sign of a habitation is anywhere visible. The night has come on rainy and dark, and a weary tramp with his dog has been thankful to crawl into its poor shelter and rest his limbs. The wind has risen and howls dismally round the shed, breaking every now and then through the loose planks, and stirring up the straw which carpets the place. But the traveller is too weary to heed it or the rain which intrudes along with it, and crouching with his dog in the darkest corner, curls himself up in true tramp fashion, and settles down to sleep. He has lain there two hours or more, and the mountain storm begins to abate. The dog has been uneasy for some time, and now in the midst of a peal of thunder awakens his master with a gruff yap. The sleeper sits up in an instant. It is not the thunder that has disturbed the dog, nor is it thunder that the tramp now listens to close at hand. It is the sound of voices, either inside the shed or just outside it. Not a strange thing, perhaps, in a storm like this, for two wayfarers like himself to seek shelter--and yet the tramp seems startled by the sound, and signals to the dog to lie down and hold his peace. "Will it do?" says one voice; and the tramp perceives that the speakers are standing outside the shed under the shelter of the projecting eaves. "No. No good. Too well looked after, and the people about the wrong sort." "There's a pile of swag there--heaps." "Know that. Better wait till the family are away." "There's a child, isn't there?" "A boy--fourteen--only child." "Might work it that way; eh? Get a trifle for him eh?" "A thousand, and no questions asked. It's settled." "It is! Why didn't you say so? How are you going to do it?" "Never you mind. Corporal and I have worked it out. It will be done to-night. Moon's down at ten. You be here at midnight, and have your hay-cart handy. Corporal and I will bring him here. We know where to find him in daylight, and can keep him quiet in the woods till dark." "What then? Who's to keep him?" "Wait till you've got him." "Are you sure they'll go a thousand for him?" "Probably two. Sheer off now, and don't forget, twelve o'clock." The footsteps move away through the wet heather, and the tramp, waiting motionless till the last sound has faded away, draws a long breath and curls himself back into his roost. But not to sleep--to meditate a campaign. "Julius," says he to the dog, who appears to be fully alive to the brewing storm, "you and I will have to stop this business. There'll be three to two, unless the boy fights too. We must be here at eleven, and tackle one of them before the other two come. What do you say to that?" Julius looks only sorry the business is not to begin at once. Then the tramp and he go carefully into the plan of their little campaign, and, as soon as day dawns, go out for a walk, Julius taking care before quitting the shed to acquaint himself with the scent of the two gentlemen who had lately sheltered outside it. The tramp spends a quiet day on the mountain, reading Homer, and admiring the view. Towards nightfall he descends to Overstone and spends a few of his remaining pence in a frugal meal. Then, as the moon dips behind the shoulder of Wild Pike, he betakes himself, with the faithful Julius close at his heels, to the shed on the mountain-side. CHAPTER TWELVE. KIDNAPPING. Percy Rimbolt, despite his unusual literary labours of the past evening, rose promptly when Walker knocked at his door at six o'clock, and arrayed himself once more in his flannels. The storm of the night, which had disturbed Jeffreys and his dog five miles away, had not spread as far as Wildtree, and the early summer sun was already hot as he sallied forth with his waterproof over one arm, and his dozen ash sticks under the other in the direction of the river. Kennedy, at the lodge, was considerably astonished to be awakened by a shower of gravel against his window, and to perceive, on looking out, the young master in full fishing order standing below, "Kennedy, Appleby's going to leave some things here for me about twelve o'clock. Mind you're in, and wait till I come for them. And if Raby comes, tell her I'll be up about then; tell her not to go away." "Do you want me down at the river, sir?" asked the old keeper. "No, keep away; and don't let any one else come below Rodnet Bridge." With which injunction the youthful man of science went on his way, leaving Kennedy to shake his head and wonder what little game the young master was up to now. Percy plodded on a couple of miles down the stream, considerably beyond the park boundaries, till he reached Rodnet Bridge, under which the mountain torrent slipped in a swift, deep stream. Just below the bridge, among the trees which crowded down to the water's edge, was a little hut, used by the Wildtree keepers for depositing their baskets and nets, but now appropriated by the young heir of Wildtree for far more important purposes. It was here, in fact, that during the last two days he had conceived, and begun to put into practice, the never-before-heard-of invention of a machine for enabling a swimmer to swim up-stream at the rate of eight to ten miles an hour! Percy's recent career had been made up of a large number of magnificent projects, admirable in every respect but one--they never quite came off. Just as they neared perfection they "gave out," and something new took their place. It would be treason, however, to hint that the "anti- current swimmer" was ever likely to give out. There certainly seemed no signs of it in the manner in which the inventor set about his task that morning. He had been provident enough to bring some sandwiches in his pockets (provided at the last moment by the much-enduring Walker), and on the strength of these he laboured half the morning. It would puzzle me to explain on what scientific principle the wonderful apparatus was laid down, what mixture between the wing of a bird, the tail of a fish, and the screw of a steamer it embodied. I never was good at mechanics, and certainly Percy Rimbolt's mechanics were such as it is given but to few to follow. Suffice it to say that by eleven o'clock the structure had reached a critical stage, and stood still for want of the cork which Appleby had been charged to procure. The day was hot, and an hour at least must elapse before the messenger could return from Overstone. Percy, therefore, improved the shining hour by a bathe in the clear stream, with whose depths he was evidently familiar. He made no attempt, pending the completion of the machine, to oppose the swift current, but diving into it from the bridge, allowed himself luxuriously to be carried down into the shallows a hundred yards below, and without even the trouble of swimming. This refreshing performance ended, he returned to the hut and dressed. He was in the act of locking the door, preparatory to his journey up to Kennedy's lodge, when a sack was suddenly thrown over his head from behind, and next moment he found himself pinned to the ground in the clutches of two men. Before he was well aware of what had happened, his feet were tied together, and his arms firmly lashed to his sides. The sack was lifted from his mouth, but not long enough to enable him to shout, for a gag was roughly forced between his teeth; and then, while one of his captors held his head, the other bandaged his eyes so completely that, had he not known it, he could not have told whether it was mid-day or midnight. Thus, in almost less time than it takes to narrate it, in broad daylight, and on the borders of his own father's estate, the unfortunate Percy was made captive, without so much as being able to give an alarm or to see the faces of his assailants. He was deposited comfortably on the floor of his own hut, by the side, oh, cruel fate! of his own machine, and there left to work out any number of problems which might occur to him during the next six hours; while his custodians, having carefully padlocked the door, retired to a respectful distance among the trees, where they could smoke their pipes in peace, and at the same time keep an eye on the approaches to their young ward's dungeon. It did not take Percy many minutes to convince himself that any attempt to struggle or extricate himself from his bonds would be labour thrown away. His captors were evidently well up to their business, and there was no wriggling out of their neatly-tied bonds. Nor did the onslaught which the boy made with his teeth on the gag result in anything but disaster. It loosened at least two of his teeth, and gave him during the remainder of the day considerable pain in some of the others. As to his eyes, he rubbed his forehead and the side of his head on the floor, in the hopes of shifting the bandage, but all in vain. He got it over his ears as well as his eyes for his pains, and could scarcely hear a sound. As the afternoon went on, the sun slanted its rays cruelly through the little skylight on to the spot where he lay, and the flies, attracted by the rare chance, swarmed in under the door and through the cracks to make merry with their defenceless victim. Had the sun been seven times as hot, or the flies venomous and deadly, he would have preferred it, for it would have shortened his misery considerably. When at last the sun got across the window, and left him at peace, he was scarcely in a position to appreciate his mercies. Not long after the distant Overstone chimes had sounded four, his heart (about the only unfettered portion of him) leapt to his mouth as he heard his name called in Raby's voice outside. Nor was his the only heart whom that cheery sound caused to palpitate. The two watchers in the wood above heard it, and prepared to decamp at a moment's notice, should the girl display any undue curiosity as to the contents of the hut. But she did not. She was used to seeing it padlocked, and to listen in vain for an answer to her call. Percy was evidently abroad, probably waiting for her up at Kennedy's lodge. So she hurried back. As soon as she had disappeared beyond the bridge, the two men put their pipes into their pockets. "If they've begun looking for him we'd best sheer off, Corporal." "That's right," replied Corporal--"at once." Whereupon they descended from their perches, and having looked carefully up and down, unlocked the dungeon door. Their prisoner was lying so still and motionless, that for an instant they had their misgivings as to whether the gag had not been a trifle too much for his respiration. But a moment's examination satisfied them the boy was alive--much to their relief. The sack was once more brought into requisition, and turned out to be a great deal larger than it looked, for it was found quite roomy enough to accommodate the whole of the person of Percy Rimbolt, who in this dignified retreat quitted the scene of his labours on the back of one of his captors. The hut having been once more carefully padlocked, the party travelled at least a mile into the depths of the lonely woods, where at least there was no lack of shade and seclusion. Percy was deposited somewhat unceremoniously on the ground, and left in the sack (with just sufficient aperture in the region of his nose to allow of respiration) for some hours more, unheeded by his custodians except when he attempted to move or roll over, on which occasions he was sharply reminded of his duty to his company by an unceremonious kick. Some time later--it may have been an hour or two, or only five minutes-- he was aware of a conversation taking place outside his sack. "Risky," said one voice. "More risky not to do it," said the other. "What use would he be if he was a dead 'un? Besides, how are we to carry him all that way?" "All right, have it your way," said the other surlily. Then Percy was conscious of some one uncording the mouth of the sack and uncovering his head. "Young feller," said the gruffer of the two voices, "do you want your throat cut?" Percy shook his head in mild deprecation of such a desire. "Do you want your tongue cut out?" Once more Percy disclaimed any consuming anxiety in that direction. "Then you won't move a step or speak a word unless you're told. Do you mark that?" The boy nodded; he did mark it. Thereupon, much to his relief, the gag was taken from his mouth, and he felt himself hauled out of the ignominious sack. "A drink!" he gasped. "There he goes; I said he'd do it. Clap the gag on again." Poor blindfolded Percy could only wave his head appealingly. He would sooner have his throat cut than feel that gag back between his teeth. His captors let him off this once, and one of them untied the cords from his legs. He was too cramped to attempt to make any use of this partial liberty, even had he been so minded, and sank down, half fainting, to the ground. "Give him a drink," said one of the voices; and in a moment or two he felt a cup of delicious water held to his parched lips, reviving him as if by magic. A few coarse pieces of bread were also thrust between his lips; these he swallowed painfully, for his jaws were stiff and aching, and his teeth had almost forgotten their cunning. However, when the meal was over he felt better, and would gladly have slept upon it for an hour or two, had he been allowed. But this was no part of his captors' programme. They had not relaxed his bonds to indulge any such luxurious craving. Overstone Church had already sounded eleven, and they were due in an hour at the mountain shed. "Get up and step out," said one of them, pulling the boy roughly to his feet. "All very well," said Percy to himself, as he stumbled forward on his cramped limbs; "they'll have to give me a leg up if they want me to go the pace. Where are we going to next, I'd like to know?" "Come, stir yourself," said the man again, accompanying his words by a rough shake. Percy responded by toppling over on his face. He who knew the way to swim against stream ten miles an hour, was just now unable to walk half a dozen paces on solid ground. "Best shove him in the sack again," growled the other man. The bare mention of that sack startled poor Percy to his feet. If he might only have spoken he could easily have explained the trifling difficulty which prevented his "stepping out." As it was, all he could do was to struggle forward bravely for a few more paces, and then again fall. The men seemed to perceive that there was something more than mere playfulness in this twice-repeated performance, and solved the difficulty by clutching him one under each arm, and materially assisting his progress by dragging him. Any of Percy's acquaintances would have been greatly shocked had they been privileged to witness this triumphal midnight progress across the moors; his dragging legs feebly trying to imitate the motions of walking, but looking much more like kneeling, his head dropped forward on his chest, his shoulders elevated by the grip of his conductors under his pinioned arms, and his eyes bandaged as never a blind-man's-buff could bind them. It was a long weary march that; but to Percy it was luxury compared with the morning among the flies on the hut floor. His conductors settled into a jog-trot, which the light weight of the boy did not much impede; and Percy, finding the motion not difficult, and on the whole soothing, dropped off into a half-doze, which greatly assisted in passing the time. At length, however, he became aware of a halt and a hurried consultation between his captors. "Is he there? Whistle?" Corporal gave a low whistle, which after a second or two was answered from the hill-side. "That's all right!" said the other, in tones of relief. "See anything of the cart?" Corporal peered round in the darkness. "Yes--all right down there." "Come on, then. Keep your eye on Jim, though, he's a mighty hand at going more than his share." "Trust me," growled Corporal. Then Percy felt himself seized again and dragged forward. In about five minutes they halted again, and the whistle was repeated. The answer came from close at hand this time. "All square?" whispered Corporal. "Yes!" replied a new indistinct voice--"come on." "Jim's screwed again," said the other man; "I can tell it by his voice; there's no trusting him. Come on." They had moved forward half a dozen steps more, when Corporal suddenly found his head enveloped in a sack--a counterpart of his own--while at the same moment the other man was borne to the ground with a great dog's fangs buried in his neckcloth. "Hold him!" called Jeffreys to the dog, as he himself applied his energies to the subjugation of the struggling Corporal. It was no easy task. But Jeffreys, lad as he was, was a young Samson, and had his man at a disadvantage. For Corporal, entangled with the sack and unprepared for the sudden onslaught, staggered back and fell; and before he could struggle to his feet Jeffreys was on him, almost throttling him. It was no time for polite fighting. If Jeffreys did not throttle his man, his man, as he perfectly well knew, would do more than throttle him. So he held on like grim death, till Corporal, half smothered by the sack and half-choked by his assailant's clutch, howled for quarter. Then for the first time Jeffreys felt decidedly perplexed. If he let Corporal go, Corporal, not being a man of honour, might turn on him and make mincemeat of him. If, on the other hand, he called the dog off the other man to hold Corporal while he bound him captive, the other man might abuse his opportunity in a like manner. The boy was evidently too exhausted to take any part in the encounter? What could he do? After turning the matter over, he decided that Julius was the most competent individual to settle the business. The dog was having a very easy time with the abject villain over whom he was mounting guard, and could well undertake a little more than he had at present on his hands. "Fetch him here, Julius," called Jeffreys, giving Corporal an additional grip; "come here, you fellow, along with the dog." The fellow had nothing for it but to obey; and in a couple of minutes he was lying across the body of Corporal, while Julius stood fiercely over them both. "Come here, boy," called Jeffreys next to Percy; "let me take off those cords." Percy groped his way to him. "What are you going to do with me?" he gasped. "Loose you; and if you're half a man you'll help me tie up these brutes. Come on--watch them there, Julius. Why, you're blindfolded, too, and how frightfully tight you're corded!" "I've been like that since twelve o'clock." A few moments sufficed to unfasten the captive's arms and clear his eyes. "Now you," said Jeffreys, indicating the topmost of Julius's captives with his toe, "put your hands behind your back!" The fellow obeyed hurriedly; he had had quite enough of Julius's attentions already to need more. Jeffreys and Percy between them lashed first his wrists together, and then his elbows tightly to his sides. Then they secured his feet and knees in the same manner. "He'll do--let him go, Julius," and prisoner Number 1 was rolled over, to make room for Number 2 to undergo a similar process of pinioning. It was fortunate that the hay-cart below, of which and its owner Jeffreys and Julius had already taken possession at their leisure, had been liberally provided with cord, or their supply would have been inadequate to the strain put upon it. At last, however, Corporal and his friend were as securely tied up as they themselves could have done it, and dragged into the shed. It was pitch dark, and they neither of them at first perceived a third occupant of the tenement in the person of their fellow-conspirator, who was lying, bound like themselves, on the floor, where for an hour at least he had been enjoying the sweets of solitary meditation. "Now, Julius," said Jeffreys, when his three guests were duly deposited, "you'll have to watch them here till I come back. Hold your tongues, all of you, or Julius will trouble you. Watch them, good dog, and stay here." "Now," said he to the boy, when they found themselves outside, "what's your name?" "Percy Rimbolt." "Where do you live?" "Wildtree Towers, five miles away." "We can be there in an hour. We may as well use this cart, which was meant to drive you in another direction. Can you walk to it, or shall I carry you?" Percy, as one in a dream, walked the short distance leaning on his rescuer's arm. Then, deposited on the soft hay, too weary to trouble himself how he got there, or who this new guardian might be, he dropped off into an exhausted sleep, from which he was only aroused by the sound of his parents' voices as the cart pulled up at the door of Wildtree Towers. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. POLICEMAN JULIUS. Wildtree Towers had been thrown into a state of unmistakable panic when, at the usual hour of retiring for the night, Percy had not put in an appearance. His absence at dinner-time agitated no one but his mother; and the search instituted at her bidding began languidly, and with the usual assurance of a speedy discovery. But as hour passed hour and no tidings came, things began to look serious, and even Walker pulled a long face. Midnight came, and still no tidings. Appleby came up to the house for a lantern, but had nothing to report beyond the fact that the search so far had been unsuccessful. The minutes dragged on for the unhappy watchers. It was harder far for them to sit there in the hall, listening to the unsympathetic tick of the clock and starting at every sound on the gravel without, than it was for the father to tramp through the woods and trace the footsteps along the river's bank. At last the clock struck two, and scarcely had the chimes ceased, when Walker put up his finger, and exclaimed,-- "Hist!" A moment of terrible silence ensued. Then on their quickened hearing there came a distant rumble of wheels. Almost at the same instant footsteps came tearing up the gravel drive. It was Appleby, who rushed into the midst of the group assembled on the doorstep. "All right--he's found!" gasped the lad. "Is he alive?" cried the mother. "On a cart!" exclaimed the panting Appleby. Mrs Rimbolt gave a little shriek, and fell into her husband's arms. Raby, nerved by the very agony of the suspense, rushed out and ran down the drive to meet the cart. "Is Percy there?" she cried. The cart stopped abruptly, and a strange voice replied,-- "Yes--safe and well and fast asleep." The words fell like music on the girl's ears. It was too dark to see anything but the shadowy form of the cart and of a man walking at the horse's head. She darted back to the house with the joyful news, and in another minute the cart stood at the door. Percy, who was decidedly enjoying his sleep, felt by no means as grateful as he should have been to find himself disturbed at this early hour of the night. "All serene! all serene!" he growled, in response to his mother's caresses and Walker's effusive shaking of the hand. "I'm all right, mother; I want to go to bed." "Get the hot bath ready," said Mrs Rimbolt to the servants. "My poor boy!" "I tell you I'm all serene; can't you let me go to bed?" said the half- awake Percy. "I don't want anything except sleep." "Walker, help Master Percy up to bed; let him take our room, and light a fire in it, and put hot bottles in the bed." Percy, thankful to get back to his slumbers at any price, allowed Walker to help him up stairs. At the door of his own room he stopped. "That will do; you can cut. Walker." "But you're to have the best room and a fire--" "You be hanged!" exclaimed the boy, unceremoniously slamming the door in Walker's face, and locking himself in. Downstairs, meanwhile, Jeffreys was being besieged with questions on all hands, which he endeavoured as best he could to answer. Mr Rimbolt, however perceiving that very little good was to be got out of this confused cross-examination, asked him to follow him into the library, once more suggesting to his wife and niece that they should go to bed. Jeffreys was thankful to find himself in a serene atmosphere, and despite all the agitation and excitement of the day, his heart warmed as he looked round on the bookshelves and their friendly occupants. "Now," said Mr Rimbolt, who had made no attempt to take part in the babel outside, "will you please tell me everything?" Jeffreys obeyed, and told his story in a concise and intelligent manner, which convinced Mr Rimbolt he had not only an honest man but a gentleman to deal with. The master of Wildtree was not an effusive man, and if Jeffreys had looked to be overwhelmed with grateful speeches he would have been disappointed. But he had not looked for it, and valued far more the quiet confidential manner in which Mr Rimbolt entered into all the details of the narrative. "Then," said the latter, when the story was ended, "as a matter of fact you have the three ruffians penned in the shed by your dog at this moment--an excellent piece of management." He rang his bell, and Walker, who had felt quite out of it for the half- hour, appeared with great promptitude. "Walker, are any of the men about still?" "Appleby is holding this man's horse at the hall door, sir." "Send Appleby here, and take the horse and cart round to the farm." Poor Walker! This was a sad cut. The farm was half a mile away, across the park; and this order meant that for another hour at least he must be an outsider in the drama. "Appleby," said Mr Rimbolt, when that jaunty youth appeared, "take Benbow, and ride as quickly as you can, to the police-office at Overstone. Tell the inspector with my compliments, to meet me with three constables at Rodnet Bridge at six o'clock, that is, in three hours. Come back as quickly as you can, and have the dog-cart at the door at five." "Now," said he to Jeffreys, when these various matters of business had been put in train, "we may as well occupy our time by getting something to eat, supper and breakfast in one--I dare say you are hungry." As Jeffreys had scarcely eaten anything for three days--in fact, since his visit to Grangerham--he could honestly admit being ready for a meal. "I'm afraid we must forage for ourselves, unless some one is about," said Mr Rimbolt, leading the way to the pantry. It was a curious spectacle that of the millionaire and the tramp together investigating the contents of the pantry shelves and lockers, lifting up dish-covers here, and critically testing the consistency of pie-crusts there. They made a fairly good selection of the good things which came nearest to hand, and retiring with them to the adjacent kitchen, accomplished a meal more luxurious to Jeffreys' mind than any he had tasted since he left Bolsover. This done, to his great satisfaction they adjourned once more to the library, where, while Mr Rimbolt took a brief nap, he regaled himself with the luxury of a prowl among the bookshelves, by the light of the dawning day. So absorbed was he in this occupation that he did not hear the sound of the dog-cart at the front door, or heed Mr Rimbolt's first summons to start. "You're fond of books, surely," said that gentleman, as the two got up into the trap and drove off, with Appleby perched behind. "I love them," said Jeffreys, in the same tone of sincerity which had attracted the York bookseller. "You're a reader, then?" "I would be if I had the chance," said Jeffreys. "You are thinking of my library," said Mr Rimbolt; "but it doesn't follow, you know, that having a house full of books makes a reader. A man may often get more good out of one tattered volume than out of an entire Russia-bound library." "I can quite believe that," said Jeffreys. "Probably you know what a favourite book is?" said Mr Rimbolt rather curiously. Jeffreys replied by producing his well-worn copy of Homer, and it would be hard to say which of these two foolish persons evinced the most enthusiasm in discovering that they both alike had a friend in the old Greek bard. At any rate the discovery levelled at once the social differences which divided them; and in the discussion which ensued, I blush to say they forgot, for the time being, all about Percy, and the shed on the mountain-side, and the three gentlemen there to whom the genial Julius was doing the honours. The appearance of the inspector and three constables at Rodnet Bridge brought the two unpractical excursionists on Mount Olympus abruptly back to level ground. The business was soon explained. The police, of course, knew all about the "parties"--when do they not? They had been following them up for days, had had their suspicions of that mountain shed for weeks, and so on. They couldn't exactly say they had known all about the attempt to kidnap last night; but they knew all about it now, for Appleby had let it out, and the "active and intelligent" in consequence had nothing to learn. Half an hour brought them to the mountain-side. Mr Rimbolt and Jeffreys dismounted, leaving Appleby in charge of the trap, while they, followed in single file by the police, ascended the narrow track towards the shed. Half-way up, Jeffreys whistled; and a joyous bark from Julius assured the party that their game was safe. "You'd better let me go first," said Jeffreys to the inspector, who showed some anxiety to be foremost in the capture, "unless you want my dog to fly at you." The official fell back promptly, his native modesty getting the better of his zeal; and the party halted twenty yards from the shed while Jeffreys advanced to reconnoitre. He saw at a glance that things were not exactly as he had left them. Two out of the three prisoners remained securely bound, but the unlucky Corporal had slipped his feet from the cords, and paid dearly for his folly. Julius had him down on the ground, daring him to move a limb or even turn his head on pain of unheard-of laceration. The wretched fellow had cursed a thousand times his own artfulness. For three hours he had lain thus, not daring to stir a muscle; and if ever a night's experiences are enough to turn the hair grey, Corporal should not have a single black lock left that morning. "Come off, Julius, and let them alone," said Jeffreys. Julius obeyed somewhat reluctantly, though the pleasant task of welcoming his master's return reconciled him somewhat to the abandonment of his sovereignty. Jeffreys beckoned to the party to advance. "These are the three men, sir," said he to Mr Rimbolt. "Yes, sir, these are the parties," said the inspector (who had never set eyes on the men before), advancing towards Corporal as he slowly raised himself from the ground. Julius, greatly to the officers' alarm, made a last attempt to assert his property in the captives, and in Corporal in particular; and in so doing came very near doing a grievous injury to the arm of the law. But Jeffreys' authoritative order to him to come in and he down allowed the arrest to proceed without any further protest than a few discontented yaps as the cords were removed from the prisoners' legs, and they were led off by the force. "We had better go to Overstone, too," said Mr Rimbolt, "and see these ruffians safely quartered. The assizes are coming on in a week or two. Do you live anywhere near here?" "No," said Jeffreys. "Julius and I are on a walking tour at present." Mr Rimbolt looked at his companion, and for the first time took notice of his travel-stained, shabby appearance. "You mean," said he, guessing the truth, "you have no particular address at present?" "Quite so," replied Jeffreys, flushing up uncomfortably. Mr Rimbolt said nothing more just then. They had a busy hour or two at Overstone arranging for the comfortable housing of their three prisoners, until the law should decide as to their more permanent residence. Then, having taken farewell of the police, and returning towards the dog-cart, Jeffreys stopped abruptly and said, raising his hat,-- "Good-bye, sir." Mr Rimbolt looked at him in surprise. "You are not going, surely!" said he. "You must come back to the house with me." "Thank you; Julius and I have a long journey before us, and must be starting." "You are only on a walking tour, you know. There is a great deal to see round here. The place is worth exploring," said Mr Rimbolt feeling almost as embarrassed as his companion. "We shall be back here for the assizes," said Jeffreys. "Nonsense, my friend!" said Mr Rimbolt, taking the bull by the horns; "I insist on your coming back with me now, if it's only to ask how Percy is after his night's excitement. Besides, you have not half explored the library." Whether it was the cordiality of this delicate invitation, or the mention of the library, or both combined, I cannot say; but Jeffreys, with some misgivings, yielded, and ascended the dog-cart. "The ladies would never forgive me," said Mr Rimbolt rather unwisely, "if I let you go without giving them an opportunity of thanking you for your goodness to Percy." Jeffreys was sorry he had yielded. Had he only had Mr Rimbolt and the cool Percy to deal with, he could have resigned himself to the ordeal. But the threat of being thanked by the ladies quite disconcerted him. "I'm--I'm afraid I'm not very--tidy," stammered he. "I'd really rather, if you don't object, go on. Besides, Julius--" Mr Rimbolt laughed good-humouredly. "Julius is not shy, and wants breakfast and a rest after his night's work, don't you, Julius?" Julius could not deny that he was very ready for both. Jeffreys gave it up, and with much sinking of heart awaited their arrival at Wildtree Towers. To his infinite relief, the ladies were not visible. Mrs Rimbolt, it was reported, was confined to her bed by the effects of her recent agitation, and Miss Atherton was out. Master Percy was still fast asleep. It broke the fall considerably to find himself left still to the gentlemanly and unembarrassing attentions of his host. Julius was led with honour to the kitchen, there to be regaled in a baronial fashion, which it was well for his morals and digestion was not a daily festival. Jeffreys, having seen him comfortably curled up on a mat, returned to the library. His host was pacing up and down the floor, evidently a little nervous, and Jeffreys instinctively felt that the ordeal was upon him. Mr Rimbolt, however, began by a little fencing. "I recollect taking a very pleasant tour through this district with two college friends when I was at Oxford. See, here is the map I had with me at the time, and the route marked. We were rather a rackety party, and boasted that we would go in a straight line from Ambleside to the sea, and stick at nothing. Here's the line, you see. That straight line took us over one or two places I wouldn't care to try now. But Oxford men, they said in those days, had no necks to break. Are you a University man?" Jeffreys glanced up, half doubtful whether the question was asked in seriousness or ironically. "No, sir, unfortunately not." "Well," said Mr Rimbolt, "it has its advantages and disadvantages. You would, I dare say, value it; but for the serious work of life it may sometimes be unsettling. Is it fair to ask what your profession is, Mr Jeffreys?" "None at all just now. I was till lately usher in a private school," replied Jeffreys, wincing. Mr Rimbolt observed the wince, and delicately steered away from the topic. "Ah, that must be a monotonous calling, and you, with your love of books and literary tastes, would find it specially irksome. You must forgive me if I take an interest in your affairs, Mr Jeffreys. May I ask if you have any engagement in prospect?" "None at all," said Jeffreys. "My reason for asking is a selfish one, quite, and has been suggested by the interest you take in my library. I have been inquiring for a month or two for some one who will assist me as a private librarian. The fact is, Mr Jeffreys," continued Mr Rimbolt, noticing the look of surprised pleasure in his listener's face, "with my time so much occupied in parliamentary and other duties, I find it quite impossible to attend to the care of my books as I should wish. I made up my mind most reluctantly some time ago that I should have to entrust the duty to some one else, for it was always my pride that I knew where every book I had was to be found. But my collection has grown beyond my control and wants a regular custodian. Look here," said he, opening a folding door at the end of the room. Jeffreys saw another room, larger than the one he was in, lined with shelves, and crowded on the floor with heaps of books in most admired disorder. "It was no use," said Mr Rimbolt half pathetically. "I cherished the hope as long as I was able of reducing this chaos to order, and putting away each one of these treasures (for they are no common volumes) in a place of its own. Every day it grows worse. I've fought against it and put it off, because I could find no one who would undertake it as much for the love of the work as for the small salary to which a private librarian would be entitled. Now you see the selfish reason I have for mentioning the matter to you, Mr Jeffreys. I offer you nothing to jump at; for it will need sheer hard work and a lot of drudgery to overtake the arrears of work, and after that I doubt if the keeping up of the library will leave you much leisure. You would incur no little responsibility either, for if I handed the care of the library to you, I should hold you responsible for every volume in it, and should expect you to know something of the inside of the books as well as the outside. You may think a salary of £100 a year hardly adequate to this amount of work and responsibility; if so I must not press you further, for that is the sum I have arranged to give, and cannot see my way to offering more. It would include residence here, and board, of course." Jeffreys felt almost dazzled by the prospect thus deprecatingly unfolded by Mr Rimbolt. Had the offer been made in any less delicate way; had it savoured of charity to the outcast, or reward to the benefactor, he would have rejected it, however tempting. As it was, it seemed like the opening of one of the gates of Providence before him. The work promised was what of all others he coveted; the salary, with the casually-thrown in addition of board and lodging, seemed like affluence; his employer was a gentleman, and the opportunities of study and self-improvement were such as fall to the lot of few. Above all, in hard work among those quiet and friendly bookshelves he would find refuge from his bad name, and perhaps be able to establish for himself what he had hitherto striven for in vain--a character. "I am most grateful, sir," said he, "if you really think I should suit you." "I think you would," said Mr Rimbolt, in a tone which gratified Jeffreys far more than if he had launched out into idle flattery and compliments. And so it was settled. Jeffreys could scarcely believe what had happened to him when, half an hour later, Mr Rimbolt being called away on business, he found himself taking a preliminary survey of his new preserves, and preparing himself seriously for his duties as private librarian at Wildtree Towers. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. SNOB AND SNUB. Jeffreys was not long in finding out the best and the worst of his new lot at Wildtree Towers. To an ordinary thick-skinned fellow, with his love of books and partiality for boys, his daily life during the six months which followed his introduction under Mr Rimbolt's roof might have seemed almost enviable. The whole of each morning was devoted to the duties of the library, which, under his conscientious management, gradually assumed the order of a model collection. A librarian is born, not made, and Jeffreys seemed unexpectedly and by accident to have dropped into the one niche in life for which he was best suited. Mr Rimbolt was delighted to see his treasures gradually emerging from the chaos of an overcrowded lumber-room into the serene and dignified atmosphere of a library of well-arranged and well-tended volumes. He allowed his librarian _carte blanche_ with regard to shelves and binding. He agreed to knock a third room into the two which already constituted the library, and to line it with bookcases. He even went the length of supporting a clever bookbinder at Overstone for several months with work on his own volumes, and, greatest sacrifice of all, forebore his craze of buying right and left for the same space of time until the arrears of work should be overtaken, and a clear idea could be formed of what he already had and what he wanted. Jeffreys revelled in the work, and when he discovered that he had to deal with one of the most valuable private collections in the country, his pride and sense of responsibility advanced step by step. He occupied his leisure hours in the study of bibliography; he read books on the old printers and their works; he spent hours with the bookbinder and printer at Overstone, studying the mechanism of a book; he even studied architecture, in connexion with the ventilation and lighting of libraries, and began to teach himself German, in order to be able to master the stores of book- lore buried in that rugged language. All this, then, was congenial and delightful work. He was left his own master in it, and had the pride of seeing the work growing under his hands: and when one day Mr Rimbolt arrived from London with a great man in the world of old books, for the express purpose of exhibiting to him his treasures, it called an honest flush to the librarian's face to hear the visitor say, "Upon my word, Rimbolt, I don't know whether to congratulate you most on your books or the way in which they are kept! Your librarian is a genius!" If all his life could have been spent in the shelter of the library Jeffreys would have had little to complain of. But it was not, and out of it it needed no great discernment to perceive that he had anything but a friend in Mrs Rimbolt. She was not openly hostile; it was not worth her while to wage war on a poor domestic, but she seemed for all that to resent his presence in the house, and to be possessed of a sort of nervous desire to lose no opportunity of putting him down. After about a week, during which time Jeffreys had not apparently taken her hint as to the arranging of his person in "respectful" raiment. Walker waited upon the librarian in his chamber with a brown-paper parcel. "My lady's compliments," said he, with a grin--he was getting to measure the newcomer by his mistress's standard--"and hopes they'll suit." It was a left-off suit of Mr Rimbolt's clothes, with the following polite note: "As Mr Jeffreys does not appear disposed to accept Mrs Rimbolt's advice to provide himself with clothes suitable for the post he now occupies at Wildtree Towers, she must request him to accept the accompanying parcel, with the wish that she may not again have occasion to refer to so unpleasant a subject." Jeffreys flushed scarlet as he read this elegant effusion, and, greatly to Walker's astonishment crushed the letter up into a ball and flung it out of the window. "Take that away!" he shouted, pointing to the parcel. "The mistress sent it for--" "Take it away, do you hear?" shouted Jeffreys, starting up with a face so terrible that Walker turned pale, and evacuated the room with the offending parcel as quickly as possible. Jeffreys' outburst of temper quickly evaporated, and indeed gave place to a much more prolonged fit of shame. Was this like conquering the evil in his nature, to be thus thrown off his balance by a trifle? As it happened, he had ordered a suit of clothes in Overstone some days back, and was expecting them that very afternoon. Mr Rimbolt, on the day after his engagement, had as delicately as possible offered him a quarter's salary in advance, which Jeffreys, guessing the source which inspired the offer, had flatly refused. Mr Rimbolt's gentlemanly urging, however, and the consciousness that his present clothes were disreputable, as well as another consideration, induced him to accept a month's stipend; and on the strength of this he had visited the Overstone tailor. But before doing so he had discharged his mind of a still more important duty. The sense of the debt still due to Bolsover had hung round his neck night and day. It was not so much on Mr Frampton's account. He came gradually to hate the thought of Bolsover, and the idea of being a defaulter to the place worried him beyond measure. It seemed like an insult to the memory of poor young Forrester to owe money to the place which had witnessed that terrible tragedy; and the hope of washing his hands once for all of the school and its associations was the one faint gleam of comfort he had in looking back on the events of last year. It was therefore with a feeling of almost fierce relief that he procured a post-office order for the balance of his debt on the very afternoon of receiving the money, and enclosing it with merely his name added--for he wanted no receipt, and felt that even Mr Frampton's letters would now no longer be of service to him--he posted it with his own hands, and hoped that he was done with Bolsover for ever. After that, with very different emotions, he visited the tailor. The clothes arrived on the same afternoon which had witnessed the summary rejection of Mrs Rimbolt's gift. That lady, from whom Walker had considered it prudent to keep back some of the particulars of his interview with the librarian, merely reporting "that Mr Jeffreys was much obliged, but did not require the things," took to herself all the credit of his improved appearance when that evening Mr Rimbolt brought him in from the library to have coffee in the drawing-room. Jeffreys, aware that he was undergoing inspection, felt very shy and awkward, but could not quite do away with the improvement, or conceal that, despite his ugly face and ungainly figure there was something of the gentleman about him. Mrs Rimbolt by no means approved of her husband bringing his librarian into the drawing-room. She considered it a slight to herself and dangerous to Percy and Raby to have this person added to their family circle; and she most conscientiously made a point of lessening that danger on every occasion, by reminding him of his place and rendering his temporary visits to exalted latitudes as uncomfortable as possible. Mr Rimbolt, good easy-going gentleman, shrugged his shoulders and felt powerless to interfere, and when, after a week or two, his librarian generally pleaded some pressing work as an excuse for not going in to coffee, he understood it quite well and did not urge the invitation. Percy, however, had a very different way of comporting himself. What he liked he liked; what he did not like he most conveniently ignored. He was anything but a model son, as the reader has discovered. He loved his parents, indeed, but he sadly lacked that great ornament of youth--a dutiful spirit. He was spoiled, and got his own way in everything. He ruled Wildtree Towers, in fact. If his mother desired him to do what he did not like, he was for the time being deaf, and did not hear her. If he himself was overtaken in a fault, he changed the subject and talked cheerily about something else. If one of his great "dodges" came to a ridiculous end, he promptly screened it from observation by a new one. From the day of the kidnapping adventure he was a sworn ally of Jeffreys. It mattered nothing to him who else snubbed the new librarian, or who else made his life uncomfortable. Percy liked him and thought much of him. He established a claim on his afternoons, in spite of Mrs Rimbolt's protests and Mr Rimbolt's arrangements. Even Jeffreys' refusal to quit work at his bidding counted for nothing. He represented to his mother that Jeffreys was necessary to his safety abroad, and to his father that Jeffreys would be knocked up if he did not take regular daily exercise. He skilfully hinted that Jeffreys read Aeschylus with him sometimes; and once, as a crowning argument, produced a complete "dodge," perfected and mechanically clever, "which," he asserted, "Jeff made me stick to till I'd done." Mr Rimbolt did not conceal the satisfaction with which he noticed the good influence on the boy of his new friend, and readily fell in with the arrangement that Jeffreys' afternoons should be placed at his own (which meant Percy's) disposal. As for Mrs Rimbolt, she groaned to think of her boy consorting with quondam tramps, yet consoled herself with the knowledge that Percy had now some one who would look after him and keep him out of danger, even with a vulgar right arm. Jeffreys accepted this new responsibility cheerfully, and even eagerly. It sometimes came over him with a shock, what would these people say if they knew about young Forrester? Yet was not this care of a boy given to him now as a means, if not of winning back his good name, at least of atoning in some measure by the good he would try to do him, and the patience with which he would bear with his exacting ways for what was past? It was in that spirit he accepted the trust, and felt happy in it. As the summer passed on, Wildtree, the moors around which were famous for their game, became full of visitors. The invasion did not disturb Jeffreys, for he felt that he would be able to retire into private life and avoid it. The company numbered a few boys of Percy's age, so that even that young gentleman would not be likely to require his services for a while. He therefore threw himself wholly into his work, and with the exception of an hour each afternoon, when he took a turn on the hill-side, showed himself to no one. On one of these occasions, as he was strolling through the park towards the moor, he encountered Miss Atherton, very much laden with a camp- stool, a basket, a parasol, and a waterproof. Shy as he was, Jeffreys could hardly pass her without offering to relieve her of part of her burden. "May I carry some of those things?" said he. He had scarcely exchanged words with Raby since the day of his first arrival; and though he secretly numbered her among his friends, he had an uncomfortable suspicion that she looked down on him, and made an effort to be kind to him. "Thanks, very much," said she, really glad to get rid of some of her burdens; "if you wouldn't mind taking the chair. But I'm afraid you are going the other way." "No," said Jeffreys, taking the chair, "I was going nowhere in particular. May I not take the waterproof and basket too?" "The basket is far too precious," said Raby, smiling; "it has grapes in it. But if you will take this horrid waterproof--" "There is not much use for waterproofs this beautiful weather," said Jeffreys, beginning to walk beside her. Then, suddenly recollecting himself, with a vision of Mrs Rimbolt before his mind, he fell back, and said awkwardly,-- "Perhaps I had better--I must not detain you, Miss Atherton." She saw through him at once, and laughed. "You propose to follow me with those things as if I was an Eastern princess! Perhaps I had better carry them myself if you are afraid of me." "I'm not afraid of you," said Jeffreys. "But you are afraid of auntie. So am I--I hope she'll meet us. What were you saying about the weather, Mr Jeffreys?" Jeffreys glanced in alarm at his audacious companion. He had nothing for it after this challenge but to walk with her and brave the consequences. There was something in her half-mutinous, half-confiding manner which rather interested him, and made the risk he was now running rather exhilarating. "Percy seems to have forsaken you," said she, after a pause, "since his friends came. I suppose he is sure to be blowing his brains out or something of the sort on the moors." "Percy is a fine fellow, and certainly has some brains to blow," observed Jeffreys solemnly. Raby laughed. "He's quite a reformed character since you came," said she; "I'm jealous of you!" "Why?" "Oh, he cuts me, now he has you! He used about once a week to offer to show me what he was doing. Now he only offers once a month, and then always thinks better of it." "The thing is to get him to work at one thing at a time," said Jeffreys, to whom Percy was always an interesting study. "As soon as he has learned that art he will do great things." "I think Percy would make a fine soldier," said Raby, with an enthusiasm which quite captivated her companion, "he's so brave and honest and determined. Isn't he?" "Yes, and clever too." "Of course; but my father always says a man needn't be clever to be a good soldier. He says the clever soldiers are the least valuable." "Was your father a soldier?" "Was? He is. He's in Afghanistan now." "In the middle of all the fighting?" "Yes," said Raby, with a shade across her bright face. "It's terrible, isn't it? I half dread every time I see a letter or a newspaper. Mr Jeffreys!" added the girl, stopping short in her walk, "my father is the best and bravest man that ever lived." "I know he is," said Jeffreys, beginning to wonder whether some of the father's good qualities were not hereditary. Raby looked up curiously and then laughed. "You judge of him by seeing how heroic I am braving my aunt's wrath! Oh dear, I do hope she meets us. It would be such a waste of courage if she doesn't." "I have benefited by your courage," said Jeffreys, quite staggered at his own gallantry. "I expect you're awfully dull in that old library," said the girl; "you should hear how uncle praises you behind your back! Poor auntie--" At that moment they turned a corner of the shrubbery leading up to the house, and found themselves suddenly face to face with Mrs Rimbolt with a gentleman and two or three of her lady guests. Jeffreys flushed up as guiltily as if he had been detected in a highway robbery, and absolutely forgot to salute. Even Raby, who was not at all sure that her aunt had not overheard their last words, was taken aback and looked confused. Mrs Rimbolt bridled up like a cat going into action. She took in the situation at a glance, and drew her own inferences. "Raby, my dear," said she, "come with us. Colonel Brotherton wishes to see Rodnet Force, and we are going there. Oh, Mr Jeffreys," added she, turning frigidly upon the already laden librarian, "when you have carried Miss Atherton's things into the house, be good enough to go to Kennedy and tell him to meet us at the Upper Fall. And you will find some letters on the hall table to be posted. By-the-way, Colonel Brotherton, if you have that telegram you want to send off, the librarian will go with it. It is a pity you should have the walk." To these miscellaneous orders Jeffreys bowed solemnly, and did not fail to exhibit his clumsiness by dropping Raby's waterproof in a belated effort to raise his hat. Mrs Rimbolt would hardly have been appeased had he not done so; and it was probably in a final endeavour to show him off as he departed that she added,-- "Raby, give Mr Jeffreys that basket to take in; you cannot carry that up to the Falls." "Oh, aunt, I've told Mr Jeffreys I can't trust him with it. It has grapes in it. Didn't I, Mr Jeffreys?" she said, appealing gaily to him with a smile which seemed to make a man of him once more. "I will undertake not to eat them," said he, with a twitch of his mouth, receiving the precious basket. After that he sacrificed even his afternoon constitutionals, and took to the life of a hermit until Wildtree Towers should be rid of its visitors. But even so he could not be quite safe. Percy occasionally hunted him out and demanded his company with himself and a few choice spirits on some hare-brained expedition. Jeffreys did not object to Percy or the hare-brained expedition; but the "choice spirits" sometimes discomposed him. They called him "Jeffy," and treated him like some favoured domestic animal. They recognised him as a sort of custodian of Percy, and on that account showed off before him, and demonstrated to Percy that he was no custodian of theirs. They freely discussed his ugliness and poverty within earshot. They patronised him without stint, and made a display of their own affluence in his presence. And when once or twice he put down his foot and interdicted some illegal proceeding, they blustered rudely, and advised Percy to get the cad dismissed. It was like some of the old Bolsover days back again, only with the difference that now he steeled himself to endure all patiently for young Forrester's sake. It disappointed him to see Percy, led away by his company, sometimes lift his heel against him; yet it suited his humour to think it was only right, and a part of his penance, it should be so. Percy's revolt, to do that youth justice, was short-lived and speedily repented of. As soon as his friends were gone he returned to Jeffreys with all his old allegiance, and showed his remorse by forgetting all about his recent conduct. Perhaps the most trying incident in all that trying time to Jeffreys was what occurred on the last day of the Brothertons' visit. The colonel and his family had been so busy seeing the natural beauties of Wildtree, that, till their visit was drawing to an end, they found they had scarcely done justice to the beautiful house itself, and what it contained. Consequently the last evening was spent in a visit _en masse_ to the library where Jeffreys was duly summoned to assist Mr Rimbolt in exhibiting the treasures it contained. As usual when the lady of the house was of the party, the librarian went through his work awkwardly. He answered her questions in a confused manner, and contrived to knock over one or two books in his endeavour to reach down others. He was conscious that some of the company were including him among the curiosities of the place, and that Mr Rimbolt himself was disappointed with the result of the exhibition. He struggled hard to pull himself together, and in a measure succeeded before the visit was over, thanks chiefly to Mrs Rimbolt's temporary absence from the library. The lady returned to announce that coffee was ready in the drawing-room, and Jeffreys, with a sigh of relief, witnessed a general movement towards the door. He was standing rather dismally near the table, counting the seconds till he should be left alone, when Mrs Brotherton advanced to him with outstretched hand. Imagining she was about to wish him good-evening in a more friendly manner than he had expected, he advanced his own hand, when, to his horror and dismay, he felt a half-crown dropped into it, with the half-whispered remark, "We are much obliged to you." He was too staggered to do anything but drop his jaw and stare at the coin until the last of the party had filed from the room, not even observing the look of droll sympathy which Raby, the last to depart, darted at him. Left to himself, one of his now rare fits of temper broke over him. He stormed out of the place and up into his room, where, after flinging the coin into the grate, he paced up and down the floor like an infuriated animal. Then by a sudden impulse he picked the coin up, and opening a toolbox which he kept in the room, he took from it a hammer and bradawl. Two or three vicious blows sufficed to make a hole in the centre of the Queen's countenance. Then with a brass-headed nail he pinned the miscreant piece of silver to the wall above the mantelpiece, and sat looking at it till the storm was over. It was a week or two before he quite recovered from this shock and settled down again to the ordinary routine of his life at Wildtree Towers. As the afternoons became shorter, and out-of-door occupations in consequence became limited, he found Percy unexpectedly amenable to a quiet course of study, which greatly improved the tone of that versatile young gentleman's mind. Percy still resolutely set his face against a return to school, and offered no encouragement to his perplexed parents in their various schemes for the advancement of his education. Consequently they were fain to be thankful, until some light dawned on the question, that his education was not being wholly neglected, and Mr Rimbolt in particular recognised that under Jeffreys' influence and tuition the boy was improving in more ways than one. The autumn passed uneventfully. Mr Rimbolt had occasion once or twice to go up to London, and on these occasions Jeffreys was reminded that he was not on a bed of roses at Wildtree. But that half-crown over the mantelpiece helped him wonderfully. Raby continued to regard him from a distance with a friendly eye, and now and then alarmed him by challenging him to some daring act of mutiny which was sure to end in confusion, but which, for all that, always seemed to him to have some compensation in the fellow-feeling it established between the poor librarian and the dependent and kept-under niece. News arrived now and then from India, bringing relief as to what was past, but by no means allaying anxiety as to what might be in store for the soldier there. A week before Christmas, Raby told Jeffreys, with mingled pride and trepidation, that her father had written to say he had been made major, and expected to be sent in charge of a small advance force towards Kandahar, to clear the way for a general advance. By the same post another letter came for Mrs Rimbolt, the contents of which, as the Fates would have it, also came to Jeffreys' ears. "My dear," said the lady, entering the library that evening, letter in hand, and addressing her husband, who was just then engaged with his librarian in inspecting some new purchases, "here is a letter from my old friend Louisa Scarfe. She proposes to come to us for Christmas, and bring with her her son, who is now at Oxford. I suppose I can write and say Yes?" "Certainly," said Mr Rimbolt; "I shall be delighted." A chill went to Jeffreys' heart as he overheard this hurried consultation. If this should be the Scarfe he knew, he was not yet rid, he felt, of Bolsover or of his bad name. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. FALLEN IN A HOLE. Mrs Scarfe and her son arrived a day or two later at Wildtree Towers. Jeffreys, who from the recesses of a bay window was an unseen witness of the arrival, saw at a glance that his forebodings were too true. Scarfe had changed somewhat since we saw him at Bolsover fifteen months ago. He was older and better-looking and wore a trim black moustache. His dress was in the best Oxford style; and in his easy, confident carriage there remained no trace of the overgrown schoolboy. His mother, a delicate-looking widow lady, returned Mrs Rimbolt's greeting with the eagerness of an old friend, and introduced her son with evident pride. It was hopeless for Jeffreys to think of avoiding a recognition for long. Still, he anxiously put off the evil hour as long as possible. The first afternoon and evening this was not difficult, for the travellers had made a long journey and retired early. The following day he went through his work on tenterhooks. Every time the library door opened he felt his heart sink within him, and every footstep he heard crossing the hall seemed to be the one he dreaded. In the evening he attempted to escape the inevitable by taking refuge in his room after dinner. But as it happened a messenger arrived from Overstone with a parcel of books, which made it necessary for him to return to the library. And while there Mr Rimbolt as usual came in. As soon as the business matter had been arranged Mr Rimbolt said, "Miss Atherton has been asking to see Blake's _Songs of Innocence_, Jeffreys; will you kindly take the book to her in the drawing-room? I have one of my tenants to see here, but I shall be in shortly." There was no possible escape from this dilemma. With a groan he got the book down from its place and went. Scarfe, as he entered the drawing-room, was engaged in turning over a book of prints with Raby, and did not notice him. Nor did Mrs Rimbolt, siting on the sofa beside her friend, heed his entrance till Percy said,-- "Hullo, Jeff!" Jeffreys became aware that the eyes of the whole party were suddenly centred on him--Mrs Rimbolt's from under lifted eyebrows, Mrs Scarfe's through raised eye-glasses, Raby's with a veiled welcome, Scarfe's in blank astonishment. He advanced awkwardly into the room. "Close the door, please, Mr Jeffreys," said Mrs Rimbolt, in tones which left no manner of doubt in her visitors' minds as to the status of the librarian in the house. Jeffreys obeyed, and advanced once more towards Raby. "Your uncle," stammered he, conscious of nothing but Scarfe's stare, "asked me to bring you this book." Then, turning with a desperate effort to his old schoolfellow, he said, "How are you, Scarfe?" He scorned himself for the half-appealing tone in which the salutation was made. What was Scarfe to him? Nothing, save that Scarfe and he had both looked down that October afternoon on the motionless form of one small boy in the Bolsover meadow. And was that nothing? "How do you do, Jeffreys?" said Scarfe, stiffly extending his hand, and immediately afterwards returning to his examination of the prints with Raby. "Do you know Jeff?" asked Percy, who had witnessed the recognition. "Yes. Jeffreys and I have met," said Scarfe, not looking up from his book. "Who is that young man?" said Mrs Scarfe, in an audible whisper to her hostess. "The librarian here. Mr Jeffreys," added Mrs Rimbolt, as Jeffreys stood irresolute, not knowing whether to remain in the room or go, "be good enough to tell Walker he can bring the coffee, and tell Mr Rimbolt we are expecting him." "Mr Rimbolt asked me to say you are not to wait coffee for him. He may be detained with a tenant in the library." "Jeff, I say, you should have been with us this afternoon. We had such larks. We got one or two pot shots, but didn't hit anything except the dog. So it's a good job we didn't borrow Julius. Kennedy says we're in for a ripping frost, so save yourself up, old man." "Percy, you talk like a stable-boy. Do remember you are in the drawing- room; and don't detain Mr Jeffreys from his work." Under cover of this maternal exhortation Jeffreys withdrew. "Rum your knowing Jeff, Scarfe!" said Percy, after he had gone; "was he at Oxford?" "No," said Scarfe. "It was at school. Surely that must be one of Hogarth's engravings, Miss Atherton, it is exactly his style." "It wasn't much of a school, was it?" persisted Percy. "Jeff told me he didn't care about it." "I don't think he did," replied Scarfe with a faint smile. "I suppose you are very fond of Oxford, are you not?" said Mrs Rimbolt; "every one who belongs to the University seems very proud of it." This effectually turned the conversation away from Jeffreys, and the subject was not recurred to that evening, except just when Scarfe was bidding his mother good-night in her boudoir. "I hope you won't be dull here," said she. "Miss Atherton seems a pleasant girl, but it is a pity Percy is not older and more of a companion." "Oh, I shall enjoy myself," said Scarfe. "You don't seem very fond of that Mr Jeffreys." "No, I draw the line somewhere, mother," said the son. "What do you mean? Is there anything discreditable about him? He looks common and stupid, to be sure. Mrs Rimbolt tells me Percy is greatly taken up with him." "They appear to have curious ideas about the kind of companion they choose for their boy," said Scarfe. "But it's no business of ours. Good-night, mother." And he went, leaving Mrs Scarfe decidedly mystified. Jeffreys and Scarfe occasionally met during the next few days. Jeffreys was rather relieved to find that his late schoolfellow seemed by no means anxious to recall an old acquaintance or to refer to Bolsover. He could even forgive him for falling into the usual mode of treating the librarian as an inferior. It mattered little enough to him, seeing what Scarfe already knew about him, what he thought of him at Wildtree. On the whole, the less they met and the less they talked together, the less chance was there of rousing bitter memories. The Scarfes would hardly remain more than a month. If for that time he could efface himself, the danger might blow over, and he might be left at the end of the time with the secret of his bad name still safe at Wildtree Towers. Kennedy's prophecy of a hard frost turned out to have been a knowing one. All through Christmas week it continued with a severity rare even in that mountainous region; and when on New Year's Day the report reached Wildtree that a man had skated across the upper end of Wellmere it was admitted to be a frost which, to the younger generation of the place at least, "beat record." Percy was particularly enthusiastic, and terrified his mother by announcing that he meant to skate across Wellmere, too. Raby, though less ambitious, was equally keen for the ice; and Scarfe, indolently inclined as he was, was constrained to declare himself also anxious to put on his skates. A day was lost owing to the fact that Percy's skates, which had lain idle for two years, were now too small for him and useless. Mrs Rimbolt devoutly hoped the ironmonger in Overstone would have none to fit him, and used the interval in intriguing right and left to stop the projected expedition. She represented to her husband that the head gardener was of opinion that the frost had reached its height two days ago. She discovered that Scarfe had a cold, to which exposure might be disastrous. Raby she peremptorily forbade to dream of the ice; and as for Percy, she conjured him by the love he bore her to skate on nothing deeper than the Rodnet Marsh, whereat that young gentleman gibed. The Overstone ironmonger had skates which fitted the boy to a nicety, and by way of business sent up "on inspection" a pair which Mr Rimbolt might find useful for himself. "You surely will not allow Percy to go?" said the lady to her husband, on the morning after the arrival of the skates. "Why not? He's a good skater, and we don't often have a frost." "But on Wellmere! Think of the danger!" "I often skated across Wellmere when I was a boy. I would not object to do it again if I had the time to spare. I declare the sight of the skates tempted me." "I don't believe Mr Scarfe can swim. What would happen if there were an accident?" "I think you overrate the danger," said her husband; "however, if it pleases you, I will get Jeffreys to go with them. He can swim, and I dare say he can skate, too." Mrs Rimbolt shied a little at the suggestion, but yielded to it as a compromise, being better than nothing. Jeffreys would fain have evaded this unexpected service. "I have no skates," he said, when Mr Rimbolt proposed it. "Yes; the ironmonger sent up a pair for me, and as I can't use them you are welcome to them." "Did you not want the books from Sotheby's collated before to-morrow?" "No, Saturday will do. Honestly, Jeffreys, I would be more comfortable, so would Mrs Rimbolt, if you went. We have experience of the care you take of Percy. So, you see, I ask a favour." It was useless to hold out. "I will go," said he; and it was settled. An hour later Scarfe, Percy, Jeffreys, and Julius stood at the hall door ready to start. "Where's Raby, I say?" cried Percy; "she said she'd come." "I do not wish Raby to go." "Oh, look here, mother, as if we couldn't look after her; eh, Scarfe?" "It will be no pleasure without Miss Atherton," said Scarfe. "Can't she come, father?" said Percy, adroitly appealing to Caesar. "I really think it would be a pity she should miss the fun." "Huzzah! Raby, where are you? Look sharp! father says you can come, and we're waiting!" cried Percy. Raby, who had been watching the party rather wistfully, did not keep them long waiting. Wellmere was a large lake some five miles long and a mile across. In times of frost it not unfrequently became partially frozen, but owing to the current of the river which passed through it, it seldom froze so completely as to allow of being traversed on skates. This, however, was an extraordinary frost, and the feat of the adventurer on New Year's Day had been several times repeated already. The Wildtree party found the ice in excellent order, and the exhilarating sensation of skimming over the glassy surface banished for the time all the unpleasant impressions of the walk. It was several years since Jeffreys had worn skates, but he found that five minutes was sufficient to render him at home on the ice. He eschewed figures, and devoted himself entirely to straightforward skating, which, as it happened, was all that Percy could accomplish--all, indeed, that he aspired too. It therefore happened naturally that Scarfe and Raby, who cultivated the eccentricities of skating, were left to their own devices, while Jeffreys, accompanied of course by Julius, kept pace with his young hero for the distant shore. It was a magnificent stretch. The wind was dead, the ice was perfect, and their skates were true and sharp. "Isn't this grand?" cried Percy, all aglow, as they scudded along, far outstripping the perplexed Julius. "Better than smoking cigarettes, eh, old Jeff?" Jeffreys accepted this characteristic tender of reconciliation with a thankful smile. "I was never on such ice!" said he. "Looks as if it couldn't thaw, doesn't it?" said Percy. "It's better here in the middle than nearer the shore. I hope those two won't get too near the river, it looks more shaky there." "Trust Scarfe! He knows what's what! I say, aren't he and Raby spoons?" "Mind that log of wood. It must be pretty shallow here," said Jeffreys, his face glowing with something more than the exercise. They made a most successful crossing. Returning, a slight breeze behind them favoured their progress, and poor Julius had a sterner chase than ever. As they neared their starting-point Jeffreys looked about rather anxiously for Scarfe and Raby, who, tiring of their fancy skating, had started on a little excursion of their own out into the lake. "I wish they wouldn't go that way," said he, as he watched them skimming along hand-in-hand; "it may be all right, but the current is sure to make the ice weaker than out here." "Oh, they're all serene," said Percy. "I'll yell to them when we get near enough." Presently, as they themselves neared the shore, they noticed Scarfe turn and make for the land, evidently for something that had been forgotten, or else to make good some defect in his skates. Raby, while waiting, amused herself with cutting some graceful figures and curvetting to and fro, but always, as Jeffreys noted with concern, edging nearer to the river. Percy shouted and waved to her to come the other way. She answered the call gaily and started towards them. Almost as she started there was a crack, like the report of a gun, followed by a cry from the girl. Jeffreys, with an exclamation of horror and a call to Julius, dashed in an instant towards her. The light girlish figure, however, glided safely over the place of danger. Jeffreys had just time to swerve and let her pass, and next moment he was struggling heavily twenty yards beyond in ten feet of icy water. It all happened in a moment. Percy's shout, the crack, the girl's cry, and Julius's wild howl, all seemed part of the same noise. Percy, the first of the spectators to recover his self-possession, shouted to Scarfe, and started for the whole. "I'm all right, don't come nearer," called Jeffreys, as he approached; "there's a ladder there, where Scarfe is. Bring it." Percy darted off at a tangent, leaving Jeffreys, cool in body and mind, to await his return. To an ordinarily excitable person, the position was a critical one. The water was numbing; the ice at the edge of the hole was rotten, and broke away with every effort he made to climb on to it; even Julius, floundering beside him, bewildered, and at times a dead weight on his arms and neck, was embarrassing. Jeffreys, however, did not exhaust himself by wild struggles. He laid his stick across the corner of the hole where the ice seemed firmest, and with his arms upon it propped himself with tolerable security. He ordered the dog out of the water and made him lie still at a little distance on the ice. He even contrived to kick off one boot, skate and all, into the water, but was too numbed to rid himself of the other. It seemed an eternity while Scarfe and Percy approached with the ladder, with Raby, terrified and pale, hovering behind. "Don't come nearer," he shouted, when at last they got within reach. "Slide it along." They pushed it, and it slipped to within a yard of him. Julius, who appeared to have mastered the situation, jumped forward, and fixing his teeth in the top rung, dragged it the remaining distance. The remainder was easy. Scarfe crawled along the ladder cautiously till within reach of the almost exhausted Jeffreys, and caught him under the shoulder, dragging him partially up. "I can hold now," said Jeffreys, "if you and Percy will drag the ladder. Julius, hold me, and drag too." This combined effort succeeded. A minute later, Jeffreys, numbed with cold but otherwise unhurt, was being escorted on his one skate between Percy and Scarfe for the shore, where Raby awaited him with a look that revived him as nothing else could. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. A BRUSH NEAR KANDAHAR. While Raby that night dreamed troublously of the events of the day, a soldier was sitting in his tent near Kandahar, some four thousand or more miles away, reading a letter. He was an officer; his sword lay beside him on the table, his boots were off, and a flannel coat took the place of the regimental jacket which lay beside his saddle on the floor. If these signs were not sufficient to prove that for the time being he was off duty, his attitude as he lolled back in his camp-chair, with his feet on the table considerably above the level of his chin, reading his letter by the uncertain light of a lamp, would have left little doubt on the subject. So engrossed indeed was he that he was unaware of the presence of his native servant in the tent preparing supper, and read aloud to himself. The envelope of the letter, which lay on the table, was a foreign one with an English stamp, and addressed in a feminine hand. The soldier, having completed his first perusal, turned back to the beginning, reading partly to himself, partly aloud. "`October 4'--three months ago or more!--before she heard of this business. `You poor dull darling'--nice names to call one's father, true enough, though, at the time, it was brutally dull at Simla--`I can fancy how you hate loafing about all day with nothing to do but try and keep cool and find a place to sleep in where the flies can't worry you.' Hum! Picture of a soldier's life! A little different from the usual impression, but not very wide of the mark after all." Then he read to himself for a bit something which made his weather- beaten face soften, and brought a sparkle to his eyes. "Bless the child!" he murmured; "she doesn't forget her old father! `How glad I shall be if you get sent to the front, for I know how you hate doing nothing. If you are, I shall be foolish, of course, and imagine all sorts of horrors whenever I see a letter.' That's the way girls back their fathers up! `Oh, why couldn't I be a soldier too, and ride behind you into action, instead of dawdling here doing no good to anybody, and living like a fine young lady instead of a simple soldier's daughter?' Whew! what a fine little colour-sergeant she'd make! Wouldn't Mrs Grundy sit up if she read that? "Hum!" he went on, after reading a little further. "`I oughtn't to grumble. Uncle Rimbolt is the kindest of protectors, and lets me have far too many nice things. Aunt has a far better idea of what a captain's daughter should be. She doesn't spoil me. She's like a sort of animated extinguisher, and whenever I flicker up a bit she's down on me. I enjoy it, and I think she is far better pleased that I give her something to do than if I was awfully meek. It all helps to pass the time till my dear old captain comes home.' Heigho! that means she's miserable, and I'm not to guess it! I had my doubts of Charlotte Rimbolt when I let her go to Wildtree. Poor little Raby! she's no match for an animated extinguisher! "`Percy,' continued the letter, `is as lively and full of "dodges" as ever. He soon got over his kidnapping adventure. Indeed, the only difference it has made is that we have now one, or rather two, new inmates at Wildtree, for Uncle Rimbolt has employed Percy's rescuer as his librarian, and the dog has, of course, taken up his abode here too. He is a perfect darling! so handsome and clever! He took to me the first moment I saw him, and he would do anything for me.' Really!" said the father; "that's coming it rather strong, isn't it, with the new librar-- Oh, perhaps she means the dog! Ha, ha! `Aunt Rimbolt gets some fine extinguisher practice with this newcomer, against whom she has a most unaccountable prejudice. He is very shy and gentlemanly, but I am sure Percy never had a better friend. He has become ever so much steadier.' Did you ever know such letter-writers as these girls are? Which newcomer does she mean, the fellow who's a perfect darling, or the fellow who's shy and gentlemanly? and which, in the name of wonder, is the man and which the dog? Upon my word, something awful might be going on, and I should be none the wiser! `Julius nearly always escorts me in my walks. He is _such_ a dear friendly fellow, and always carries my bag or parasol. Aunt, of course, doesn't approve of our being so devoted to one another, for she looks upon Julius as an interloper; but it doesn't matter much to us. Percy often comes with us, but Julius rather resents a third person. He thinks--so do I, much as I like Percy--that two are company and three are none.'" Major Atherton--for the soldier was no other--leaned back in his chair, and fanned himself with the letter. "How _on earth_ am I to know who or what she is talking about? If it's not the dog, upon my honour, Aunt Rimbolt-- It can't be the dog, though. She calls him Julius; and why should she take the boy along with them if it wasn't the librarian puppy she walked with? Rimbolt ought to look after things better than that! "`Uncle Rimbolt thinks very highly of his new _protege_. He is so quiet; it is quite painful sometimes talking to him. I'm sure he has had a lot of trouble; he has a sort of hunted look sometimes which is quite pathetic. Aunt hardly ever lets him come into the drawing-room, and when she does it is generally in order to snub him. I fancy he feels his anomalous position in this house very much.'" "My patience! That's a mild way of putting it!" exclaimed the major; "the anomalous position of this hunted-looking, shy librarian who carries her parasol and escorts her about, and suggests to Percy that two are company and three are none! All I can say is the sooner we get into Kandahar and are paid off home the better!" "What's that you're saying about Kandahar, old man?" said a voice at the door of the tent, and there entered a handsome jaunty-looking officer of about Atherton's age. "That you, Forrester? Come in. I've just had a letter from my little girl." A shade crossed Captain Forrester's cheery face. "Your luck, my dear boy. I haven't had a line." "Perhaps there's a letter for you at head-quarters." "I doubt it. But don't talk about it. How's your girl flourishing?" "Upon my honour, she seems to be a little too flourishing," said the major, taking up his letter with a look of puzzled concern. "You may be a better English scholar than I am, Forrester, and be able to make head or tail of this. As far as I can make it out, Raby is flourishing very decidedly. Here, read this second sheet." Captain Forrester took the letter, and read the part indicated carefully. The major watched him anxiously till he had done. "Well?" he asked, as his comrade handed it back. "It seems to be a case," said the latter. "That's what I thought. I don't like that carrying her parasol, and telling the boy that two are company--" Captain Forrester burst into a loud laugh. "Why, you glorious old donkey, that's the dog!" "Nonsense; she'd never say a dog was shy and gentlemanly, and looked as if he'd had a lot of trouble." "No," said the captain holding his sides, "that's the librarian." "Who--the fellow Julius she talks about?" asked the major, beginning to feel very warm. "The fellow Julius! Why, Julius is the dog!" The major rose from his seat in agitation, and stood before his friend. "Forrester," said he solemnly, "as soon as I see the joke I'll laugh. Meanwhile tell me this. Who in the name of mystery is it who feels his anomalous position at Wildtree, the man or the dog?" Captain Forrester held gallantly on to his chair to prevent falling off; and the native without, hearing his shouts, looked in at the door to see what the sahib wanted. "My dear fellow," said he at last, "I begin to think I know more than you. Can't you see this daughter of yours is decidedly interested in this young _protege_ of her uncle?" "Most decidedly I see that." "And that in order to throw dust in your fatherly old eyes, she makes a great gush about the dog Julius, and says hardly a word about the master, whose name does not appear." Major Atherton took up the letter again and glanced through it, and a light began to break on his puzzled countenance. "Then," said he, "the fellow who's handsome and clever and a perfect darling is--" "Is the bow-wow. And the fellow who's hunted-looking and not allowed in the drawing-room is his master." Major Atherton resumed his chair, and once more planted his feet on the table. "That is a way of putting it, certainly. If so, it's a relief." "My dear boy, keep your eye on that librarian, or he may change places with his dog in double-quick time." The major laughed, and a pause ensued. Then Forrester said-- "Two or three days more, and we ought to be in Kandahar." "We are to have a stiff brush or two before we get there," said the major; "any hour now may bring us to close quarters." There was another pause. Captain Forrester fidgeted about uneasily, and presently said-- "It's possible, old man, only one of us may get through. If I am the one who is left behind, will you promise me something?" "You know I will." "That boy of mine, Atherton, is somewhere, I'm as sure of it as that I'm sitting here. He's vanished. My letters to Grangerham cannot all have miscarried, and they certainly have none of them been answered. My mother-in-law, as I told you, died in the south of England. The boy may have been with her, or left behind in Grangerham, or he may be anywhere. I told you of the letter I had from the school?" "Yes; he had had an accident and gone home damaged--crippled, in fact." "Yes," said Captain Forrester, with a groan, "crippled--and perhaps left without a friend." "You want me to promise to find him if you are not there to do it, and be a father to him. You needn't ask it, old man, for I promise." "I've nothing to leave him," said Captain Forrester, "except my sword and this watch--" "And the good name of a gallant soldier. I will, if it is left to me to do it, take the boy all three." "Thanks, Atherton. You know that I would do the same by you, old fellow." "You may have the chance. That girl of mine, you know," added the major, with a tremble in his voice, "would have what little I have saved, which is not much. She's a good girl, but she would need a protector if I was not there." "She shall have it," said his friend. "I'm not sure that she's happy at Wildtree," continued the father, with a smile, "despite the dog and his master. Rimbolt's a bookworm, and doesn't see what goes on under his nose, and her aunt, as she says, is an animated extinguisher. It always puzzled me how Rimbolt came to marry Charlotte Halgrove." "Halgrove? Was she the sister of your old college friend?" "Yes. Rimbolt, Halgrove, and I were inseparable when we were at Oxford. Did I ever tell you of our walking tour in the Lakes? We ruled a bee- line across the map with a ruler and walked along it, neck or nothing. Of course you know about it. We've sobered down since then. Rimbolt married Halgrove's sister, and I married Rimbolt's. I had no sister, so Halgrove remained a bachelor." "What became of him?" "I fancy he made a mess of it, poor fellow. He went in for finance, and it was too much for him. Not that he lost his money; but he became a little too smart. He dropped a hundred or two of mine, and a good deal more of Rimbolt's--but he could spare it. The last I heard of him was about twelve years ago. He had a partner called Jeffreys; a stupid honest sort of fellow who believed in him. I had a newspaper sent me with an account of an inquest on poor Jeffreys, who had gone out of his mind after some heavy losses. There was no special reason to connect Halgrove with the losses, except that Jeffreys would never have dreamed of speculating if he hadn't been led on. And it's only fair to Halgrove to say that after the event he offered to take charge of Jeffreys' boy, at that time eight years old. That shows there was some good in him." "Unless," suggested Captain Forrester, "there was some money along with the boy." "Well, I dare say if he's alive still, Rimbolt will know something of him; so I may come across him yet," said the major; and there the conversation ended. Major Atherton's prophecy of a brush with the enemy was not long in being fulfilled. Early next day the expeditionary force was ordered forward, the cavalry regiment in which the two friends were officers being sent ahead to reconnoitre and clear the passes. The march lay for some distance along a rocky valley, almost desolate of habitations, and at parts so cumbered with rocks and stones as to be scarcely passable by the horses, still less by the artillery, which struggled forward in front of the main body. The rocks on the right bank towered to a vast height, breaking here and there into a gorge which admitted some mountain stream down into the river below, and less frequently falling back to make way for a wild saddle-back pass into the plains above. Along such a course every step was perilous, for the enemy had already been reported as hovering at the back of these ugly rocks, and might show their teeth at any moment. For an hour or two, however, the march continued uninterrupted. The few scattered Afghans who had appeared for a moment on the heights above had fallen back after exchanging shots, with no attempt at serious resistance. The main body had been halted in the valley, awaiting the return of the scouts. The horses had been unharnessed from the guns, and the officers were snatching a hurried meal, when Captain Forrester at the head of a few troopers scampered into the lines. The news instantly spread that the enemy had been seen ahead, and was even then being chased by the cavalry up one of the defiles to the right. Instantly, and without even waiting for the word of command, every man was in his place ready to go on. The guns, with Captain Forrester's troop as escort, dashed forward to hold the defile; while the main body, divided into two divisions--one to follow the guns, the other to reach the plain above by a nearer pass--started forward into action. The cavalry, meanwhile, with Major Atherton at their head, were already engaged in a hot scrimmage. Following their usual tactics, the Afghans, after exchanging shots at the entrance of the pass, had turned tail and dashed through the defile, with the English at their heels. Then, suddenly turning as they reached the plain beyond, they faced round on their pursuers, not yet clear of the rocky gorge. In the present instance, however, when within about a hundred yards of the head of the column, they wheeled round again, and once more bolted into the open. A stern chase ensued over the rough broken ground, the enemy now and then making a show of halting, but as often giving way and tempting the cavalry farther out into the plain. The Afghans numbered only about two hundred horsemen, but it was quite evident from their tactics that they had a much larger body in reserve, and Major Atherton was decidedly perplexed as to what he should do. For if he pursued them too far, he might be cut off from his own men; if, on the other hand, he made a dash and rode them down before they could get clear, he might cut them off from their main body, and so clip the enemy's wings. The enemy settled the question for him. Just as he was looking round for the first sign of Forrester and the guns in the pass, the plain suddenly swarmed with Afghans. From every quarter they bore down on him, horse and foot, and even guns, seeming almost to spring, like the teeth of Cadmus, from the earth. It was no time for hesitation or doubt. Retreat was out of the question. Equally hopeless was it to warn the troops who were coming up. There was nothing for it but to stand at bay till the main body came up, and then, if they were left to do it, fight their way out and join forces. The major therefore brought his men to a corner of the rocks, where on two sides, at any rate, attack would be difficult; and there, ordering them to dismount and form square, stood grimly. A cruel half-hour followed. Man after man of that little band went down before the dropping fire of the enemy. Had the guns been able to command the position, they would have fallen by tens and scores. Major Atherton, in the middle of the square, had his horse shot under him before five minutes were past. Alas! there was no lack of empty saddles to supply the loss, for before a quarter of an hour had gone by, out of a dozen officers scarcely half remained. Still they stood, waiting for the first boom of the guns at the head of the pass, and often tempted to break away from their posts and die fighting. For of all a soldier's duties, that of standing still under fire is the hardest. Captain Forrester, dashing up the defile at the head of the artillery, had been prepared to find a lively skirmish in progress between his own comrades and the handful of Afghans who were luring them on. But when, on emerging on to the plain, he found himself and the guns more than half surrounded by the enemy, and no sign anywhere of Atherton, he felt that the "brush" was likely to be a very stiff one. The Afghans had set their hearts on those guns; that was evident by the wild triumphant yell with which they charged down on them. Forrester had barely time to order a halt and swing the foremost gun into action when a pell-mell scrimmage was going on in the very midst of the gunners. The first shot fired wildly did little or no execution, but it warned Atherton that his time was come, and signalled to the troops still toiling up the pass what to expect when they got through. That fight round the guns was the most desperate of the day. The Afghans knew that to capture them as they stood, meant the certain annihilation of the British troops as they defiled into the plain. Forrester knew it, too. Unlike Atherton, he had no protected sides. The enemy was all round him. The little troop at his command was barely able to cover one side of the square; and the gunners, obliged to fight hand to hand where they stood, were powerless to advance a step. Every moment was golden. Already a distant bugle-note announced that Atherton's horse had broken loose, and were somewhere within reach--probably cutting their way through the guns. And within a few minutes the head of the column ascending the defile would also come upon the scene. Hold the guns till then, and all might yet be safe. So decided Captain Forrester, as with a cheery smile on his handsome face he shouted to his men to hold out, and fought like a lion beside the foremost gun. The Afghans, baffled by the stubborn resistance, and aware of the danger of delay, hurled themselves upon that devoted little bond with a fury before which nothing could stand. Man after man dropped across his gun; but still Forrester shouted to his men and swung his sabre. It was no time for counting heads. He hardly knew whether, when he shouted, thirty, or twenty, or only ten shouted back. All he knew was the enemy had not got the guns yet, and that was sufficient! A bugle! Five minutes more, and they might still laugh at the foe. The bugle-note came from Atherton's men, who at the first sound of the gun had vaulted with a cheer to their horses and dashed towards the sound. Many a brave comrade they left behind them, and many more dropped right and left as they cut their way forward. Atherton, at their head, peered eagerly through the dust and smoke. All he could see was a surging mass of human beings, in the midst of which it was impossible to discern anything but the flash of sabres, and at one spot a few British helmets among the turbans of the enemy. That was enough for Major Atherton. Towards that spot he waved on his men, and ordered his bugler to sound a rousing signal. The bugler obeyed, and fell at the major's side before the note had well ceased! The struggle round the guns increased and blackened. One after another the British helmets went down, and the wild shouts of the Afghans rose triumphantly above them. At length Atherton saw a tall figure, bareheaded and black with smoke, spring upon a gun-carriage, and with the butt end of a carbine fell two or three of the enemy who scrambled up to dislodge him. Atherton knew that form among a thousand, and he knew too that Forrester was making his last stand. "Cheer, men, and come on!" cried he to his men, rising in his stirrups and leading the shout. The head of the column, just then emerging from the gorge, heard that shout, and answered it with a bugle flourish, as they fixed bayonets and rushed forward to charge. At the same moment, a cheer and the boom of a gun on the left proclaimed that the other half of the column had at that moment reached the plain, and were also bearing down on the enemy's flank. But Atherton saw and heeded nothing but that tall heroic figure on the carriage. At the first sound of the troopers' shout Forrester had turned his head, smiling, and raised his carbine aloft, as though to wave answer to the cheer. So he stood for a moment. Then he reeled and fell back upon the gun he had saved. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. AN OFFICIAL REPORT. Scarfe, on the return of the skating party to Wildtree, found himself the hero of the hour. Whether the risk he ran in rescuing his old schoolfellow from his icy bath had been great or small, it had resulted in saving Jeffreys' life, and that was quite sufficient to make a hero of him. Percy, easily impressed by the daring of any one else, and quite overlooking his own share in the rescue, was loud in his praises. "How jolly proud you must feel!" said he. "I know I should if I'd saved a fellow's life. That's never my luck!" "You lent a hand," said Scarfe, with the complacency of one who can afford to be modest. And, to do Scarfe justice, until he heard himself credited with the lion's share of the rescue, he had been a little doubtful in his own mind as to how much of it he might justly claim. "Oh," said Percy, "a lot I did! You might as well say Raby lent a hand by lending Jeff her shawl." "I was the cause of it all," said Raby. "But you forget dear old Julius; I'm sure he lent a hand." "The dog was rather in the way than otherwise," said Scarfe; "dogs always are on the ice." Jeffreys, as he walked silently beside them, could afford to smile at this last remark. But in other respects he found little cause for smiling. He was not yet a purified being, and even the peril he had been in had not cast out the fires of pride and temper that lurked within him. It now stung him with an unspeakable misery to find that he was supposed to owe his life to one whom he so thoroughly mistrusted and dreaded as Scarfe. He persuaded himself that it was all a delusion--that he could easily have extricated himself without anybody's aid but that of the faithful Julius; that Scarfe had run absolutely no risk in crawling out to him on the ladder; that, in short, he owed him nothing--if, indeed, he did not owe him resentment for allowing himself to be credited with a service which he had no right to claim. Ungrateful and unreasonable, you will say, and certainly not betokening a proper spirit in one so recently in great danger. Jeffreys, as he walked moodily along, was neither in a grateful nor reasonable mood, nor did he feel chastened in spirit; and that being so, he was too honest to pretend to be what he was not. To any one less interested, there was something amusing in the manner in which Scarfe took his new and unexpected glory. At first he seemed to regard it doubtfully, and combated it by one or two modest protestations. Then, becoming more used to the idea, it pleased him to talk a little about the adventure, and encourage the others to recall the scene. After that it seemed natural to him to be a little languid and done-up by his exertions, and, as a hero, to establish a claim on Raby's admiration. And finally, being quite convinced he was a hero of the first water, he regarded Jeffreys with condescension, and felt a little surprise that he should remain both silent and apparently disdainful. As Raby was beforehand with her in blaming herself, the wind was taken out of Mrs Rimbolt's sails in that quarter, even had she been disposed to let out in that direction. But it was so much more convenient and natural to blame Jeffreys, that the good lady was never in a moment's doubt upon the subject. "How excessively careless of him!" said she; "the very one of the party, too, whom we expected to keep out of danger. It is a mercy every one of you was not drowned." "It's a mercy he wasn't drowned himself," said Percy; "so he would have been if it hadn't been for Scarfe." "It was a very noble thing of Mr Scarfe," said Mrs Rimbolt. "I'm sure, Louisa, my dear, you must be proud of your boy." "He jolly well deserves a Royal Humane medal, and I mean to write and get him one." "Don't be a young duffer," said the hero, by no means displeased at the threat; "they would laugh at the notion." "Would they? If they didn't give you one, we'd make them laugh on the wrong side of their faces. I know that," replied the boy. "You know, auntie, it was I broke the ice," said Raby. "Mr Jeffreys did not come to that part till he heard it crack." "That is the ridiculously foolish part of it; he might have known that he ought to keep off when he heard it crack. Any sensible person would." "Perhaps," said Raby, colouring, "he imagined I was in danger." "You are a foolish child, Raby, to talk such nonsense, and should be thankful it was not you who fell in. I hope, Mr Scarfe," added she, "that Mr Jeffreys is grateful to you for your heroic service to him." "There is nothing to be grateful for," said Scarfe, in an off-hand way; "indeed, I am afraid Jeffreys is rather offended with me for what I have done than otherwise." "He could not be so base, my boy," said his mother, "when he owes you his life." "After all," said Scarfe, with interesting resignation, "it really does not matter. All I know is, if it were all to happen over again I should do just the same thing." With which noble sentiment the hero was borne off to his room, where a hot bath, warm clothing, a rousing fire, and steaming cordials somewhat consoled him for his self-sacrificing exertions. After dinner Mrs Rimbolt could not resist the gratification of seeing honour done to her guest by the object of his devotion; a project which was the more easy of accomplishment as Mr Rimbolt was from home on that particular evening. Jeffreys, just beginning to recover himself by the aid of a little hard work, was petrified by Walker's announcement that "the mistress desired that Mr Jeffreys would step into the drawing-room." His good breeding was sorely taxed to find an excuse. He was indisposed, certainly; but if he could work in the library, he could bow and scrape in the drawing-room. Mr Rimbolt, too, was away, and to insult his lady in his absence seemed both cowardly and mean. "I'll come presently," said he to Walker, and nerved himself desperately for the ordeal. For he knew what was coming, and was resolved on the part he would play. Whatever he ought to feel, he knew exactly what he did feel; and he was determined he would not be hypocrite enough to pretend anything more. Whereupon he walked defiantly forth and opened the drawing-room door, this time without knocking. "Mr Jeffreys," said Mrs Rimbolt, feeling that the present was an "occasion," and worked up accordingly, "I have sent for you, as I have no doubt you will wish to express to Mrs Scarfe the feelings you entertain with regard to her son's brave conduct on the ice to-day." "Hear, hear, ma!" cried the irreverent Percy, with mock-heroic applause. "I beg leave to second that." "Percy, be silent, sir! Louisa, my dear, this is Mr Jeffreys, whose life your son saved." Mrs Scarfe put up her glasses and inclined her head languidly in response to Jeffreys' stiff bow. An awkward silence ensued--so awkward that Percy began to whistle. Mrs Rimbolt having made a wrong start, had not the tact to mend matters. "Mrs Scarfe would be interested to hear, Mr Jeffreys," said she, after a minute or two, "your impressions of the accident." "The only impression I had," said Jeffreys solemnly--and he too was worked up, and the master of his nervousness--"was that the water was very cold." Percy greeted this with a boisterous laugh, which his mother instantly rebuked. "Surely, Mr Jeffreys," said she severely, "this is hardly an occasion for a joke." "It was no joke," replied he with dismal emphasis. Again Percy enjoyed the sport. "I should rather think it wasn't by the looks of you when you were fished out!" said he; "you were as blue as salmon!" "Percy, cease your vulgar talk in this room, please!" said Mrs Rimbolt, whose equanimity was beginning to evaporate. "Mr Jeffreys, as we are not likely to be amused by your levity--" "Excuse me, madam, I am quite serious," said Jeffreys, on whom the apparent jocularity of his last remark had suddenly dawned; "I had no intention of being rude, or treating your question as a joke." "Then," said Mrs Rimbolt, slightly appeased in the prospect of gaining her object, "when I tell you Mrs Scarfe is kind enough to desire to hear about the accident from your own lips, perhaps your good manners will permit you to tell her about it." "Get upon the chair and give us a speech, Jeff," said the irrepressible Percy; "that's what ma wants." Jeffreys proceeded to give his version of the affair, distributing the credit of his rescue in the order in which he considered it to be due, and greatly disappointing both Mrs Rimbolt and her guest by his evident blindness to the heroism of Scarfe. He acknowledged warmly Percy's readiness to come to his help, and his promptitude in going for the ladder, and he did full justice to Julius's share in the affair. As to Scarfe's part, he stated just what had happened, without emotion and without effusiveness. He despised himself for feeling so chilly on the subject, and would have been glad, for Mrs Scarfe's sake, had he felt more warmly his obligations to her son. But he spoke as he felt. "You have had a narrow escape from a watery grave," said Mrs Scarfe, anxious to sum up in the hero's favour, "and my son, I am sure, is thankful to have been the means of saving your life." Jeffreys bowed. "I am glad he escaped falling in," said he. "He had no thought of himself, I am sure," said Mrs Rimbolt severely, "and claims no thanks beyond that of his good conscience." "We're going to get him a Royal Humane medal, Jeff," added Percy; "a lot of fellows get it for a good deal less." "I hope he may get one," said Jeffreys. "You and Julius should have one, too. I thank you all." This was all that could be extracted from this graceless young man, and the unsatisfactory interview was shortly afterwards terminated by Mrs Rimbolt's requesting him to go and tell Walker to bring some more coals for the fire. His conduct was freely discussed when he was gone. Mrs Rimbolt looked upon it as a slight put upon herself, and was proportionately wrathful. Mrs Scarfe, more amiable, imagined that it was useless to look for gratitude among persons of Jeffreys' class in life. Scarfe himself said that, from what he knew of Jeffreys, he would have been surprised had he shown himself possessed of any good feelings. Percy, considerably puzzled, suggested that he was "chawed up with his ducking." And Raby, still more perplexed, said nothing, and hardly knew what to think. The next day, as Scarfe was smoking in the park, Jeffreys overtook him. A night's rest had a good deal softened the librarian's spirit. He was ashamed of himself for not having done his rescuer common justice, and had followed him now to tell him as much. "Scarfe," said he, "you will have considered I was ungrateful yesterday." "You were just what I expected you would be." "I am sorry," said Jeffreys, now beginning to feel he had better far have said nothing, yet resolved, now he had begun, to go through with it, "and I wish to thank you now." Scarfe laughed. "It is I who should be grateful for this condescension," said he sneeringly. "So disinterested, too." "What do you mean? How could it be otherwise?" "You have a short memory, Cad Jeffreys. Possibly you have forgotten a little event that happened at Bolsover?" "I have not forgotten it." "I dare say you have not thought it worth while to mention it to your employer, Mr Rimbolt." "I have not mentioned it." "Quite so. That is what I mean when I say it is disinterested in you to come and make friends with me." "That is false," said Jeffreys glowing. "I neither want nor expect that." "Kind again. At the same time you are not particularly anxious that people here should hear the tragical history of young Forrester?" "For heaven's sake be silent, Scarfe!" said Jeffreys, to whom the mention of the name, after so many months, came like a blow. "I cannot bear it." Scarfe laughed. "Apparently not. All I want to say is, that I believe less in your gratitude than in your fear, and you can spare yourself the trouble of keeping up that farce." "I am not afraid of you," said Jeffreys, drawing himself up. "Of my own conscience I am; and of the memory of poor young Forrester--" "Hold your tongue. I have no wish to hear my friend's name on your lips." Jeffreys turned to go. "Look here," said Scarfe, calling him back, "I want to say one word. I am sufficiently interested in Percy Rimbolt to dislike the influence you use upon him. Your influence upon young boys is not to be trusted, and I warn you to let Percy alone. You are doing him no good as it is." "Is that all you want to say?" said Jeffreys. "No. I have my own reason for choosing that you cease to offend Miss Atherton by your attentions. You are no fit companion for her; and she and I--" Jeffreys turned on his heel, and did not hear the end of the sentence. He marvelled at himself that he had not struck the fellow contemptuously to the ground; and he absolutely smiled in the midst of his misery at the idea of Scarfe taking upon himself the moral upbringing of Percy and the protector-ship of Raby! In the midst of these reflections he became aware of the presence of Raby in the walk in front of him. The rencontre was unexpected on both sides, and promised to be embarrassing for Jeffreys. Raby, however, came to the rescue. "Mr Jeffreys," said she, holding out her hand, "I do hope you are none the worse for yesterday. I was greatly afraid you would catch cold." "You took the kindest possible way of preventing it," said Jeffreys. "I never enjoyed a meal as much as the one Walker brought me yesterday, and I thank the kind sender." Raby blushed. "It was a shame no one else thought of it. But, Mr Jeffreys, you are thanking me, when it is I who ought to thank you for risking your life for me." "That is a new version of the story," said Jeffreys. "It was somebody else who risked his life for me, and I know you despise me for appearing so churlish about it." "I was very sorry indeed for you in the drawing-room last night." "I deserved no sympathy." "I fancied you might have gushed a little when you saw how much auntie's heart and Mrs Scarfe's were set on it. It would not have hurt you." "I cannot gush, Miss Atherton; but I can value your kindness to me, and I do." Raby smiled one of her pleasantest smiles. "I wish I had half your honesty, Mr Jeffreys. I am always pretending to be something here which I am not, and I get sick of it. I wish I were a man." "Why? Is honesty confined to the male sex?" "No; I suppose we can be honest too. But if I was a man I could go and be of some use somewhere; I'm no good to anybody here." Jeffreys coloured up furiously, and looked as if he would run from the spot. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he looked down at her and said-- "Excuse me, you are." They walked on a little in silence, then Raby said-- "I am so glad, Mr Jeffreys, you managed Percy so well about that smoking yesterday; and how well he took it!" "Of course; he's a gentleman and a fine fellow." "He forgets how much older Mr Scarfe is than he, and he imagines it is a fine thing to do whatever others do. But I think it is such a pity he should waste so much time as he does now in the billiard-room and over the fire. Don't you think it is bad for him?" "I do. The day on the ice yesterday made a new man of him." "Do try to coax him out, Mr Jeffreys, you always do him good; and you may be able to pull him up now before he becomes an idler." "I promise you I will do what I can." "He ought to be my brother, and not my cousin," said Raby, "I feel so jealous on his account." "He is fortunate--may I say so?--in his cousin. Here is Mr Rimbolt." Mr Rimbolt had papers in his hand, and looked rather anxious. Raby, with a daughter's instinct, rushed to him. "Uncle, have you news from the war? Is anything wrong?" "Nothing wrong," said her uncle reassuringly; "I brought you this paper to see. It reports that there has been an encounter with the Afghans near Kandahar, with complete success on the British side and comparatively trifling loss. Particulars are expected almost immediately. I telegraphed to town to get the earliest possible details. Meanwhile, Raby, don't alarm yourself unduly." "I won't, uncle; but where exactly was the battle?" "You will see the names mentioned in the telegram. Jeffreys can show you the exact spot in the atlas; we were looking at it the other evening." Jeffreys thankfully accepted the task. He and Raby spent an hour over the map, talking of the absent soldier, and trying, the one to conceal, the other to allay, the anxiety which the incomplete telegram had aroused. At the end of the hour Scarfe walked into the library. His face darkened as he saw the two who sat there. "Miss Atherton," said he, looking not at her, but at Jeffreys, "have you forgotten we were to have a ride this morning?" "I am so sorry, Mr Scarfe, but I have a headache, and don't feel as if I could ride to-day. You will excuse me, won't you?" "Oh, certainly," replied Scarfe; "don't you think a turn in the park will do you good? May I have the pleasure of escorting you?" Raby said, "Thank you." She was very sorry to disappoint any one, and had no valid excuse against a walk. "Miss Atherton," said Scarfe, when they had gone some distance, chatting on indifferent topics, "I am anxious just to say a word to you, not in my own interest at all, but your own. Will you forgive me if I do?" "What is it?" said Raby, mystified. "I wish to put you on your guard against Jeffreys, who, I see, presumes on his position here to annoy you. You may not perhaps know, Miss Atherton, that not two years ago--" "Excuse me, Mr Scarfe," said Raby quietly, stopping in her walk, "I hate talking of people behind their backs. Mr Jeffreys has never annoyed me; he has been kind to me. Shall we talk of something else?" "Certainly," said Scarfe, startled at her decided tone. He had laid his plan for a little revelation, and it disconcerted him to see it knocked on the head like this. However, just then he was not in the humour for making himself obnoxious to Miss Atherton, of whom, being a susceptible youth, he was decidedly enamoured. It was a deprivation, certainly, to find his tongue thus unexpectedly tied with regard to Jeffreys, of whose stay at Wildtree he had calculated on making very short work. The one comfort was, that there was little enough danger of her seeing in the ill-favoured Bolsover cad anything which need make him--Scarfe-- jealous. Doubtless she took a romantic interest in this librarian; many girls have whims of that sort. But the idea of her preferring him to the smart Oxford hero was preposterous. Jeffreys would still believe in the sword of Damocles which hung above him, and the time might come when Raby would cease to stand between him and his Nemesis. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. WILD PIKE. Before breakfast on the following morning, Scarfe, in fulfilment of a long-standing engagement with a college friend to spend a day with him, rode off to catch the train at Overstone, and consequently was not present when the post arrived, and with it a telegram from London for Mr Rimbolt. Raby, who had been on the watch, could scarcely allow her uncle time to examine its contents before claiming it; and had it contained bad news, the chance of breaking them would have been out of the question. But it did not contain bad news. On the contrary, as Raby devoured the few official lines she became radiant with pride and happiness. The telegram was a copy of a dispatch received the evening before at the War Office:-- "News is to hand of a sharp brush with the Afghans on the 4th inst. at ---, two days' march from Kandahar. About mid-day the--Hussars, commanded by Major Atherton, in advance of the main body, encountered and dislodged from a defile on the right bank of the river a considerable body of the enemy, who fled to the plain. It becoming evident the enemy was at hand in force, a battery of field guns was pushed forward, under the escort of a troop of Hussars; and the main body followed in two columns. The cavalry meanwhile, having cleared the defile and chased the enemy into the plain beyond, became involved in a desperate scrimmage, the Afghans having descended in full force into the plain with the evident intention of cutting them off from the main body. Major Atherton, completely hemmed in, made a desperate stand, in which upwards of twenty of his men perished, the gallant officer himself having his horse shot under him. The guns meanwhile, escorted by Captain Forrester, of the--Hussars, gained the head of the defile, where they were immediately surrounded by the enemy. A brilliant resistance here ensued, in which more than half of the escort were killed in their effort to save the guns. Towards the end, Captain Forrester nearly single-handed kept the enemy at bay until the cavalry, breaking through, and joining forces with the two columns of the main body as they emerged on the plain, effectually turned the position and saved the guns. The loss of the enemy was very considerable, and it is considered that this action clears the way to Kandahar, which the troops are expected to occupy in two days without further resistance. Our loss, considering the perilous position of the cavalry and gunners, was comparatively slight. Captain Forrester at the last moment fell after a resistance as heroic as any witnessed in the course of the campaign. Major Atherton received a scratch on the wrist; which, however, is not likely to disable him even temporarily. The main body never came into action at all, and suffered no casualties. A full list of the killed and wounded is appended." Jeffreys, who found himself almost as eager for news as if he had been personally interested, found it difficult to wait patiently until Mr Rimbolt came after breakfast to the library. "Is there news from the war?" he asked. "Yes--good news, Miss Atherton has the telegram. Her father took part in a very brilliant engagement a day or two ago, which appears to have cleared the way to Kandahar. He was scratched, but not seriously." Jeffreys received this good news with great satisfaction. It was a relief to him to hear it in the first instance not from Raby's lips, for he never knew what to do or say on such occasions. "Miss Atherton must be very proud," said he, returning to his work. He was not, however, destined to remain long undisturbed. Raby, radiant and excited, entered the library a few minutes later. "Mr Jeffreys," said she, "such splendid news. Has uncle told you? I thought you would like to read the telegram; here it is." Jeffreys looked his congratulations as he took the paper. "Read it aloud, Mr Jeffreys," said the happy girl, "I should like to hear how it sounds." Jeffreys smiled and began to read; Raby, who knew it all by heart, seeming to check off every word. Suddenly, however, in the middle of the narrative the reader started and changed colour, and became unaccountably breathless. "The guns meanwhile, escorted by--" he had got so far. "`Captain Forrester of the--Hussars.' Go on," said Raby. It needed all his self-command to finish the reading, and when he came to the end and handed back the paper, Raby perceived that his hand shook and his face was deadly pale. "Why, what is the matter, Mr Jeffreys?" said she, suddenly alarmed herself; "it is good news, isn't it? and he has only got a scratch!" "Yes, it is good news; and I congratulate you." "But you look--perhaps you know some one who has been killed. You never told me you had any friend out there." "I have not. I think I must be not quite well; will you excuse me?" And he went out into the open air, leaving Raby very much perplexed and concerned. She was relieved, however, to see him half an hour later starting off with Percy for what, to judge by their mountain boots and the luncheon box strapped across Jeffreys' shoulders, promised to be a long walk. Jeffreys' first sensations on finding himself alone had been those of stupefaction. Although all that he knew of Forrester's father was that he had been in India, it never occurred to him now for a moment that the gallant officer mentioned in the telegram could be any other than the father whom he had so cruelly and irreparably wronged. And now once more he seemed suddenly face to face with his crime. He saw before him that fatal scene in the Bolsover meadow; he heard his comrades' howl of execration and saw the boy's white face on the grass turned up to meet his. It seemed but yesterday. Nay, it seemed all to be there that moment; he could feel the keen breeze on his cheek; his eye rested on the boy's cap where he had flung it; he was conscious of Mr Freshfield's look of horror--he could even see twenty yards away the football lying idle between the goals. Strange, that the doubtful mention of an officer's name should call it all up thus! But so it was. He even seemed half guilty of that gallant death in Afghanistan. Had he not wronged him worse than death? and now if anywhere the friendless boy, whose whole hope was in his father, should read those lines and find himself orphaned as well as crippled! Jeffreys in his misery groaned aloud. "Hullo," said Percy, in the path before him, "you in the blues too! What a jolly sell! Here am I as miserable as an owl, and everybody I meet's miserable too. Scarfe's gone to Sharpfield, and won't be back till late. Raby's so taken up with her precious telegram that she won't look at me. Ma and Mrs Scarfe, have bagged the pony trap and Appleby, and now you're looking as if you'd just been hung." "What are you in the blues about?" said Jeffreys, brightening up a bit. "Oh, everything. It's so slow here, nothing to do. Can't play games all day, and you won't let me smoke, and the library hasn't a single story worth reading, and it's beastly cold; and upon my word," said the boy, who was genuinely miserable, "I'd as soon go and sit on the top of Wild Pike as fool about here." "The best thing you could do--I'll go and sit with you," said Jeffreys. "What!" said the boy, "do you mean it? Will you come?" "Of course I will; I have nothing special to do to-day, and I've never been up a mountain in winter before." "We shall get a splendid view. Sure it won't grind you?" said the boy, who, under Scarfe's influence, had come to look upon every exertion as a thing to be shirked. "My dear fellow, I shall enjoy it, especially with you," said Jeffreys. "Hurrah--bring Julius too--and I'll get some grub to take. It's only ten now, and it's not dark till after four, so we have a good six hours." A few minutes later they started, Percy leaving word for his mother that they were going for a long tramp, and would be back for dinner. It was a perfect winter's day. The air was keen and frosty and promised magnificent views. The wind was not strong enough to be benumbing, and the sun overhead was cheering and now and then even warm. "Hadn't we better take overcoats, in case it comes on cold at the top?" said Jeffreys as they were starting. "Oh no--they're a frightful grind to carry, and we are sure to be baked before we get up." "I think I will take mine," said Jeffreys, "and it will be no bother to carry yours." Percy protested, but, luckily for them, Jeffreys carried his point. Wild Pike was one of those mountains, not uncommon in that district, which are approached from the back by a long gradual slope, but on the front present a scooped-out precipitous face, as if broken in half on that side. It was this steeper side which faced Wildtree, and Percy would have scorned to approach the monster from any other quarter. From where they stood the narrow path zigzagged for about one thousand feet onto one of the upper shoulders of the mountain. Following this, the track brought them to what seemed like the basin of some old volcano hollowed out under the summit. It was necessary to cross this depression, and by a narrow ledge at the foot of the great cliff gain the other side, where another zigzag ascent brought them onto the rocky slope leading over a quarter of a mile of huge boulders to the summit. The passage across the face of the mountain was the most difficult part of the ascent. It lay along a narrow ledge hanging, so it seemed, half- way down the perpendicular cliff which rose out of the hollow, crater- like basin sheer up to the summit. It was tolerably level, but the narrowness of the track and the precipitous height above and below called for a cool head and a steady foot. In frosty weather like the present it needed special caution, and every step had to be carefully judged on the treacherous path. However, they passed it safely. Julius alone seemed to find it difficult. The dog was strangely awkward to-day. He slid about where the others walked steadily, and whimpered at obstacles which they seemed scarcely to heed. "Now for the grub," cried Percy, as they landed safely on the other side. "I say, Jeff, I call that something like a mountain, don't you? I'm quite sorry we're over the worst of it, aren't you?" "We've got the view to see yet," responded Jeffreys. "We shall be up in half an hour." "And it will take us as long to come down as to go up to-day," said Jeffreys, "so we ought not to lose much time." Off they started again after a hurried but highly appreciated meal, in which the dog took only a very moderate share. The remaining portion of the ascent was simple enough. The zigzag onto the top shoulder was if anything less steep than the lower one, and the path, being rougher underfoot, was less treacherous. The scramble over the loose rocks at the top onto the cairn was not altogether plain sailing. In summer it was easy enough, but now, with the surface of the great boulders as slippery as glass, it was hardly to be traversed except on the hands and knees. Poor Julius floundered about pitifully, unable to keep his feet, and disappearing bodily now and then among the interstices of the rocky way. Even Percy and Jeffreys stumbled once or twice awkwardly, and reached the summit with bruised limbs. But _finis coronat opus_, especially on a mountain. As they sprang up the cairn a view unequalled in grandeur broke upon them. The frosty air was without haze in any quarter. The Scotch hills beyond the border and the broad heaving sea lay apparently equally within reach, and on the farthest western horizon even the fairy-like outline of the distant Irish hills, never visible except in the clearest winter weather, shone out distinctly. "Isn't it scrumptious?" exclaimed Percy, as he flung himself breathless onto the cairn. "If we had waited a year we couldn't have picked out such a day. Why, that must be Snowdon we see over there, and the high ground out at sea, Holyhead?" Thus they went on, delightedly recognising the landmarks north, south, east, and west, and forgetting both the hour and the rising breeze. "Why, it's two o'clock!" cried Percy presently, looking at his watch, and shivering at the same time. "Put on your coat," said Jeffreys; "the wind's getting up a bit, and we shall have it in our faces going down." As they started to descend they became aware of a sudden change in the hitherto cloudless day. The western horizon, which had just now been unfolding its distant beauties, seemed lost in a fine haze, which spread north and south, blotting out one after another the glories of landscape on which they had scarcely ceased to feast their eyes. "There's a mist out there," said Percy, as they scrambled down the boulders; "I hope to goodness it will keep away from us." "The wind is a little north-west; it may drive it south of us, but it is spreading at a great rate." "Never mind; it will be rather a joke if it comes. I could find the way down with my eyes shut, and I've often wanted to be in a regular fog up here," said Percy. "I don't know what you feel," responded Jeffreys; "but I'm rather glad we brought our coats. Isn't it cold?" The wind which met them seemed charged with cold, and after a while began to scatter a feathery sleet in their faces. Percy whistled. "We didn't bargain for that, I say," said he. "I hope it shuts up before we cross over the ledge down there." Julius howled dismally. He, too, guessed what this blinding shower-bath foreboded, and stumbled along, miserable and shivering. The higher zigzag, which had seemed easy enough two hours ago, tried them sorely now. The sleet half blinded them, and the fresh moisture, freezing as it fell, caused them to slip and slide at every step. Still they got down it somehow, and turned to face the narrow track along the cliff. Percy, much as he repined at the change in the elements, felt no doubt as to the possibility of getting over. "We may have to crawl a bit of the way if this sort of thing goes on," said he, "but it's straight enough sailing." "Would it be better," suggested Jeffreys, "to go to the top again and get down by the Sharpenholme track?" "We shouldn't get home till midnight if we did; besides, I don't know the way. We're all right this way if we look sharp." The wind had now increased to a tempest, and beat against the side of the great cliff with a sound like the sea breaking on an iron-bound shore. They could scarcely hear one another speak; and poor Julius's whines were drowned in the great clamour. "Do you mind my going first?" said Percy; "I know the path better than you." Jeffreys nodded, and they started. The first step they took on that ledge threatened for a moment to be their last. The wind, gathering fury every moment, beat Percy to his knees, and nearly sent Jeffreys staggering over the ledge. "We shall have to crawl," said Percy. "It's no use waiting. The wind and sleet are going to make a night of it, and we shall gain nothing by waiting." The start was begun again--this time cautiously and on all-fours. Even so the wind seemed once or twice as if it would sweep them from the ledge. Yard by yard they crawled on. The driving mist fell like a pall over the mountain, and in a few minutes they could not even see a yard in front of them. Had the wind blown crosswise, or in any other way than that in which it came, they would have been swept off before twenty yards were accomplished. As it was, they were almost pinned to the cliff by the fury of the blast. They must have proceeded a quarter of the way across, and had reached a spot where the ledge rose slightly. Even up this slight incline, with the mist freezing under them, it was impossible to crawl; and Percy, drawing himself cautiously to his feet, attempted to stand. As he did so, the wind, gathering itself into a furious blast, caught him and hurled him against the rocky wall. He recoiled with a sharp cry of pain, and next moment would have fallen into the abyss beneath, had not Jeffreys' strong arm caught him and held him. His legs were actually off the ledge, and for a moment it seemed as if both he and his protector were doomed. But with a tremendous effort the prostrate Jeffreys swung him back onto the track. "Are you hurt?" he called. "My arm," said Percy. "I'm afraid I can't get on. I'll try." But the attempt only called up a fresh exclamation of pain. "We must wait," said Jeffreys. "Try to sit up, old fellow. I'll help you." It was evident that the boy's arm, if not broken, was so severely damaged as to render it powerless. "I could stay here, I think," said he, "if you went on, Jeff." "Nonsense!" said Jeffreys; "we'll send Julius to fetch help. Here, Julius, good dog," said he, patting the dog's head and pointing down to the valley, "go and fetch them here. Fetch Appleby, and Walker, and Mr Rimbolt. Go along, good fellow." The dog, who had been crawling behind them, looked wistfully at his master and licked the hand that caressed him. Then, stepping carefully across them as they sat with their backs to the rock and their feet beyond the edge of the path, he departed. He was out of sight almost a yard away, but they heard him whine once as the wind dashed him against the cliff. "Julius, good dog, fetch them!" shouted Jeffreys into the mist. A faint answering bark came back. Next moment, through the storm, came a wild howl, and they heard him no more. Jeffreys guessed only too well what that howl meant; but he never stirred, as with his arm round Percy, and his cloak screening him from the wind, he looked hopelessly out into the night and waited. CHAPTER NINETEEN. SCARFE PROMISES TO REMEMBER. "Jeff," said Percy, after a minute or two, "it's nonsense your staying here to get frozen; do go on." "No, old fellow; I prefer your company to my own." "But, Jeff, we may not last out till the morning." "We won't give it up yet, though." Jeffreys had great faith in the caloric of hope, especially for a boy of Percy's temperament. For himself he saw enough to guess that their position was a desperate one. The ledge on which they sat was narrow and slanting, and the wind, shifting gradually to the west, began to get round them menacingly, and cause them now and then to grip at the stones while some specially furious gust blew past. Add to that, Percy's arm was probably broken, and, despite a makeshift bandage and sling, adjusted at imminent peril of being swept away in the operation, increasingly painful. The mist wrapped them like a winding-sheet, and froze as it fell. "How long will Julius take getting down?" asked the boy. "Not long," said Jeffreys, with a shudder, not wholly caused by the cold. "An hour? He could bring them up in three hours, couldn't he?" "Less, perhaps. We can hold out for three hours." "Jeff, old fellow, do go; what _is_ the use of you staying?" "Harder work for the wind to lift two of us than one. It can't last long, I'm certain; it's chopping already." They relapsed into silence, and listened to the storm as it dashed on the cliffs above them. A quarter of an hour passed. Then Jeffreys felt the boy's head drop on his shoulder. "Percy, old man, no sleeping," said he, raising his head. "I'm not sleeping; only wondering where Julius is." But his voice was drowsy, and the words drawled out slowly and dreamily. "Perhaps he's down the lower zigzag now," said Jeffreys, giving his companion a shake, under pretext of readjusting the wraps. "I guess he'll go to Raby first," said Percy. "Won't she be scared?" "She will probably go to your father, and he'll get Appleby and Kennedy and some of the men, and they'll--Percy! hold up your head!" "Scarfe would like to get engaged to Raby, but she would sooner--" "Percy, old man, you're talking rubbish. Unless you sit up and keep awake we shall both come to grief." "I'll try," said the boy, "but I don't know how." "Tell me something about your year at Rugby. I want to hear about it so much. What form were you in?" Then followed a desperate half-hour of cross-examination, Jeffreys coming down with a question at the slightest symptom of drowsiness, and Percy, with all the cunning of a "somno-maniac," taking time to think before each answer, and even shirking a syllable here or there in order to snatch a wink. The daylight slowly faded out of the mist, but still the wind howled and shook them on their narrow perch at every gust. Jeffreys, with dismay, found his limbs growing cramped and stiff, boding ill, unless relief soon came, for the possibility of moving at all. Surely, though, the wind was abating. The dash overhead sounded a trifle less deafening; and the driving sleet, which an hour ago had struck on their faces, now froze their ears. Yes, the wind was shifting and falling. In the half-minute which it took Jeffreys to make this discovery Percy had once more fallen asleep, and it required a shake more prolonged than ever to arouse him. "What!" said he, as he slowly raised his head, "are they here? Is father there?" "No, old boy, but the wind is going down, and we may be able to move soon. Where did you field in that cricket match you were telling me of?" "Short leg, and I made two catches." "Bravo! Were they hard ones? Tell me." So for another half-hour this struggle with sleep went on. Jeffreys had more to do than keep his companion awake. He accompanied every question with a change of position of his knees and arms, that he might be able when the time came to use his limbs. It was little enough scope he had for any movement on that narrow ledge, but he lost no chance, and his self-imposed fidgets helped not only himself but Percy. At last the roar on the cliffs changed into a surly soughing, and the gusts edged slowly but surely round behind the great buttress of the mountain. "Percy," said Jeffreys, "we must try a move. Can you hold yourself steady while I try to get up?" Percy was wide awake in an instant. "I can hold on, but my other arm is no good for scrambling." "I'll see to that, only hold on while I get up." It was a long and painful operation; every joint and muscle seemed to be congealed. At length, however, by dint of a terrible effort, he managed to draw up his feet and even to stand on the path. He kicked up the earth so as to make a firm foothold, and then addressed himself to the still more difficult task of raising the stiff and crippled Percy. How he did it, and how he half dragged, half carried him back along the ledge to the firmer ground of the upper zigzag path, he never knew. He always counted it as one of the miracles of his life, the work of that stronger than human arm which had already helped him along his path, and which in this act showed that it still was with him. To stand even on that steep mountain path was, after the peril of that fearful ledge, like standing on a broad paved road. "Where next?" said Percy. "Over the top and down by the Sharpenholme track. Do you see the moon is coming out through the mist?" "All serene!" The heroism of that night's adventure was not all absorbed by the elder traveller. The boy who with indomitable hopefulness toiled up that steep ascent with a broken arm bandaged to his side, making nothing of his pain, was a type of English boy happily still to be met with, giving promise of men of the right stuff yet to come to maintain the good name of their country. They were not much in the humour for admiring the wonderful beauty of the scene as the mist gradually cleared and above them rose the full white moon flooding the mountain and the hills beyond with its pure light. They welcomed the light, for it showed them the way; but they would have sold the view twenty times over for a pot of hot coffee. At the top they met the tail end of the gale spending its little remaining force on the mountain's back. It seemed like a balmy zephyr compared with the tempest of a few hours ago. The descent down the broad grass track with its slight covering of snow towards Sharpenholme had little difficulty; but the jolting tried Percy's arm as the steep climb with all its exertion had not done. Jeffreys noticed the boy's steps become more unsteady, and felt him lean with increasing heaviness on his arm. "Percy, old boy, you are done up." "No--I--Suppose we rest a minute or two; I shall be all right." But while he spoke he staggered faintly and would have fallen but for Jeffreys' arm in his. "I think if you went on," said he, "I could rest a bit and follow slowly." Jeffreys' answer was curt and decisive. He took the boy up in his arms as if he had been a baby, and, despite all protestations, carried him. On level ground and under ordinary circumstances it would have been a simple matter. For Jeffreys was brawny and powerful; and the light weight of the slender, wiry boy was nothing to him. But on that slippery mountain-side, after the fatigue and peril of the afternoon, it was as much as he could do to stagger forward under the burden. Yet--was it quite unnatural?--a strange sort of happiness seemed to take possession of him as he felt this helpless boy's form in his arms, the head drooped on his shoulder, and the poor bruised arm tenderly supported in his hand. There seemed hope in the burden; and in that brotherly service a promise of expiation for another still more sacred service which had been denied him! He tramped down that long gradual slope in a contented dream, halting often to rest, but never losing heart. Percy, too exhausted to remonstrate, yielded himself gratefully, and lay only half conscious in his protector's arms, often fancying himself at home in bed or lolling idly in the summer fields. It may have been midnight, or later still, when Jeffreys, looking beyond the shadows projected by the moon in front of him, perceived a gleam of light far down in the valley. "Probably," thought he, "some honest shepherd, after his day's work, is happily going to rest. Think of a bed, and a pillow, and a blanket!" But no, the light--the lights, there were two--were moving--moving rapidly and evenly. Jeffreys stood still to listen. The wind had long since dropped into rest, and the clear night air would have carried a sound twice the distance. Yes, it was a cart or a carriage, and he could even detect the clatter of the horses on the hard road. Possibly some benighted wagoner, or a mail cart. He raised a shout which scared the sleeping rabbits in their holes and made the hill across the valley wake with echoes. The lights still moved on. He set Percy down tenderly on the grass with his coat beneath him. Then, running with all his speed, he halved the distance which separated him and the road, and shouted again. This time the clatter of the hoofs stopped abruptly and the lights stood still. Once more he shouted, till the night rang with echoes. Then, joyful sound! there rose from the valley an answering call, and he knew all was safe. In a few minutes he was back again where Percy, once more awake, was sitting up, bewildered, and listening to the echoes which his repeated shouts still kept waking. "It's all right, old fellow; there's a carriage." "They've come to look for us. I can walk, Jeff, really." "Are you sure?" "Yes, and they'd be so scared if they saw me being carried." So they started forward, the answering shouts coming nearer and nearer at every step. "That's Appleby," said Percy, as a particularly loud whoop fell on their ears. It was, and with him Mr Rimbolt and Scarfe. When darkness came, and no signs of the pedestrians, the usual uneasiness had prevailed at Wildtree, increased considerably by Walker's and Raby's report as to the mountaineering garb in which the missing ones had started. The terrible tempest which had attacked the face of Wild Pike had swept over Wildtree too, and added a hundredfold to the alarm which, as hour passed hour, their absence caused. Scarfe, arriving at home about ten o'clock, found the whole family in a state of panic. Mr Rimbolt had been out on the lower slopes of the mountain, and reported that a storm raged there before which nothing could stand. The only hope was that they had been descending the back of the mountain, and taken refuge somewhere in the valley for the night. The carriage was ordered out, and Mr Rimbolt and Scarfe started on what seemed a forlorn hope. For an hour or two they passed and repassed the valley road, inquiring at every cottage and farm without result. At last, just as they were resolving to give it up for the night, Appleby pulled up the horses suddenly, and said he had heard a shout. Instantly they jumped out and shouted back; and now, following the direction of the voice, far up the great slope, they _met_ Jeffreys, with the boy leaning on his arm safe, but almost exhausted. Neither of them retained a vivid recollection of that drive home. Jeffreys was vaguely conscious of them calling on the way for the doctor, and taking him along in the carriage. He also heard Scarfe say something to Mr Rimbolt in tones of commiseration, in which something was added about the inconsiderateness and untrustworthiness of Jeffreys. But for the rest he reclined back in his seat, scarcely conscious of anything but the rest and warmth. At Wildtree, the now familiar scene of the whole household gathered panic-struck an the threshold drove him precipitately to his room. He knew what to expect if he stayed there. Jeffreys dropped asleep with the dog's howl ringing weirdly in his ears. In his dreams it seemed to change into that still more terrible howl which had stunned him long ago on the Bolsover meadow. It followed him as he carried young Forrester in his arms across that fatal ledge. It was pitch dark; and on the ledge Scarfe stood to drive him back. Then suddenly a new bright path seemed to open at his side, into which he stepped with his precious burden. And as he did so he saw, far off, Raby standing at the end of the way. It was ten o'clock when he awoke; but the house was still asleep. Only a few servants were stirring; and even Walker had taken advantage of the occasion to "sleep in." Jeffreys was tough and hardy; and the night's rest had done more for him than twenty doctors. He got up, shook himself, and behold his limbs were strong under him, and his head was clear and cool. He dressed himself quietly and descended to the kitchen, where he begged an early breakfast of the servants. Then he sallied forth with his stick towards Wild Pike. The grand pile on this bright winter's morning looked almost hypocritically serene and benignant. The sunlight bathed the stern cliff which yesterday had buffeted back the wind with a roar as fierce as itself; and in the quiet spring-like air the peaceful bleating of sheep was the only sound to be heard on the steep mountain-side. But Jeffreys did not turn his steps upward. On the contrary, he kept to the lowest track in the valley, and took the path which led him nearest to the base of that terrible wall of rock. A hard scramble over the fallen stones brought him to a spot where, looking up, the top of the wall frowned down on him from a sheer height of five hundred feet, while half-way down, like a narrow scratch along the face of the cliff, he could just detect the ledge on which last night they had sat out the storm. There, among the stones, shattered and cold, lay all that remained of the brave Julius. His fate must have overtaken him before he had gone twenty yards on his desperate errand, and almost before that final howl reached his master's ears all must have been over. Jeffreys, as he tenderly lifted his lost friend in his arms, thought bitterly and reproachfully of the dog's strange conduct yesterday--his evident depression and forebodings of evil--the result, no doubt, of illness, but making that last act of self-devotion all the more heroic. He made a grave there at the base of that grand cliff, and piled up a little cairn to mark the last resting-place of his friend. Then, truly a mourner, he returned slowly to Wildtree. At the door he encountered Mrs Rimbolt, who glared at him and swept past. "How is Percy this morning?" he inquired. "No thanks to you, Mr Jeffreys," said the lady, with a double venom in her tones, "he is alive." "His arm, is it--?" "Go to your work, sir," said the lady; "I have no wish to speak to you." Jeffreys bowed and retreated. He had expected such a reception, and just now it neither dismayed nor concerned him. On the staircase he met Raby. She looked pale and anxious, but brightened up as she saw him. "Mr Jeffreys," said she, "are you really up, and none the worse?" "I am well, thank you," said he, "but very anxious to hear about Percy." "He has had a bad night with his arm, but the doctor says he is going on all right. What a terrible adventure you had. Percy told me a little of it. Oh, Mr Jeffreys, it is all my fault!" Jeffreys could not help smiling. "By what stretch of ingenuity do you make that out?" "It was I suggested your coaxing Percy out, you know; I might have been the death of you both." "You did not send the wind, did you, or the mist? If you did, of course you are quite entitled to all the credit." "Don't laugh about it, please. Percy was telling me how if it had not been for you--" "He would never have been in any danger. Perhaps he is right. By the way. Miss Atherton, is there any chance of seeing him?" "He has asked for you already; but auntie, I believe, would have a fit if you went near him. She seems to consider you are his evil genius; instead of being just the opposite. Tell me how Julius is--he went with you, did he not?" "I have been out this morning to bury Julius at the place where he fell." Raby, already unduly excited by the events of the past few days, broke into tears, and at the same moment Scarfe, descending the stairs, stood before them. He looked first at Jeffreys, next at the girl. Then, taking her arm, he said-- "What is the matter? May I take you downstairs?" "Oh no," she cried, pushing away his hand, and dashing the tears from her eyes. "Mr Jeffreys, I am so sorry, do forgive me!" and she ran upstairs to her own room. Jeffreys and Scarfe stood facing one another. "What is the meaning of this?" said the latter wrathfully. "It would not interest you. I was telling Miss Atherton about my dog." "Hang your dog! Did not I tell you that I did not choose for you to obtrude yourself on Raby?" "You did, and I should be sorry to obtrude myself on any one, whether you choose it or not." "You appear to forget, Cad Jeffreys--" "I forget nothing--not even that I am keeping you from your breakfast." And he quitted the scene. Later in the morning, as he was working in the library, Mr Rimbolt entered and greeted him cordially. "Jeffreys, my dear fellow, you are constantly adding new claims on my gratitude. What can I say to you now to thank you for your heroism yesterday, about which Percy has just told us?" "Pray say nothing, and discount Percy's story heavily, for he was the hero. With his broken arm and in all the danger he never lost heart for a moment." "Yes, he is a brave boy, too. But I came now to tell you he is asking for you. Will you come and see him?" Jeffreys followed the father gratefully to the sick-chamber. At the door he encountered Mrs Rimbolt, who, having evidently been present at the boy's narrative, was pleased to regard him almost graciously, and, delightfully ignoring the previous encounter, to wish him good morning. Percy looked hot and feverish, but brightened up at once as he caught sight of his protector. "Hullo, old Jeff," said he, "isn't this all nonsense? They say I'm in for a mild congestion, and shall have to stick in bed for a fortnight. Just sit down; do you mind, and stay with me. You've pulled me through so far; you may as well finish the job." Thus informally, and without consulting anybody, Jeffreys was constituted nurse-in-chief in the sick-chamber. The boy would tolerate no discussion or protest on the part of the authorities. He must have old Jeff. Bother a hospital nurse, bother the doctor, bother Scarfe, bother everybody. He wanted Jeff; and if Jeff couldn't come he didn't mean to take his medicine or do anything he ought to do. Walker had better put up a chair-bed in the dressing-room for Jeff, and Jeff and he (Percy) could have their grub together. Of course all the others could come and see him, especially Raby--but he meant to have Jeff there for good, and that was flat. Thus this selfish young invalid arranged for his own pleasure, and upset all the sober arrangements of his friends. Jeffreys delightedly accepted his new duty, and faced the jealousy of Mrs Rimbolt and Scarfe unflinchingly. It was certainly an unfortunate position for the fond mother; and little wonder if in her mind Jeffreys' brave service should be blotted out in the offence of being preferred before herself in the sick-chamber. She readily lent an ear to the insinuations which Scarfe, also bitterly hurt, freely let out, and persuaded herself miserably that her boy was in the hands of an adventurer who had cajoled not only the boy but the father, and in short personated the proverbial viper at the fireside. So the fortnight passed. Percy turned the corner; and the time for the departure of Mrs Scarfe and her son drew near. Percy on the evening before they went had been less bright than usual, and had alarmed Jeffreys by a slight return of feverishness. He had just dropped off to sleep, and seemed about to settle quietly for the night, when the door opened and Scarfe came in. Jeffreys was there in an instant with his hand raised in warning. "Hush, please," said he, "he has just gone over." "Whom are you telling to hush? you canting brute!" said Scarfe, raising his voice in a passion unusual for him. "Let me come in, do you hear?" And he moved forward, as if to force his way into the room. Jeffreys caught him by the two elbows and lifted him bodily out into the landing, and then stood with his back to the door. Scarfe, livid with rage, made no attempt to get back into the room. Turning on his adversary, he said between his teeth-- "I shall remember this," and departed. CHAPTER TWENTY. A POLITE LETTER-WRITER. Scarfe descended to the drawing-room, where he found Mrs Rimbolt alone. "I am so sorry you are going," said she. "Your visit has been greatly spoiled, I fear. You must come to us at Easter, when we shall be in London, you know." "Thank you; I shall be glad to come. I hope to find Percy well again. I went to wish him good-bye just now, but was pretty abruptly denied admission, so I must ask you to say good-bye for me." "Dear me, it is very annoying. I cannot understand the craze the boy has taken for this companion of his. I am so sorry you should have been annoyed." "I assure you I am far more annoyed on Percy's account than my own. I happen to know something of Jeffreys before he came to Wildtree. To tell you the truth, Mrs Rimbolt, I don't think he is a safe companion for Percy at all." "I have long felt the same; but what is to be done, Mr Scarfe? Mr Rimbolt has almost the same craze as Percy for this librarian of his, and I have really no voice in the matter. He contrives to leave nothing definite to lay hold of; I should be thankful if he did. But it is most uncomfortable to feel that one's own son is perhaps being ruined under this roof." "It must be. It is no business of mine, of course, except that I am fond of Percy, and should be sorry to see harm come to him; and knowing what I do--" At that moment Mr Rimbolt, with Mrs Scarfe, entered the room. "What secrets are you two talking?" said the latter. "Your son was just telling me how fond he is of Percy; and I am sure it will be a great loss to Percy when he is gone. He has promised me to come to see us in town at Easter." "It is a satisfaction that you can leave with the assurance that Percy is virtually well again," said Mr Rimbolt. "Really, I do not know how we should have got on without Mr Jeffreys to nurse him. I never knew such devotion. He has never wanted for a thing all the time; and Jeffreys' influence is of the highest and manliest sort. Percy will be able to reckon this illness among the blessings of his life." Mr Rimbolt spoke feelingly and warmly. Scarfe and Mrs Rimbolt exchanged glances; and the conversation shortly afterwards turned to the journey before the travellers. Scarfe had come down to the drawing-room resolved, cost what it would, to settle scores with Jeffreys there and then by denouncing him to the family on whose favour he was dependent; and had Mr Rimbolt's entrance been delayed a few minutes, Mrs Rimbolt would have known all about young Forrester. Once again, however, he was stopped in time, and a few moments' reflection convinced him it was as well. Raby, he knew, whatever she might think of Jeffreys, would never forgive the informant who should be the means of turning him out of Wildtree, still less would Percy. Nor was Mr Rimbolt likely to esteem his guest more highly in the capacity of tale-bearer; and he decidedly wished to "keep in" with all three. And there was another reason still. Scarfe was at the bottom of his heart not quite a villain, and much as he detested Jeffreys, and longed to be revenged--for what injury do certain minds feel half so much as that which one man commits in being better than another?--he had an uncomfortable suspicion in his mind that after all Jeffreys was not quite the miscreant he tried to imagine him. That he was guilty in the matter of young Forrester there was no doubt; but much as he should have liked to believe it, he could not be quite sure that the accident at Bolsover was the result of a deliberate murderous design, or indeed of anything more than the accidental catastrophe of a blundering fit of temper--criminal, if you like, and cowardly, but not fiendish. And his conscience made coward enough of him just now to cause him to hesitate before plunging into ruin one who, hateful as he was to him, was after all a poor wretch, miserable enough for any one. Not having done what he intended to do, Scarfe felt decidedly virtuous, and considered himself entitled to any amount of credit for his forbearance! It seemed a pity Raby should not know of this noble effort of self-denial. "Miss Atherton," said he, just as they were about to separate for the night, "I'm afraid you will have forgotten all about me when you see me next." "You are very uncomplimentary, Mr Scarfe." "I do not mean to be; and I'm sure I shall not forget you." "Thank you. This has been a very eventful visit." "It has; but I shall never regret that day on the ice, although I fear I made one enemy by what I did." "You don't understand Mr Jeffreys; he is very shy and proud." "I understand him quite well, and wish for Percy's sake every one here did too. But I am not going to disobey you, and talk of people behind their backs, Miss Atherton. I am sure you will approve of that." "I do; I never like it unless it is something nice of them." "Then I certainly had better not talk to you about Mr Jeffreys," said Scarfe with a sneer, which did him more damage in Raby's eyes than a torrent of abuse from his lips. "Do you know you have never yet shown me the telegram you had about your father's last battle? It came the morning I was away, you know." "Yes. I fancied perhaps you did not care to see it, as you never asked me," said Raby, producing the precious paper from her dress, where she kept it like a sort of talisman. "How could you think that?" said Scarfe reproachfully, who had quite forgotten to ask to see it. He took the paper and glanced down it. "Hullo!" said he, starting as Jeffreys had done. "Captain Forrester! I wonder if that's poor young Forrester's father?" "Who is poor young Forrester?" inquired Raby. Scarfe read the paper to the end, and then looked up in well-simulated confusion. "Poor young Forrester? Oh--well, I dare say Jeffreys could tell you about him. The fact is, Miss Atherton, if I am not allowed to talk of people behind their backs it is impossible for me to tell you the story of poor young Forrester." "Then," said Raby, flushing, as she folded up the paper, "I've no desire to hear it." Scarfe could see he had gone too far. "I have offended you," said he, "but really I came upon the name so unexpectedly that--" "Do you expect to be working hard this term at Oxford?" said Raby, doing the kindest thing in turning the conversation. It was hardly to be wondered at if she retired that night considerably perplexed and disturbed. There was some mystery attaching to Jeffreys, which, if she was to set any store by Scarfe's insinuations, was of a disgraceful kind. And the agitation which both Scarfe and Jeffreys had shown on reading the telegram seemed to connect this Captain Forrester, or rather his son, whom Scarfe spoke of as "poor young Forrester," with the same mystery. Raby was a young lady with the usual allowance of feminine curiosity, which, though she was charity itself, did not like to be baulked by a mystery. She therefore opened a letter she had just finished to her father, to add the following postscript:-- "Was this brave Captain Forrester who saved the guns a friend of yours? Tell me all about him. Had he a wife and children? Surely something will be done for them, poor things." Early next morning Mrs Scarfe and her son left Wildtree. Jeffreys, from Percy's window, watched them drive away. "Very glad you must be to see the back of them," said Percy. "I am glad," responded Jeffreys honestly. "I'm not so frightfully sorry," said Percy. "Scarfe's a jolly enough chap, but he's up to too many dodges, don't you know? And he's dead on Raby, too. Quite as dead as you are, Jeff." "Percy, a fortnight's congestion has not cured you of the bad habit of talking nonsense," said Jeffreys. "All very well, you old humbug, but you know you are, aren't you?" "Your cousin is very good and kind, and no one could help liking her. Everybody is `dead on her,' as you call it, even Walker." Percy enjoyed this, and allowed himself to be led off the dangerous topic. He was allowed to sit up for the first time this day, and held a small _levee_ in his room. Jeffreys took the opportunity to escape for a short time to the library, which he had scarcely been in since the day on the mountain. He knew Mrs Rimbolt would enjoy her visit to the sick-chamber better without him, and he decidedly preferred his beloved books to her majestic society. Percy, however, was by no means satisfied with the arrangement. "Where's old Jeff?" said he presently, when his mother, Raby, and he were left alone. "Raby, go and tell Jeff, there's a brick. You can bet he's in the library. Tell him if he means to cut me dead, he might break it gently." "Raby," said Mrs Rimbolt, as her niece, with a smile, started on his majesty's errand, "I do not choose for you to go looking about for Mr Jeffreys. There is a bell in the room, and Walker can do it if required. It is unseemly in a young lady." "One would think old Jeff was a wild beast or a nigger by the way you talk," said Percy complainingly. "All I know is, if it hadn't been for him, you'd all have been in deep mourning now, instead of having tea up here with me." "It is quite possible, Percy," said his mother, "for a person--" "Person!" interrupted the boy. "Jeff's not a person; he's a gentleman. As good as any of us, only he hasn't got so much money." "I fear, Percy, your illness has not improved your good manners. I wish to say that Mr Jeffreys may have done you service--" "I should think he has," interrupted the irrepressible one. "But it by no means follows that he is a proper companion for a good innocent boy like you." Percy laughed hilariously. "Really, ma, you are coming it strong. Do you see my blushes, Raby?" "You must make up your mind to see a great deal less of Mr Jeffreys for the future; he is not the sort of person--" "Look here, ma," said Percy, terrifying his parent by the energy with which he sprang to his feet. "I'm jolly ill, and you'd be awfully sorry if I had a fit of coughing and brought up blood, wouldn't you? Well, I shall if you call Jeff a person again. Where _is_ Jeff, I say? I want Jeff. Why don't you tell him, Raby?" After this, for a season at any rate, Percy was allowed to have his own way, and jeopardised his moral welfare by unrestricted intercourse with the "person" Jeffreys. They spent their time not wholly unprofitably. For, besides a good deal of reading of history and classics (for which Percy was rapidly developing a considerable taste), and a good deal of discussion on all sorts of topics, they were deep in constructing the model of a new kind of bookcase, designed by Percy, with some ingenious contrivances for keeping out dust and for marking, by means of automatic signals, the place of any book which should be taken from its shelf. This wonderful work of art promised to eclipse every bookcase ever invented. The only drawback to it was that it was too good. Percy insisted on introducing into it every "dodge" of which he was capable, and the poor model more than once threatened to collapse under the burden of its own ingenuity. However, they stuck to it, and by dint of sacrificing a "dodge" here and a "dodge" there, they succeeded in producing a highly curious and not unworthy model, which Percy was most urgent that his father should forthwith adopt for his library, all the existing bookcases being sacrificed for firewood to make way for the new ones. Mr Rimbolt diplomatically promised to give the matter his consideration, and consult authorities on the subject when next in London, and meanwhile was not unsparing in his compliments to the inventor and his coadjutor. So the time passed happily enough for Jeffreys, until about three weeks after the Scarfes' departure, when the following amiable letter reached him with the Oxford post-mark on the envelope:-- Christ Church, _February 20th_. "Jeffreys,--You may have supposed that because I left Wildtree without showing you up in your proper character as a murderer and a hypocrite, that I have changed my opinions as to what is my duty to Mr Rimbolt and his family in this matter. It is not necessary for me to explain to you why I did not do it at once, especially after the blackguardly manner in which you acted on the last evening of my stay there. You being Mr Rimbolt's servant, I had to consider his convenience. I now write to say that you can spare me the unpleasant duty of informing the Wildtree household of what a miscreant they have in their midst by doing it yourself. If, after they know all, they choose to keep you on, there is nothing more to be said. You are welcome to the chance you will have of lying in order to whitewash yourself, but either I or you must tell what we know. Meanwhile I envy you the feelings with which I dare say you read of the death of poor young Forrester's father in Afghanistan. How your cowardly crime must have brightened his last hours! "Yours,-- "E. Scarfe." Jeffreys pitched this elegant specimen of polite Billingsgate contemptuously into the grate. He was not much a man of the world, but he could read through the lines of a poor performance like this. Scarfe, for some reason or other, did not like to tell the Rimbolts himself, but he was most anxious they should know, and desired Jeffreys to do the dirty work himself. There was something almost amusing in the artlessness of the suggestion, and had the subject been less personally grievous, Jeffreys could have afforded to scoff at the whole business. He sat down on the impulse of the moment and dashed off the following reply:-- "Dear Scarfe,--Would it not be a pity that your sense of duty should not have the satisfaction of doing its own work, instead of begging me to do it for you? I may be all you say, but I am not mean enough to rob you of so priceless a jewel as the good conscience of a man who has done his duty. So I respectfully decline your invitation, and am,-- "Yours,-- "J. Jeffreys." Having relieved himself by writing it, he tore the note up, and tried to forget all about it. But that was not quite so easy. Scarfe's part in the drama he could not forget, but the question faced him, not for the first time. Had he any right to be here, trusted, and by some of the family even respected? Was he not sailing under false colours, and pretending to be something he was not? True, he had been originally engaged as a librarian, a post in which character was accounted of less importance than scholarship and general proficiency. But he was more than a librarian now. Circumstances had made him the mentor and companion of a high-spirited, honest boy. Was it fair to Percy to keep a secret what would certainly shut the doors of Wildtree against him for ever? Was it fair to Mr Rimbolt to accept this new responsibility without a word? Was it fair to Raby, who would shrink from him with detestation, did she know the whole story? Scarfe would have been amply satisfied had he been present to note the disquietude which ensued for some days after the arrival of his letter. Jeffreys felt uncomfortable in his intercourse with Mr Rimbolt; he avoided Raby, and even with Percy he was often unaccountably reserved and pensive. "What are you in the blues about?" demanded that quick-sighted young gentleman on the first day out of doors after his illness. "Are you sorry I'm all serene again?" "Rather," said Jeffreys; "it's not been a bad time." "No more it has; but I must say I don't mind feeling my legs under me. I shall soon be ready for the top of Wild Pike again. But, I say, aren't you well? I expect you've been knocking yourself up over me?" "Not a bit of it; I'm as well as anything." Percy, however, was not satisfied. He had a vague idea that young gentlemen in love were as a rule sickly, and by a simple process of reasoning he guessed that Jeffreys and Raby "had had a row." He therefore took an early opportunity of mentioning the matter to his cousin, greatly to that young lady's confusion. "Raby, I say, look here!" he began, a day or two afterwards, as he and his cousin were walking together. "What makes you so jolly down on Jeff?" "I down on Mr Jeffreys? What do you mean?" "Well, he's so dismal, I'm certain he's eating his heart out about you! Why don't you back him up? He's a good enough chap and no end of a brick, and say what you will, he meant to fish you out that day on the ice. He went off like a shot directly after the ice cracked." "Percy, you ridiculous boy!" said Raby, biting her lips; "how can you talk such nonsense?" "Oh! but he did," persisted the boy. "I'm not talking about the ice," said she. "Mr Jeffreys and I are very good friends; chiefly on your account, too," added she, with a vague idea of qualifying her admission. "Oh, ah, that won't wash, you know," said Percy. "Anyhow, it's nonsense you being so precious stiff with him; I'm sure he's as good as Scarfe." "Percy, if you cannot talk sense," said Raby, nearly crying with vexation, "I shall not listen to you." "Oh, all serene!" responded Percy. "Of course you're bound to make out it's all humbug, but I know better. Come, don't be in a rage, Raby; you forget I'm an invalid." So they made it up on the spot, and Percy flattered himself he had done a great deal to make things right for Jeffreys. Jeffreys, however, was still harassed by perplexity, and was gradually veering round to the conclusion that he must at all costs relieve his mind of his secret to Mr Rimbolt. He put the task off day after day, shrinking from the wrench of all the ties which made his life happy. One day, however, finding himself alone with Mr Rimbolt in the library, he suddenly resolved then and there to speak out. "Oh, Jeffreys," began Mr Rimbolt, "I am very anxious to get those books from the Wanley Abbey sale looked through and catalogued within the next few days if you can manage it. We all go up to London, you know, next week, and I should be glad to have all square before we start." "I have no doubt they can all be gone through before then." "I should like you to come to town, too," said Mr Rimbolt. "Percy sets great store by your companionship; besides which, there are some very important book sales coming on in which I shall want your help." "I had been going to ask you--" began Jeffreys, feeling his temples throbbing like two steam-engines. "Oh, by the way," interrupted Mr Rimbolt, taking a letter from his pocket, "did not you tell me you were at a school called Bolsover?" "Yes," faltered Jeffreys, wondering what was coming. "It's very odd. I have a letter from an old Oxford acquaintance of mine, called Frampton, who appears to be head-master there, and whom I have never heard of for about sixteen years. He is fond of books, and writes to ask if he may come and see the library. I've asked him to stay a night, and expect him here to-morrow. I dare say you will be glad to meet him. Perhaps he knows you are here?" "No, I don't think so," said Jeffreys. "Ah, then I dare say you will be glad to see one another again." Jeffreys was considerably staggered by this unexpected announcement, but it relieved him of all present perplexity as to speaking to Mr Rimbolt of young Forrester. He would at least wait till Mr Frampton came, and put himself in his hands. Mr Frampton came, as young and fresh as ever. He was taking a three days' run in the Lake country during a term holiday, and, determined to do and see all he could, had decided to visit his old college friend, and look over the now famous Wildtree library. His surprise at meeting Jeffreys was very considerable; and at first it seemed to the quondam pupil that his old master was shy of him. This, however, was explained as soon as they were alone, and had to do with the seven pounds, which had burned holes in Mr Frampton's pockets ever since he received them, but which, not knowing Jeffreys' address, he had never been able to return. "I was never more pained than when I received this money," said he. "Your guardian was written to by the clerk in ordinary course, but I never imagined the bill would be passed on to you." Jeffreys had nothing for it but to take the money back, much as he disliked it. Until he did so, Mr Frampton was too fidgety to be approachable on any other subject. The morning after his arrival, they went up Wild Pike together--the first time Jeffreys had been on the mountain since the death of Julius. They had a fine day and no difficulty; but the long talk which beguiled the way amply made up to Jeffreys for the lack of adventure. Mr Frampton told him much about Bolsover, and of how it was at last beginning to thrive and recover from the dry-rot; how this winter the football team had got up a name for itself; how the school discussion society was crowded with members; how the cricket prospects were decidedly hopeful; and how two fellows had lately gained scholarships at Oxford. Then he began to ask Jeffreys about himself, and got from him a full account of all that had befallen him since he left school. Mr Frampton was a most sympathetic listener, and the poor "dog with a bad name," who had almost forgotten the art of speaking his mind fully to any one, warmed insensibly to this friend as they talked, and reproached himself for the pride and shortsightedness which had induced him to shut himself out so long from his friendship. Then they talked of young Forrester. Mr Frampton made no attempt to gloss over the wickedness of that unhappy act of passion. But he showed how fully he made allowances for the poor blundering offender, and how he, at least, saw more to pity than to upbraid in it all. He knew nothing of young Forrester's fate. He had seen in the papers the notice of Captain Forrester's death, from whom, months before, he had had a letter of inquiry as to his son's whereabouts, and to whom he had written telling all he knew, which was but little. Then Jeffreys unfolded his present uncomfortable dilemma, and his intention of speaking to Mr Rimbolt, and they talked it over very seriously and anxiously. At last Mr Frampton said,-- "Let me speak to Mr Rimbolt." "Most thankfully I will." So Mr Frampton spoke to Mr Rimbolt, and told him frankly all there was to tell, and Mr Rimbolt, like a gentleman who knew something of Christian charity, joined his informant in pitying the offender. "Jeffreys," said he, the day after Mr Frampton's departure, "your friend has told me a story about you which I heard with great sorrow. You are now doing all that an honest man can do, with God's help, to make up for what is past. What I have been told does not shake my present confidence in you in any way, and I need not tell you that not a single person in this house beyond yourself and me shall know anything about this unhappy affair." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. "GOING IT." Jeffreys started for London with a lighter heart than he had known since he first came to Wildtree. When he contrasted his present sense of relief with the oppression which had preceded it, he marvelled how he could ever have gone on so long, dishonestly nursing his wretched secret under Mr Rimbolt's roof. Now, in the first reaction of relief, he was tempted to believe his good name was really come back, and that Mr Rimbolt having condoned his offence, the memory of Bolsover was cancelled. It was a passing temptation only. Alas! that memory clung still. Nothing could alter the past; and though he might now feel secure from its consequences, he had only to think of young Forrester to remind him that somewhere the black mark stood against his name as cruelly as ever. Yet, comparatively, he felt light-hearted, as with the Rimbolt family he stood at last on the London platform. It was new ground to him. Some years ago Mr Halgrove had lived several months in the Metropolis, and the boy, spending his summer holidays there, and left entirely to his own devices, had learned in a plodding way about as much of the great city as a youth of seventeen could well do in the time. The Rimbolts' house in Clarges Street was to Jeffreys' mind not nearly so cheerful as Wildtree. The library in it consisted of a small collection of books, chiefly political, for Mr Rimbolt's use in his parliamentary work; and the dark little room allotted to him, with its look-out on the mews, was dull indeed compared with the chamber at Wildtree, from which he could at least see the mountain. Nor did he by any means enjoy the constant round of entertainments which went on in London, at which he was sometimes called upon in a humble way to assist. He had been obliged, in deference to Mrs Rimbolt's broad hints, to buy a dress suit, and in this he was expected on occasions to present himself at the end of a grand dinner-party, or when Mr Rimbolt required his professional attendance. For, there being no books to take care of here, Mr Rimbolt availed himself of his librarian's services as a private secretary in some important political business, and found him so efficient and willing, that he proposed to him a considerable increase in his salary, in consideration of his permanently undertaking a good share of his employer's ordinary correspondence. The chief portion of Jeffreys' time, however, still belonged to Percy, and it was a decided relief to him that that young gentleman scoffed at and eschewed the endless hospitalities and entertainments with which his mother delighted to fill up their life in London. "I don't see the fun of gorging night after night, do you, Jeff? A good spread's all very well now and again, but you get sick of it seven nights a week. Makes me sleepy. Then all these shows and things! I've a good mind to get laid up again, and have a real good time. There's to be no end of a crowd here to-night--everybody. I shall cut it if I can; shan't you?" "Mr Rimbolt wants me to come into the drawing-room after dinner," said Jeffreys. "All serene! That won't be till nine. Come up to Putney, and have a row on the river this afternoon." Percy was an enthusiastic oarsman, and many an afternoon Jeffreys and he, flying from the crowd, had spent on the grand old Thames. Jeffreys enjoyed it as much as he, and no one, seeing the boy and his tutor together in their pair-oar, would have imagined that the broader of the two was that ungainly lout who had once been an object of derision in the Bolsover meadows. The party that evening was, as Percy predicted, a very large one, and Jeffreys had the discomfort of recognising a few of the guests who last autumn had helped to make his position so painful. They, to do them justice, did not now add to his discomfort by recognising him. Even the lady who had given him that half-crown appeared wholly to have forgotten the object of her charity. What, however, made him most uncomfortable was the sight of Mrs Scarfe, and hearing her say to Percy, "Edward is coming on Saturday, Percy; he is looking forward with such pleasure to taking you about to see the University sports and the Boat Race. Your dear mamma has kindly asked two of his college friends to come too, so you will be quite a merry quartette." Jeffreys had nearly forgotten Scarfe's existence of late. He no longer dreaded him on his own account, but on Percy's he looked forward to Saturday with dismay. He would have liked to know also, as a mere matter of curiosity of course, what Raby thought about the promised visit. His own communications with that young lady had not been very frequent of late, although they continued friendly. Percy's nonsense gave them both a considerable amount of embarrassment; for although Jeffreys never for a moment supposed that Mr Rimbolt's niece thought twice about him except as a persecuted dependant and a friend to Percy, to have anything else suggested disturbed his shy nature, and made him feel constrained in her presence. "You'll have to mind your eye with Raby now that Scarfe's coming," said Percy that night. "You bet he'll try to hook her. I heard his mother flying kites with ma about it, to see how the land lies." Jeffreys had given up the formality of pretending, when Percy launched out on this delicate subject, not to know what he was talking about. "Whatever Scarfe does," said he, "is nothing to me." "What I don't you and Raby hit it off, then?" "Hit what off?" "I mean aren't you dead on her, don't you know?--spoons, and all that sort of thing?" "I am not aware that I entertain feelings towards anybody which could be described by any article of cutlery at all." "Well, all I can say is, when I blowed her up for being down on you, she blushed up no end, and cried too. I should like to know what you call that, if it isn't spoons?" "I think it would be kinder, Percy, if you did not talk to your cousin about me; and I fancy she would as soon you did not talk about her to me." "Well, that's rather what I should call a shut-up," said Percy. "It bothers me how people that like one another get so precious shy of letting the other fellow know it. I know I shan't. I'll have it out at once, before any other chap comes and cuts me out." With which valiant determination Percy earned Jeffreys' gratitude by relapsing into silence. He was, however, destined to have the uncomfortable topic revived in another and more unexpected quarter. On the day before Scarfe's proposed visit, Walker accosted him as he was going out, with the announcement that my lady would like to speak to him in the morning-room. This rare summons never failed to wring a groan from the depths of the librarian's spirit, and it did now as he proceeded to the torture- chamber. The lady was alone, and evidently burdened with the importance of the occasion. "Mr Jeffreys," said she, with a tone of half conciliation which put up Jeffreys' back far more than her usual severe drawl, "kindly take a seat; I wish to speak to you." "It's all up with me!" groaned the unhappy Jeffreys inwardly, as he obeyed. Mrs Rimbolt gathered herself together, and began. "I desire to speak to you, Mr Jeffreys, in reference to my niece, Miss Atherton, who, in her father's absence, is here under my protection and parental control." Jeffreys flushed up ominously. "It does not please me, Mr Jeffreys, to find you, occupying, as you do, the position of a dependant in this house, so far forgetting yourself as to consider that there is anything in your respective positions which justifies you in having communications with Miss Atherton other than those of a respectful stranger." Jeffreys found himself frivolously thinking this elaborate sentence would be an interesting exercise in parsing for the head class at Galloway House. He barely took in that the remarks were intended for him at all, and his abstracted look apparently disconcerted Mrs Rimbolt. "I must request your attention, Mr Jeffreys," said she severely. "I beg your pardon. I am all attention." "I am quite willing to suppose," continued she, "that it is ignorance on your part rather than intentional misconduct which has led you into this; but from henceforth I wish it to be clearly understood that I shall expect you to remember your proper station in this house. Miss Atherton, let me tell you, has no need of your attentions. You perfectly understand me, Mr Jeffreys?" Jeffreys bowed, still rather abstractedly. "You do not reply to my question, Mr Jeffreys." "I perfectly understand you, madam." "I trust I shall not have to speak to you again." "I trust not," said Jeffreys, with a fervour which startled the lady. He left the room, outraged, insulted, sorely tempted to shake the dust of the place once and for all from off his feet. The evil temper within him once more asserted itself as he flung himself into his room, slamming the door behind him with a force that made the whole house vibrate. The narrow room was insupportable. It stifled him. He must get out into the fresh air or choke. On the doorstep he met Mr Rimbolt, alighting from his brougham. "Oh, Jeffreys, so glad to have caught you. Look here. I find I must be in the House to-night and to-morrow, and I intended to go down to Exeter to attend that four days' sale of Lord Waterfield's library. I must get you to go for me. You have the catalogue we went through together, with the lots marked which I must have. I have put an outside price against some, and the others must be mine at any price--you understand. Stick at nothing. Take plenty of money with you for travelling and expenses. Do things comfortably, and I will give you a blank cheque for the books. Mind I must have them, if it comes to four figures. Go down by the Flying Dutchman to-night, and send me a telegram at the end of each day to say what you have secured." The proposal came opportunely to Jeffreys. He was in the humour of accepting anything for a change; and this _carte blanche_ proposal, and the responsibility it involved, contained a spice of excitement which suited with his present mood. He went down to Exeter that night, trying to think of nothing but Lord Waterfield's books, and to forget all about Raby, and Percy, and Mrs Rimbolt, and Scarfe. The last-named hero and his two friends duly presented themselves at Clarges Street next day. Scarfe was in great good-humour with himself, and even his antipathies to the world at large were decidedly modified by the discovery that Jeffreys was out of town. His two friends were of the gay and festive order--youths who would have liked to be considered fast, but betrayed constantly that they did not yet know the way how. Percy, with his usual facile disposition, quickly fell into the ways of the trio, and rather enjoyed the luxury of now and then getting a rise out of the undergrads by showing that "he knew a thing or two" himself. They spent their first few days together in "going it"--that is, in seeing and doing all they could. Scarfe's friends began shyly, feeling their way both with their host and hostess and with their son. But then they saw that Mr Rimbolt was far too engrossed to think of anything beyond that they should all enjoy themselves and do as they liked--when they saw that Mrs Rimbolt swore by Scarfe, and, to use the choice language of one of them, "didn't sit up at anything as long as the Necktie was in it"--and when they saw that Percy was a cool hand, and, whatever he thought, did not let himself be startled by anything, these two ingenuous youths plucked up heart and "let out all round." They haunted billiard saloons, but failed to delude any one into the belief that they knew one end of a cue from another. They went to theatres, where the last thing they looked at was the stage. They played cards without being quite sure what was the name of the game they played. They smoked cigars, which it was well for their juvenile stomachs were "warranted extra mild"; and they drank wine which neither made glad their hearts nor improved their digestions; and they spiced their conversation with big words which they did not know the meaning of themselves, and would certainly have never found explained in the dictionary. Percy, after a few days, got sick of it. He had never "gone it" in this style before; and finding out what it meant, he didn't see much fun in it. Late hours and unwholesome food and never-ending "sport" did not agree with him. He had looked forward to seeing a lot of the boat practice on the river, and hearing a lot about University sport and life. But in this he was disappointed. The "boats" were voted a nuisance; and whenever the talk turned on Oxford it was instantly tabooed as "shop." Scarfe sneered to him in private about these two fools, but when with them he "went it" with the rest, and made no protest. "Percy," said Raby, two or three days after this sort of thing had been going on, "you look wretchedly pale and tired. Why do you stay out so late every night?" "Oh," said Percy wearily, "I don't know--we humbug about. Nothing very bad." "If it makes you ill and wretched, I say it is bad, Percy," said the girl. "Oh, I don't know. Scarfe goes in for it, you know." "I don't care a bit who goes in for it. It's bad." "You don't mean to say you think Scarfe is a bad lot?" "Don't speak to me of Mr Scarfe. I hate him for this!" Percy whistled. "Hullo, I say! here's a go!" he cried. "Then you're really spoons on Jeff after all? How awfully glad he'll be when I tell him!" "Percy I shall hate _you_ if you talk like that!" said the girl. "I hate any one who is not good to you; and it is certainly not good to you to lead you into folly and perhaps wickedness." This protest had its effect on Percy. The next day he struck, and pleaded an excuse for accompanying the precious trio on an expedition to Windsor, to be consummated by a champagne supper at the "Christopher." They urged him hard, and tempted him sorely by the prospect of a row on the river and any amount of fun. He declined stubbornly. He was fagged, and not in the humour. Awfully sorry to back out and all that, but he couldn't help it, and wanted to save up for the Sports and Boat Race on Friday and Saturday. They gave him up as a bad job, and started without him. He watched them go without much regret, and then, putting on his hat, walked off towards Paddington to meet Jeffreys, who was due in about an hour. The quiet walk through the streets rather revived him; and the prospect of seeing Jeffreys again was still more refreshing. Of course he knew he should have to tell him of his folly, and Jeff would "sit on him" in his solemn style. Still, that was better than getting his head split open with cigars, and having to laugh at a lot of trashy jokes. Jeffreys was delighted to see him; and the two were leaving Paddington arm-in-arm when Scarfe and his two friends, alighting from a cab, suddenly confronted them. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE BAD NAME. Percy was riotously greeted by Scarfe's two friends. "Hullo, old man!" cried one of them; "then you thought better of it, after all, and mean to join us! That's the style!" "Bring your handsome friend with you. More the merrier. There'll be champagne enough for the lot." "Look alive," said Percy; "you'll lose your train. Jeff and I aren't coming." "Why not?" said they. "Because we're going the other way," replied Percy, who, when his mind was made up, did not appreciate anybody's importunity. "I've not seen Jeff for a week." "Who is this precious Jeff?" said one of Scarfe's friends, pointing over his shoulder to the librarian. "He's a gentleman employed by the month to look after Percy's morals," said Scarfe, with a sneer. "A parson! What a game! No wonder Percy draws in his horns a bit when he comes home. Anyhow, we must save him from the paws of the lion if we can. I say, Percy, you must come, old man. We made all the arrangements for four, boat and everything; and if you don't want to stay late we'll give up the supper. Only don't spoil our day, there's a good fellow. You'll be able to see lots of your friend when we've gone." "You be hanged," observed Percy, now in an uncomplimentary mood; "haven't I told you I'm not coming? What more do you want?" "Oh, of course, if you're so taken up with this reverend thing of beauty," said one of them sulkily, "we're out of it. I should have thought he could have snuffled to himself for a day without wanting you to help him." Scarfe all this time stood by in a rage. The sight of Jeffreys was to him like the dead fly in the apothecary's ointment. It upset him and irritated him with everybody and everything. He had guessed, on receiving no reply to his recent polite letter, that he had exposed his own poor hand to his enemy, and he hated him accordingly with a double hatred. He contrived, however, to keep up an appearance of scornful indifference. "You are still reaping the rewards of virtue, pious homicide," he sneered. "I still envy the upright man who does his duty," replied Jeffreys, scarcely less bitterly. "What do you mean, you--" "I mean what I say," said Jeffreys, turning on his heel, and taking Percy's arm. They walked home, and before Clarges Street was reached Percy had told his friend an unvarnished story of the follies of the last few days, and enlisted his support in his determination to pull up. There was something touching in the mingled shame and anger of the proud boy as he made his confession, not sparing himself, and full of scorn at those who had tempted him. Jeffreys was full of righteous wrath on his behalf, and ran up a score against Scarfe which would have astonished that worthy, listlessly loafing about at Windsor, had he guessed it. "I've promised to go and see the Boat Race with them," said Percy; "but you must come too. I know you'll hate it, and so will they; but somehow I can't do without a little backing up." "I'll back you up, old fellow, all I can, I only wish," added he, for the boy's confidence in him humiliated him, "I had a better right to do it." "Why, Jeff, I don't suppose you ever did a bad thing in your life." "Don't say that," said Jeffreys almost appealingly, "I have!" The boy looked up at him, startled for a moment by his tone. Then he said, with a return of his old look of confidence-- "Poor old Jeff! That's what makes you so blue sometimes. If it weren't for you, I'd have a precious good right to be in the blues too." Jeffreys, who had not entered the house since his interview with Mrs Rimbolt, felt anything but comfortable as he again set foot within it; and had it not been for Percy's countenance, he would have felt it still more of an ordeal. He had, however, plenty to occupy his mind during the hour or two which followed. Mr Rimbolt was waiting for him eagerly, to hear all about the sale and the purchases which had been made. "You've done a capital stroke of business for me, Jeffreys," said he, when the report had been concluded. "Those three Caxtons I would not have missed for anything. I am quite glad that business will take me North next week, as I shall be able to run over to Wildtree and see some of the treasures unpacked. I shall, however, leave them for you finally to arrange when we all go back in June. You've seen Percy? I fancy he has been racketing rather too much with these friends of his; but I imagine Scarfe would see he went into no mischief. However, I am glad you have come back, for the boy's sake, as you understand him. This summer I think you should take him a little run in Normandy or Switzerland. It would do him good, and you, too, to knock about abroad for a week or two. However, there's time enough to talk about that. And I dare say you will be glad now to get a little rest after your journey." Jeffreys returned to his room very contentedly. The confidence Mr Rimbolt reposed in him was soothing to his spirits, and went far to obliterate the memory of that hideous interview last week. Percy was out when, after washing and changing his travelling garb, he came down to the morning-room, which he usually occupied during the afternoon. To his surprise, and even consternation, Raby was there, writing. She rose, brightly, almost radiantly, as he entered. "Oh, Mr Jeffreys, how glad I am to see you back! Poor Percy has been in such want of you! These Oxford friends of his, I am certain, have not been doing him any good. Have you seen him? I am so happy you have come back!" Jeffreys was not made of adamant, and a greeting like this, even though it was offered on some one else's behalf, was enough to drive Mrs Rimbolt completely out of his head. "I am very fortunate to be able to make you happy so easily," said he. "Yes, I have seen Percy, and heard all his troubles. How could any one help being grateful for a confidence like his? You know, Miss Atherton, I would do anything for him." "I believe you," said she warmly. "You are good and unselfish." "Do you mind my saying," said Jeffreys, colouring, "that it is an additional pleasure to do what I can for Percy if it makes you happy?" "I don't mind your saying it if it is true. It does make me happy." And her face was the best witness to her sincerity. Jeffreys was not the only person who saw that bright smile. Mrs Rimbolt, entering the room at that moment, saw it too, and heard the words which it accompanied. She glared round witheringly on Jeffreys. "So, Mr Jeffreys, _you_ are here. What brings you here?" "Mr Jeffreys--" began Raby, feeling and looking very confused. "Silence, Raby, I asked Mr Jeffreys." "I came here not knowing the room was occupied. It was a pleasant surprise to find Miss Atherton here, and she has been making me happy by talking to me about Percy." "Mr Jeffreys," said the lady, "allow me to say I do not believe you." "Auntie!" exclaimed Raby, firing up in a manner unusual to her; "it is true. Mr Jeffreys always tells the truth!" "Raby, my dear, you had better leave the room." "No, auntie!" exclaimed the girl. "You have no right to charge Mr Jeffreys with saying what is not true. It's not fair--it's wrong--it's wicked!" "You forget, my dear, of all persons you should not address me like this." "No," said the girl, going to the door, which Jeffreys opened for her. "I don't forget, and I shall not forget. You have no right to say it. I wish father was home again, and would take me away!" In the midst of his own indignation, Jeffreys could not help admiring this outbreak of righteous indignation on the part of the spirited girl. Mrs Rimbolt little guessed how much she herself was doing to defeat her own ends. "Mr Jeffreys," said she, after Raby had gone, "after our interview last week, your conduct is both disgraceful and dishonourable. I should not have believed it even of you." "Pardon me, madam. You have charged me with telling you a lie just now. Is that so?" His tone was strangely peremptory. Mrs Rimbolt had never seen him like this before--and for the moment it disconcerted her. "What I heard as I entered the room had no reference to Percy," said she. "Excuse me--it had. Miss Atherton--" "If it had, I must believe you. I wish to hear no more about it. But after your promise last week--" "I made no promise, and should decline to do so. I am quite aware of my position here, and am ready to give it up when called upon. But while I stay here and do my work, Mrs Rimbolt, I claim to be protected from insult." "It is useless to prolong this interview, Mr Jeffreys," said Mrs Rimbolt, half-scared by the turn things had taken. "I never expected to be addressed in this way in my own house by one who is dependent on my husband for his living. You can leave me, sir." Jeffreys bowed, and retired to his room, where he awaited as calmly as he could what appeared to him the inevitable end of the scene--a notice to quit. But it did not come. Mrs Rimbolt knew herself to be in the wrong. Her husband, she knew, if she laid the case before him, would judicially inquire into its merits, and come to the same conclusion. In that case her dominion would be at an end. Even the Mrs Rimbolts have an eye to the better half of valour sometimes, and so Jeffreys was left sitting for an ultimatum which did not come. Raby had a still worse ordeal before her. At first her indignation had reigned supreme and effaced all other emotions. Gradually, however, a feeling of vague misery ensued. She longed to be away in India with her dear soldier father; she wished Jeffreys had never come under the Wildtree roof to bring insult on himself and wretchedness to her. She dreaded the future for her boy cousin without his protector, and half wished him dead and safe from temptation. In due time her brave spirit came back. She despised herself for her weakness, and, resolved boldly to face her aunt and every one, she came down to dinner. It was strictly a family party, with Mrs Scarfe added; for the other three visitors had not yet returned from Windsor. Raby sought protection from her aunt by devoting herself to Mrs Scarfe, and quite delighted that good lady by her brightness and spirit. Mrs Scarfe took occasion in the drawing-room afterwards to go into rhapsodies to her young friend regarding her son; and when about ten o'clock the holiday- makers arrived home, in high spirits and full of their day's sport, she achieved a grand stroke of generalship by leaving the two young people together in the conservatory, having previously, by a significant pressure of her son's arm, given him to understand that now was his time for striking while the iron was hot. Scarfe was in an unusually gay mood, and still a little elevated by the festivities of the day. "I'm sure you missed us," said he, "didn't you?" "The house was certainly much quieter," said Raby. "Do you know," said he, "it's rather pleasant to feel that one is missed?" Raby said nothing, but began to feel a desire to be safely back in the drawing-room. "Do you know we drank toasts to-day, like the old knights, to our lady loves?" continued Scarfe. "Indeed," replied Raby, as unconcernedly as she could. "Yes--and shall I tell you the name I pledged? Ah, I see you know, Raby." "Mr Scarfe, I want to go back to the drawing-room; please take me." Scarfe took her hand. His head was swimming, partly with excitement, partly with the effects of the supper. "Not till I tell you I love you, and--" "Mr Scarfe, I don't want to hear all this," said Raby, snatching her hand away angrily, and moving to the door. He seized it again rudely. "You mean you don't care for me?" asked he. "I want to go away," said she. "Tell me first," said he, detaining her; "do you mean you will not have me--that you don't love me?" "I don't," said she. "Then," said he, sober enough now, and standing between her and the door, "there is another question still Is the reason because some one else in this house has--" "Mr Scarfe," said Raby quietly, "don't you think, when I ask you to let me go, it is not quite polite of you to prevent me?" "Please excuse me," he said apologetically. "I was excited, and forgot; but, Raby, do let me warn you, for your sake, to beware of this fellow Jeffreys. No, let me speak," said he, as she put up her hand to stop him. "I will say nothing to offend you. You say you do not care for me, and I have nothing to gain by telling you this. If he has--" "Mr Scarfe, you are quite mistaken; do, please, let me go." Scarfe yielded, bitterly mortified and perplexed. His vanity had all along only supposed one possible obstacle to his success with Raby, and that was a rival. That she would decline to have him for any other reason had been quite beyond his calculations, and he would not believe it now. Jeffreys may not have actually gone as far as to propose to her, but, so it seemed, there was some understanding between them which barred Scarfe's own chance. The worst of it all was that to do the one thing he would have liked to do would be to spoil his own chance altogether. For Raby, whether she cared for Jeffreys or not, would have nothing to say to Scarfe if he was the means of his ruin. The air during the next few days seemed charged with thunder. Mrs Rimbolt was in a state of war with every one, Mrs Scarfe was poorly, the two Oxford visitors began to vote their visit slow, Scarfe was moody, Raby was unhappy, Jeffreys felt continually half-choked, Percy alone kept up his spirits, while Mr Rimbolt, happiest of all, went up North to look at his old books. No one was particularly sorry when the visits came to an end. Even the Sports and Boat Race had failed to revive the drooping spirits of the Oxonians, and on the Monday following it was with a considerable stretch of politeness that they all thanked Mrs Rimbolt for a very pleasant visit. Scarfe, taking farewell of Raby, begged that some time, later on, he might come to see her again, but was quite unable to gather from her reply whether she desired it or not. Jeffreys wisely kept out of the way while the departures were taking place, despite Mrs Rimbolt's suggestion that he should be sent for to help the cabman carry out the boxes. The first evening after they were all gone the house seemed another place. Even Jeffreys felt he could breathe, despite Mr Rimbolt's absence, and the hostile proximity of his lady. As to Raby and Percy, they made no concealment of the relief they felt, and went off for a row on the river to celebrate the occasion. Jeffreys judiciously excused himself from accompanying them, and went a long walk by himself. Two days later, after lunch, just as Percy and Raby had departed for a ride in the park, and Jeffreys had shut himself up in Mr Rimbolt's study to write, a letter was delivered by the post addressed to Mrs Rimbolt, bearing the Oxford post-mark. It was from Scarfe, and Mrs Rimbolt opened her eyes as she perused it:-- "Christchurch, _April_ 2." Dear Mrs Rimbolt,--I reached here from home this morning, and hasten to send you a line to thank you for the very pleasant visit I spent in London last week. I should have written sooner, but that I was anxious to write you on another and less pleasant subject, which I felt should not be done hurriedly. You will, I dare say, blame me for not having told you earlier what I now feel it my duty to tell, and I trust you will understand the feelings which have prevented my doing so. John Jeffreys, who is in Mr Rimbolt's employment, is, as you know, an old schoolfellow of mine. I was surprised to see him at Wildtree last Christmas, and took the trouble to inquire whether he had come to you with a character, or whether you had any knowledge of his antecedents. I imagined you had not, and supposed that, as he was only engaged as a librarian, inquiries as to his character were not considered necessary. But when I saw that he was being admitted as a member of your household, and specially allowed to exercise an influence on Percy, I assure you I felt uncomfortable, and it has been on my mind ever since to tell you what I feel you ought to know. Jeffreys ran away from school after committing a cruel act which, to all intents and purposes, was murder. His victim was a small boy whom we all loved, and who never did him harm. The details of the whole affair are too horrible to dwell upon here, but I have said enough to show you what sort of person it is who is at present entrusted with the care of your own son, and allowed to associate on a footing of equality with your niece, Miss Atherton. I can assure you it is very painful to me to write this, for I know how it will shock you. But I feel my conscience would not give me peace till I told you all. May I now ask one special favour from you? It is well known, and you probably have noticed it yourself, that Jeffreys and I naturally dislike one another. But I want you to believe that I write this, not because I dislike Jeffreys, but because I like you all, and feel that Percy particularly is in peril. What I ask is that if you think it right to take any action in the matter, my name may not be mentioned. It would be considered an act of spite on my part, which it is not; and perhaps I may mention to you that I have special reasons for wishing that Miss Atherton, at least, should not think worse of me than I deserve. She would certainly misunderstand it if my name were mentioned. I feel I have only done my duty, and I assure you it will be a great relief to me to know that you are rid of one who cannot fail to exercise a fatal influence on the pure and honest mind of my friend Percy. "Believe me, dear Mrs Rimbolt, most sincerely yours,-- "E. Scarfe." The shock which this astounding communication gave to Mrs Rimbolt can be more easily imagined than described. It explained everything--her instinctive dislike of the man from the first, his moroseness and insolence, and the cunning with which he had insinuated himself first into her husband's and then into Percy's confidence! How blind she had been not to see it all before! She might have known that he was a villain! Now, however, her duty was clear, and she would be wicked if she delayed to act upon it a moment. If Mr Rimbolt had been at home, it would have fallen on him to discharge it, but he was not, and she must do it for him. Whereupon this worthy matron girded herself for the fray, and stalked off to the study. Jeffreys was busy transcribing some bibliographical notes which he had brought away with him from Exeter. The work was not very engrossing, and he had leisure now and then to let his mind wander, and the direction his thoughts took was towards Mr Rimbolt's little plan of a run on the Continent for Percy and himself this summer. Jeffreys had been afraid to acknowledge to himself how much the plan delighted him. He longed to see the everlasting snows, and the lakes, and the grand old mediaeval cities, and the prospect of seeing them with Percy, away from all that could annoy or jar-- He had got so far when the door opened, and Mrs Rimbolt stood before him. The lady was pale, and evidently agitated beyond her wont. She stood for a moment facing Jeffreys, and apparently waiting for words. The librarian's back went up in anticipation. If it was more about Raby, he would leave the room before he forgot himself. "Mr Jeffreys," said the lady, and her words came slowly and hoarsely, "I request you to leave this house in half an hour." It was Jeffreys' turn to start and grow pale. "May I ask why?" he said. "You know why, sir," said the lady. "You have known why ever since you had the meanness to enter Wildtree on false pretences." "Really, Mrs Rimbolt," began Jeffreys, with a cold shudder passing through him, "I am at a loss--" "Don't speak to me, sir! You knew you had no right to enter the house of honest, respectable people--you knew you had no right to take advantage of an accident to insinuate yourself into this family, and impose upon the unsuspecting good-nature of my husband. No one asked you for your character; for no one imagined you could be quite so hypocritical as you have been. You, the self-constituted friend and protector of my precious boy--you, with the stain of blood on your hands and the mark of Cain on your forehead! Leave my house at once; I desire no words. You talked grandly about claiming to be protected from insult in this house. It is we who claim to be protected from a hypocrite and a murderer! Begone; and consider yourself fortunate that instead of walking out a free man, you are not taken out to the punishment you deserve!" When Jeffreys, stunned and stupefied, looked up, the room was empty. Mechanically he finished a sentence he had been writing, then letting the pen drop from his hand, sat where he was, numbed body and soul. Mrs Rimbolt's words dinned in his ears, and with them came those old haunting sounds, the yells on the Bolsover meadows, the midnight shriek of the terrified boy, the cold sneer of his guardian, the brutal laugh of Jonah Trimble. All came back in one confused hideous chorus, yelling to him that his bad name was alive still, dogging him down, down, mocking his foolish dreams of deliverance and hope, hounding him out into the night to hide his head indeed, but never to hide himself from himself. How long he sat there he knew not. When he rose he was at least calm and resolved. He went up to his own room and looked through his little stock of possessions. The old suit in which he had come to Wildtree was there; and an impulse seized him to put it on in exchange for the trim garments he was wearing. Of his other goods and chattels he took a few special favourites. His Homer--Julius's collar--a cricket cap--a pocket compass which Percy had given him, and an envelope which Raby had once directed to him for her uncle. His money--his last quarter's salary--he took too, and his old stick which he had cut in the lanes near Ash Cottage. That was all. Then quietly descending the deserted stairs, and looking neither to the right hand nor the left, he crossed the hall and opened the front door. A pang shot through him as he did so. Was he never to see Percy again, or _her_? What would they think of him? The thought maddened him; and as he stood in the street he seemed to hear their voices, too, in the awful clamour, and rushed blindly forth, anywhere, to escape it. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. A PLUNGE DOWNWARD. A chill October squall was whistling through the trees--in Regent's Park, stirring up the fallen leaves on the footpaths, and making the nursemaids, as they listlessly trundled their perambulators, shiver suddenly, and think of the nursery fire and the singing kettle on the hob. The gathering clouds above sent the park-keeper off to his shed for a waterproof, and emptied the carriage-drive of the vehicles in which a few semi-grand people were taking an afternoon airing at half a crown an hour. A little knot of small boys, intently playing football, with piled-up jackets for goals, and an old parti-coloured "bouncer" for a ball, were the last to take alarm at the lowering sky; nor was it till the big drops fell in their midst that they scattered right and left, and left the park empty. No; not quite empty. One young man sat on through the rain on the seat from which he had been watching the boys' game. A shabby, almost ragged young man, with a disagreeable face and an almost contemptuous curl of the lips, as the rain, gathering force every second, buffeted him in the face and drenched him where he sat. There were a hundred seats more sheltered than that on which he sat, and by walking scarcely fifty yards he could have escaped the rain altogether. But he sat recklessly on, and let the rain do its worst, his eyes still on the empty football field, and his ears ringing still with the merry shouts of the departed boys. My reader, had he chanced to pass down that deserted walk on this stormy afternoon, would hardly have recognised in the lonely occupant of that seat the John Jeffreys he had seen six months ago at Clarges Street. It was not merely that he looked haggard and ill, or that his clothes were ragged. That was bad enough, but the reader has seen him in such a plight before. But what he has not seen before--or if at all, only in passing moments--is the bitter, hard look on his face, changing it miserably. A stranger passing him that afternoon would have said-- "There sits a man who hates all the world." We, who know him better, would have said-- "There sits our poor dog with a bad name, deserted even by hope." And so it was. Jeffreys had left Clarges Street smarting under a sense of injury, but still resolved to keep up the fight for his good name, in which for so many months past he had been engaged. Not by appealing to Mr Rimbolt. Although he knew, had Mr Rimbolt been at home, all this would not have happened, his pride forbade him now to take a single step to reinstate himself in a house from which he had been so ignominiously expelled. No, not even when that house held within its walls Percy and Raby. The idea of going back filled him with horror. On the contrary, he would hide himself from them, even though they sought to find him; and not till his name was as good as theirs would he see them again or come near them. Which surely was another way of resolving never to see them again; for the leopard cannot change his spots or the Ethiopian his skin! A bad name is a stain which no washing can efface; it clings wherever you go, and often men who see it see nothing else in you but the scar. So thought poor Jeffreys as he slowly turned his back on all that was dear to him in life, and went out into the night of the unsympathetic city. At first, as I said, he tried to hold up his head. He inquired in one or two quarters for work. But the question always came up-- "What is your character?" "I have none," he would say doggedly. "Why did you leave your last place?" "I was turned away." "What for?" "Because I am supposed to have killed a boy once." Once indeed he did get a temporary job at a warehouse--as a porter--and for a week, a happy week, used his broad back and brawny arms in carrying heavy loads and lifting weights. Hope sprang again within him as he laboured. He might yet, by beginning at the lowest step, rise above his evil name and conquer it. Alas! One day a shilling was lost from the warehouseman's desk. Jeffreys had been seen near the place and was suspected. He resented the charge scornfully at first, then savagely, and in an outbreak of rage struck his accuser. He was impeached before the head of the firm, and it was discovered that he had come without a character. That was enough. He was bundled out of the place at five minutes' notice, with a threat of a policeman if he made it six. And even when a week later the shilling was found in the warehouseman's blotting-paper, no one doubted that the cashiered rogue was as cunning as he was nefarious. After that he had given up what seemed the farce of holding up his head. What was the use, he said, when, as sure as night follows day, that bad name of his dogged him wherever he went? So Jeffreys began to go down. In after years he spoke very little of those six months in London, and when he did it was about people he had met, and not about himself. What he did, where he lodged, how he lived, these were matters he never mentioned and never liked to be asked about. I am quite sure myself that the reason of this silence was not shame. He was not one of those fellows who revenge themselves on fate by deliberately going to the bad. At his worst, he had no taste for vice or any affinity for it. He may have sunk low, not because he himself was low, but because in his miserable feud with all the world he scorned not to share the lot of others as miserable as himself. His money--he had a few pounds when he left Clarges Street--soon failed him. He made no great effort to keep it, and was relieved to see the end of it. His companions in misery soon helped him away with it, and he let them. But when it was gone the old necessity for work came back. By day he hardly ever ventured out of his court, for fear of being seen by some one who would attempt to rescue him from his present condition. At night he wandered restlessly about in the narrow streets picking up an early morning job at Covent Garden or in the omnibus stables. He moved his lodgings incessantly, one week inhabiting a garret in Westminster, another sharing a common room in Whitechapel, another doing without lodgings altogether. He spoke little or not at all to his fellow-miserables, not because he despised them, but because they fought shy of him. They disliked his superior ways and his ill-concealed disgust of their habits and vices. They could have forgiven him for being a criminal in hiding; that they were used to. But a man who spoke like a gentleman, who took no pleasure in their low sports, and sat dumb while they talked loud and broad, seemed to them an interloper and an intruder. Once--it was about the beginning of August--in a lodging-house across the river, he met a man to whom for a day or two he felt drawn. His story was a sad one. His father had been a gentleman, and the boy had been brought up in luxury and virtue. While at school his father had died, and before he had left school his mother had been married again to a brute who not only broke her heart, but, after setting himself to corrupt his stepson, had at last turned him adrift without a penny in the world. The lad, with no strong principle to uphold him, had sunk deep in vice. Yet there lurked about him occasional flashes of something better. "After all," he would say to Jeffreys, as the two lay at night almost on bare boards, "what's the odds? I may be miserable one day, but I'm jolly the next. Now you seem to prefer to be uniformly miserable." "Hardly a case of preference," said Jeffreys; "but I'm not sure that it wouldn't be more miserable to be jolly." "Try it. You'd give a lot to forget all about everything for an hour, wouldn't you?" "It would be pleasant." "You can do it." "By dropping asleep?" "Sleep! That's the time I'm most miserable. I remember the old days then, and my mother, and--I say, Jeffreys, I was once nearly drowned at Eton. Just as I was going down for the last time I put up my hand, and a fellow saw it and came in and fished me out. What a born fool I was to do it! I was grateful to the fellow at the time. I hate him now!" And the poor fellow, with all the manhood out of him, cried himself to sleep; and Jeffreys in mercy said not a word to stop him. A pitiful sort of friendship sprung up between the two--the bitter strong one, and the vicious weak one. It kept a soft corner in Jeffreys' heart to find some one who held to him even in this degradation, and to the poor prodigal it was worth anything to have some one to talk to. Coming home one wet morning from one of his nocturnal expeditions, Jeffreys found his fellow-lodger up, with a bottle in his hands. "My boy, my boy," cried the lad, "you're in luck, and just in time. Who says I'm lost to all decency after this? Why, I might have hidden it away when I heard you coming up. No. There's something of the nobleman left in me yet. Half of this is yours, Jeffreys; only help yourself quickly, man, or I may repent." He held out the bottle tremblingly and with a wince that spoke volumes. "Take it. I never went halves before, and perhaps I never shall again." Jeffreys took the bottle. It was brandy. "Half a tumbler of that, Jeffreys, will make another man of you. It will send you into dreamland. You'll forget there is such a thing as misery in the world. Don't be squeamish, old fellow. You're cold and weak, you know you are; you ought to take it. You're not too good, surely--eh? Man alive, if you never do anything worse than take a drop of brandy, you'll pass muster. Come, I say, you're keeping me waiting." Jeffreys sunk on a chair, and raised the bottle half-way to his lips. What was it, as he did so, which flashed before his eyes and caused him suddenly to set it down and rise to his feet? Nothing real, it is true, yet nothing new. Just a momentary glimpse of a boy's pale face somewhere in the dim gloom of that little room, and then all was as before. Yet to Jeffreys the whole world was suddenly altered. He set the bottle down, and neither heeding nor hearing the expostulations of his companion, he left the house never to return. That night he slept in another part of the town; and the poor bewildered prodigal, deserted by his only friend, cried half the night through, and cursed again the Eton boy who had once saved his life. Jeffreys, hidden in another part of the great city, sunk to a lower depth of misery than ever. To him it seemed now that his bad name had taken form in the face of young Forrester, and was dogging him in adversity more relentlessly even than in prosperity. It comforted him not at all to think it had saved him from a drunkard's ruin. He despised himself, when he came to himself, for having been scared so weakly. Yet he avoided his old quarters, and turned his back on the one friend he had, rather than face his evil genius again. His evil genius! Was he blinded then, that he saw in all this nothing but evil and despair? Was he so numbed that he could not feel a Father's hand leading him even through the mist? Had he forgotten that two little boys far away were praying for him? Had he ceased to feel that young Forrester himself might be somewhere, not far away, ready to forgive? He was blinded, and could see nothing through the mists. He half envied his new fellow-lodgers in the den at Ratcliff. Four of them, at least, stood a chance of being hanged. Yet they managed to shake off care and live merrily. "Come, old gallus," said one young fellow, who in that place was the hero of a recent "mystery" in the West End, "perk up. You're safe enough here. Don't be down. We're all in the same boat. Save up them long faces for eight o'clock in the morning at Old Bailey. Don't spoil our fun." It was half pathetic, this appeal; and Jeffreys for a day tried to be cheerful. But he could not do it, and considerately went somewhere else. How long was it to go on? A time came when he could get no work, and starvation stared him in the face. But a dying boy bequeathed him a loaf, and once again he was doomed to live. But a loaf, and the proceeds of a week's odd jobs, came to an end. And now once more, as he sits in the rain in Regent's Park, he faces something more than the weather. He has not tasted food for two whole days, and for all he knows may never taste it again. So he sits there, with his eyes still on that football ground, and his ears ringing still with the merry shouts of the departed boys. The scene changes as he stays on. It is a football field still, but not the brown patch in a London park. There are high trees, throwing shadows across the green turf, and in the distance an old red school- house. And the boys are no longer the lively London urchins with their red, white, and blue bouncer. They are in flannels, and their faces are familiar, and the names they call each other he knows. Nor is the game the same. It, like the London boys' game, has ended suddenly, but not in a helter-skelter stampede in the rain. No. It is a silent, awe- struck group round something on the ground; and as he, Jeffreys, elbows his way among them, he sees again a boy's face lying there pallid and perhaps lifeless. Then instinctively he lifts his hands to his ears. For a howl rises on all sides which deafens him, stuns him. After all, it is only the last effort of the October squall in Regent's Park buffeting him with a fusillade of rain and withered leaves. He takes his hands from his ears, and with a sigh gets up and walks away, he cares not whither. His steps lead him round the park and into the long avenue. The rain and the wind are dying down, and already a few wayfarers, surprised by the sudden storm, are emerging from their shelters and speeding home. The park-keeper boldly parades the path in his waterproof, as if he had braved the elements since daybreak. A nursemaid draws out her perambulator from under the trees and hastens with it and its wailing occupant nursery-wards. And there, coming to meet him, sheltered under one umbrella, are two who perhaps have no grudge against the storm for detaining them in their walk that afternoon. It is long since Jeffreys has seen anything to remind him of the world he has left, but there is something about these two as they advance towards him, their faces hidden by the umbrella, which attracts him. The youth is slim and well-dressed, and holds himself well; his companion's figure reminds him of a form he knew--can it be only six months ago?--light, gentle, courageous, beside which he has walked in the Wildtree Park and on the London pavements. Ah, how changed now! Where, he wonders, is _she_ now? and what is she thinking of him, if she thinks of him at all? They meet--the tramp and the young couple. They never heed him; how should they? But a turn of the umbrella gives him a momentary glimpse of them, and in that glimpse poor hapless Jeffreys recognises Raby and Scarfe! Surely this blow was not needed to crush him completely! Scarfe! How long he stood, statue-like, looking down the path by which they had gone neither he nor any one else could tell. But it was dark when he was roused by a harsh voice in front of him. "Come, sheer off, young fellow! It's time you was out of the park!" "Yes, I'll go," said he, and walked slowly to the gate. It was ridiculous of him, of course, to writhe as he did under that chance meeting. What else could he have expected? A hundred times already he had told himself she had forgotten all about him, or, worse still, she remembered him only to despise him. And a hundred times, too, he had seen her in fancy beside the enemy who had stabbed him. For Scarfe might have spared his precaution in begging Mrs Rimbolt not to name him as Jeffreys' accuser. Jeffreys needed no telling to whom he owed his ruin, and he needed no telling the reason why. That reason had made itself clear this afternoon, at any rate, and as the wretched outcast wandered out into the night, it seemed as if the one ray of light which yesterday had glimmered for him, even across the darkness, was now quenched for ever, and that there was nothing left either to hope or dread. He could not quit the park, but wandered round and round it, outside its inhospitable palings, covering mile after mile of wet pavement, heedless of the now drenching rain, heedless of his hunger, heedless of his failing limbs. The noisy streets had grown silent, and a clock near at hand had struck two when he found himself on the little bridge which crosses the canal. It was too dark to see the water below, but he heard the hard rain hissing on its surface. He had stood there before, in happier days, and wondered how men and women could choose, as they sometimes did, to end their misery in that narrow streak of sluggish water. He wondered less now. Not that he felt tempted to follow them; in his lowest depths of misery that door of escape had never allured him. Yet as he stood he felt fascinated, and even soothed, by the ceaseless noise of the rain on the invisible water beneath. It seemed almost like the voice of a friend far away. He had been listening for some time, crouched in a dark corner of the parapet, when he became aware of footsteps approaching. Imagining at first they were those of a policeman coming to dislodge the tramp from his lurking-place, he prepared to get up and move on. But listening again he remained where he was. The footsteps were not those of a policeman. They approached fitfully, now quickly, now slowly, now stopping still for a moment or two, yet they were too agitated for those of a drunkard, and too uncertain for those of a fugitive from justice. As they drew near to the bridge they stopped once more, and Jeffreys, peering through the darkness, saw a form clutching the railings, and looking down in the direction of the water. Then a voice groaned, "Oh my God!" and the footsteps hurried on. Jeffreys had seen misery in many forms go past him before, but something impelled him now to rise and follow the footsteps of this wanderer. The plashing rain drowned every sound, and it was with difficulty that Jeffreys, weak and weary as he was, could keep pace with the figure flitting before him, for after that glance over the bridge the fugitive no longer halted in his pace, but went on rapidly. Across the bridge he turned and followed the high banks of the canal. Then he halted, apparently looking for a way down. It was a long impatient search, but at last Jeffreys saw him descend along some railings which sloped down the steep grass slope almost to the towing- path. Jeffreys followed with difficulty, and when at last he stood on the towing-path the fugitive was not to be seen, nor was it possible to say whether he had turned right or left. Jeffreys turned to the right, and anxiously scanning both the bank and the water, tramped along the muddy path. A few yards down he came upon a heap of stones piled up across the path. Any one clambering across this must have made noise enough to be heard twenty yards away, and, as far as he could judge in the darkness, no one had stepped upon it. He therefore turned back hurriedly and retraced his steps. The sullen water, hissing still under the heavy rain, gave no sign as he ran along its edge and scanned it with anxious eyes. The high bank on his left, beyond the palings, became inaccessible from below. The wanderer must, therefore, be before him on the path. For five minutes he ran on, straining his eyes and ears, when suddenly he stumbled. It was a hat upon the path. In a moment Jeffreys dived into the cold water. As he came to the surface and looked round there was nothing but the spreading circles of his own plunge to be seen; but a moment afterwards, close to the bank, he had a glimpse of something black rising for an instant and then disappearing. Three strokes brought him to the spot just as the object rose again. To seize it and strike out for the bank was the work of a moment. The man--for it was he--was alive, and as Jeffreys slowly drew him from the water he opened his eyes and made a faint resistance. "Let me go!" he said with an oath; "let me go!" But his head fell heavily on his rescuer's shoulder while he spoke, and when at last he lay on the path he was senseless. Jeffreys carried him to the shelter of an arch, and there did what he could to restore animation. It was too dark to see the man's face, but he could feel his pulse still beating, and presently he gave a sigh and moved his head. "What did you do it for?" he said piteously. Jeffreys started. He knew the voice, hoarse and choked as it was. "What's your name?" he said, raising the form in his arms and trying to see the face. "Who are you?" "I've got no name! Why couldn't you let me be?" "Isn't your name Trimble--Jonah Trimble?" The poor fellow lifted his head with a little shriek. "Oh, don't give me up! Don't have me taken up! Help me!" "I will help you all I can, Trimble." "Why, you know me, then?--you're--Who are you?" "I'm John Jeffreys." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. AN ANGEL UNAWARES. In a wretched garret of a house in Storr Alley, near Euston, at the sick-bed of his old enemy, Jeffreys reached a turning-point in his life. How he conveyed the half-drowned Jonah on the night of the rescue from the canal bank to his lodgings he scarcely knew. The hand of a friend is often near when it is least expected. So Jonah had found, when he believed all hope and life to be gone; and so Jeffreys had found, when, with his poor burden in his arms, he met, beside a barge at daybreak, a dealer in vegetables for whom he had sometimes worked at Covent Garden, and who now, like a Good Samaritan, not only gave the two a lift in his cart, but provided Jeffreys with an opportunity of earning a shilling on the way. This shilling worked marvels. For both Trimble and Jeffreys were on the verge of starvation; and without food that night rescue would have been but a farce. It was soon evident that Jonah had far more the matter with him than the mere effects of his immersion. He was a wreck, body and soul. The dispensary doctor who called to see him gave him a fortnight to live, and the one or two brave souls who penetrated, on errands of mercy, even into Storr Alley, marked his hollow cough and sunken cheeks, and knew that before long one name more would drop out of their lists. It was slowly, and in fragments only, that Jeffreys heard his story. Jonah was for ever reproaching him with what had happened on the canal bank. "Why couldn't you have left a fellow alone? I know, you wanted to gloat over me. Go on, be as happy as you like. Enjoy your revenge. I did you a bad turn; now you've done me one, so we're quits!" Here a fit of coughing would shake the breath out of the sufferer, and it would be a minute or two before he could proceed. Jeffreys wisely avoided all expostulations or self-excuse. He smoothed the poor fellow's pillow, and supported him in his arms till the cough was over and he could proceed. "It was a bad day you ever came to our school, John"--Jonah had adopted the name by which Jeffreys was known in Storr Alley--"I hated you the first time I saw you. You've got the laugh on your side now; but I can tell you you wouldn't have had it then if you knew the way I followed you up. Yes"--and here came a shadow of his own sinister smile--"I made it all fit in like a puzzle. Did you never miss a letter you had that day you called at the York post- office--a letter about the dead burying their dead, and young Forrester? oh yes, you may start; I know all about it. I took that letter out of your pocket. And I know where you buried his body; do you suppose I didn't see you throw yourself on the very place and say, `It was here'? You held your nose in the air, didn't you, in the school, and palmed yourself off on Freddy and Teddy for a model? But I bowled you out. I showed you up. That was the day of my laugh. Now you've got yours." The cough again stopped him; and when he recovered his breath Jeffreys said quietly-- "Don't talk, Jonah; you bring on your cough. Let me read to you." Then for the remainder of that day the story would rest; till later on Jonah would abruptly return to it. "Mother believed in you, and cried a whole day after you had gone. Yes, and you'll be glad to hear the school broke up all to pieces. Farmer Rosher took away his boys and spread a report about us; and at the end of a month we had scarcely a dozen urchins. Mother and I lived like cat and dog. I struck work, and she had to do everything, and it broke her up. It would never have happened if you hadn't come into the place. I couldn't live there any longer. Mother had a little bit saved, fifty pounds or so, and one night, after we had had a terrible row, I took every penny of it out of her money-box and came up to London. Now are you pleased? Hadn't she something to bless you for? I say, John, get us some water quick, I'm parched!" On another day Jeffreys heard the rest. "I came up to London, but it wasn't the fun I expected. Everybody I met I thought was a detective, and all night long I dreamed of my mother. I tried to drown it, and lived as wild a life as you like till my money was done. Then it would have been worth your while to see me. Everybody was against me. Fellows I'd stood treat to kicked me out into the street, and fellows who owed me money laughed in my face. I thought I'd go back to York after all and get mother to take me back; but when I came to start I couldn't face it. That's all. I stood it as long as I could. I pawned everything, and when that was done I stole--and got three months on the treadmill. How do you like that? When I got out, a city missionary heard of me and found me a job; but I stole again, and ran away. You wouldn't have thought I had it in me at York, would you? I was a respectable young fellow there. But it was all there; and it was you brought it all out. Last week I made up my mind to put an end to it all. It took me a struggle to face it; but I was settled to do it--and then, as if you hadn't done enough harm, you come and spoil my last chance." "Not your last chance, Jonah." "No. I've a week more to live. Then you'll be rid of me. Who's to save me then?" "Some one, Jonah. We have both forgotten Him, but He's not forgotten us." "Oh yes, I know," said Jonah; "but it's all very well for you, who've got years to get right in. It's too short notice for me to begin all that over again. I don't want to hear about it." He lingered on day after day, and it was absolutely necessary for Jeffreys to go and seek work in order to keep even that wretched roof above their heads. One evening when he returned with a few coppers, Jonah met him with a face brighter than any that he had yet seen. "I've had some one here to-day. A better sort than you. One that's got a right to talk about what's better. A lady, John, or else an angel. Did _you_ send her?" "I? No; I know no ladies." "I don't know how it was, I could tell her anything--and, I say, John, it would make you cry to hear her voice. It did me. _You_ never made me cry, or saw me; I hate to hear _you_ preach; but she--why, she doesn't preach at all, but she says all you've got to say a hundred times better." He was excited and feverish that night, and in his sleep murmured scraps of the gentle talk of his ministering angel, which even from his lips fell with a reflected sweetness on the trouble-tossed spirit of the watcher. Jeffreys had succeeded in getting a temporary job which took him away during the next two days. But each night on his return he found his invalid brighter and softened in spirit by reason of his angel's visits. "She'll come to-morrow, John. There's magic in her, I tell you. I see things I never saw before. You've been kind to me, John, and given up a lot for me, but if you were to hear her--" Here the dying youth could get no farther. He seemed much the same in the morning when Jeffreys started for work. The last words he said as his friend departed were-- "She's coming again to-day." When Jeffreys came home in the evening the garret was silent, and on the bed lay all that remained on earth of the poor wrecked life which had been so strangely linked with his own. As he stood over the lifeless body his eyes fell on a scrap of paper lying on the pillow. It was folded and addressed in pencil, "To the fellow-lodger." Jeffreys caught it eagerly, and in a turmoil of agitation read the few lines within. "Your friend was not alone when he died, peacefully, this afternoon. He left a message for you. `Tell him he was right when he told me I had a chance. If it had not been for him I should have lost it.' He also said, `Some day he may see mother and tell her about me. Tell her I died better than I lived.' Dear friend, whose name I do not know, don't lose heart. God is merciful, and will be your friend when every one else is taken from you." It was not the words of this touching little message from the dead which brought a gasp to Jeffreys' throat and sent the colour from his cheeks as he read it. The writing, hasty and agitated as it was, was a hand he had seen before. He had in his pocket an envelope, well-worn now, addressed to him months ago in the same writing, and as he held the two side by side he knew Raby had written both. He quitted the garret hurriedly, and entered the room of a family of five who lived below him. "Mrs Pratt," said he to the ragged woman who sat nursing her baby in the corner, "did you see who Trimble had with him when he died?" "He's dead, then, sir"--these fellow-lodgers of Jeffreys called him "sir" in spite of his misery. "I knew that cough couldn't last. My Annie's begun with it: she'll go too. It's been hard enough to keep the children, but it will be harder to lose them!" she cried. Jeffreys went to the bed where the little consumptive girl lay in a restless sleep, breathing heavily. "Poor little Annie!" said he; "I did not know she was so ill." "How could you? Yes, I saw the lady come down--a pretty wee thing. She comes and goes here. Maybe when she hears of Annie she'll come to her." "Do you know her name?" "No. She's a lady, they say. I heard her singing upstairs to Trimble; it was a treat! So Trimble's dead. You'll be glad of some help, I expect? If you'll mind the children, Mr John, I'll go up and do the best we can for the poor fellow." And so Jeffreys, with the baby in his arms, sat beside the little invalid in that lonely room, while the mother, putting aside her own sorrows, went up and did a woman's service where it was most needed. Next day he had the garret to himself. That letter--how he treasured it!--changed life for him. He had expected, when Jonah's illness ended, to drift back once more into the bitterness of despair. But that was impossible now. He made no attempt to see the angel of whose visits to the alley he now and again heard. Indeed, whether he was in work or not, he left early and came back late on purpose to avoid a meeting. He had long been known by his neighbours only as John, so that there was no chance of her discovering who he was. Sometimes the memory of that October day in Regent's Park came up to haunt him and poison even the comfort of the little letter. Yet why should she not have forgotten him? and why should not Scarfe, the man with a character, be more to her than he, the man with none? Yet he tried bravely to banish all, save the one thought that it _was_ she who bade him hope and take courage. He worked well and patiently at the temporary manual labour on which he was employed, and when that came to an end he looked about resolutely for more. Meanwhile--do not smile, reader--he made an investment of capital! In other words, he spent threepence in pen, ink, paper, and a candle, and spent one night in his lonely garret writing. It was a letter, addressed to a stranger, on a public question. In other words, it was an article to a London paper on, "Life in a Slum, by One who Lives There." It was a quiet, unsensational paper, with some practical suggestions for the improvement of poor people's dwellings, and a few true stories of experiences in which the writer himself had taken a part. He dropped it doubtfully into the editor's box and tried to forget about it. He dared not look at the paper next day, and when two days passed and he heard nothing, he concluded that the bolt had missed fire. But it was not so. A week later, the postman entered Storr Alley--an unheard-of event--and left a letter. It contained a money order for ten shillings, and read:-- "The editor encloses ten shillings for the letter on Slum Life, contributed by Mr John to the paper of the 23rd. He can take two more on the same subject at the same terms, and suggests that Mr John should deal specially with--" And here the editor gave an outline of the topics on which the public would be most likely to desire information. With overflowing heart, and giving Raby the credit, he sat down and wrote the two articles. His first half-sovereign went in a deed of mercy. Little Annie lay dead in her bed the night it arrived. Jeffreys that morning, before he started to work, had watched the little spark of life flicker for the last time and go out. The mother, worn-out by her constant vigils, lay ill beside her dead child. The father, a drunkard, out of work, deserted the place, and the two other children, the baby, and the sister scarcely more than baby, wailed all day for cold and hunger. What could he do but devote the first-fruits of his pen to these companions in distress? The half-sovereign sufficed for the child's funeral, with a little over for the sick mother. For the rest, he took the baby to his own garret for a night or two, and tended it there as best he could. The two fresh letters to the paper in due time brought a sovereign; but at the same time a chilling notification to the effect that the editor did not need further contributions, and would let Mr John know if at any future time he required his services. It was the abrupt closing of one door of promise. Still Jeffreys, with hope big within him, did not sit and fret. Literary work might yet be had, and meanwhile bodily labour must be endured. Towards the beginning of December, any one taking up one of the London penny papers might have observed, had he been given to the study of such matters, three advertisements. Here they are in their proper order:-- "Should this meet the eye of John Jeffreys, late private secretary to a gentleman in Cumberland, he is earnestly requested to communicate with his friend and late employer." Readers of the agony column were getting tired of this advertisement. It had appeared once a week for the last six months, and was getting stale by this time. The next advertisement was more recent, but still a trifle dull:-- "Gerard Forrester. "If Gerard Forrester (son of the late Captain Forrester, of the-- Hussars) who was last heard of at Bolsover School, in October, 18--, where he met with a serious accident, should see this, he is requested to communicate with Messrs. Wilkins & Wilkins, Solicitors, Blank Street, W.C., from whom he will hear something to his advantage. Any person able to give satisfactory information leading to the discovery of the said Gerard Forrester, or, in the event of his death, producing evidence of his decease, will be liberally rewarded." The third advertisement, in another column, appeared now for the first time:-- "A young man, well educated, and a careful student of Bibliography, is anxious for literary work. Searches made and extracts copied.--Apply, J., 28a, Storr Alley, W.C." It would have puzzled any ordinary observer to detect in these three appeals anything to connect them together. Jeffreys, however, glancing down the columns of the borrowed paper for a sight of his own advertisement, started and turned pale as his eye fell first on his own name, then on Forrester's. It was like a conspiracy to bewilder and baffle him at the moment when hope seemed to be returning. He had convinced himself that his one chance was to break with every tie which bound him to his old life, and to start afresh from the lowest step of all. And here, at the outset, there met him two calls from that old life, both of which it was hard to resist. Mr Rimbolt, he decided to resist at all hazards. He still shuddered as he recalled the stiff rustle of a certain silk dress in Clarges Street, and preferred his present privations a hundredfold. Even the thought of Percy, and the library, and Mr Rimbolt's goodness, could not efface that one overpowering impression. The other advertisement perplexed and agitated him more. Who was this unknown person on whose behalf Messrs. Wilkins & Wilkins were seeking information respecting young Forrester? It might be Scarfe, or Mr Frampton, or possibly some unheard-of relative, interested in the disposal of the late gallant officer's effects. He could not assist the search. The little he knew was probably already known to the lawyers, yet it excited him wildly to think that some one besides himself was in search of the lad whose memory had haunted him for so many months, and whom, even in his most despairing moments, he had never quite given up for lost. True, he had long since ceased to believe that he was really to be found by searching. Everything combined to baffle search, almost to forbid it, and yet he had constantly lived in a vague expectation of finding or hearing of him some day accidentally and unawares. But this advertisement filled him with self-reproach. What right had he to do anything, to rest a day, till he had found this lost boy--lost by his fault, by his sin? No wonder he had not prospered. No wonder the bad name had haunted him and dragged him down! One thing was certain-- whether what he knew was known to others or not, it was his duty to aid now in this new search. So he wrote as follows to Messrs. Wilkins & Wilkins:-- "_Private and Confidential_. "The writer of this knew Gerard Forrester at Bolsover School two years ago, and was responsible almost wholly for the accident referred to. The writer left Bolsover in consequence, and has not seen Forrester since. In May of the following year he made inquiries at Grangerham, Forrester's native place, where he ascertained that the boy had been removed there from Bolsover and had remained for some time with his grandmother, Mrs Wilcox. Mrs Wilcox, however, was ordered to the South for her health, and died at Torquay. Forrester, who appears to have been a cripple, and unable to help himself, was then left in charge of his old nurse, who left Grangerham shortly afterwards, it is said, in order to take the boy to a hospital--where, no one could say. That is the last the writer heard. Messrs. W. & W. might do well to apply to the clergyman and Wesleyan minister at Grangerham, who may have some later news. The writer would be thankful to be of any service in helping to find one whom he has so terribly wronged; and any letter addressed `J., at Jones's Coffee-House, Drury Lane,' will find him. "It should be said that when Forrester was last seen, only faint hopes were held out as to his recovery, even as a cripple." An anxious time followed. It was hard to work as usual--harder still to wait. The idea of Forrester being after all found took strange possession of his mind, to the exclusion of all else. The prospect which had seemed to open before him appeared suddenly blocked; he could think of nothing ahead except that one possible meeting. So preoccupied was he, that his own advertisement for work was forgotten the day after it appeared; and when two days later he found a letter pushed under the door, his heart leaped to his mouth with the conviction that it could refer to nothing but the one object before him. It did not; it was a reply to his advertisement. "J-- is requested to call to-morrow, at 10 a.m., on Mr Trotter, 6, Porson Square, in reference to his advertisement for literary work." With some trepidation, and no particular expectations, Jeffreys presented himself at the appointed time, and found himself face to face with a testy little gentleman, with by no means large pretensions to literary authority. He took in the shabby-looking advertiser at a glance, and suited his tone accordingly. "So you're the chap, are you? You're the nice educated literary chap that wants a job, eh?" "I am." "What can you do? Write poetry?" "I never tried." "Write 'istory, or 'igh hart, and that sort of thing?" "I have not tried. I know mostly about bibliography." "Bibli--who? You'll turn your 'and to anything for a crust, I suppose. Do you ever do anything in the puff line?" Jeffreys admitted he had not. "'Cos I want a chap to crack up my `Polyglot Pickle' in proper literary style. None of your commonplace maunderings, but something smart and startling. What do you say? Can you do it or not?" Jeffreys heart sank low. "I'll try--" "Can you do it?" demanded the proud inventor. "Yes," said Jeffreys desperately. "All right," said Mr Trotter, greatly relieved. "I want a book of twenty pages. Write anything you like, only bring the pickles in on each page. You know the style. Twenty blood-curdling ballads, or Aesop's fables, or something the public's bound to read. Something racy, mind, and all ending in the pickle. It's a good thing, so you needn't be afraid of overdoing it. You shall have a bob a page, money down, or twenty-five bob for the lot if you let me have it this time to- morrow. Remember, nothing meek and mild. Lay it on thick. They're the best thing going, and got a good name. Polyglot, that's many tongues; everybody tastes 'em." Jeffreys, with a dismal sense of the humour of the situation, accepted his noble task meekly, and sat down in Mr Trotter's back room with a bottle of the pickles on the table before him. The reader shall be spared the rubbish he wrote. To this day he flares up angrily if you so much as mention the Polyglot Pickle to him. The public, who laughed next week over the ridiculous bathos of those twenty loud-sounding ballads, little guessed the misery and disgust they had cost their author. The one part of the whole business that was not odious was that in six hours Jeffreys had twenty-five shillings in his pocket; and to him twenty-five shillings meant a clear week and more in which to devote himself to the now all-absorbing task of seeking young Forrester. On his way back to Storr Alley that evening he called as usual at the coffee-house, and found a further letter awaiting him:-- "Messrs. Wilkins & Wilkins will be much obliged if the writer of the letter of the sixth inst. will favour them with a call on Wednesday forenoon, as he may be able to assist them materially in the search in which they are engaged. Messrs. W. & W. will treat an interview as confidential." CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. HIGH DUDGEON. Things had not been going well with Percy Rimbolt since we saw him last, six or eight months ago, just before Jeffreys' expulsion from the house in Clarges Street. Mrs Rimbolt had some reason to modify her self- congratulations on that occasion, when Percy and Raby, who, it will be remembered, had been out riding at the time, returned home. Percy returned in high spirits; his new horse had turned out a beauty, and the canter in the park had acted like a tonic. "Hullo, mother!" he said, as his parent came into the hall to meet him. "We've had a grand time, Raby and I. We saw the Prince of Wales and W.G. Grace, and the Queen, and everybody, and I gave Raby two hundred yards from the corner and ran her down before we were off Knightsbridge, and nearly got hauled up for furious riding. I say, I mean to make father get a horse for old Jeff, and we'll go out early in the mornings, when the Row's empty, and try handicaps, eh, Raby? Where's Jeff, I say?" and he ran whistling upstairs. His mother, with some premonitory misgivings followed him. "Where are you, Jeff?" she heard him shout. "I say, mother," he added, as Mrs Rimbolt approached, "where's Jeff? Is he out?" "He is," said Mrs Rimbolt solemnly. "I want to speak to you, Percy." "All right. But I say, when will he be in? He said he couldn't leave his work this afternoon. I want him to see Bendigo before he goes round to the stables." "You had better tell the groom he need not wait, and then please come to my room, Percy," said Mrs Rimbolt. Percy shouted down to Walker to send away the horse, and followed his mother into her boudoir. "Percy, my dear boy," began the lady, "I am sorry to say I have just had to perform a very unpleasant duty. You can hardly understand--" "What about--anything about Jeff?" interrupted the boy, jumping at the truth. "It is. It has been necessary, for everybody's sake, that he should leave here." "What!" thundered Percy, turning pale and clutching the back of his chair; "you've sent Jeff away--kicked him out?" "Come, Percy, don't be unreasonable. I--" "When did he go--how long ago?" exclaimed the boy, half frantic. "Percy, you really--" "How long ago?" "It is more than an hour since--" Percy waited to hear no more; he dashed down the stairs and shouted to Walker. "Did you see Jeffreys go? Which way did he go?" "I didn't see--" "Come and help me look for him, he's sure to be about. Tell Appleby, do you hear? Raby, I say," he exclaimed, as his cousin appeared in the hall, "Jeff's been kicked out an hour ago! I'm going to find him!" and the poor lad, with a heart almost bursting, flung open the door and rushed out into the street. Alas! it was a fool's errand, and he knew it. Still, he could not endure to do nothing. After two weary hours he gave it up, and returned home dispirited and furious. Walker and Appleby had taken much less time to appreciate the uselessness of the search, and had returned an hour ago from a perfunctory walk round one or two neighbouring streets. Our young Achilles, terrible in his wrath, would see no one, not even his mother, not even Raby. Once or twice that evening they heard the front door slam, and knew he once more was on the look-out. Mrs Rimbolt, alarmed at the storm which she had raised, already repented of her haste, and telegraphed to Mr Rimbolt to come to London. Raby, bewildered and miserable, shut herself up in her room and was seen by no one. It was a wretched night for everybody; and when next morning Mrs Rimbolt, sitting down to breakfast, was met with the news that neither Master Percy nor Miss Raby wanted breakfast, she began to feel that the affair was being overdone. When Mr Rimbolt arrived, though he concealed his feelings better, he was perhaps the most mortified of all at the wretched misadventure which during his absence had turned Jeffreys adrift beyond recall. He had known his secretary's secret, and had held it sacred even from his wife. And watching Jeffreys' brave struggle to live down his bad name, he had grown to respect and even admire him, and to feel a personal interest in the ultimate success of his effort. Now, a miserable accident, which, had he been at home, could have been prevented by a word, had wrecked the work and the hopes of years, and put beyond Mr Rimbolt's power all further chance of helping it on. About a week after Mr Rimbolt's return, when all but Percy were beginning to settle down again into a semblance of their old order of things, Raby knocked at her uncle's door and inquired if he was busy. She looked happier than he had seen her since his return. The reason was easy to guess. The post had brought her a letter from her father. "I thought you would like to see it," said she. "He has got leave at last, and expects to be home at the end of September. Will you read the letter?" added she, colouring; "there's something else in it I should like you to see." The letter was chiefly about the prospects of coming home. Towards the close Lieutenant-Colonel Atherton (for he had got promotion) wrote: "You ask me to tell you about poor Forrester and his family." "He had no wife alive, and when he died did not know what had become of his only son. The boy was at school in England--Bolsover School--and met with an accident, caused, it is said, by the spite of a schoolfellow, which nearly killed him, and wholly crippled him. He was taken home to his grandmother's, but after she died he disappeared, and poor Forrester had been unable to hear anything about him. It is a sad story. I promised Forrester when I got home I would do what I could to find the boy and take care of him. You will help, won't you?" Raby watched her uncle as he read the passage, and then asked,-- "I asked father to tell me something about the Forresters, uncle, because some one--it was Mr Scarfe--had told me that he believed Captain Forrester was the father of an old schoolfellow of his at Bolsover who had a bad accident." "Is that all he told you?" asked her uncle. "No," said Raby, flushing; "he told me that Mr Jeffreys had been the cause of the accident." "That was so," said Mr Rimbolt. "Sit down, child, and I'll tell you all about it." And her uncle told her what he had heard from Mr Frampton, and what Jeffreys had suffered in consequence; how he had struggled to atone for the past, and what hopes had been his as to the future. Raby's face glowed more and more as she listened. It was a different soldier's tale from what she was used to; but still it moved her pity and sympathy strangely. "It's a sad story, as your father says," concluded Mr Rimbolt; "but the sadness does not all belong to young Forrester." Raby's eyes sparkled. "No, indeed," said she; "it is like shipwreck within sight of the harbour." "We can only hope there may be some hand to save him even from these depths," said Mr Rimbolt; "for, from what I know of Jeffreys, he will find it hard now to keep his head above water. Of course, Raby, I have only told you this because you have heard the story from another point of view which does poor Jeffreys injustice." "I am so grateful to you," said the girl. Mr Rimbolt let her go without saying more. Even the man of books had eyes that could see; and Raby's face during this interview had told a tale of something more than casual sympathy. The season dragged on, and nothing occurred to mend matters at Clarges Street. Percy moped and could settle down to nothing. He spurned his books, he neglected his horse, and gave up the river entirely. It was vain to reason or expostulate with him, and after a couple of months his parents marked with anxiety that the boy was really ill. Yet nothing would induce him to quit London. Even his father's offer to take him abroad for a few weeks did not tempt him. Raby herself made the final appeal the day before they started. "Percy, dear, won't you come for my sake?" said she. "If I came for anybody I would for you," replied he, "but I can't." "But I had so looked forward to you seeing father." "I'll see him as soon as he gets to town." "It will spoil my pleasure so much," said she. "I shall be miserable thinking of you." "You're an awful brick, Raby; but don't bother about me. You'd all be ever so much more miserable if I came, and so should I." "But what good can it do?" pleaded his cousin. "I don't know--he might turn up. I might find him after all. If it hadn't been for your father coming, Raby--I'd have begged you to stay too. He'd be more likely to come if he knew _you_ were here." Raby flushed. Between Percy and his cousin there was no hypocrisy. "Oh, Percy," she said, "do you want to make me fifty times more miserable?" And she gave up further attempt to move him. The travellers were away a month, during which time Percy kept his lonely vigil at Clarges Street. As the reader knows, it was useless. Jeffreys was never near the place, and the lad, watching day after day, began slowly to lose hope. But that month's experience was not wholly wasted. Memories of bygone talks with his friend, of good advice given, and quiet example unheeded at the time, crowded in on Percy's memory now; adding to his sense of loss, certainly, but reminding him that there was something else to be done than mope and fret. What would Jeffreys have had him do? he often asked himself; and the answer was plain and direct--work. That had always been Jeffreys' cure for everything. That is what he would have done himself, and that is what Percy, chastened by his loss, made up his mind to now. He got out his old books and his tools, and doggedly took up the work where he had left it. It was uphill, cheerless work, but he was better for it, and the memory of his lost friend became none the less dear for the relief it brought him. Only one incident marked his solitary month at Clarges Street--that was a visit from Scarfe about a fortnight after the travellers had gone. Percy had a very shrewd guess, although he had never heard it in so many words, who was responsible for Jeffreys' disgrace and dismissal; and that being so, it is not to be wondered at that his welcome of the visitor was not very cordial. "Look here," said he, as Scarfe entered, and making no movement to return his greeting, "is it true you were the fellow who told mother about Jeff, and had him sent away from here?" "My dear Percy--" "I'm not your dear Percy! Did you tell mother that story about Jeffreys?" "Why, Percy, you don't mean to say--" "Shut up! You can Yes or No, can't you?" "I did my duty, and it's a mercy you're all rid of him!" said Scarfe, losing temper at being thus browbeaten by a boy of Percy's age. "Very well, you can go! You're a cad, and you're not wanted here!" said Percy. "You young prig!" began the visitor; but Percy stopped him. "Look here," said he, "if you want to fight, say so, and come on! If you don't, go! You're a cad!" Scarfe was staggered by this outbreak; he never suspected the boy had it in him. He tried to turn the matter off with a laugh. "Come, don't be a muff, Percy! You and I are old friends--" "We're not; we're enemies!" "You mean to say," said Scarfe, with a snarl, "you're going to throw me up for the sake of a--" "Don't say a word about Jeff!" said Percy, white-hot, and springing to his feet; "if you do I'll have you pitched neck and crop into the street! Hook it! No one asked you here, and you're not wanted!" "I came to see your mother," said Scarfe. "I can't congratulate you, Percy, on your hospitality, but I can hope you'll be better next time I come." Percy went out after him, and called down the staircase to Walker, "Walker, give Mr Scarfe a glass of wine and some grub before he goes." The taunt about hospitality had stung him, and this was how he relieved his conscience on that point. Scarfe was not the only visitor Percy had. The evening before the travellers were expected home Walker announced that a gentleman had called inquiring for Mr Rimbolt, but hearing he was from home, desired to speak with his son. Percy, ready to clutch at any straw of hope, and jumping at once to the conclusion that the only business on which any one could possibly call at the house was about Jeffreys, told Walker to show the gentleman up. He was a dark, handsome man, with a few streaks of grey in his hair, and a keen, cold look in his eye which Percy mistrusted. "We're old friends, I fancy," said he, nodding to the boy as he entered. "At least, I fancy I saw you sixteen or seventeen years ago." "I must have been jolly young then," said Percy. "You were--about a week. Your father and I were college friends. I gave him up as a deserter when he married, and might have cut his acquaintance altogether, only as he happened to marry my sister, I was bound to keep up appearances and come and inspect my nephew when he made his appearance." "You're my Uncle Halgrove, then? I thought you were dead." "I sympathise keenly with your disappointment. I am alive and well, and hoped to find my brother-in-law at home." "They'll be back to-morrow," said Percy. "Have you dined, my boy?" "No, not yet." "That's well; they can lay for two. I'll sleep here to-night." Percy scrutinised his uncle critically. "Look here, uncle," he said, rather nervously, "it may be all right, you know, and I'd be awfully sorry not to be civil. But I never saw you before, and didn't know you were alive. So I think you'd better perhaps stay at your hotel to-night and come to-morrow, when they all come home. Do you mind?" "Mind?" said Mr Halgrove. "I'm delighted if you are. You prefer solitude, so do I. Or perhaps you've been a naughty boy, and are left behind for your sins." "I've stayed behind because I didn't want to go," said Percy. "Well," said Mr Halgrove, "I am sure your relatives are the sufferers by your decision. By the way, one of the things I came to see your father about was to ask him to help me out of a money difficulty. I've just landed from America, and my remittances are not here to meet me. Consequently I am in the ridiculous position of not being able to pay for the luxury of an hotel. But I understand there are nice clean railway-arches at Victoria, and that crusts are frequently to be met with in the gutters if one keeps his eye open." Percy was perplexed. "Do you mean you're really hard up?" said he, "because if you really are, of course you'd better put up here." "But I may be a fraud, you know. I may rob the house and murder you in your bed," said his uncle, "and that would be a pity." "I'll take my chance of that," said Percy. And so it happened that the house in Clarges Street had a visitor on the last night of Percy's lonely month. The boy and his uncle began the evening with a great deal of suspicion and mutual aversion. But it wore off as the hours passed. Mr Halgrove had a fund of stories to tell, and the boy was a good listener; and when at last they adjourned to bed they were on friendly terms. Percy, however, took the precaution to take away the front-door key, so that the visitor could not abscond from the house during the night without his knowledge. The precaution was unnecessary. Mr Halgrove rang his bell for shaving water at ten next morning with the confidence of one who had lived in the house all his life. A few hours later the travellers arrived in London. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. HIDE AND SEEK. Percy was in considerable difficulty as to the ceremonies to be observed in welcoming his family home. For he had no notion of leaving the house in possession of his suspicious uncle while he went down to the station. Nor could he bear the idea of not being at the station to meet them. So he compromised matters by taking his complaisant relative with him, much to that gentleman's amusement. It relieved him considerably, when the train arrived, to see that his mother recognised the stranger, though not effusively, as her veritable brother. He was thus able to devote his whole attention to his other uncle, whom he found considerably more interesting. Colonel Atherton arrived in high spirits, like a schoolboy home for a holiday. He struck up an alliance with Percy at once, and insisted on taking him off to the apartments near Regent's Park which were to be his and Raby's home for the next few months. As he was saying good-bye to the Rimbolts, he caught sight for the first time of Mr Halgrove. "Why, bless me, is that you, Halgrove?" he said. "Why, I've worn mourning for you, my boy. This is a bit of sharp practice. Where did you spring from?" "Perhaps I'm a ghost, after all. So many people have told me lately I'm dead, that I begin to believe it." "Never fear. If you were a ghost we should be able to see through you-- that's more than anybody ever did with Halgrove, eh, Rimbolt?" "Halgrove is coming home with us," said Mr Rimbolt, "so when you and Raby come to-morrow we can talk over old times." "Who would have thought of him turning up?" said the colonel to his daughter as with Percy they drove off in their cab. "Why, I've not heard of him since that affair of poor Jeffreys, and--" "Jeffreys!" exclaimed Percy, with a suddenness that startled the gallant officer; "did you say Jeffreys?" "Yes, what about him? It was long before your time--a dozen or fourteen years ago." "Why, he couldn't have been more than eight then; what happened to him, uncle, I say?" The boy asked his question so eagerly and anxiously that it was evident it was not a case of idle curiosity. "You must be meaning the son; I'm talking about the father. Wait till we get home, my boy, and you shall hear." It required all Percy's patience to wait. The very mention of his friend's name had excited him. It never occurred to him there were hundreds of Jeffreys in the world, and that his uncle and he might be interested in quite different persons. For him there was but one Jeffreys in the universe, and he jumped at any straw of hope of finding him. The reader knows all Colonel Atherton was able to tell Percy and Raby-- for Raby was not an uninterested listener--of the story of Mr Halgrove's partner. Percy in turn told what he knew of his Jeffreys; and putting the two stories together, it seemed pretty clear it was a history of parent and son. Early next morning the colonel was at Clarges Street, seated in the study with his two old college friends. "Well," said he, "here's a case of we three meeting again with a vengeance. And what have you been up to, Halgrove, these twenty years? No good, I'll be bound." "I have at least managed to keep clear of matrimony," said Mr Halgrove, "which is more than either of you virtuous family men can say." "Ah, well," said the colonel, with a sigh, "that's not all misfortune-- witness my sweet daughter and Rimbolt's fine boy. What have you got to show against that?" "Nothing, I confess." "By the way, though, haven't you? The last I heard of you was in the papers; a record of a generous act on your part. You had adopted the son of an unfortunate partner of yours who had died. Is he still with you?" "No," said Mr Halgrove; "that turned out an unfortunate speculation in every way." "Did the boy bolt?" "Not exactly. I sent him to a first-rate school, where he distinguished himself in a way of his own by an act of homicide." "What?" exclaimed the colonel; and Mr Rimbolt suddenly became attentive. "Yes. He either quite or very nearly did for a young schoolfellow in a fit of the tantrums, and found it convenient to quit the place rather abruptly." "What was the name of the school?" asked Mr Rimbolt quietly. "Bolsover, in --shire." "Singular!" exclaimed the colonel. "I had a chum in India who had a boy at that very school." Here the speaker became aware of a sharp kick under the table and a significant look from Mr Rimbolt. The old soldier was used to obey the word of command at a moment's notice and pulled up now. "I should think a thing like that would be very bad for the school," said Mr Rimbolt quietly, and in an off-hand way. "Fatal," said Mr Halgrove. "I believe Bolsover went to the dogs after it." "And so you had--you had young--what was his name?" "Jeffreys." "Young Jeffreys on your hands?" "Scarcely. We parted company. As I told him, I never was particular, but a man must draw the line somewhere, and I drew it at manslaughter." "What became of him?" "Well, before I went abroad he was usher in a dame school in York. He may be there still, unless by this time all his pupils are devoured." "Very unpleasant business for you," said Mr Rimbolt. "And," asked the colonel, with a wink at his brother-in-law, "did he, like the prodigal, take his portion of goods with him? I mean what his father left him." Mr Halgrove for a moment raised his brows uncomfortably. "No," said he; "Benjamin Jeffreys was an eccentric man, and invested his money in eccentric securities. His son's money, like the lad himself, went to the dogs, and left me decidedly out of pocket by my term of guardianship. I really advise neither of you to indulge your philanthropy in adopting somebody else's sons; it doesn't pay." "Yours certainly was not a lucky experience," said Mr Rimbolt; "however, when you were last heard of, Fame reported that you could afford to drop a little." "_Fama volat_, and so does money. No one could repeat the libel now with truth. The fact is, this visit to an old college friend is a trifle interested. My journey to the West has turned out badly, and, greatly as I should like it, I could not offer to lend either of you fellows a hundred pounds at this present moment. So I hope you won't ask me." The talk here took a financial turn, and Mrs Rimbolt presently joining the party, she and her brother were left to themselves while Mr Rimbolt and the colonel took a short stroll. Mr Rimbolt took the opportunity of telling his brother-in-law what he knew, not only of Jeffreys but of young Forrester, and the colonel told him of his obligation to find if possible the child of his dead companion-in-arms. "It's a mixed-up business altogether," said he, "and from all I can judge something of a family matter. My little girl, Rimbolt, whom you've been so good to, seems to me more interested in this librarian of yours than she would like any one to suspect--eh?" "I have fancied so," said Mr Rimbolt, "sometimes." "Pleasant to come home and find everybody in the dumps about some person one has never seen. The sooner the rascal comes to light, the better for everybody and for my holiday. By the way, Rimbolt, that struck me as fishy about Jeffreys' money, didn't it you?" "It did. I had never heard anything about Halgrove having a partner." "I had. He went out of his mind and died by his own hand; but from what I knew of Halgrove then, I should say it was _he_ who had a weakness for eccentric speculations. However, the money's gone; so it's all the same for young Jeffreys." Raby found her life at Regent's Park very different from that either at Wildtree or Clarges Street. Colonel Atherton was a man who hated ceremony of any kind, and had a great idea of letting everybody do as they chose. Raby consequently found herself her own mistress in a way she had never experienced before. It was not altogether a delightful sensation; for though she loved her father's companionship and the care of looking after his wants, she often felt the time hang heavy on her hands. The colonel had a number of old friends to look up, and a great deal of business to do; and Raby, used to company of some sort, found his absences lonely. Percy was often at the house, but he in his present dismal mood was poor company. His one topic was Jeffreys; and that to Raby was the last topic on which she felt drawn to talk to any one. When, therefore, a neighbour suggested to her one day to give an hour or two a week to visiting the poor of the district, Raby hailed the proposal gladly. It was work she had been used to at Wildtree, and to which she had already had yearnings in London, though Mrs Rimbolt had opposed it. "Mind? Not a bit," said her father, when she broached the subject to him, "as long as you don't get small-pox or get into mischief. I should like to be a denizen of a slum myself, for the pleasure of getting a visit from you." And so the girl began her work of charity, spending generally an hour a day, under the direction of her friend, in some of the closely packed alleys near. As she made a point of being home always to welcome her father in the afternoon, her visits were generally paid early in the day, when the men would be away at work and when the chief claimants on her help and pity would be the poor women and children left behind, with sometimes a sick or crippled man unable to help himself. It was often sad, often depressing work. But the brave girl with a heart full of love faced it gladly, and felt herself the happier for it day by day. It was on an afternoon shortly after this new work had been begun that she was overtaken by a sudden October squall as she was hurrying back through Regent's Park towards home. The morning had been fine, and she had neither cloak nor umbrella. No cab was within sight; and there was nothing for it but to stand up under a tree till the rain stopped, or walk boldly through it. She was just debating this question with herself when she became aware of an umbrella over her, and a voice at her side saying,-- "This is most fortunate. Miss Atherton. Who would have thought of meeting you here?" It was Scarfe; and Raby would sooner have met any one else in the world. "Thank you," said she, "I shall be quite sheltered under this tree. Don't let me detain you." "Nonsense!" said he; "you know I am delighted to be detained so pleasantly. Won't you come farther under the trees?" "No, I must be home, thank you. I don't want to be late." But just then the rain came down in such a deluge that she had nothing for it but to give in and stand up for shelter. "It seems ages since we met," began Scarfe. Raby had a vivid enough recollection of that evening in the conservatory, but did not contradict him. "I called at Clarges Street last month, hoping to see you, but you were away." "Yes, we were abroad--all but Percy." "I saw Percy. Poor fellow, he did not seem himself at all. Miss Atherton, you must not blame me if I remind you of something we were talking about when I last saw you--" "Please don't, Mr Scarfe; I have no wish to refer to it." "But I must. Do you know, Raby, I have thought of no one but you ever since?" Raby said nothing, and wished the rain would stop. "Is it too much to ask whether, perhaps once or twice, you have thought of me?" Raby began to get angry. Was it not cowardly to get her here at a disadvantage and begin to talk to her about what she had no wish to hear? "Yes--I have thought once or twice of you," she said. "How good of you, Raby!" said he, trying to take her hand. "May I hope it was with something more than indifference--with love?" "Certainly not," said she, drawing back her hand, and, in spite of the rain, starting to walk. Bitterly crestfallen, he walked at her side and held his umbrella over her. "You are harsh with me," said he reproachfully. "I am sorry. You should not have provoked me. I asked you not to talk about it." "I am afraid, Miss Atherton," said he, "some one has been prejudicing you against me. Percy, perhaps, has been talking about me." Raby walked on without replying. "Percy is very angry with me for doing what it was only my duty to do as his friend--and yours. He misunderstands me, and, I fear, so do you." "I do not misunderstand you at all," said Raby boldly. "But I am afraid you do not thank me." "No. I have nothing to thank you for." "I did my duty, at any rate. I stated the truth, and nothing more, and should have been wrong to allow things to go on without at least trying, for the sake of those for whom I cared, and still care, Miss Atherton, to set them right. Do I understand you blame me for that?" "Mr Scarfe, you have done a cruel thing to one who never did you harm-- and I see nothing to admire in it." Scarfe sneered. "Jeffreys is fortunate in his champion. Perhaps, at least, Miss Atherton, you will do me the credit of remembering that on one occasion your hero owed his life to me. I hope that, too, was not cowardly or cruel." "If he had known the ruin you had in store for him, he would not have thanked you." Raby spoke with downcast eyes, and neither she nor Scarfe perceived the poor tramp on the path, who, as they brushed past him, glanced wistfully round at their faces. "He never thanked me," said Scarfe. They walked on some distance in silence. Then Scarfe said, "Miss Atherton, you are unfair to me now. You think I acted out of spite, instead of out of affection--for you." "It is a kind of affection I don't appreciate, Mr Scarfe; and as the rain has nearly stopped I need not trouble you any more. Thank you for the shelter, and good-bye." "You really mean that you reject me--that you do not care for me?" "I do not. I am sorry to say so--good-bye." And she left him there, bewildered certainly, but in no manner of doubt that she had done with him. She told her father all about it that evening, and was a good deal reassured by his hearty approval of her conduct. "The kindest thing you could have done, instead of letting him dangle after you indefinitely. Rough on him, perhaps; but that sort of fellow doesn't deserve much letting down." The reader has heard already how in the course of her visits of mercy Raby happened to find Jonah Trimble very near his end, and how she was able to cheer and lighten his dying hours. Little dreamed she, as she sat by the death-bed that morning, and wrote those few dying words, into whose hands her little letter would fall, or what a spell they would work on the life of him who received them. From the other neighbours she heard not a little about "John," and sometimes wished she might chance to see him. But he was away from early morning till late at night, and they never met. Mrs Pratt in the room below, and her little dying daughter, had many a tale of kindness and devotion to tell about him; and when presently the little life fled, she heard with grateful tears of his act of mercy to the poor overwrought mother, and thanked God for it. The time passed on, and one day early in December, when she returned home, she found her father in an unwonted state of excitement. "There's a clue, Raby, at last!" he said. "A clue, father--you mean about young Forrester?" "About both. It's the most mixed-up affair I was ever in. Who do you suppose has written in answer to our advertisement about Forrester?" "Has he replied himself?" asked Raby disingenuously; for she guessed the truth. "Not a bit of it. The letter's from Jeffreys. He doesn't sign his name, of course; but he writes to say that he was at Bolsover, and was responsible for the accident, and repeats what Rimbolt knows already about his trying to hear of them in his native place. There's nothing very fresh about Forrester; but it may lead to our finding Jeffreys." "Of course," said Raby, finding it hard to conceal her emotion, "he has written to the lawyers. Does he give an address, then?" "No--only a coffee-house in Drury Lane. He's evidently on his guard against a trap. He writes private and confidential; but you can see he is ready to do anything to find Forrester." "What shall you do?" "Well, Rimbolt says leave it to the lawyers. Of course we've no right to trap him, and Rimbolt thinks Wilkins & Wilkins had better not mention our names, but let him know they are acting for Forrester's executors. If he's not scared during the first visit or two, he may consent to see me, or Percy--and among us we may be able to help him out of his present condition, which, to judge by his letter, I should fancy is rather reduced. He has been asked to call at Wilkins' on Wednesday, and they have promised to treat the matter as confidential--and we shall just have to trust they will manage to talk him round." CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. A BRAND FROM THE BURNING! Little suspecting the interest which his movements were causing elsewhere, Jeffreys, on the appointed Wednesday, presented himself at Messrs. Wilkins & Wilkins' office. He was so much changed by eight months' misery and privation that no ordinary acquaintance would have recognised in the broken-down, haggard man who entered the office the once robust and stalwart librarian of Wildtree. Even Percy would have had to look at him twice to make sure. Mr Wilkins looked up curiously at his visitor. "Ah," said he, "you have called in reference to that advertisement about Gerard Forrester. Quite so. Let me see. I have your letter here, Mr --" "It is not necessary to know my name," said Jeffreys. "Just as you please. Of course, as you say you were at Bolsover School with Forrester, and were the cause of his accident, it is hardly worth while making a mystery of it." "I forgot that. My name is John Jeffreys." "Thank you. It is a very proper thing of you to offer to assist us in our search, and I shall be glad if in the end you should become entitled to the reward which has been offered." "I would not touch a farthing of it," said Jeffreys, with a scorn that astonished the lawyer. "Well, that's your affair. I can understand you have some remorse for what has occurred, and would be glad to help, reward or no reward." "I would give my life to find young Forrester. Has anything been heard of him?" "Not much, though we have been able to trace him rather farther than you did. We found a day or two ago a mention of the case of a lad suffering from the results of an accident such as he appears to have met with in one of the medical papers at the time. The case was reported as having been treated at Middlesex Hospital, and I find on inquiry there that in the December of that year Gerard Forrester was a patient under treatment for some months, and in the May following was discharged as incurable. That, you see, was more than eighteen months ago." Jeffreys felt his heart thump excitedly as he listened. It was little enough, but it seemed at least to bring him six months nearer to the object of his search. "After that," said Mr Wilkins, "we are unable to discover anything. The address entered against his name in the hospital books, which was probably that of his old nurse, cannot now be found, as the street has been pulled down a year ago, and no one recollects him. I saw the surgeon at the hospital, who remembered the case, and he explained to me that the boy when he left there might have lived a month or twenty years. In any case he would always have to lie on his back. It would be possible, he said, for him to use his hands--indeed, he believed during the last week or two of his stay in the hospital he had amused himself with drawing." "He was considered good at drawing at Bolsover," put in Jeffreys. "So he may possibly have been able to earn a living of some sort. The strange thing is that he does not appear to have written to any one. He might have communicated with his former head-master, or some of his grandmother's friends at Grangerham, but he has not. According to Colonel--to my client's account, he does not even appear to have written to his father, though it is possible a letter may have miscarried there. You have heard, no doubt, that his father died in action in Afghanistan in January?" "Yes, I heard that--very gallantly." "Yes; in fact, the boy would, I believe, if he could be found, be entitled to a pension, besides what little property his father left. The account of the action, as well as our advertisements, have been in the papers. If Gerard is alive, he is probably somewhere beyond the reach of the press, and for my own part I cannot see how he can be in any but destitute circumstances." This was all there was to say. But Mr Wilkins' task was not yet done. He had been instructed to ascertain, if possible, something of Jeffreys' present condition, and to sound him as to his willingness to see again some of the friends of his old life. "I am afraid," said he, "you too have had reverses, Mr Jeffreys." "Never mind me, please," replied he. "You are living near here?" "No." "You must excuse me if I take an interest in you--as a former schoolfellow of young Forrester's. You have come through much since then?" "Not more than I deserve," said Jeffreys, fidgeting. "My client, I think, would have been glad to see you; but as you made a point of this interview being confidential, I was not justified in asking him to be present." "Oh no. I don't want to see any one." "It would be a great help to my client, who is a stranger in London, if you, who know Forrester, would assist him." "Who is your client, may I ask?" "My client," said Mr Wilkins, resolved to make the venture, "is a Colonel Atherton, an old comrade of Captain Forrester, who has undertaken to try and find the boy and provide for him." Jeffreys started, and replied-- "No; I will do anything to help by myself, but I do not wish to meet him." "You know him, then?" "No, I have never seen him." "He would, I can promise, respect your confidence, Mr Jeffreys." "I know, but I cannot meet him or any one. I will do anything he wants about searching for Forrester--he cannot be more anxious about it than I am--but I have every reason for wishing to remain unknown." "You forget that it is hardly possible he can fail to know your name; and he has friends, some of whom I believe are deeply interested in your welfare." Jeffreys shuddered. "I can't say more," said he. "I will do all I can, but I want to see nobody but you." "I may, of course, report this interview to my client?" "Of course; I can't prevent that." "And I must tell him you definitely refuse to meet him." "Yes. I cannot see him." "Or tell him your address?" "No; you know where a letter would find me." "Well, will you call again--say this day week?" "Yes; to see you alone." Thus the unsatisfactory interview ended. Mr Wilkins was a man of honour, and felt he had no right to insist on Jeffreys opening communications with the colonel; still less had he the right as he might easily have done, to track his footsteps and discover his hiding-place. Jeffreys, alive to a sense of insecurity, evidently expected the possibility of some such friendly ruse, for he returned to his work by a long and circuitous course which would have baffled even the cleverest of detectives. He seriously debated with himself that night the desirability of vacating his garret at Storr Alley and seeking lodgings somewhere else. His old life seemed hemming him in; and like the wary hare, he felt the inclination to double on his pursuers and give them the slip. For, rightly or wrongly, he had convinced himself that the one calamity to be dreaded was his recapture by the friends in whose house his bad name had played him so evil a revenge. Yet how could he leave Storr Alley? Had he not ties there? Was it not worth worlds to him to hear now and then, on his return at night, some scrap of news of the ministering angel whose visits cheered the place in his absence? He shrank more than ever from a chance meeting; but was it not a pardonable self-indulgence to stay where he could hear and even speak of her? Nor was that his only tie now. Mrs Pratt, in the room below, had never recovered yet from the illness that had prostrated her at little Annie's death; and night by night Jeffreys had carried the two babies to his own attic in order to give her the rest she needed, and watch over them in their hours of cold and restlessness. He became an expert nurse. He washed and dressed those two small brethren--the eldest of whom was barely three--as deftly and gently as if he had been trained to the work. And he manipulated their frugal meals, and stowed them away in his bed, with all the art of a practised nurse. How could he desert them now? How indeed? That very night, as he sat writing, with the little pair sleeping fitfully on the bed, a head was put in at the door, and a voice said in a whisper, "Poor Mrs Pratt's gone, John." "What," he said, "is she dead?" "Yes--all of a sudden--the 'art done it--I know'd she was weak there. Poor dear--and her husband such a bad 'un too, and they do say she was be'ind with her rent." So the woman chattered on, and when at last she went, Jeffreys glanced at his two unconscious charges and went on writing. No, he could not leave Storr Alley. In the morning, as usual, he performed their little toilets, and announced to the elder that his mother was gone away, and they might stay upstairs. Whereat the little orphan was merry, and executed a caper on the bare floor. A fresh dilemma faced the newly made father. He must work if he and his family were to eat. The thirty shillings he had earned last week could not last for ever. Indeed, the neighbours all seemed to take it for granted he would see to Mrs Pratt's burial; and how could he do otherwise? That meant a decided pull on his small resources. For a day or two he might live on his capital, and after that-- He put off that uncomfortable speculation. The baby began loudly to demand its morning meal; and the three-year-old, having run through its mirth, began to whimper for its mother. Altogether Jeffreys had a busy time of it. So busy that when, about mid-day, Tim, who had been perched upon a box at the window to amuse himself at the peril of his neck by looking out into the court below, suddenly exclaimed--"There she is!" he bounded from his seat like one electrified, and for the first time realised that _she_ might come and find him! There was barely a chance of escape. She had already entered the house; and he became aware of the little flutter which usually pervaded the crowded tenement when she set foot in it. She had many families to visit, and each grudged her to the next. The women had yards of trouble to unroll to her sympathy; and the children besieged her for stories and songs. The sick lifted their heads as they heard her foot on the steps; and even the depraved and vicious and idle set their doors ajar to get a glimpse of her as she passed. What could he do? Wait and face her, and perhaps meet her look of scorn, or worse still, of forgiveness? or hide from her? He debated the question till he heard her enter the chamber of death below. Then there came over him a vision of her as he had last seen her that October afternoon with Scarfe in Regent's Park. With a groan he gathered together his papers, and bidding Tim mind the baby till he returned, seized his hat and hurried from the room. On the dark, narrow staircase he brushed against a dress which he knew must be hers. For a moment he was tempted to pause, if only for a look at her face; but she passed on, and was gone before he could turn. He went out miserably into the street, and waited within view of the entrance to the alley till she should come out. She was long before she appeared--he guessed how those two friendless little orphans would detain her. When she came her veil was down, and in the crowd on the pavement he lost sight of her in a moment. Yet he knew her, and all his resolution once more wavered, as he reflected that he was still within reach of her voice and her smile. He returned anxiously to the attic. The baby lay asleep on the bed, and Tim, perched on his window seat, was crooning over a little doll. There was a flower on the table; the scanty furniture of the room had been set in order, and his quick eye even noticed that a rent in Tim's frock which had caused him some concern in the morning had been neatly mended. Tim came and put the little doll into his hands. "She gave it me. Will she soon come again?" said the child. "Yes; she's sure to come again." "You ran away; you was afraid. I wasn't." In a strange turmoil of emotions Jeffreys resumed his writing. The flower in the cup beside him was only a half-withered aster, yet it seemed to him to perfume the room. After dark the neighbour put her head into the room. "Then you didn't see the lady?" said she. "No; I was out." "It's a pity. She's a angel, John. The way she sat with them poor childer would do you good to see. I told 'er you 'ad took them, and, bless you, 'er eyes filled with tears to think of a man doing it when you might let them go to the work'us. Not that I wouldn't do it, John, if I 'adn't six of my own and the mangle and not room to turn round. And Mrs Parkes was a-saying the childer would be welcome in 'er room, only the smells is that bad in 'er corner that there's no living in it except for seasoned bodies. There's my Polly, you know, John, is eight, and she would look after them now and again, when you're busy. She's a good child, is Polly, and can write on a slate beautiful." Jeffreys thanked her, and promised to come to an arrangement with Polly, and went on with his work. In due time the claims of hunger created a diversion, and he and his infants--one on each knee--partook of a comfortable repast of bread and milk. He had hard work to induce the baby, after it was over, to resume his slumbers. That young gentleman evidently had a vivid recollection of some one having walked about with him and sung him to sleep in the middle of the day, and he resented now being unceremoniously laid on his back and expected to slumber without persuasion. Jeffreys had to take him up finally and pace the room for an hour, and about ten o'clock sat down to his interrupted work. Till midnight he laboured on; then, cold and wearied, he put out his little candle and lay himself beside the children on the bed. He had scarcely done so when he became aware of a glare at the window, which brought him to his feet in an instant. It was a fire somewhere. His first panic that it might be in the house was quickly relieved. It was not even in Storr Alley, but in one of the courts adjoining. He looked down from his window. The alley was silent and empty. No one there, evidently, had yet had an alarm. Quickly putting on his boots, he hurried down, and made his way in the direction of the flames. From below they were still scarcely visible, and he concluded that the fire, wherever it was, must have broken out in a top storey. Driver's Court, which backed onto Storr Alley, with which it was connected at the far end by a narrow passage, was an unknown land to Jeffreys. The Jews in Storr's had no dealings with the Samaritans in Driver's; for Storr Alley, poor as it might be, prided itself on being decent and hard-working, whereas Driver's--you should have heard the stories told about it. It was a regular thieves' college. A stranger who chanced into Driver's with a watch-chain upon him, or a chink of money in his pocket, or even a good coat on his back, might as soon think of coming out by the way he had entered as of flying. There were ugly stories of murders and mysteries under those dark staircases, and even the police drew the line at Driver's Court, and gave it the go-by. Jeffreys had nothing to apprehend as he rushed down the passage. He had neither watch, chain, nor money, nor good coat. His footsteps echoing noisily in the midnight silence brought a few heads to their windows, and almost before he stood in the court there was the cry of "Fire!" Terrible anywhere, such a cry in a court like Driver's was terrible indeed. In a moment the narrow pavement swarmed with people, shouting, cursing, and screaming. Although even yet the flames scarcely appeared from below, a panic set in which it was hopeless either to remove or control. Chairs, tables, mattresses were flung, it seemed at random, from the windows. Mothers, not venturing out on the stairs, cried down to those below to catch their children. Drunken men, suddenly roused, reeled fighting and blaspheming into the court. Thieves plied their trade even on their panic-stricken neighbours, and fell to blows over the plunder. Still more terrible was the cry to others who remained within. Children, huddled into corners, heard that cry, and it glued them where they stood. The sick and the crippled heard it, and made one last effort to rise and escape. Even the aged and bedridden, deserted by all, when they heard it, lay shouting for some one to help. The flames, pent-up at first and reddening the sky sullenly through the smoke, suddenly freed themselves and shot up in a wild sheet above the court. The crowd below answered the outburst with a hideous chorus of shrieks and yells, and surged madly towards the doomed house. There was no gleam of pity or devotion in those lurid, upturned faces. To many of them it was a show, a spectacle; to others a terrible nightmare, to others a cruel freak of Providence, calling forth curses. The flames, spreading downwards, had already reached the second floor, when a window suddenly opened; and a woman with wild dishevelled hair, put out her head and screamed wildly. The crowd caught sight of her, and answered with something like a jeer. "It's Black Sal," some one shouted; "she's kotched it at last." "Why don't you jump?" shouted another. "Booh?" shouted a third. "Who skinned the cripple?" The woman gave a scared look up and down. The flames at that moment wrapped round the window, and, with a wild howl, the crowd saw her disappear into the room. Jeffreys all this time had been standing wedged in the crowd, a spectator of that hideous scene, and now a witness of this last tragedy. With a desperate effort he fought his way to the front, hitting right and left to make himself a passage. It was a minute before he got through. Then the crowd, realising as if by intuition his purpose, staggered back, and raised a howl as he dashed into the door of the half-consumed building. The first flight of steps was still intact, and he was up it in a moment; but as he dashed up the second the smoke whirled down in his face and half-choked him. He groped--for it was impossible to see--in search of the door; and guided partly by the roar of the crowd without, and partly by the shrieks within, he found the room. It was full of flame as he entered it, and to all appearance contained nothing else. The wretched woman, finding the stairs worse to face than the window, had rushed back there and flung herself desperately onto the heads of the crowd below. As he turned to save himself, Jeffreys, amid the roar of the flames, caught the sound of a shout from the corner of the room which he had imagined to be empty. Rushing towards it, he caught sight of a figure of a lad on the floor, blackened with smoke, and evidently unable to move. Yet he was not senseless, for he called, "I can't walk--help me." Jeffreys caught him in his arms in a moment, and only just in time. He had literally to wade through flame to the door; and when he reached the stairs outside, the dense smoke, reddening every instant, burst upon him well-nigh overwhelmingly. How he struggled down that awful flight with his burden he knew not. More than once he stumbled; and once a shower of fallen embers all but stunned him. It was all done in a minute. Those who watched without marvelled how soon he returned; and when they perceived that he bore in his arms a living creature, even Driver's Court swayed back to let him pass, and cheered him. Happily a cry of "Engines!" at the other end of the court diverted the crowd still further, and enabled him to stagger forward clear of danger. "Drop him, he's a dead 'un!" shouted some one who stopped a moment to peer into the face of the senseless lad. "I'll give you a shilling to help me with him out of this," said Jeffreys. It was a shilling well spent. Unaided he could never have done it, but with the sturdy gladiator to clear the way he was able at last to reach the comparative seclusion of Storr Alley. The offer of another shilling prevailed on the man to carry the lad to the attic. Then for the first time left to himself, he looked in the face of this unexpected guest. And as he did so the room seemed to swim round him. He forgot where he was or what he was. He looked down on an upturned face, but one not blackened with smoke. It was white and livid, with green grass for a background--and the roar he heard was no longer the distant yell of a panic-stricken mob, but boys' voices--voices shouting at himself! Yes, for the last time that vision rose before him. Then with a mighty effort he shook off the dream and looked once more in the face of the boy who lay there on the floor of the Storr Alley garret. And as he did so young Forrester slowly opened his eyes. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. COME BACK. Raby had come home with a strange story from Storr Alley that afternoon. She was not much given to romance, but to her there was something pathetic about this man "John" and his unceremonious adoption of those orphan children. She had not seen anything exactly like it, and it moved both her admiration and her curiosity. She had heard much about "John" from the neighbours, and all she had heard had been of the right sort. Jonah had talked bitterly of him now and then, but before he died he had acknowledged that John had been his only friend. Little Annie had never mentioned him without a smile brightening her face; and even those who had complaints to pour out about everybody all round could find nothing to say about him. Yet she seemed destined never to see him. The next day, at her usual time, Raby turned her steps to Storr Alley. Groups of people stood about in the court, and it was evident, since she was last there, something untoward had happened. A fireman's helmet at the other end of the alley, in the passage leading to Driver's Court, told its own tale; and if that was not enough, the smell of fire and the bundles of rags and broken furniture which blocked up the narrow pathway, were sufficient evidence. The exiles from Driver's stared hard at the young lady as she made her way through the crowd; but the people of Storr Alley treated her as a friend, and she had no lack of information as to the calamity of the preceding night. Raby paid several visits on her way up. Then, with some trepidation, she knocked at the door of the garret. There was no reply from within till she turned the handle, and said-- "May I come in?" Then a voice replied,-- "Yes, if you like," and she entered. It was a strange scene which met her eyes as she did so. A lad was stretched on the bed, awake, but, motionless, regarding with some anxiety a baby who slumbered, nestling close to his side. On the floor, curled up, with his face to the wall, lay a man sleeping heavily; while Tim, divided in his interest between the stranger on the bed and the visitor at the door, stood like a little watchdog suddenly put on his guard. "May I come in?" said Raby again timidly. "Here she is!" cried Tim, running to her; "John's asleep, and he,"-- pointing to the figure on the bed--"can't run about." "Correct, Timothy," said the youth referred to; "I can't--hullo!" This last exclamation was caused by his catching sight of Raby at the door. He had expected a lodger; but what was this apparition? "Please come in," said he, bewildered; "it's a shocking room to ask you into, and--Timothy, introduce me to your friend." Raby smiled; and how the crippled lad thought it brightened the room! "Tim and I are friends," said she, lifting up the child to give him a kiss. "I'm afraid you are very badly hurt. I heard of the fire as I came up." "No, I'm all right; I'm never very active. In fact, I can only move my hands and my head, as Timothy says. I can't run, I'm a cripple. I shouldn't be anything if it wasn't for Jeff. Hullo, Jeff! wake up, old man!" Raby started and turned pale as she raised her hand to prevent his waking the sleeper. "No, please, don't wake him; what did you say his name was?" "Jeffreys--John Jeffreys--commonly called Jeff. He hauled me out of the fire last night, and guessed as little at the time who I was as I guessed who he was. I can't believe it yet. It's like a--" "You haven't told me your name," said Raby faintly. "Gerard Forrester, at your service. Hullo, I say, are you ill? Hi! Jeff, wake up, old man; you're wanted." Raby had only time to sink on a chair and draw Tim to her when Jeffreys suddenly woke and rose to his feet. "What is it, Forrester, old fellow? anything wrong?" said he, springing to the bedside. "I don't know what's the matter--look behind you." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Why did she cry?" asked Tim presently, when she had gone. "I know; because of that ugly man," added he, pointing to Forrester. "Excuse me, young man, I have the reputation of being good-looking; that cannot have been the reason. But, Jeff, I'm all in a dream. Who is she? and how comes she to know you or me? And, as Timothy pertinently remarks, `Whence these tears?' Tell us all about it before the baby wakes." Jeffreys told him. The story was the history of his life since he had left Bolsover; and it took long to tell, for he passed over nothing. "Poor old man!" said Forrester, when it was done; "what a lot you have been through!" "Have I not deserved it? That day at Bolsover--" "Oh, for goodness' sake, don't go back to that. You know it was an accident, and what was not an accident was the fault of my own folly. That night I awoke and saw you standing at the door, I knew that you had already suffered as much as I had." "That was the last time I saw you. You forget I have still to hear what happened to you afterwards." "It's pretty easily told. But I say, Jeff, what did you say her name was?" "Raby Atherton," said Jeffreys, smiling. This was about the twentieth time the boy had broken in with some question about her. "She is the daughter of your guardian, Colonel Atherton, who was your father's comrade in Afghanistan. Some day she will tell you the story of a battle out there which will make you proud of being Captain Forrester's son. But I want to hear about you." "I was taken home to Grangerham, you know. My grandmother was ill at the time, and just starting South, so I was left in charge of my old nurse. She was an awful brick to me, was that old soul, and I don't believe I know yet all she did and put up with for me. "The doctors at Grangerham couldn't make anything of me. One said I'd be cutting about again in a few weeks, and another said I'd be buried in a few days. It's hard to decide when doctors disagree at that rate, and old Mary gave it up, and did what was the best thing--kept me quietly at home. Of course we thought that my grandmother had written to my father, but she hadn't, so he can't have heard for ages. We heard of my grandmother's death presently, and then made the pleasant discovery that she had died in debt, and that the furniture of the house was hired. That pulled Mary and me up short. She had saved a little, and I believe she spent every penny of that to get me up to London to a hospital. I didn't have a bad time of it there for a month or two. I was considered an interesting case, and had all sorts of distinguished fellows to come and look at me, and I lived like a fighting-cock all the time. I found, as long as I lay flat, and didn't get knocked about, I was really pretty comfortable, and what was more, I could use my hands. That was no end of a blessing. I had picked up a few ideas about drawing you know, at Bolsover, and found now that I could do pretty well at it. I believe some of my sketches at the Middlesex were thought well of. Mary came to see me nearly every day. I could see she was getting poorer and poorer, and when at last I was discharged, the little rooms she took me to were about as poor as they could be to be respectable. "I'd hardly been back a week, when one day after going out to try to sell some of my sketches, she came home ill and died quite suddenly. I was all up a tree then--no money, no friends, no legs. I wrote to Frampton, but he can't have got my letter. Then I got threatened with eviction, and all but left out in the street, when the person old Mary had sold my sketches to called round and ordered some more. I didn't see him, but a brute of a woman who lived in the house did, and was cute enough to see she could make a good thing out of me. So she took possession of me, and ever since then I've been a prisoner, cut off from the outside world as completely as if I had been in a dungeon, grinding out pictures by the dozen, and never seeing a farthing of what they fetched, except in the food which Black Sal provided to keep me alive. Now and then, in an amiable mood, she would get me a newspaper; and once I had to illustrate a cheap edition of Cook's _Voyages_, and of course had the book to go by. But she never let me write to anybody or see anybody, and mounted guard over me as jealously as if I had been a veritable goose that laid golden eggs. "You know the rest. We got turned out when they pulled down the old place, and took refuge in Driver's Alley, a nice select neighbourhood; and there you found me, old man." "Think of being near one another so long," said Jeffreys, "and never knowing it." "Ten to one that's exactly what my guardian's daughter is observing to herself at this moment. I say, Jeff, compared with Driver's Court, this is a palatial apartment, and you are a great improvement on Black Sal; but for ah that, don't you look forward to seeing a little civilisation--to eating with a fork, for instance, and hearing an `h' aspirated; and--oh, Jeff, it will be heavenly to wear a clean collar!" Jeffreys laughed. "Your two years' trouble haven't cast out the spirit of irreverence, youngster," said he. "It _is_ jolly to hear myself called youngster," said the boy, in a parenthesis; "it reminds me of the good old days." "Before Bolsover?" said Jeffreys sadly. "Look here! If you go back to that again, and pull any more of those long faces, Jeff, I'll be angry with you. Wasn't all that affair perhaps a blessing in the long run? It sent me to a school that's done me more good than Bolsover; and as for you--well, but for it you'd never have had that sweet visitor this morning." "Don't talk of that. That is one of the chief drawbacks to my going back into civilisation, as you call it." "A very nice drawback--if it's the only one--" "It's not--there's another." "What is that?" "My babies!" It was a strange, happy night, that last in the Storr Alley garret. Jeffreys had begged Raby to let them stay where they were in peace for that day; and she considerately kept their counsel till the morning. Then she told her father the strange story. "Two birds with one stone, and such a stone!" ejaculated the bewildered colonel. "Four birds, father--there are two babies as well." "Whew!" said the colonel, "what a holiday I am having!" "Poor father," said the girl, "it's too bad!" "Oh, well. The more the merrier. What's to be done now? We'd better charter a coach and four and a brass band and go and fetch them home in state. If they'd wait till to-morrow we would have up a triumphal arch too." "How frivolous you are, father! We must get them away with as little fuss as possible. I arranged with Mr Jeffreys that he would bring Mr Forrester here in a cab this morning." "And the babies?" "He will go back for them afterwards." "Well, as you like; but what about Percy and the Rimbolts?" "Percy was to go out of town to-day, you know, and will not be back till to-morrow. By that time we shall be able to find out what Mr Jeffreys would like best." "Oh, very good. We'll wait till his royal highness signifies his pleasure, and meanwhile our relatives and friends must be avoided-- that's what you mean." "No," said Raby, colouring; "but you know how easily frightened he is." The colonel laughed pleasantly. "All right, Raby; they shall be let down as easily as you like. Now shall I be in the way when they come, or shall I make myself scarce? And, by the way, I must go at once and get a perambulator, and feeding- bottles, and all that sort of thing. How many times a day am I to be sent out to take them walks?" "You're too silly for anything," said Raby dutifully. She was grateful to him for making things so easy, and for covering her own ill-disguised embarrassment by this adroit show of frivolity. There was no frivolity in the manner in which the gallant soldier welcomed his old comrade's son, when an hour later he entered the house, borne in the strong arms of his friend. A couch was ready for him, and everything was made as simple and homelike as possible. Jeffreys stayed long enough to help the boy into the civilised garments provided for him, and then quietly betook himself once more to Storr Alley. The curiosity roused by the departure of `Black Sal's Forrester' in a cab was redoubled when, late that afternoon, Jeffreys was seen walking out of the alley with the baby in one arm and Tim holding onto the other. He had considered it best to make no public announcement of his departure. If he had, he might have found it more difficult than it was to take the important step. As it was, he had to run a gauntlet of a score of inquisitive idlers, who were by no means satisfied with the assurance that he was going to give the children an airing. The general opinion seemed to be that he was about to take the children to the workhouse, and a good deal of odium was worked up in consequence. Some went so far as to say he was going to sell or drown the infants; and others, Driver's Alley refugees, promised him a warm reception if he returned without them! He neither returned with nor without them. They saw him no more. But it was given to the respectable inhabitants of a crescent near Regent's Park, about half an hour later, to witness the strange spectacle of a big young man, carrying a small baby in his arms and a big one on his shoulder--for Tim had turned restive on his hands-- walk solemnly along the footpath till he reached the door of Colonel Atherton's, where he rang. The colonel and Raby had a queer tea-party that evening. When the meal was ended, Jeffreys was called upon to put his infants to bed, and a wonderful experience to those small mortals was the warm bath and the feather-bed to which they were severally introduced. Jeffreys was thankful that the baby was restless, and gave him an excuse for remaining in retirement most of the evening. At length, however, silence reigned; and he had no further excuse. Entering the parlour, he perceived almost with a shock that Mr Rimbolt was there. He had called in accidentally, and had just been told the news. "My dear fellow," said he, as he took his old librarian's hand, "how we have longed for this day!" Raby and her father were occupied with Forrester, and Jeffreys and his old employer were left undisturbed. What they talked about I need not repeat. It chiefly had reference to Storr Alley and to Percy. "He is down at Watford seeing a friend to-night. We expect him back to- morrow morning. How happy he will be! By the way," added Mr Rimbolt, a moment afterwards, "now I remember, there is a train leaves Euston for Overstone at 12:30, half an hour after Percy's train comes in. How should you like to meet him, and run down with him for a week or two to Wildtree? He sadly wants a change, and my books sadly want looking after there. You will have the place to yourselves, but perhaps you won't mind that." Jeffreys flushed with pleasure at the proposal. It was the very programme he would have selected. But for a moment his face clouded, as he glanced towards Forrester. "I don't know whether I ought to leave him?" "He is with his guardian, you know, and could not be in better quarters." "Then--you know I have--that is, you know--there are two--babies." Raby, however, when the question was subsequently discussed, expressed herself fully equal to the care of these promising infants until a home could be found for them; and Forrester, for his part, declared that Jeffreys must and should go to Wildtree. "Can't you see I don't want you any more?" said he. "This sofa's so comfortable, I'm certain I shall sleep a fortnight straight away, and then my guardian and I have no end of business to talk over, haven't we, guardian? and you'd really be in the way." So it was settled. The whole party retired early to bed after their exciting day. Jeffreys slept for the last time between the babies, and could scarcely believe, when he awoke, that he was not still in Storr Alley. Still less could Tim when he awoke realise where he was. For the John he was accustomed to stood no longer in his weather-beaten, tattered garments, but in the respectable librarian's suit which he had left behind him at Clarges Street, and which now, by some mysterious agency, found itself transferred to his present room. Tim resented the change, and bellowed vehemently for the space of an hour, being joined at intervals by his younger brother, and egged on by the mocking laughter of young Forrester, who was enjoying the exhibition from the adjoining chamber. For once Jeffreys could do nothing with his disorderly infants, and was compelled finally to carry them down one under each arm, to the sitting- room, where Raby came to the rescue, and thus established her claim on their allegiance for a week or so to come. In a strange turmoil of feelings Jeffreys at mid-day walked to Euston. Mr Rimbolt was there with Percy's travelling bag and the tickets, but he did not remain till the train from Watford came in. "I may be running down to the North myself in about a fortnight," said he, as he bade good-bye; "we can leave business till then--good-bye." The train came in at last. Jeffreys could see the boy pacing in a nonchalant way down the platform, evidently expecting anything but this meeting. His eyes seemed by some strange perversity even to avoid the figure which stood waiting for him; nor was it till Jeffreys quietly stepped in front of him, and said "Percy," that they took him in and blazed forth a delighted recognition. "Jeff," he said, "you've come back--really?" "Yes, really." "To stay--for good?" "For good--old fellow." Percy heaved a sight of mighty content as he slipped his arm into that of his friend. And half an hour later the two were whizzing northwards on their way to Wildtree, with their troubles all behind them. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. A FRESH START. It is supposed to be the duty of every well-conducted author, after the curtain has fallen on the final tableau of his little drama, to lift it, or half lift it, for a momentary last glimpse at the principal actors. I am not quite sure whether this is not an encouragement to laziness on the part of the reader. In most respects he is as well able to picture the future of Jeffreys, and Raby, and Percy, and Tim as I am. I cannot show them to you in all the dignity of an honoured old age, because they are only a year or two older to-day than they were when Percy and Jeffreys took that little run together down to Cumberland. Nor can I show them to you, after the fashion of a fairy tale, "married and living happily ever afterwards," because when I met Jeffreys in the Strand the other day, he told me that although he had just been appointed to the control of a great public library in the North, it would still be some months, possibly a year, before he would be able to set up house on his own account. However, he seemed contented on the whole to wait a bit; and in a long talk we had as we walked up and down the Embankment I heard a good many scraps of information which made it possible to satisfy the reader on one or two points about which he may still be anxious. Jeffreys and Percy stayed at Wildtree for a month, and the time was one of the happiest both of them ever spent. They did nothing exciting. They read some Aristophanes, and added some new "dodge" to their wonderful automatic bookcase. They went up Wild Pike one bright winter's day and had a glorious view from the top. And on the ledge coming back they sat and rested awhile on a spot they both remembered well. Julius's grave was not forgotten when they reached the valley below; and the "J" upon the stone which marks the place to this day was their joint work for an hour that afternoon. As for the books, Jeffreys had sprung towards them on his first arrival as a father springs towards his long-lost family. They were sadly in want of dusting and arranging, as for a month or two no one had been near them. On the floor lay the parcels, just as they had arrived from the sale in Exeter; and altogether Jeffreys had work enough to keep him busy, not for one month only, but for several. He was not sorry to be busy. For amid all the happiness and comforts of his new return to life he had many cares on his mind. There was Forrester. He had imagined that if he could only find him, all would be right, the past would be cancelled and his bad name would never again trouble him. But as he thought of the helpless cripple, lying there unable to move without assistance, with all his prospects blighted and his very life a burden to him, he began to realise that the past was not cancelled, that he had a life's debt yet to pay, and a life's wrong for which, as far as possible, to make amends. But he bravely faced his duty. Forrester's letters, which came frequently, certainly did not much encourage melancholy reflections. "I'm in clover here," the boy wrote about a week after Jeffreys had gone North. "One would think I'd done something awfully fine. My guardian is a trump--and is ever tired of telling me about my father. Do you know I'm to have a pension from a grateful country? What wouldn't Black Sal say to get hold of me now? What I value quite as much is his sword, which I keep by my couch like a Knight Templar. So mind what you're up to when you come back. "Here am I writing about myself, when I know you are longing to hear about (turn over-leaf and hide your blushes)--the babies! They are tip- top. Timothy, ever since I got my sword, has shown great respect for me, and sits on the pillow while I sketch. By the way, do you recognise enclosed portrait? It's my first attempt at a face--rather a pleasant face too, eh? Oh, about the babies. The young 'un's cut a tooth. The whole house has been agitated in consequence, and the colonel is as proud as if he'd captured a province. So are we all. They are to go to an orphanage, I believe, in a week or two; but not till you come back and give your parental benediction. My guardian is going to write you all about it. He promises military openings for both when they arrive at the proper age; and Tim is practising already on a drum which _she_ has given him. "She, by the way, never mentions you, which is an excellent sign, but rather rough on me when I want to talk about you. She occasionally is drawn out to talk about a certain Mr John at Storr Alley; but, as you know, she only knew about him from hearsay. How's that boy who has got hold of you down in Cumberland? Are he and I to be friends or enemies? Tell him I'm game for either, and give him choice of weapons if the latter. But as long as he lets me see you now and then and treats you well, we may as well be friends. I'm flourishing and awfully in love. Stay away as long as you can; you're not wanted here. The lady of Clarges Street came to see me yesterday. She sent you really a kind message; so even in that quarter you may yet look for a friend. Good- bye--remember me to that chap. Tim sends his duty; and _she_ when I mentioned I was writing to you and asked if there was any message, did not hear what I said.--G.F." There was plenty in this bright letter to give comfort to Jeffreys. He rejoiced humbly in its affectionate tone towards himself. He treasured the portrait. He was gratified at the unenvious references to Percy, and he was relieved at the prospect before his babies. The part that referred to Raby left him less room for jubilation. Forrester evidently thought, as Percy did, that in that quarter everything was plain sailing. They neither of them realised the gulf between the two, and they neither of them knew of that miserable October afternoon in Regent's Park. Forrester's jocular reference to Raby's silence and reserve seemed to Jeffreys but a confirmation of what he believed to be the truth. He was to her what any other friend in distress might be, an object of sweet pity and solicitude. But that was all. He had a bad name, and much as she would brave for him to help him, she did not--how could she?--love him. At the end of a month Mr Rimbolt wrote to say he was coming down to Wildtree, and would be glad if Percy and Jeffreys would meet him with the carriage at Overstone. They did so, and found that he was not alone. Mr Halgrove stepped pleasantly out of the train at the same time and greeted his quondam ward with characteristic ease. "Ah, Jeffreys--here we are again. I'm always meeting you at odd places. How fresh everything looks after the rain!" "Mr Halgrove is my brother-in-law, you know, Jeffreys," said Mr Rimbolt, in response to his librarian's blank look of consternation. "I brought him down, as he wanted to see you and have a talk. If you two would like to walk," added he, "Percy and I will drive on, and have dinner ready by the time you arrive." "Good-hearted fellow, Rimbolt," said Mr Halgrove, as they started to walk, "he always was. That's Wild Pike, I suppose?" "Yes," said Jeffreys, greatly puzzled at this unexpected meeting. "Yes, Rimbolt's a good fellow; and doesn't mind telling bad fellows that they aren't. You'll smile, Jeffreys; but he has actually made me uncomfortable sometimes." "Really?" said Jeffreys, thinking it must have been some very remarkable effort which succeeded in accomplishing, that wonder. "Yes. I told him once casually about an unpleasant ward I once had, whom I rather disliked. I thought he would sympathise with me when I related how delicately I had got rid of him and sent him adrift when it did not suit me to keep him any longer. Would you believe it, Rimbolt wasn't at all sympathetic, but asked what had become of my ward's money! Do take warning, Jeffreys, and avoid the bad habit of asking inconvenient questions. You have no idea of the pain they may cause. Mr Rimbolt's question pained me excessively. Because my ward's money, like himself, had gone to the bad. That would not have been of much consequence, were it not that I was responsible for its going to the bad. It was most inconvenient altogether, I assure you. It made me feel as if I had behaved not quite well in the matter; and you know how depressing such a feeling would be. Still more inconvenient at the time when I had this talk with Rimbolt about six months ago, I had just come back from America with my finances in not at all a flourishing condition, so that if even I had been disposed to refund my ward, I could not have done it. Happily he was lost. It was an immense relief to me, I can assure you. "Two months ago my finances looked up. I had news that some of my Yankee speculations were turning out well, and I unexpectedly found myself a man of means again. Rimbolt, who certainly has the knack of making ill-timed suggestions, proposed that that would be a good opportunity for making good what properly belonged to my ward. I urged in vain that my ward was lost, and that the money properly belonged to me as a reward for the trouble I had had in the matter. He actually insisted that I should deposit with him, as trustee for my ward, the full amount of what belonged to him, with interest added to date, promising if by any unfortunate accident the fellow should be found, to see it came into his hands. One's obliged to humour Rimbolt, so I did what he wanted, and that's how it stands. If ever this unprofitable ward turns up, he'd better keep his eye on Rimbolt. "There, you see, Jeffreys, that's just a little anecdote to show you how easy it is, by being inconsiderate, for one person to make another uncomfortable. But now tell me how you like Cumberland. You must be quite a mountaineer by this time." Jeffreys admitted he was pretty good, and had the tact to suit his humour to that of his guardian, and not refer further to the lost ward or his money. Mr Halgrove stayed two days, and then departed for the Great West, where it is possible he may to-day carry a lighter heart about with him for his latest act of reparation. Before the trio at Wildtree returned to London, Jeffreys, greatly to Percy's terror, asked leave to go for two days to York. The boy seemed still not quite sure that he had got back his friend for good, and highly disapproved now of putting the temptation to "bolt again," as he called it, in his way. However, Jeffreys "entered into recognisances" to come back, and even offered to take Percy with him on his journey. The offer was not accepted, for Percy knew Jeffreys would sooner go alone. But it allayed the boy's uneasiness. Jeffreys had much trouble to discover Mrs Trimble. Galloway House was still an educational establishment, but its present conductor knew nothing of the lady whose "goodwill and connection" he had purchased so cheaply two years ago. Finally Jeffreys decided to call at Ash Cottage. The walk up that familiar lane recalled many a strange memory. The bank whereon he had sat that eventful early morning was unchanged, and had lost all traces of Jonah's excavations. The railway embankment he had half thought of helping to construct was already overgrown with grass, and thundered under the weight of trains every few minutes. Ash Cottage had not changed a plank or a tile since he last saw it. There were the same cracks in the wall of the shed, the same bushes on either side of the gate--nay, he was sure those wisps of hay clinging to the branches of the holly had been there two years ago. As he walked somewhat doubtfully towards the house--for he could hardly forget under what circumstances he had last seen Farmer Rosher--he heard a boy's shout behind him, and looking round, perceived Freddy and Teddy giving chase. "It _is_ Jeff!" shouted Freddy. "I knew him a mile away." "I saw him first. We knew you'd come back, Jeff; huzzah!" "That tricycle wants looking to awful bad. Our feet touch the ground on it now, Jeff." "Come on to the shed, I say, and put it right. _How_ brickish of you to come back, Jeff!" A long afternoon the happy Jeff spent over that intractable tricycle. It was past all repair; but no feat of engineering was ever applauded as were the one or two touches by which he contrived to make it stand upright and bear the weight of a boy. Before the work was over Farmer Rosher had joined them, well pleased at his boys' delight. "Thee's paid oop for thy sin, lad," said he. "I did thee and the lads more harm than I meant; but thee's a home here whenever thee likes, to make up for it; and come away and see the missus and have a drop of tea." From the farmer, who may have had good reason for knowing, Jeffreys learned that Mrs Trimble was comfortably quartered in an almshouse; and there, next morning--for there was do escaping from Ash Cottage that night--he found her, and soothed her with the news he had to tell of her poor prodigal. "Well, well," she said, "God is merciful; and He will reward you, John, as He had pity on the lad. And now will you be sure and take a mother's blessing to the sweet lady, and tell her if she ever wants to make an old woman happy, he has only to come here, and let me see her and kiss her for what she has done for me and mine?" That message he delivered a week later as he walked with Raby one afternoon in Regent's Park. It was not exactly a chance walk. They had both been up to the orphanage at Hampstead with the reluctant Tim and his brother, to leave them there in good motherly hands till the troubles of infancy should be safely passed. It was Tim who had insisted on having the escort of both his natural guardians on the occasion; and at such a time and on such an errand Tim's word was law. So they had gone all four in a cab, and now Raby and Jeffreys returned, and with a sense of bereavement, through the Park. "I will certainly go and see Mrs Trimble when next I am North," said Raby, "though I wish I deserved half her gratitude." "You deserve it all. You were an angel of light to that poor fellow." They walked on some way in silence. Then she said-- "Storr Alley is so different now, Mr Jeffreys. A family of seven is in your garret. You would hardly know the place." "It would be strange indeed if I did not, for I too saw light there." "How wonderful it all was!" said Raby. "When Jonah was telling me about his good protector, John, how little I dreamed it was you!" "And when you wrote this little letter," said he, showing her the precious scrap of paper, "how little you dreamed who would bless you for it!" "The blessing belonged, did it not, to Him Who has been leading us all, in mercy, in His own way?" Again they walked in silence. Was it accident, or what, which brought them, without knowing it, to a spot which to each was full of painful memories? Raby was the first to stop abruptly. "Let us go another way, Mr Jeffreys, if you don't mind. I don't like this avenue." "No more do I," said Jeffreys, who had stopped too. "Why?" she asked. "Need I say?" "Not if you don't like." "I have not walked down here since an afternoon last October. There was a sudden storm of rain--" "What! Were you here then?" "I was. You did not see me." "You saw me then. I was with Mr Scarfe." "Yes. You were--" "Miserable and angry," said she, her face kindling at the recollection. He darted one glance at her, as brief as that he had darted on the afternoon of which they spoke. Then, he had read nothing but despair for himself; now, though her eyes were downcast and her voice angry, he thought he read hope. "Suppose," said he, in a little while, "instead of running away from the path, we just walk down it together. Would you mind? Are you afraid?" "No," she said, smiling. And they walked on. THE END.