40961	----	Luna Escapade _by H. B. Fyfe_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Orbit volume 1 number 2, 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Sidenote: _SHE WAS JUST A CRAZY BRAT--OR WAS SHE?_] [Illustration] With over an hour to go before he needed to start braking for his landing on Luna, Pete Dudley sat at the controls of the rocket freighter and tried to think of anything else that needed checking after his spinning the ship. He drummed absently with the fingers of his right hand upon the buckle of the seat strap which restrained him from floating out of the padded acceleration seat. "Let's see, tail's right out there in front. I got the angle perfect. Guess everything's okay." He noticed his fingers drumming, and stopped. "Cut that out!" he told himself. "Get nervous now and Jack'll be sending some other vacuum on the next Mars run. There's Ericsson dead center in the screen, waiting for you to plop down beside the domes. You couldn't miss a crater that size if you tried." He leaned back and stared speculatively at the curving tip of the Lunar Rockies that ended in one of the largest craters on the far side of Luna. His eyes squinted slightly and there was a crease between them, as if he spent much time peering into instruments. There were deeper lines beside his mouth, but the thin lips and pointed chin neutralized that evidence of frequent smiling. "Are we nearly there?" Dudley's brown eyes opened so wide that the whites gleamed in the dim light from his instruments. Then he shut them tightly and shook his head quickly. He had thought he heard a woman's voice, and of course he couldn't have. Freight rockets were checked out of Terran spaceports with only a pilot aboard. A lonely job for a man, but it was really only a way of keeping in practice. He made six round trips to Luna a year, but the big one was the three-month kick to Mars. Then he smelled the perfume, so out of place in the machine-crowded compartment. He turned around slowly. She stood with one hand gripping the lead of a computing machine to keep her feet on the deck. Dudley stared her up and down two or three times before he realized his mouth hung open. Slim and about five-feet-four, she looked like a nice little girl making her first disastrous experiments with adult make-up. The slack suit of deep blue, revealing a soft white blouse at the neck of the jacket, was in the best of taste, but her heavy application of lipstick was crude. _And her hair isn't naturally ash-blonde_, Dudley thought. _Yet she looks like such a kid. Not pretty, but she might be in a few years._ "What are you doing here?" he demanded harshly. For a second, her eyes were scared. Then the expression was supplanted by a hard, make-believe confidence, leaving him merely with a fading sense of shame at his tone. "Same as you," she said boldly. "Going to Luna." Dudley snorted. "Then relax," he growled, "because I can't stop you now. Where the devil did you spend the last thirty-six hours?" She tried a grin. "In the little room where the things are that pump the air. I sneaked in the galley once, when you were asleep. Did you miss anything?" "No," he admitted, thinking back. "See? I'm not enough trouble to be noticed!" Dudley eyed her sourly. There was trouble behind this somewhere, he was willing to bet, or else why had she stowed away? Running from a family fight? When the port checkers at Ericsson saw her--! "How old are you, kid?" he asked. "Twenty-one." The answer was too pat and quickly given. Even the girl seemed to realize that, and she continued talking. "My name's Kathi Foster. You're the next Mars pilot, according to the schedule, aren't you?" "What about it?" She let go of the cable and pushed her weightless body across the control room to his chair. "What's it like on Mars?" she asked breathlessly. _What does she expect me to tell her?_ Dudley wondered cynically. _That the whole population of the colony is only about four thousand? That they still live mostly on hope, dreams, and regular rocket service? That every one of them represents such a fantastic transportation expense that the Commission only sends top-notch people?_ "It's pretty tough," he said. She hesitated over his unhelpful reply, then plunged ahead. "How about taking me along to see for myself?" Dudley smiled with one corner of his mouth. "You're not going anywhere except back to Terra on the next rocket," he predicted flatly. "And I hope your father still has enough hair on his head to own a hair-brush!" "My father is dead." "Then your--." He paused as she shook her head. "Well, don't you have any family? Jobs on Luna are ... limited. The settlements just aren't very big. You're better off down home." Kathi's half-defiant, half-wheedling mask cracked. Her over-painted lips twitched. "What do you know about where I'm better off? If you knew the kind of family I have--." "Oh, calm down!" grunted Dudley, somewhat discomforted by the sight of tears spilling from her blue eyes. "Things are never as bad as you think when you're just a ... when you're young. When we land, we can say you got left aboard by mistake. They'll just send you back without any trouble." "Like hell they will! I won't go!" Dudley stared hard at her, until she dropped her gaze. "You don't understand," she said more quietly. "I ... my family has been kicking me around the law courts all my life just because my grandfather left me his money. They're all trying to get their hands on it, or on me to back up their claims. Do you realize I'm eight--I'm twenty-one and I never lived a happy day in my life? I'd rather _die_ than go back!" "Yeah, sure," said Dudley. "What did you really do to make you so scared of going back? Smack up grandpop's helicopter, maybe, or flunk out of school?" "No, I got sick and tired of being shoved around. I wanted to get away someplace where I could be myself." "Why didn't you buy a ticket on a passenger rocket, if you had such an urge to visit Luna?" "My aunts and uncles and cousins have all my money tied up in suits." He leaned back by pushing the edge of the control desk. "Pretty fast with the answers, aren't you?" he grinned. "I wonder what you'll think up for the spaceport police when _they_ ask you?" "You don't believe--," she began. He shook his head and to avoid further argument he picked up his sliderule, muttering something about checking his landing curve. Actually, he was not as convinced as he pretended that her story was all lies. _But what the hell?_ he thought. _I have my own troubles without worrying because some blonde little spiral thinks she can go dramatic over a family spat. She'd better learn that life is full of give and take._ "You better get attached to something around here," he warned her when the time came for serious deceleration. "I ... I could go back where I was," she stammered. He suddenly realized that for the past hour she had silently accepted his ignoring her. She asked now, "What happens next?" "We cut our speed and come down on the tail as near to the domes of the Ericsson settlement as possible without taking too much of a chance. Then I secure everything for the towing." "Towing? I'm sorry; I never read much about the moon rockets." "Natural enough," Dudley retorted dryly. "Anyway, they send out big cranes to lower the rocket to horizontal so they can tow it on wheels under one of the loading domes. Handling cargo goes a lot faster and safer that way. Most of the town itself is underground." He began warming up his tele-screen prior to asking the spaceport for observation of his approach. Kathi grabbed his elbow. "Of course I'm going to talk with them," he answered her startled question. "Can they see me here behind you?" "I guess so. Maybe not too clear, but they'll see somebody's with me. What's the difference? It'll just save them a shock later." "Why should they see me at all? I can hide till after you leave the ship, and--." "Fat chance!" grunted Dudley. "Forget it." "Please, Dudley! I--I don't want to get you in any trouble, for one thing. At least, let me get out of sight now. Maybe you'll change your mind before we land." He looked at her, and the anxiety seemed real enough. Knowing he was only letting her postpone the unpleasantness but reluctant to make her face it, he shrugged. "All right, then! Go somewhere and wipe that stuff off your face. But stop dreaming!" He waited until she had disappeared into one or another of the tiny compartments behind the control room, then sent out his call to the Lunar settlement. The problem did not affect his landing; in fact, he did better than usual. His stubby but deft fingers lacked their ordinary tendency to tighten up, now that part of his mind was rehearsing the best way to explain the presence of an unauthorized passenger. In the end, when he had the rocket parked neatly on the extremities of its fins less than a quarter of a mile from one of the port domes, he had not yet made up his mind. "Nice landing, Pete," the ground observer told him. "Buy you a drink later?" "Uh ... yeah, sure!" Dudley answered. "Say, is Jack Fisher anywhere around?" "Jack? No, I guess he's gone bottom level. We're having 'night' just now, you know. Why? What do you want a cop for?" Suddenly, it was too difficult. _If she could hide as long as she did, she could have done it all the way_, he told himself. "Oh, don't wake him up if he's asleep," he said hastily. "I just thought I'd have dinner with him sometime before I leave." He waited sullenly while the great self-propelled machines glided out over the smooth floor of the crater toward the ship, despising himself for giving in. _Well, I just won't know anything about her_, he decided. _Let her have her little fling on Luna! It won't last long._ He closed the key that would guard against accidental activation of the controls and, enjoying the ability to walk even at one-sixth his normal weight, went about securing loose objects. When the space-suited figures outside signaled, he was ready for the tilt. Once under the dome, he strode out through the airlock as if innocent of any thought but getting breakfast. He exchanged greetings with some of the tow crew, turned over his manifesto to the yawning checker who met him, and headed for the entrance of the tunnel to the main part of the settlement. Only when he had chosen a monorail car and started off along the tunnel toward the underground city a mile away did he let himself wonder about Kathi Foster. "Her problem now," he muttered, but he felt a little sorry for her despite his view that she needed to grow up. Later in the "day," he reported to transportation headquarters. "Hiya, Pete!" grinned Les Snowdon, chief of the section. "All set for the Ruby Planet?" Dudley grimaced. "I suppose so," he said. "Left my locker mostly packed, except for what I'll need for a couple of days. When do we go out and who's the crew?" "Jarkowski, Campiglia, and Wells. You have three days to make merry and one to sober up." "I sober fast," said Dudley. Snowdon shook his head in mock admiration. "Nevertheless," he said, "the physical will be on the fourth morning from now. Don't get in any fights over on Level C--or if you do, let the girl do the punching for you! A broken finger, my boy, and you'll ruin the whole Martian schedule!" "Ah, go on!" Dudley grinned, moving toward the door. "They can always stick you in there, and make you earn your pay again." "They're still paying me for the things I did in the old days," retorted Snowdon. "Until I get caught up, I'm satisfied to keep a little gravity under my butt. Oh ... by the way, your pal Jack Fisher left a call for you. Something about dinner tonight." Dudley thanked him and went off to contact Fisher. Then he returned to the pilots' quarters for a shower and strolled along the corridors of the underground city to a lunch-room. Food and water were rationed on Luna, but not nearly as tightly as they would be for him during the next three months. That night, he joined Fisher and his wife for dinner at The View, Ericsson's chief center of escape from the drabness of Lunar life. It was the only restaurant, according to the boast of its staff, where one could actually dine under the stars. "Sometimes I wish that dome wasn't so transparent," said Fisher. "Sit down, the girls will be back in a minute." Dudley eyed him affectionately. Fisher was head of the settlement's small police force, but managed to look more like the proprietor of one of the several bars that flourished in the levels of the city just under the restaurant. He was heavy enough to look less than his six feet, and his face was as square as the rest of him. Dark hair retreated reluctantly from his forehead, and the blue eyes set peering above his pudgy cheeks were shrewd. "Girls?" asked Dudley. "We brought along a new arrival to keep you company," said Fisher. "She works in one of the film libraries or something like that." [Illustration] _Which means that's as good an excuse as any for having her at Ericsson_, thought Dudley. _Anyway, I'm glad Jack is the sort to be realistic about things like bars and other ... recreation. There'd be more guys turning a little variable from too much time in space without some outlet._ "Here she comes with Myra," said his host. "Name's Eileen." Dudley smiled at Mrs. Fisher and was introduced to the red-haired girl with her. Eileen eyed him speculatively, then donned her best air of friendliness. The evening passed rapidly. For the next few days, besides seeing the Fishers and looking up the men who were to be his crew, Dudley spent a lot of time with Eileen. There seemed to be little difficulty about her getting time off from whatever her official duties were. She showed him all the bars and movie theatres and other amusements that the underground city could boast, and Dudley made the most of them in spite of his recent visit to Terra. On the Mars-bound rocket, they would be lucky, if allowed one deck of cards and half a dozen books for the entertainment of the four of them. It was on the "evening" of his third day that the specter haunting the back of his mind pushed forward to confront him. He had listened for gossip, but there had been no word of the discovery of an unauthorized arrival. Then, as he was taking Eileen to her underground apartment, he heard his name called. There she was, with an escort of three young men he guessed to be operators of the machinery that still drilled out new corridors in the rock around the city. Somehow she had exchanged the black slack suit for a bright red dress that was even more daring than Eileen's. In the regulated temperature, clothing was generally light, but Dudley's first thought was that this was overdoing a good thing. "May I have a word with you, Dudley?" Kathi asked, coming across the corridor while her young men waited with shifting feet and displeased looks. Dudley glanced helplessly at Eileen, wondering about an introduction. He had never bothered to learn her last name, and he had no idea of what name Kathi was using. The redhead had pity on him. "My door's only a few yards down," she said. "I'll wait." She swept Kathi with a glance of amused confidence and walked away. It seemed to Dudley that she made sure the three young men followed her with their eyes; but then he was kicking off for Mars within twenty-four hours, so he could hardly object to that. "Have you changed your mind?" demanded Kathi with a fierce eagerness. "Not so loud!" hushed Dudley. "About what? And how did you get that rig?" Had he been less dismayed at her presence, he might have remarked that the tight dress only emphasized her immaturity, but she gave him no time to say more. "About Mars, Dudley. Can't you take me? I'm afraid those illegitimate blood-suckers are going to send after me. They could sniff out which way a nickel rolled in a coal-bin." "Aren't you just a shade young for that kind of talk?" "I guess I'm a little frightened," she admitted. "You frighten me, too," he retorted. "How are you ... I mean, what do you--?" She tossed her blonde hair. "There are ways to get along here, I found out. I didn't get arrested this time, did I? So why can't you take a chance with me to Mars?" "Take an eclipse on that," said Dudley with a flat sweep of his hand. "It's just out of the question. For one thing, there are four of us going, and you can't hide for the whole trip without _somebody_ catching on." "All right," she said quietly. "Why not?" "What do you mean, 'Why not?'" "I'm willing to earn my passage. What if there _are_ four of you?" For a long moment, Dudley discovered things about himself, with the sudden realization that the idea appealed to some suppressed part of his mind. He had never kidded himself about being a saint. The thing had possibilities. _Maybe one of the others can be talked into restraint into her._ He snapped out of it. "Don't be a little fool!" he grated. "If you want my advice, you'll--." "Well, I _don't_ want your goddam advice! If you're too yellow to try it, I'll find somebody else. There'll be another rocket after yours, you know. Maybe they'll have a _man_ on it!" He felt his face go white and then flush as he stared at her. He did not know what to say. She looked like a child, but the outburst was more than a mere tantrum. _Sounds as if she's never been crossed before_, he thought. _I ought to haul off and slap a little self-restraint into her._ Instead, he beckoned to the three men, who had been edging closer with aggrieved expressions. "How about taking your girl friend along?" he said flatly. One of them took her by the elbow and tried to murmur something in her ear, but Kathi shook him off. "If you are afraid for your license, Dudley, I'll say I hid without your knowing it. I'll say one of the others let me in. Please, Dudley. I'm sorry I talked to you like that." She was making a fool of him, and of herself, he decided. And in another minute, she would spill the whole thing, the way she was sounding off. And her friends were beginning to look hostile as it was. "What's the trouble?" asked one of them. "Nothing that won't clear up if you pour a couple of drinks into her," said Dudley disgustedly. He walked away, and they held her from following. "_Dudley!_" she yelled after him. "They'll send me back! Please, Dudley. I won't go. You remember what I said about going back--." Her voice was getting too shrill. Someone in the group must have put his hand over her mouth, for when Dudley looked back, they were rounding a corner of the corridor more or less silently. Eileen waited in the half-open door, watching him quizzically. "Friend of yours?" she drawled. "After a fashion," admitted Dudley, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. "Spoiled brat!" He fumbled in a pocket of his jacket, and withdrew a small package. "Here's the bracelet that matches that necklace," he said. "I knew I had it in my locker somewhere." Her thanks were very adequate. "Aren't you coming in?" Eileen asked after the pause. "No ... I don't ... I have to get a good night's sleep, you know. We kick off tomorrow." She pursed her lips in a small pout, but shrugged. "Then look me up when you get back, Pete." "Yeah. Sure." He kissed her quickly and walked away, drumming the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. Except for the tenseness of blasting off and landing, the round trip to Mars was as boring as he expected. Campiglia won too many chess games at one move per watch, and the deck of cards wore out. For a few days, Wells had a slightly infected finger after cutting himself, but it was a small crisis. The layover on Mars was short, and the thrill was no longer new. Dudley was glad to step out of the big rocket on Luna. They had come in during the sleeping period at Ericsson, so the four of them had gone to their quarters for a few hours of sleep after the first babble of welcome from those on duty when they landed. Dudley was awakened by Jack Fisher. "So early?" he grunted, squinting at his watch. "What brings you around?" Fisher settled his bulk in the only chair of the bedroom that was to be Dudley's until his next Terra-bound rocket. "Liable to be busy today," he said easily, "so I thought I'd have breakfast with you." "Fine!" said Dudley. "Wait'll I shave and I'll be with you." When he returned from the bathroom, he thought that he had perfect control of his features. There might not be anything wrong, but it seemed odd that Jack should be around so soon. He wondered if the Kathi Foster affair was in the background. They went up a few levels to a minor eating place and had scrambled eggs that almost tasted natural. Over the coffee, Fisher opened up. "Had a little excitement while you were gone," he said. "Yeah? What?" Fisher let him wait while he carefully unwrapped the half-smoked remains of a cigar. Tobacco in any form was strictly rationed in all Lunar settlements. "Ever hear of old Robert Forgeron?" he asked. "The one they used to call 'Robber' Forgeron?" "That's right. He had so many patents on airlock mechanisms and space-suit gadgets and rocket control instruments that he made the goddamnedest fortune ever heard of out of space exploration. Died a few years ago." Dudley maintained a puzzled silence. "Seems the old man had strong ideas about that fortune," continued Fisher. "Left the bulk of it to his only granddaughter." "That must have made headlines," Dudley commented. "Sure did." Fisher had the cigar going, now, and he puffed economically upon it. "Especially when she ran away from home." "Oh?" Dudley felt it coming. "Where to?" "Here!" Fisher held his cigar between thumb and forefinger and examined it fondly. "Said her name was Kathi Foster instead of Kathi Forgeron. After they got around to guessing she was on Luna, and sent descriptions, we picked her up, of course. Shortly after you kicked off for Mars, in fact." Dudley was silent. The other's shrewd little eyes glinted bluely at him through the cigar smoke. "How about it, Pete? I've been trying to figure how she got here. If it was you, you needn't worry about the regulations. There was some sort of litigation going on, and all kinds of relatives came boiling up here to get her. All the hullabaloo is over by now." Dudley took a deep breath, and told his side of the story. Fisher listened quietly, nodding occasionally with the satisfaction of one who had guessed the answer. "So you see how it was, Jack. I didn't really believe the kid's story. And she was so wild about it!" Fisher put out his cigar with loving care. "Got to save the rest of this for dinner," he said. "Yes, she was wild, in a way. You should hear--well, that's in the files. Before we were sure who she was, Snowdon put her on as a secretary in his section." "She didn't look to me like a typist," objected Dudley. "Oh, she wasn't," said Fisher, without elaborating. "I suppose if she _was_ a little nuts, she was just a victim of the times. If it hadn't been for the sudden plunge into space, old Forgeron wouldn't have made such a pile of quick money. Then his granddaughter might have grown up in a normal home, instead of feeling she was just a target. If she'd been born a generation earlier or later, she might have been okay." Dudley thought of the girl's pleading, her frenzy to escape her environment. "So I suppose they dragged her back," he said. "Which loving relative won custody of the money?" "That's still going on," Fisher told him. "It's tougher than ever, I hear, because she didn't go down with them. She talked somebody into letting her have a space-suit and walked out to the other side of the ringwall. All the way to the foothills on the other side." Dudley stared at him in mounting horror. Fisher seemed undisturbed, but the pilot knew his friend better than that. It could only mean that the other had had three months to become accustomed to the idea. He was tenderly tucking away the stub of his cigar. "Wasn't so bad, I guess," he answered Dudley's unspoken question. "She took a pill and sat down. Couple of rock-tappers looking for ore found her. Frozen stiff, of course, when her batteries ran down." Dudley planted his elbows on the table and leaned his head in his hands. "I should have taken her to Mars!" he groaned. "She tried that on you, too?" Fisher was unsurprised. "No, Pete, it wouldn't have done any good. Would've lost you your job, probably. Like I said, she was born the wrong time. They won't have room for the likes of her on Mars for a good many years yet." "So they hauled her back to Terra, I suppose." "Oh, no. The relatives are fighting that out, too. So, until the judges get their injunctions shuffled and dealt, little Kathi is sitting out there viewing the Rockies and the stars." He looked up at Dudley's stifled exclamation. "Well, it's good and cold out there," he said defensively. "We don't have any spare space around here to store delayed shipments, you know. We're waitin' to see who gets possession." Dudley rose, his face white. He was abruptly conscious once more of other conversations around them, as he stalked toward the exit. "Hey," Fisher called after him, "that redhead, Eileen, told me to ask if you're taking her out tonight." Dudley paused. He ran a hand over his face. "Yeah, I guess so," he said. He went out, thinking, _I should have taken her. The hell with regulations and Jack's theories about her being born too soon to be useful on Mars. She might have straightened out._ He headed for the tunnel that led to the loading domes. Ericsson was a large crater, over a hundred miles across and with a beautifully intact ringwall, so it took him some hours, even with the tractor he borrowed, to go as far as the edge of the crater. Jack Fisher was waiting for him in the surface dome when he returned hours later. "Welcome back," he said, chewing nervously on his cigar. "I was wondering if we'd have to go looking for you." He looked relieved. "How did she look?" he asked casually, as Dudley climbed out of his space suit in the locker room. Dudley peeled off the one-piece suit he had worn under the heating pads. He sniffed. "Chee-rist, I need a shower after that.... She looked all right. Pretty cute, in a way. Like she was happy here on Luna." He picked up towel and soap. "So I fixed it so she could stay," he added. "What do you mean?" He looked at Fisher. "Are you asking as a friend or as a cop?" "What difference does it make?" asked Fisher. "Well, I don't think you could have tracked me with your radar past the ringwall, so maybe I just went for a ride and a little stroll, huh? You didn't see me bring back a shovel, did you?" "No," said Fisher, "I didn't see you bring it back. But some people are going to get excited about this, Pete. Where did you bury her?" "Blood-suckers!" said Dudley. "Let them get excited! Luna is full of mysteries." "All right," said Fisher. "For my own curiosity, then, I'm asking as a friend." "I found a good place," said Dudley. "I kind of forget where, in the middle of all those cliffs and rills, but it had a nice view of the stars. They'll never find her to take her back! I think I owed her that much." "Ummm," grunted Fisher. As Dudley entered the shower, the other began to unwrap a new cigar, a not-displeased expression settling over his square, pudgy face. Under the slow-falling streams of warm water, Dudley gradually began to relax. He felt the stiffness ease out of his jaw muscles. He turned off the bubbling water before he could begin imagining he was hearing a scared voice pleading again for passage to Mars.... 
26537	----	* * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has | | been preserved. | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For | | a complete list, please see the end of this document. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * THE WINDY HILL BY CORNELIA MEIGS The Pool of Stars Master Simon's Garden The Steadfast Princess The Kingdom of the Winding Road [Illustration] THE WINDY HILL BY CORNELIA MEIGS New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1922 _All rights reserved_ PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electrotyped. Published August, 1921. FERRIS PRINTING COMPANY NEW YORK CITY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE BEEMAN 7 II THE SEVEN BROTHERS OF THE SUN 26 III JOHN MASSEY'S LANDLORD 47 IV THE GARDEN WALL 66 V THE GHOST SHIP 77 VI JANET'S ADVENTURE 99 VII THE PORTRAIT OF CICELY 113 VIII THE FIDDLER OF APPLE TREE LANE 127 IX THE FIDDLER OF APPLE TREE LANE (Continued) 145 X A MAN OF STRAW 159 XI THREE COUSINS 173 XII MEDFORD RIVER 195 THE WINDY HILL CHAPTER I THE BEEMAN The road was a sunny, dusty one, leading upward through Medford Valley, with half-wooded hills on each side whose far outline quivered in the hot, breathless air of mid-June afternoon. Oliver Peyton seemed to have no regard for heat or dust, however, but trudged along with such a determined stride that people passing turned to look after him, and more than one swift motor car curved aside to give him room. "Want a ride?" inquired one genial farmer, drawing up beside him. "Where are you going?" Oliver turned to answer the first question, meaning to reply with a relieved "yes," but his square, sunburned face hardened at the second. "Oh, I am just going down the road--a little way," he replied stiffly, shook his head at the repeated offer of a lift, and tramped on in the dust. The next man he met seemed also to feel a curiosity as to his errand, for he stopped a very old, shambling horse to lean from his seat and ask point-blank: "Where may you be going in such a hurry on such a hot day?" Oliver, looking up at the person who addressed him and gauging his close-set, hard gray eyes and his narrow, dark face, conceived an instant dislike and distrust of the stranger. He replied shortly, as he had before, but with less good temper: "I am going down the road a little way. And, as you say, I am rather in a hurry." "Oh, are you indeed?" returned the man, measuring the boy up and down with a disagreeable, inquisitive glance. "In too much of a hurry to have your manners with you, even!" He shot him a look of keen and hostile penetration. "It almost looks as though you were running away from something." He stopped for no further comment but went jingling off in his rattletrap cart, the cloud of dust raised by his old horse's clumsy feet hanging long in the air behind him. Oliver plodded forward, muttering dark threats against the disagreeable stranger, and wishing that he had been sufficiently quick of speech to contradict him. Yet the random guess was a correct one, and running away was just what Oliver was doing. He had not really meant to when he came out through the pillared gateway of his cousin's place; he had only thought that he would walk down the road toward the station--and see the train come in. Yet the resolve had grown within him as he thought of all that had passed in the last few days, and as he looked forward to what was still to come. As he walked down the road, rattling the money in his pockets, turning over his wrongs in his mind, the thought had come swiftly to him that he need no longer endure things as they were. It was three miles to the railroad station; but, once there, he could be whisked away from all the troubles that had begun to seem unendurable. The inviting whistle of a train seemed to settle the matter finally. "It isn't as though I were afraid of anything," he reflected, looking back uneasily. "If I thought I were afraid I would never go away and leave Janet behind like this. No, I am only going because I will not be made to do what I hate." He told himself this several times by way of reassurance, but seemed always to find it necessary to say it again. There were some strange things about the place where he and his younger sister Janet had come to make a visit, things that made him feel, even on the first day, that the whole house was haunted by some vague disquiet of which no one would tell him the cause. His Cousin Jasper had changed greatly since they had last seen him. He had always been a man of quick, brilliant mind but of mild and silent manners, yet now he was nervous, irritable, and impatient, in no sense a genial host. Janet, Oliver's sister, had already begun to love the place, nor did she seem to notice the uneasiness that appeared to fill the house. She did not remember her cousin as well as did her brother and was thus less conscious of a change. So far, she had been spending her time very happily, being shown by Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper, through the whole of Cousin Jasper's great mansion and inspecting all the treasures that it contained. It was a new house, built only a year ago. "And a real calamity it was when the work came to an end so soon," Mrs. Brown had said, "for it kept Mr. Peyton interested and happy all the time it was going on. We had hoped the south wing would be building these three months more." Janet thought the great rooms were very beautiful, but Oliver did not like their vast silence in which the slightest sound seemed so disconcertingly loud. He was not used to such a quiet house, for their own home was a cozy, shabby dwelling, full of the stir and bustle and laughter of happy living. Here the boy found that noises would burst from him in the most unexpected and involuntary manner, noises that the long rooms and passageways seemed to take up and echo and magnify a hundred times. Mrs. Brown was constantly urging him "not to disturb poor Mr. Peyton," and Hotchkiss, the butler, who went about with silent footsteps, always looked pained when Oliver slammed a door or made a clatter on the stairs. He had never seen a butler before, except in the movies, so that he found the presence of Hotchkiss somewhat oppressive. It was the change in his host, however, that had really spoiled the visit. Jasper Peyton was a cousin of his mother's, younger than she and very fond of her and her children. At their house he was always a much-desired guest, for he had "the fairy-godfather gift," as their mother put it, and was constantly doing delightful things for them. He was tall and spare, with a thin, sensitive face that, so it seemed to Oliver, was always smiling then, but that never smiled now. The boy had noted a difference on the evening of their arrival, even as they drove up to the house through the warm darkness and the drifting fragrance of the June night. "I can hardly remember how Cousin Jasper looks, but I think I will like his garden," Janet had observed, sniffing vigorously. Oliver nodded, but he was not listening. He was looking up at the lighted house where the door stood open, with Hotchkiss waiting, and where he could see, through the long windows facing the terrace, that Cousin Jasper was hurrying through the library to meet them in the hall. Even at that distance their cousin did not look the same; he walked slower, he had lost his erect carriage and his old energy of action. He seemed a thin, high-shouldered ghost of his former self, with all spirit and cheerfulness gone out of him. Janet and Oliver were paying their first visit without their mother, and, to guests of thirteen and fifteen respectively, such an occasion was no small cause for excitement. For that reason they were very slow to admit that they were not enjoying themselves, but the truth at last could not be denied. Cousin Jasper, preoccupied and anxious, left them almost completely to their own devices, neglected to provide any amusement for them, and seemed, at times, to forget even that they were there. "You are a great comfort to him, my dears. He seems worried and distracted-like lately," Mrs. Brown had told them. "He does not like to be in this great house alone." To Oliver it seemed that their presence meant very little, a fact which caused him to puzzle, to chafe and, finally, as was fairly natural, to grow irritated. After he and Janet had explored the house and garden, there seemed nothing left to do for Oliver but to stroll up and down the drive, stare through the tall gates at the motors going by, or to spend hours in the garage, sitting on a box and watching Jennings, the chauffeur, tinker with the big car that was so seldom used. Janet was able to amuse herself better, but her brother, by the third day, had reached a state of disappointed boredom that was almost ready, at any small thing, to flare out into open revolt. The very small thing required was the case of Cousin Eleanor. They were all walking up and down the terrace on the third evening, directly after dinner, the boy and girl trying to accommodate their quick steps to Cousin Jasper's slower and less vigorous ones. Their host was talking little; Janet, with an effort, was attending politely to what he said, but Oliver was allowing his wits to go frankly woolgathering. It was still light enough to look across the slopes of the green valley and to see the shining silver river and the roofs of one or two big houses like their own, set each in its group of clustering trees. Beyond the stream, with its borders of yellow-green willows, there rose a smooth, round hill, bare of woods, or houses, with only one huge tree at the very top and with what seemed like a tiny cottage clinging to the slope just below the summit. "Where that river bends at the foot of the hill, there ought to be rapids and good fishing," the boy was thinking. "Perhaps I might get over there to see, some day." He was suddenly conscious, with a flush of guilt, that Cousin Jasper was asking him a question, but had stopped in the middle of a sentence, realizing that Oliver was not listening. "So," he interrupted himself, "an old man's talk does not interest you, eh?" He followed Oliver's glance down to the crooked river, and made an attempt to guess his thought. "You were looking at that big stone house beyond the stream," he said, "and I suppose you were wondering who lives there." He seemed to be making an effort to turn the conversation into more interesting channels, so that Oliver immediately gave him his full, but tardy attention. "A cousin of mine owns the house. We are really all cousins or are related more or less, we who own the land in Medford Valley. But Tom Brighton is of closer kin to me than the others and I am very fond of him. We have both been too busy, just lately, to exchange as many visits as we used to do, but he has a daughter, Eleanor, just about your age, Oliver, a thoroughly nice girl, who would make a good playmate for both of you. I am neglecting your pleasure, I must have you meet her. You should see each other every day." The suggestion seemed to afford Janet great delight; but, for some reason, it had the opposite effect upon Oliver. Perhaps Cousin Jasper did not know a great deal about younger people, perhaps he had not been taking sufficient note of the ways and feelings of this particular two, for it was quite certain that he had made a mistake. Oliver cared very little for girls, and to have this one thrust upon him unawares as a daily companion was not to his liking. "It will be very nice for Janet," he remarked ungraciously, "but I--I don't have much to do with girls." Some pure perversity made him picture his Cousin Eleanor as a prim young person, with sharp elbows and a pinched nose and stringy hair. She would be lifeless and oppressively good-mannered, he felt certain. All the ill success of the last three days seemed to be behind his sudden determination to have none of her. But Cousin Jasper, having once conceived the idea, was not to be gainsaid. "No, I haven't been doing the proper thing for you. We will have Eleanor over to lunch to-morrow and you two shall go with Jennings in the car to fetch her. Don't protest, it won't be any trouble." Later, as they went upstairs, Janet pleaded and argued with a thunderously rebellious Oliver who vowed and insisted that he would have no unknown female cousin thrust upon him. "It is all right for you, Janet," he insisted, "but I won't have Cousin Jasper arranging any such thing for me. When I told him I didn't like girls, he should have listened. No, I don't care if it is wrong, I am going to tell him, to-morrow, just what I think." Janet shook her brown, curly head in despair. "I believe you will have to do what he says, in the end," she declared. The next morning, at breakfast time, Oliver had not relented, for a night haunted by visions of this unknown cousin had in no way added to his peace of mind. "I have been thinking about that girl you spoke about," he began, looking across the table and over the wide bowl of sweet peas to fix his cousin with a glance of firm determination, "and I don't really care to meet her. Janet can go to fetch her, but--you mustn't expect--I don't know how----" His defense broke down and Cousin Jasper was ill-advised enough to laugh. "Stuff and nonsense," he said. "If you are afraid of girls it is time you got over it. I have telephoned Eleanor already, but she couldn't come." Oliver brightened, but relapsed, the next moment, into deeper gloom than ever. "She said that she would be at home later in the afternoon, so you and Janet are to go over and call on her. I have ordered the motor for three o'clock." It was Janet's suppressed giggle that added the last spark to Oliver's kindling anger. He was fond of his Cousin Jasper, he was troubled concerning him, and disturbed by the haunting feeling that something was wrong in the big house. Yet baffled anxiety often leads to irritation, and irritation, in Oliver's case, was being tactlessly pushed into rage. He said little, for he was a boy of few words, nor, so he told himself, could he really be rude to Cousin Jasper no matter how foolishly obstinate he was. "But I'll get out of it somehow," he reflected stormily as he gulped down his breakfast and strode out into the garden. "I'll think of a way." Cudgel his brains as he might, however, he could think of no plausible escape from the difficulty. He had found no excuse by lunch time, and was relieved that Cousin Jasper did not appear, being deep in some task in his study. At half past two Janet went upstairs to dress and Hotchkiss came to Oliver in the library to say: "The car was to be ready at three o'clock, sir. Is that correct?" To which Oliver replied desperately: "Tell Jennings to make it half past three. I am going for a walk." So he had plunged out through the gates and, once away down the dusty road, he became more and more of a rebel and finally a fugitive. "I won't go back," he kept saying to himself. "I won't go back." There was enough money in his pocket to take him home, and there was a train from the junction at three. He could telephone from there, very briefly, that he was going and that Hotchkiss was to send his things. He was beginning to discover some use for a butler, after all. He trudged on, growing very hot, but feeling more and more relieved at the thought of escape. The way, however, was longer than he had imagined, and three o'clock came, with the station not yet in sight. There was another train at five, he remembered, but thought that it would be better not to spend the intervening time waiting openly on the platform. He would be missed long before then and Jennings and Janet, or perhaps even Cousin Jasper himself, would come to look for him. It would be better for him to cross the nearest meadow and spend the two hours in the woods, or he might settle the question over which he had been wondering, whether there were really fish in that sharp bend of the river. He climbed a stone wall and dropped knee-deep into a field of hay and daisies. Toward the right, a quarter of a mile away, he could see the house of gray stone standing in the midst of wide, green gardens and approached by an elm-bordered drive. At that very moment he should have been rolling up to the door in Cousin Jasper's big car, to inquire for the much-detested Eleanor Brighton. He made a wry face at the thought and went hurrying down the slope of the hayfield, passed through a grove of oak and maple trees, and reached the river. It was a busy, swift little stream, talking to itself among the tall grasses as the current swept down toward the sea. A rough bridge spanned it just below the bend, and here he could stand and see the fish; for they were there, as he had thought. In the absence of fishing tackle, he could only watch them, but the sound of a car, passing on a road near by, made him hurry on. Now, he felt, he was away from passers-by indeed! Another stone wall, patterned with lichen, separated him from the briar-filled wilderness of an old, abandoned orchard. Each one of the twisted apple trees looked at least a thousand years of age, so bent, gnarled, and misshapen had it become. Through the straight rows he could look up the slope of the round hill that he had so often watched from Cousin Jasper's garden, he could make out the roof line of the tiny, dilapidated cottage, and could see that the big tree at the summit was an oak. The orchard was a deserted waste and the house seemed uninhabited. Yet just below the summit, the hill was dotted with small, boxlike structures, painted white, that might have been chicken houses, but seemed scarcely large enough. Filled with curiosity, he went forward to investigate, munching, as he went, a yellow June apple that he had picked up in the grass. A rough lane opened before him, that passed through the orchard and wound up the hill, with its high grass trodden a little as though, after all, people did sometimes pass that way. He had climbed only a little way when he heard voices. The tumble-down cottage was not empty, as he had thought, for two people were standing in the doorway. He stopped abruptly. The man in worn overalls and the girl beside him, with her bobbed hair, bright eyes, and faded pink gingham apron, did not look like a very forbidding pair. But Oliver's uneasy conscience made him feel that any person he met might guess his plans in some mysterious way and interfere with his escape. Very quietly he turned about and began to hurry down the hill. He had retreated too late, however, for the man had seen him and proceeded to call after him in what seemed a very peremptory tone: "Stop!" For a moment, Oliver hesitated, uncertain whether to obey or to take to his heels and seek safety in the wood below. Could the man have read his secret, or was the apple in his hand the cause of the summons? Before he could really decide, the girl's voice was raised also--pleading and urgent. "We need you," she called. "You must help us. Oh, don't go away!" He turned slowly and went toward them through the tall grass, uncertain, suspicious, afraid even yet that he might fall into some trap that would delay his flight. His uneasiness was not in any way quieted by his seeing that one of the white boxes stood, uncovered, before the two and that it was a beehive. "You have come just in time," said the man, "if you are willing to help us. It is a difficult business, hiving a swarm of bees at this season, and Polly, here, is no use at all. This is her first day with the bees this year, and she jumps up and down when they sing around her head, and that stops everything." "I do better usually," the girl confessed humbly, "but I forget, over the winter, how to be quiet and calm when a million bees are buzzing in my ear." She thrust into Oliver's hand the leather and metal bellows that blows wood smoke into the hive, and her father began giving him directions as unconcernedly as though his helping were a matter of course. "Just stand beside me, stay very still, and keep blowing smoke; that is right. Don't move and never mind how close the bees come. There is no danger of your being stung." The square white box was full of wooden frames, hanging one behind another, like the leaves of a book. One by one the man lifted them out, swept off the black curtain of bees that clung to them, and showed the clean, new, sweet-smelling honeycomb. "When an old hive gets too crowded, and the bees begin to swarm," he explained, "we divide them and put some frames and bees into a new, empty hive. See them going to work already, and look at that piece of comb that has just been built; one would think that the fairies had made it." Oliver had never seen anything so white and thin and delicate as the frail new cells ready for the fresh honey. He forgot any dread of the myriad creatures buzzing about his head, he forgot even his plan, and his impatience of delay. He bent to peer into the hive, to examine the young bees just hatching, the fat, black, and brown drones and the slim, alert queen bee. The girl, now that the responsibility of helping was off her hands, forgot her own nervousness and pressed forward also to look and ask questions. She must be about thirteen or fourteen years old, was Oliver's vague impression of her; she had dark hair and quick, brown eyes, her cheeks were very pink, and one of them was decorated with a black smudge from the smoke blower. He was too intent to notice her much or to remember his fearful dread of girls. And of course this little thing in the shabby apron was very different from the threatened Cousin Eleanor. He could not see much of the man's face under the worn straw hat, as they bent over the hive, but he liked the slow, drawling voice that answered his innumerable questions and he found the chuckling laugh irresistibly infectious. The stranger's brown hands moved with steady skill among the horde of crawling insects, until the last frame was set in place, the last puff of smoke blown, and the cover was put down. "There, young man," said the beekeeper, "that was a good job well done, thanks to you; but you must not go yet. Polly and I always have a little lunch here in the honey house when we have finished, to revive us after our exhausting labor." Oliver was about to protest that he must go on at once, but the man interrupted him, with a twinkle in his eye. "There is a spring behind the house where we wash up," he said. "Polly will give you some soap and a towel. Wood smoke smells good, but it is just as black as the soft-coal kind." When he looked at himself a moment later in the mirror of the spring, Oliver realized that he was scarcely fit to start on a journey, since, in his energetic wielding of the smoker he had smudged his face far worse than even Polly had. He began splashing and scrubbing, but honey and soot and the odd, sticky glue with which bees smear their hives are none of them easy to remove. When he presented himself once more at the door of the cottage, there was a feast spread out on the rough table--buttered and toasted biscuits spread with honey, iced cocoa with whipped cream, and a big square chocolate cake. Quite suddenly he remembered how far he had walked and how hungry he was and with equal suddenness forgot his pressing necessity for setting off again. He sat down on the three-legged stool that the Beeman offered him, sampled the hot biscuit and the cold drink, and breathed a deep, involuntary sigh of content. In the presence of these friendly, shabbily dressed strangers he felt, for the first time since leaving home, really happy and at ease. It seemed dark and cool within the little cottage after the blazing sunshine outside. The place was evidently no longer used for anything but a storehouse and a shelter for picnics of this kind, but it was a quaint, attractive little dwelling and evidently very old. The main room where they sat had a big-beamed ceiling, deep casement windows, and a door that swung open in two sections, one above the other. The upper half was wide open now, framing a sun-bathed picture of the green slope, the treetops of the orchard, and the rising hills opposite, with a narrow glimpse of sparkling, blue sea. The air was very hot and quiet, with the sleepy peacefulness that belongs to summer afternoons. The round, dense shadow of the oak tree above them was lengthening so that its cool tip just touched the doorstone. Polly, with hands as brown and skillful as her father's, was still toasting biscuits before the little fire they had built on the rough hearth. The Beeman, having taken off his hat, showed a handsome, cheery face much like his daughter's, except that his big nose was straight, rather than tilted like her small one, and his eyes were gray. Their clothes were even older and shabbier than Oliver had at first observed, but their manners were so easy and cordial that the whole of the little house seemed filled with the pleasant atmosphere of friendliness. Polly left the fire at last, bringing a plate of hot biscuits, and sat down beside the table. "Daddy always tells me a story when we have finished with the bees," she began a little shyly. "He said he had one saved up in his head that I would especially like. You won't mind our going on with it, will you?" Oliver would not mind at all. He felt assured already that he would like anything that the Beeman had to say. "I suppose you must have it, if your heart is set on it," Polly's father said, "but my tales are usually designed for an audience of only one. This young gentleman may not like our style of stories, my dear." "I hope he will," replied Polly, "but--oh, daddy, I forgot all about it, didn't we have an engagement some time about now, at home?" "No," he returned so positively that his daughter, though at first a little puzzled, seemed quite satisfied. "It is quite all right for us to stay here." He chuckled for a moment, as though over some private joke of his own, then at last laid down his pipe and crossed his legs. Oliver leaned back against the wall and Polly curled up on the bench by the fireplace. "Are you both quite comfortable?" the Beeman inquired. "Very well, then I'll begin." CHAPTER II THE SEVEN BROTHERS OF THE SUN Nashola did not live in fairyland, although there were seasons when his country was so beautiful that it might well have belonged to some such enchanted place. He did not know whether he loved it best when the thickets were all in bloom with pink crab apple and the brown, wintry hills had put on their first spring green, or when every valley was scarlet and golden with frost-touched maple trees in the autumn. But to-day it was neither, being hot midsummer, with the wild grass thick and soft on the slope of the hill that he was climbing, and with the heavy foliage of the oak tree on the summit rustling in a hot, fitful breeze. It was high noontide with the sunlight all about him, yet Nashola walked warily and looked back more than once at his comrades who had dared follow him only halfway up the hill. His was no ordinary errand, for, all about him, Nashola felt dangers that he could neither hear nor see. Before him, sitting motionless as a statue, with his back against the trunk of the oak tree and his keen, hawk-like face turned toward the hills and the sky, was Secotan, the sorcerer and medicine man, whom all of Nashola's tribe praised, revered, and dreaded. None but the full-grown warriors used to venture to have speech with him, and then only as he sat in the door of his lodge, with the men in a half circle before him. They never came alone. Along all the seaboard, the Indians talked of Secotan, the man most potent in spells and charms and prophecies, who was said to talk with strange spirits in his lodge by night and who could call up storms out of the sea at will. This spot at the summit of the hill, where the medicine man sat so often, sometimes muttering spells, sometimes staring straight before him across the valley, was magic forbidden ground, where no one but himself was known to come. Yet the young Nashola, only fifteen years old, and far from being a warrior, had been told that he must consult the medicine man and had been in too much haste to seek him in his own lodge or to wait until he could persuade a comrade to go with him. Stretched along the river below them was the camp of Nashola's brown-skinned people, where springs gave them fresh water and where the eastern hills of the valley gave shelter from the winter storms that blew in from the sea. Beyond those green hills were rocky slopes, salt swamps, a stretch of yellow sand, and then the great Atlantic rollers, tumbling in upon the beach. The Indians of Nashola's village would go thither sometimes to dig for clams, to fish from the high rocks, and even, on occasions, to swim in the breakers close to shore. But they were land-abiding folk, they feared nothing in the forest, and would launch their canoes in the most headlong rapids of the inland rivers; yet there was dread and awe in their eyes when they looked out upon the sea. Not one of them had ever ventured beyond the island at the mouth of the harbor. They were a shifting, wandering people, moving here and there with the seasons, as the deer and moose moved their grazing grounds, but their most settled abiding place was this little green valley where they spent a part of every year. Sometimes word would come drifting in, through other tribes, of strange, white-faced men who had landed on their shores, but who always sailed away again, since this was still the time when America was all the Indians' own. What they did not see troubled them little and they went on, undisturbed, hunting and fishing and paying their vows to the spirits and demons that they thought to be masters of their little world. The old, wrinkled squaw who was Nashola's grandmother was the only one of them all who seemed oppressed with care. The boy, whose parents were dead, was her special charge and was not, as he should be, like other Indian lads. He was slim and swift and was as skillful as his companions with the bow and spear, but he had a strange love for running along the sea beach with the waves snatching at his bare, brown legs, and he was really happy only when he was swimming in the green water. The day he swam to the island and back again, paying no heed to the shouts and warnings of his friends, and declaring, when he landed, that he would have gone farther save that the tide had turned--that day had brought his old grandmother's patience to an end. "It is not fitting that one of our tribe should be so familiar with the sea," she stormed at him. "We were not born to master that wild salt water; the gods that rule us have said over and over again that the woods and rivers are ours, but that we are to have no dealings with the spirits of the sea. Since I cannot make you listen, you shall talk to some one who will. You shall go to ask the medicine man if what I say is not so." Nashola had come, therefore, to ask his question, but he found that it needed a bold heart to advance, without quaking, into that silent presence and to speak out with Secotan's black eyes seeming to stare him through and through. "Is it true," he began, "that men of our tribe should have no trust in the sea? My grandmother says that I should hate it and fear it, but I do not. Must I learn to be afraid?" Slowly the man nodded. Most Indians grow old quickly, and are withered like dried-up apples as soon as the later years come upon them. But Secotan, although his hair was gray, had still the clear-cut face with its arched nose and heavy brows of a younger man. Only his eyes, deep, piercing, and very wise, seemed to show how long he had lived and how much he had learned. "Our fathers and their fathers before them have always known that we must distrust the sea," he said at last. "No matter how blue and smiling it may be it can never be our friend. We may swim near the shore, we may even launch our canoes and journey, if the way be short, from one harbor to another when the sky is clear and the winds are asleep. But always we are to remember that the sea is our enemy and a treacherous enemy in the end." He turned away to stare at the hills again, but Nashola lingered, not yet satisfied. It was unheard-of boldness to question Secotan's words, yet the boy could not keep his hot protests to himself. "But is it not wrong to pretend to fear what we do not?" he objected. "Do the spirits of the water actually rise up and tell you that we must keep to the shore? I do not believe it, although my grandmother says so until my ears ring again." Secotan turned his head quickly, as though to hide the ghost of a smile. "The voices of the wind and the breakers and of the thunder all cry the same message," he declared, "and wise men have learned that it warns them to hug the land. You must heed your grandmother, even though her words are shrill and often repeated." He would say no more, so Nashola went away, pondering his answer as he walked down the hill. After all, no harm had come to him from entering the medicine man's presence unbidden, as his comrades had all said. He answered their questions very shortly as they came crowding about him, and to the persistent queries of his grandmother he would say nothing at all. Yet the others noticed that his canoe lay unused in the shelter of a rock on the sandy beach where he had left it, and that he swam in the sea no more. The days passed, the hot, quiet summer passing with them. One evening, as they all sat about the camp fire, one of the older warriors said quietly: "The time is near when our medicine man must go from us." "Why?" questioned Nashola's grandmother, while the boy turned quickly to hear. "He has not sat upon the hill nor before the door of his lodge for three days, and the venison and corn we have carried to him have lain untouched for all that time. One of us who ventured close heard a cry from within and groaning. It may be that he must die." "But will no one help him?" cried Nashola. It was not proper that a boy should speak out in the presence of the older warriors, but he could not keep his wonder to himself. "There is danger to common folk in passing too close to the medicine man's lodge," his grandmother explained quickly. "There are spirits within who are his friends but who might destroy us. And when he is ill unto death and the beings from another world have come to bear his soul away, then must no man go near." "Sometimes a medicine man has a companion to whom he teaches his wisdom and who takes his place when he is gone," said the man by the fire. "But even that comrade flees away when death is at hand and the spirits begin to stand close about his master. Yes, such a man must die alone." All through the night Nashola lay awake, thinking of what he had heard. Secotan was, he knew, a man of powerful magic, but he could not forget that there was a look in his eyes and a kindliness in his tone that seemed human, after all. Must he suffer and die there, without help, merely because he was greater and wiser than the rest? Or, when death came close and the host of unearthly beings gathered about him, would he not feel it of comfort to have a living friend by his side? It was long past midnight and in the black darkness that comes before day, before the boy came to final resolution. He crawled out from under the shelter of his lodge and slipped noiselessly through the sleeping camp. Every rustle in the grass, every stirring leaf in the thicket made him jump and shiver, yet he kept steadily on. The sharp outline of Secotan's pointed lodge poles stood out against the stars, halfway up the shoulder of the hill. The door showed black and open as he came near, but there was no sound from within. The only thing that seemed alive was a dull, glowing coal in the ashes of a fire that was not quite dead. The boy stooped down before the door and spoke in a shaking voice: "Secotan, Secotan, do you still live?" A hollow, gasping whisper sounded from the shadows within: "I am living, but death is very near." Nashola stood still for a moment. He could picture that gaunt figure lying helpless on the ground, with the darkness all about peopled by strange shapes visible to the sorcerer's eyes alone, crowding spirits come to carry him away to an unknown world. But even as a wave of icy terror swept over him, he remembered how fearful it would be to lie all alone in that haunted darkness, and he bent low and slipped through the door. "I know that all the spirits of the earth and air and water are with you," he said as he felt his way to the deerskin bed and sat down beside it, "but I thought, among them all, you might wish for a friend beside you who was flesh and blood." A quivering hand was laid for an instant on his knee. "There is no man who does not feel terror when he comes to die alone," the medicine man whispered, "and Secotan is less of a man than you." Through the dragging hours Nashola sat beside him, listening with strained ears to every sound--the soft moving of a snake through the grass before the door, the nibbling of a field mouse at the skin of the tent, the sharp scream of a bird in the wood captured by a marauding owl. The blackness grew thinner at last, showing the lodge poles, the shabby skins of the bed, and finally the sick man's face, drawn and haggard with pain. As the dawn came up over the hills, he opened his eyes and spoke: "Bring those herbs that hang against the lodge pole and build up the fire. When the stones about it are hot, wrap them in wet blankets and lay them in the tent. The gods may have decreed that I am to live." Nashola worked frantically all through the day. He filled the lodge with steam from the hot stones, he brewed bitter drafts of herbs and held them to Secotan's lips once in every hour by the sun. After a long time he saw the fever ebb, saw the man's eyes lose their strange glittering, and heard his voice gather strength each time he spoke. For three nights and days the boy nursed him, all alone in the lodge, with men bringing food to leave at the door but with no one willing to come inside. When at last Nashola went back to his own dwelling, Secotan was sitting, by his fire, weak and thin, but fairly on the way to health again. The friendship that had grown up during that night of suffering and terror seemed to become deeper and deeper as time passed. There was scarcely a day when Nashola did not climb the hill in the late afternoon to sit under the rustling oak tree and talk for a long hour with the medicine man. His companions of his own age looked askance at such a friendship and his grandmother begged and scolded, but without avail. Almost always, as he sat with his back against the tree, or lay full length in the long grass that was beginning to be dry and yellow with the coming autumn, the boy would fix his eyes upon the hills opposite through which there showed a gleam of sea. Like the picture of some forbidden thing was that glint of blue, framed by the green slopes and the sky above. He could see the whitecaps, the dancing glimmer of the sun, and the gray sea gulls that whirled and hovered and dipped before his longing gaze. He would lift his head to sniff the salt breeze that swept through the cleft in the hills, and to listen for that far-off thunder that could sometimes be heard as the great waves broke on the beach. At last, one day when he had sat so long with his friend that dusk was falling and the stars were coming out, he broke through the silence with a sudden question: "Secotan, what lies beyond that sea?" The medicine man shook his head without speaking. "My grandmother says 'Nothing,'" pursued Nashola, "but I know that cannot be. Is it one of the things that I must not ask and that you may not tell me because you are a sorcerer and I am only a boy?" Secotan was silent so long that Nashola thought he did not mean to reply at all. Even when he spoke it did not seem to be an answer. "Do you see those seven stars?" he said, "that are rising from the sea and that march so close together that you keep thinking they are going to melt into one?" "Yes," answered the boy. "I often lie before our lodge door and watch them go up the sky. There are bigger stars all about them, but somehow I love those the best, they are so small and bright and seem to look down on us with such friendly eyes." "It is told among the medicine men," Secotan went on slowly, "that many, many moons ago, long before this oak tree grew upon this hill, before its father's father had yet been planted as an acorn, our people came hither across just such a sea as that. Far to the westward it lay, and they came, a mere handful of bold spirits in their canoes, across a wide water from some land that we have utterly forgotten. Some settled down at once upon the shores of the waters they had crossed, but some pressed eastward, little by little, as the generations passed. They filled the land with their children and in the end they came to another sea and went no farther. But the men who had led them were of a different heart than ours; there were always some who were not content to hunt and fish and move only as the deer move or as the seasons change. They wished to press on, ever on, to let nothing stop the progress of their march. It is said that when they came to this sea there were seven brothers who, when their people would no longer follow, launched their canoes and set off once more to the eastward, and never came back. "They dwell there in the sky, we think, and they shine through those months of autumn that are dearest of all the year to our people, when the days are warm and golden before the winter, when the woods are bare and hunting is easy, when the game is fat from the summer grazing and our yellow corn is ripe. They come back to us in the Hunter's Moon and they watch over us all through the cold winter. We call them the Seven Brothers of the Sun." Nashola was silent, waiting, for he knew from his friend's voice that there was more that he wished to say. "Your mother, who is dead, was not of our blood, they tell me. Your father took her from another tribe and they had brought her captive, from the north of us, so that she is no kin of ours. Sometimes I think that there must have run in her veins the blood of those seven brothers and that, in you, their bold spirit lives again. There is no one of your kind who loves the sea as you do, who has no shadow of a fear of it. And you are first, in all my life, who has asked me what lay beyond." "I should like," said Nashola steadily, still watching the gray water and the gleam of stars above it, "I should like to go and see." "Often I have wondered," the man went on, his voice growing very earnest, "whether you would not like to come to dwell with me, to learn the lore that makes me a medicine man and to take my place when I must go. I, who was taught by the wisest of us all, have waited long to find some one worthy of that teaching, and able to hold the power that I have. You can be a greater man than I, Nashola; not only your whole tribe will do your bidding and hang upon your words, but the men of our race all up and down the coast will revere you and talk of you as the greatest sorcerer ever known. Will you come to my lodge, will you learn from me, will you follow in my way?" Nashola tried to speak, choked and tried again. "I cannot do it," he said huskily. "Why?" There was a sharp note of wonder, hurt friendship, even of terror, in the man's voice. "The people of our village say you are not like other men," said the boy. "They say you can call the friendly spirits of the forest and the hostile gods of the sea, and that you have wisdom learned in another world. But I, who am your friend, think it is not so. I love you dearly, but I know you are a man as I am. I know the sea is only water and that the forest is only trees. I--I do not believe." He got to his feet, blind with misery, and went stumbling down the hill. The warm September darkness was thick about him, but up on the hill the starlight showed plainly the motionless figure sitting beneath the oak tree, never turning to look after him, uttering no sound of protest or reproach. As September days passed into October, as the Seven Brothers rode higher in the sky, strange tales, once again, began to come from the south. More white men had been seen in their ships, sailing up and down the coast, trading with the Indians, buying the fish that they had caught and trying to talk to them in an unknown tongue. "We have heard stories before and will hear them again," said the older warriors incredulously. "Such tales are of the sort that old women tell about the fires on winter nights." "What does your friend the medicine man say of these rumors, Nashola?" asked one of the boys of his own age, but Nashola did not answer. He went no more up the hill to the big oak tree; he had held no speech for weeks with Secotan. Yet he would suffer no one to ask him why. A day came when the news could no longer be disbelieved. A boy of the tribe, who had been digging for clams on the beach, came running home with startling tidings. "The white men--the winged canoes--as big as our lodges----" he gasped. "Come quickly and see!" Old men and young, squaws and papooses, every one deserted the little settlement by the river and went in wild haste up the eastward hills to look upon this strange wonder. It was a lowering day with overcast skies and water of a sullen gray and with ominously little wind. In speechless wonder the Indians stood gazing, for there indeed were three white-sailed ships, moving slowly before the lazy breeze, stanch little fishing vessels of English build, come to see whether this unexplored stretch of coast would yield them any cargo. As they watched, the largest one got up more sail, veered away upon a new tack, and was followed by the others. "What can they be? Are they come to destroy us all?" asked a trembling old woman, and no one could answer. "Hush," said another in a moment, "the medicine man is coming." Secotan, who so seldom left his own lodge now, and who never mixed with the village folk, was climbing slowly up the hill after them. Nashola noticed that he had begun to look old, that his fierce hawk's face was sunken, and that he walked very slowly, leaning upon his staff. The men and women drew back respectfully as he advanced and stood in a silent, waiting circle, while he shaded his eyes and gazed long at the ships, now growing smaller in the distance. "Are they friends or enemies, Secotan?" one of the hunters ventured to ask, but the medicine man replied only: "That must be as the gods decree." "Then destroy them for us," cried the old squaw, Nashola's grandmother. "Call up a storm that will break their wings and shatter the sides of those giant canoes. Bring wind and rain and thunder and all the spirits of the sea to overwhelm them." There was a breathless silence as Secotan slowly moved forward and raised his staff. Nashola, standing before the other boys, watched the medicine man's face with eyes that never wavered. Even as the sorcerer moved there came a low mutter of thunder across the gray, level floor of the sea, and a distant streak of darker water showed the coming wind. "There is the storm! The very winds obey him!" The cry went up from all the Indians, save only Nashola who stood silent. The medicine man turned to look at him, then hesitated and dropped his eyes. "Why do you wait? Raise up a hurricane, O greatest of sorcerers," cried a man behind them. "No," shouted Secotan suddenly. He flung down his staff and held up his empty hands before his face. "I will raise no storm," he cried, "I will call no spirits from the deep--because I cannot. The wind and thunder answer no man's bidding--storms come and go at the will of the Great Spirit alone. There is one soul here that I love, one being whom, in all my life, I have had for a friend. In his eyes I will stand for truth at last, although I had almost learned to believe in my magic myself. I can do none of those things that you think. I am a man without power, like every one of you!" A roar of anger went up, a dull, savage, guttural sound that died away almost at once into silence, a quiet more ominous than an outcry could have been. Terrified by that strange apparition out yonder upon the waters, the Indians saw themselves deserted by the one person to whom they could look for courage and counsel. Only half understanding, they knew, at least, that Nashola had been the means of their medicine man's downfall. Frenzied hands seized them both and dragged them headlong down toward the water. Visions of the savage tortures that his people wreaked upon their enemies passed through the boy's mind, but he did not struggle or cry out, although Secotan's set face, beside him, turned gray under its coppery skin. Some one had found Nashola's canoe, left long unused upon the beach, and had launched it in the breakers. "Let him go back to the sea that he loved, this boy who has never been one of us. Let the man perish in the storm that is coming without his call." Relentless hands flung them into the frail boat and pushed it out through the surf. Nashola crawled to the stern and took up the paddle; a crash of thunder broke over their heads and a wild flare of lightning lit the dark water as he dipped the blade. In a moment, rain was falling in blinding sheets, the wind and spray were roaring in their ears, and the ebbing tide was carrying them away, out of the harbor, past the rocky island, straight to the open, angry sea. After a long time, Secotan, who had lain inert where he had been thrown into the boat, got to his knees and took up the second paddle. Only by keeping the little boat's bow to the wind could immediate destruction be averted. But the medicine man's strokes were feeble, affording little help, and at last he laid down the blade. "It is of no use, Nashola," he said. "Death rides on the wind and snatches at us from the black waters. Lay down your paddle and let us die." "No," the boy answered, "even though death is not an hour away, we will fight it until the very end." Darkness shut down about them so that they could scarcely see each other as they went on in silence. Although each combing, foam-capped rush of water seemed certain to overwhelm them, there was a strange exhilaration, a mad thrill in rising to every giant wave and shooting down its green side in a cloud of spray. One--two--three--each one seemed the last, and yet there were ever more. Nashola's arms were numb and heavy, his head reeled, but still he struggled on. He wished at last that death would come quickly, to still the terrible aching weariness that possessed his whole being. The worst of the storm had blown, roaring, past them, but the seas were still heavy and nothing--nothing, Nashola thought, could ever bring back the strength to his failing arms. Suddenly the clouds were torn apart, showing a glimmer of stars and a vague glimpse of the tossing black water all about them. "Look, look, Nashola," cried the medicine man, pointing upward, "they have come to help us, your kinsmen, the Seven Brothers of the Sun!" But Nashola was not looking at the sky; his eyes were fixed on a ghostly shape moving close ahead of them and on the fitful gleam of a ship's lantern that tossed and glimmered in the dark. Dropping his paddle he put his hands to his mouth and lifted his voice in a long hail. The light bobbed and swung and an answering shout came through the darkness. To the weather-beaten English sailors, used to the rough adventures of sailing new and uncharted seas, there was little excitement in picking up two half-drowned Indians, although they had never done such a thing before. They warmed the two with blankets, they revived them with fiery remedies, and they sat about them on the deck, trying to talk to them by means of signs, but with small success. "It is no common thing to see these natives so far from shore," the mate said to the captain, "for as a rule the Indians distrust the sea. We cannot find out how these came to be adrift in that canoe. The young one tries to make us understand, but the old man merely covers his face and groans. I think he will not believe that we are men like himself." "Bring the boy to me," the captain ordered. "Perhaps we may be able to understand him." In the quiet dawn, when calm had followed the night's storm, the ship ran in toward a rocky headland to send a boat ashore. Yet when it had been lowered and Secotan had dropped into it, he turned to see Nashola standing on the deck above, making no move to follow. "I am not coming, Secotan," he declared steadily. "The chief of these men and I have talked with signs and he wishes to carry me to his home on this strange winged vessel. He promises that he will bring me safe back again. Then I can tell you and all of our tribe what these white men really are. And I have always longed to know what lay beyond this forbidden sea." Secotan did not protest. "I have called you friend, I have wished to have you for my brother," he said, "but I must call you master now, since you have dared what I can never dare." * * * * * Much has been said of the courage of those white men who crossed the stormy Atlantic in their little vessels to explore an unknown continent. But what of the brave hearts of those Indians who thought the white men were spirits come out of the sea, who did not know what ships were, yet who still dared to set sail with them? For we know that there were such dusky voyagers, that they crossed the sea more than once in the English fishing vessels, and that they brought back to their own people almost unbelievable tales of cities and palaces, or harbors crowded with shipping and of whole countrysides covered with green, tilled fields. With all these wonders, however, they could tell their comrades that these white beings were mere men like themselves, to be neither hated nor dreaded as spirits of another world. Deep dwelling in Nashola was that born leadership that makes real men see through the long-established doubts and terrors of their race, who can distinguish the false from the true, who can go forward through shadowy perils to the clear light of knowledge and success. It was in recognition of this that old Secotan, half understanding, wholly unable to put his feeling into words, standing alone upon the headland, raised his arms in reverent salute and cried a last good-by to his comrade: "Farewell and good fortune, O Brother of the Sun!" CHAPTER III JOHN MASSEY'S LANDLORD The story had come to an end, but the boy and girl still waited as though to hear more. "But do oak trees grow to be so old?" Oliver inquired at last, looking out at the moving shadow of the great tree that had now covered the doorstone. "Yes, three hundred years is no impossible age for an oak. All the old grants of land speak of an oak tree on this hill as one of the landmarks." "How did you know?" began Oliver, and then broke off, with a sudden jerk of recollection: "Oh, I forgot all about it--my train!" He snatched out his watch and stood regarding it with a rueful face. He had missed the train by more than half an hour. "Were you going away?" asked Polly sympathetically. "We are always missing trains like that, daddy and I. Won't they be surprised to see you come back!" "They--they didn't know I was going," returned Oliver. "They are wondering now where I am." He was too much agitated to keep from doing his thinking out loud. "I must be getting back. Thank you for the story. Good-by." He was gone before they could say more, leaving Polly, in fact, with her mouth open to speak and with the Beeman looking after him with an amused and quizzical grin, as though he recognized the symptoms of an uneasy conscience. "We never asked him to come again," Polly lamented. To which her father answered, "I believe he will come, just the same." The smooth machinery of Cousin Jasper's house must have been thrown out of gear for a moment when the car came round to the door and Oliver failed to appear. It was running quietly and noiselessly again, however, by the time he returned. Janet was curled up in a big armchair in the library, enjoying a book, when he came in. She looked up at him rather curiously, but only said: "Eleanor Brighton's mother telephoned at half past three that Eleanor had been detained somewhere, she didn't quite know where. She was very apologetic and hoped we would come some other time. I walked down the road to look for you, but you weren't in sight. I met such a strange man, coming in at the gate; he turned all the way around on the seat of his cart to stare at me. I didn't like him." She did not press Oliver with questions and, as a result, he sat down beside her and told her the whole tale of his afternoon's adventures, with a glowing description of the Beeman and Polly. "I must take you there to see them," he said, "I can't wait to show you how things look from that hill. And you should see the bees, and the little house, and hear the wind in the big tree. We will go to-morrow." When Cousin Jasper appeared for dinner, Oliver felt somewhat apprehensive, but to his relief no questions were asked him. Their cousin listened rather absently while Janet explained why the proposed visit had not been made, and he offered no comment. He looked paler even than usual, with deeper lines in his face, and he sat at the end of the long table, saying little and eating less. Afterward he sat with them in the library, still restless and uneasy and speaking only now and then, in jerking sentences that they could scarcely follow. It was an evident relief to all three of them when the time came to say good night. Oliver looked back anxiously over his shoulder, as their cousin returned to his study and as they, at the other end of the long room, went out into the hall. "Something has happened to upset him more than usual," he said. "Do you think he could have guessed what I intended to do?" Janet shook her head emphatically. "He couldn't have guessed," she declared. "Even now I can hardly believe it of you, myself, Oliver." Oliver, rather ashamed, was beginning to wonder at himself also. They had fallen into the habit of going upstairs early to the comfortable sitting room into which their bedrooms opened. It was their own domain, a pleasant, breezy place, with deep wicker chairs, gay chintz curtains, flower boxes, and wide casements opening on a balcony. They had both found some rare treasures among the books downstairs and liked to carry them away for an hour of enjoyment before it was bedtime. Oliver settled himself comfortably beside a window, opened his book, but did not immediately begin to read. His eyes wandered about the perfectly appointed room, stared out at the moonlit garden, and then came back to his sister. "Why aren't we happy here, Janet?" he questioned. "It seems as though we had everything to make us so." "Because he isn't happy," returned his sister, with a gesture toward the study where Cousin Jasper, distraught, worried, and forlorn, must even then be sitting alone. "But why isn't he happy? There is everything here that he could wish for." Oliver added somewhat bitterly, after a pause: "Why don't grown-up people tell us things? It is miserable to be old enough to notice when affairs go wrong but not to be old enough to have them explained." "Perhaps," said Janet hopefully, "we will be able to prove that we deserve to know. I think that you will, anyway, and then you can tell me." It was not only the younger members of the household who were struggling with mystery that night, however. Before they had been reading many minutes, there came a discreet tap at the door and Hotchkiss appeared upon the threshold. Oliver was wondering what a boy unused to butlers was supposed to say or do on the occasion of such a visit, and even Janet, better at guessing the etiquette of such matters, seemed at a loss. And so also was Hotchkiss, as it presently began to be evident. If the butler had been of the regulation variety, he might perhaps have known how to ask a few respectful questions without a change of his professional countenance and have gained his information without betraying its significance. But as it was, he had for the moment put off the wooden, expressionless face that he was supposed to wear at his work, and was openly anxious and disturbed. "We're troubled about Mr. Peyton, Mrs. Brown and I," he began, coming frankly to the point at once. "He had a queer visitor to-day, one who has just been coming lately and who always leaves him upset. I wonder if you saw him, a thin man with a brown face and a kind of a way with him, somehow, in spite of his bad clothes." "Did he drive a shambling old horse?" inquired Oliver, remembering suddenly the person he had noticed on the road, "and a wagon that rattled as though it were twenty years old? Yes, we both saw him." "Had you ever seen him before?" Hotchkiss asked eagerly, and seemed disappointed when Oliver replied: "No, we had never laid eyes on him before to-day." "It is just in the last few weeks that he has been coming here so often," the man went on. "Before that he came rarely and we didn't think so much about him. I can remember the first time I saw him, soon after I had come to Mr. Peyton, a year ago. The fellow rang the bell as bold as anything, but when I saw that rickety outfit drawn up to the steps, I was about to tell him that the other entrance was the place for him. He must have read my eye--he's a sharp one--for he said, 'Your master won't thank you for turning me away, when I'm a member of the family,' and sure enough, there was Mr. Peyton behind me in the hall telling me to bring him in. He was nervous and put out with everybody after the man was gone, and he is more and more upset each time he comes. And the fellow begins to come often. I thought that if he was a member of the family you might know who he was--and how we could get rid of him." The heat of the last words put an end to any possible thought that the man's questions were prompted by a servant's unwarranted curiosity concerning his master. It was plain that Cousin Jasper was a well-beloved employer and that the two chief persons of his household had been laying their heads together over the mystery of his evident trouble. Hotchkiss was about to tell them more, when a bell, sounding below, summoned him away. There was an interval during which they tried to return to their books, but found their minds occupied with thoughts of what the butler had said. Who could this man be, whom they had both noticed and both set down as odious, and whose coming seemed to have such an unhappy effect upon Cousin Jasper? A relative? It did not seem possible. Presently Hotchkiss was at the door again, more troubled than ever. "Mr. Peyton wants the motor, but it's Jennings' evening off and he has gone to town," he said. "Didn't I hear you tell him, Mr. Oliver, that you knew how to drive that make of car?" Oliver had, indeed, dropped such a hint two days before, hoping that the dullness of his visit might be lightened by his being invited to take the car out for a spin. The statement had fallen on quite unheeding ears in Cousin Jasper's case, but had been treasured up by the butler. "Yes, I can drive it," agreed Oliver, rather doubting whether Cousin Jasper would really desire him as a chauffeur. He got up and went downstairs, to find his cousin waiting in the hall, so nervous and impatient that he made no other comment than: "We must make haste." Oliver hurried out to the garage, backed out the heavy car, paused under the portico for Cousin Jasper to climb in beside him, and sped away down the drive. "Which way?" he asked, as they came out through the gate, and was directed along the road he had followed that afternoon. "You may go as fast as you like, I am in a hurry," was Cousin Jasper's unexpected permission, so that Oliver, nothing loath, let out the car to its full speed. It was very dark, for the moon had gone under a cloud. The road, showing vaguely white through the blackness, was nearly empty and the tree trunks flashed by, looking unreal in the glare of the lamps, like the cardboard trees of a scene on the stage. The big car hummed and the wind sang in Oliver's ears, but for only the briefest moment, for they seemed to come immediately to a crossroad, where Cousin Jasper bade him turn. A slower pace was necessary here, for the going was rough and uneven, yet not so difficult as that of the narrower lane in which they presently found themselves. Here the machine lurched among the deep ruts, rustled through high grass and low-hanging trees, and finally came to a stop before a gate. "No, wait here," directed Cousin Jasper as Oliver made a move to get out. "I shall not be gone very long." He climbed out and jerked at the gate, which, one hinge being gone, opened reluctantly to let him pass. He stalked away, a tall, awkward figure in the brilliant shaft of light from the lamps, walking with a fierce, determined dignity up the path that disappeared into the dark. Oliver felt a sudden rush of pity for him and of shame that he had so nearly deserted him. "It must be hard," he thought, "to be so miserable and anxious, and to have no one to talk it over with. And I do wonder what is the matter?" He waited an hour--and another. He had dimmed his lamps and could see vaguely the outline of a house, with one dull light in a window. A dog barked somewhere beyond the gate, and presently a child began crying. It cried a very long time, then at last was quiet, but still no one came. Oliver fell asleep finally against the comfortable leather cushions, and slumbered he knew not how long before he was aroused by the protesting creak of the broken gate. He thought, as he was waking, that a man's voice, high-pitched with anger, was talking in the dark, but when he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he saw no one but Cousin Jasper. "I had not thought it would be so long," was all his cousin said as he got in, and after that there was no word spoken until they entered their own gate and rolled up to the door. "You drive well for a boy. Good night," said Cousin Jasper as he climbed out and entered the house. In his hurried, awkward way, he was attempting to express his gratitude, but he had managed to say the wrong thing. "For a boy, indeed," snorted Oliver, as he guided the car into the door of the garage, and repeated it as he went up the stairs to his room: "For a boy!" The big clock in the hall was solemnly striking one. Oliver was wondering, as he came down to breakfast next morning, what his cousin would say in explanation of their midnight expedition, but discovered that Cousin Jasper had adopted the simple expedient of saying nothing at all. The matter was not even referred to until just as they were leaving the table, and then only indirectly. "I should have thought of it before," their host said, "that it might give you some pleasure to take out the car. Use it every day, if you wish, and take Jennings or not, just as it suits you. I have real confidence in your driving, Oliver." It was surprising how completely matters were put upon another footing by what he had said. If Cousin Jasper had confidence in him, Oliver thought, he need no longer feel like a neglected outsider, one who was of no use or worth in the household. "Get your hat, Janet," he urged promptly. He had not an instant's hesitation in deciding where they would go first. Just as Cousin Jasper was entering his study he turned back to say: "Now about your Cousin Eleanor----" But Oliver either did not or would not hear, as he sped away toward the garage. Perhaps Cousin Jasper understood the smile that Janet gave him, for he smiled himself and said no more. In the very shortest time possible, Oliver and Janet were bowling along the smooth white road with all the blue and golden sunlight of a cool June morning about them. Oliver laughed when he thought of his dusty progress along that way the day before. There was little danger of his running away now, for the dreaded Cousin Eleanor was quite forgotten and he was certain that the time would not pass slowly since he had acquired this splendid new plaything. He wondered, as the highway spun away beneath the swift wheels, which of the crossroads that he passed was the one that he had traveled the evening before, but the night had been so dark and their speed so great that he was quite unable to decide. It was only after exploring a good many of Medford Valley's lesser thoroughfares, after awkward turns in narrow byroads that proved to be mere blind alleys, that they began to come closer and closer to the foot of the hill. Not being able to find a direct path, Oliver finally drew up beside the low stone wall and plunged, on foot, through the high grass of the orchard. "Wait until I see if they are here," he instructed Janet, "and then I will come back for you." His new acquaintances were sitting on the bench beside the doorway as he came up the hill, Polly in a very trim blue dress and without her apron, but the Beeman in his same dilapidated overalls. The girl had a notebook on her knee and was putting down records at her father's dictation. "Here is our friend in need, of yesterday," said the Beeman cordially as Oliver came up the path, "but we can't put him to work to-day because we are just about to set off to fetch some new beehives. There are more colonies than I thought that need dividing, and I find I am out of hives." "Let me get them for you," Oliver offered at once, and explained the presence of his sister in the car below. "Polly can go with you to show you the way," the Beeman agreed willingly. "John Massey, who makes our hives for us, lives a good many miles away, at the upper end of Medford Valley. I shall be glad to save the time of going myself. Come to the top of the hill, so that I can point out the direction of the road to you." They took the little path beyond the house, leading upward to the very summit of the hill. In the direction from which Oliver had come, up the gentler incline of the southern slope, the view was narrowed by the woods and the orchard, showing only the long vista that led away toward the high ridge opposite and the blue dip of shining sea. On the eastern face of the hill, however, the ground fell away steeply to a sweep of river and a broad stretch of green farming country. It lays below like a vast sunken garden, with great square fields for lawns and clumps of full-leaved, rounded trees for shrubbery. The yellow-green of wheat and the blue-green of oats stretched out, a smooth expanse that rippled and crinkled as the wind and the sweeping shadow of a cloud went slowly down the valley. There were no country houses of high-walled, steep-roofed magnificence here, only comfortable farm dwellings with wide eaves and generous barns, a few with picturesque, pointed silos and slim, high-towering windmills. "Most of that farming land belongs to your Cousin Jasper," the Beeman said, while Oliver, too intent upon staring at the view below him, failed to wonder how he happened to know so much of their affairs. "That whole portion of the valley was waste, swampy ground at one time; it was an uncle of Jasper Peyton's who drained the land thirty years ago and built dikes to keep the river back. He arranged to rent it out to tenant farmers, for he said one man should own the whole to keep up the dikes and see that the stream did not come creeping in again. Medford River looks lazy and sleepy enough, but it can be a raging demon when the rains are heavy and the water comes up. Your cousin owns all of it still except for a portion up there at the bend of the stream. That has passed out of his hands lately. It is at the far end, on the last farm, that John Massey lives." Oliver from this vantage point could pick out the intricate succession of lanes and highroad that he must take to cross the river and reach John Massey's place, showing from here as only a dot of a gray house at the angle of the stream. The sunshine was very clear and hot over the valley below, but the oak tree spread its broad shadow all about them and bowed its lofty head to a fresh, salt-laden wind. "See how still the trees are along the river," said the Beeman, "but the oak tree is never quiet. The breeze comes past that gap in the hills, yonder where you can look through to the sea, and it seems never to stop blowing. So we call this place the Windy Hill." The three set off on their errand very gayly in the big car, although Polly and Janet, in the back seat together, were a little shy and silent at the very first. At the end of a mile, however, they were beginning to warm toward each other and had set up a brisk chatter before they had gone three. "I knew Janet would like Polly," Oliver was thinking. "She is the sort of girl I like myself, not like Cousin Eleanor. The kind that makes you feel that your clothes and your manners are all wrong and that you haven't anything to say--those are the girls I can't stand." He quite forgot that this harsh judgment of his unknown relative was not based upon any real evidence. When they reached the floor of the valley they found it as level as a table, with a straight road running from end to end, along which they sped in a whirling cloud of dust. Other cars passed them, driven by prosperous farmers, the growl and clatter of motor tractors sounded from the fields on either hand. Halfway up the valley the character of the places seemed to change, the houses had the look of needing paint, the weeds were taller along the fences, and there were no silos nor tractors to be seen. As they neared John Massey's house, the road came close to the river, with the high, grass-covered bank of earth that was the dike rising at their left as they drove along. They were obliged to stop where some horses were walking in the road ahead of them and seemed slow in making way. The big gray and brown creatures were dragging huge flat stones, each hooked to the traces with an iron chain, scuffling and scraping along in the dust. "I'm sorry," said the sunburned man who drove the last team, looking back to where the car waited in the road. "We'll make room in a minute, but the horses are doing all they can." "We are in no hurry," responded Oliver. "Where are you taking the stones and what are they for?" "To mend the dike, quite a way downstream. It takes a lot of patching to keep banks like these whole and strong, but they guard some valuable land. The dike looks as though it needed repairs up here at this end, but nobody does much to it. Mr. Peyton has us go over his section of the banks every year." The horses moved forward, leaving room for them to pass, and the car went on. John Massey's house was the last one at the end of the road, a little place with a roof that needed new shingles and with sagging steps leading up to the door. Oliver, with some difficulty, squeezed the big car through the gate and followed the rutty driveway to the open space behind the house. There was a stretch of grass, a well, two straggling apple trees, and a row of beehives. An inquisitive cow came to the gate of the barnyard and thrust her head over it to stare at them with the frank curiosity of a country lady who sees little of strangers. "Here is John Massey," said Polly, as a rather heavy-faced, shabby man with kindly blue eyes came out of one of the barns. "My father gave him some of these beehives and taught him how to make new ones. He is very clever at it, and it means a good deal to him to make ours, for he is very poor. He works very hard on his farm, but it never seems to be much of a success." The hives were brought out and paid for and stowed in the back of the car. Oliver was just making ready for the somewhat difficult feat of backing the car around in the narrow space between house and barn, when there came a rattling of wheels through the gate and a loud, rasping voice was heard calling for John Massey. "That's Mr. Anthony Crawford," said the farmer, who had been standing by the car admiring wistfully its shining sides and heavy tires. "He owns this place and he comes up here nearly every day to see how I'm farming it. I don't accomplish much with him always around to give me sharp words and never a dollar for improvements. I've told him a hundred times that the dike ought to be looked after this year or we'll be having a flood, but he always says he guesses it will hold. Yes, sir, I'm coming." The calls had grown too loud to be disregarded, although it was plain that John Massey was in no haste to obey the summons. In a moment the owner of the voice came jingling and rattling around the corner of the house, the same narrow-faced, gray-eyed man that Oliver had met on the road, driving the same bony, knock-kneed horse. "Whoa, there, whoa!" cried the driver, for the old white steed had caught sight of the car and was testifying to its dislike of it by grotesque prancings and sidlings that threatened to wreck the ramshackle trap. "Here, get out of my way!" he ordered Oliver, "that is, if you know how to handle that snorting locomotive that you think you're driving." Red with anger, Oliver started his engine and embarked upon a maneuver that was difficult at best, and, under the present unfavorable circumstances, proved to be nearly impossible. He turned the car half round, collided with a pigsty, backed into the barnyard fence, and narrowly missed taking a wheel off Anthony Crawford's decrepit wagon. That gentleman assisted the process with jeering remarks and criticisms, while Oliver grew redder and redder with fury and embarrassment. At last, however, the car was turned and stood for a moment in the driveway, facing the white horse which seemed to have resigned itself to the presence of the puffing monster and to be very reluctant to move. "I have got out of your way, now will you be good enough to get out of mine?" said Oliver very slowly, lest the rage within him should break out into open insult. In spite of his anger he could not help noticing that the man before him moved with a curious easy grace, and that when he smiled, with a white flash of teeth, he was almost attractive. It was impossible to deny that, except for his thin lips and his hard gray eyes, he was handsome. "He must be about Cousin Jasper's age," Oliver thought as he sat looking at him while the other stared in return. "I should like to pass," the boy persisted, since the other made no move. "So you shall, Mr. Oliver Peyton," returned the man, "only don't expect me to move as fast or as gracefully as you did. You wonder how I know your name, I suppose. Well, if that precious Cousin Jasper of yours and mine were a little more outspoken about his affairs, you would know all about me. If you want to know where I live, just look over the back wall of your cousin's garden. Do it some time when he isn't looking, for he doesn't love to think of what lies behind that wall where the fruit trees are trained so prettily and where the trees and shrubs grow so high." He had made way at last and the car moved forward, but he turned to shout a last bitter word after them. "If you want to know one of your Cousin Jasper's meanest secrets, look over the wall." CHAPTER IV THE GARDEN WALL It was very early when Oliver rolled out of bed next day, sleepy but determined. He had decided, at first, to pay no attention to Anthony Crawford's suggestion, made evidently with malicious purpose; he had, indeed, almost forgotten it by the time he and Janet reached home. But Janet had remembered, and she had brought up the question that evening as they went up to their own quarters rather later than usual, since Cousin Jasper had been sitting with them in the library and had seemed unwilling that they should leave him. "There is something very wrong in this house," declared Janet. "Hotchkiss doesn't know what it is, Mrs. Brown doesn't." "I think the Beeman knows," Oliver volunteered suddenly, although he could give no reason for his guess. "Anyway," pursued Janet, "some one ought to know, for some one ought to help Cousin Jasper. I am certain that he has no mean secrets, as Anthony Crawford said. And so I think one of us should climb up and look over the wall. It had better be you," she added wisely but regretfully, "because, if we both try it, some one is sure to see us." It was, therefore, Oliver who was stirring at sunrise, for his investigations must be made before any one else was up. He let himself out of the house very quietly and crossed the empty, silent garden. He had forgotten how beautiful a garden could be in the early morning with the dew shining on every grass tip and with the flowers all radiant in the vividness of color of newly created things. There were gay-colored beds below the terrace and long borders at each side of the house, then a wide stretch of grass behind the garage, and beyond that, back of the shrubs and the fruit trees and the thickly growing vines, was the wall. It was higher than the boundaries at the sides and front of Cousin Jasper's place, perhaps to afford a better surface for the grapevines and pear trees trained against it, perhaps for another reason. Oliver walked along it slowly, looking up at the smooth bricks and wondering how it was to be climbed. The more difficult it appeared the more determined he became to get to the top. In the middle of the wall behind a summerhouse stood a stout trellis, the support of an exceedingly thorny rose vine. Here, he decided, was the place to scramble up, but he must make haste, for people in the house would be waking and would see him. Carefully he set a foot upon the lowest bar, found that it would hold, and began mounting upward. There were trees beyond the wall, not the trimmed, well-kept kind that grew in Cousin Jasper's garden, but a scrubby growth of box elder and silver-leaved poplar such as spring up in myriads where the grass is never cut. Hanging over the top of the coping, he could peer through their branches and see a house beyond. He was astonished to see the shingled roof rising so close by, for he had not thought that they had neighbors who dwelt so near. The house was a square one of yellow stone, with overhanging eaves and small windows and an old-fashioned stoop in front, over which the roof came down in a long sweep. It must have been built a hundred years ago, he thought, and it might have seemed a charming, comfortable old place were it not so unutterably dejected and dingy. Its windows were cracked, the grass grew tall and ragged upon its lawns, a litter of rubbish lay about the back door, and the woodwork, that should have been white, was gray from want of paint. "It looks as though the people who lived in it just--didn't care," Oliver commented. "It is a nice old house, but it seems worn out and discouraged, somehow, like John Massey's cottage. I wonder who owns it." An open space between the dwelling and the wall had apparently once been a broad lawn, then had been plowed up for the planting of a patch of grain, and had at last been left as a neglected waste for weeds and brambles to flourish undisturbed. An old scarecrow still stood knee-deep in the tangled green, left there after the field had been abandoned, to drop slowly to pieces in the wind and rain. The grotesque figure, with its outstretched arms and hat set at a rakish angle, looked familiar for some incomprehensible reason. As Oliver clung to the wall, squinted through the leaves, and wondered why that should be, the mystery was suddenly solved. The door of the house opened with a squeak of rusty hinges and somebody came out on the step. It was Anthony Crawford. No wonder the scarecrow looked like its master, for it was wearing his old clothes, garments to which there always cling a vague resemblance to the person who once wore them. A child with very yellow hair came running out upon the doorstone, laughing aloud at some small joke of his very own. When he saw Anthony Crawford, however, he sobered suddenly and slipped back into the house without a sound. The man stood upon the step and stared, with narrowed, penetrating eyes, over toward the wall. The gables and chimneys of Cousin Jasper's big house must show through the trees from where he stood and, judging by the look with which he regarded them, it seemed that he hated the very roof that sheltered Jasper Peyton. The luxurious mansion was, in truth, a sharp contrast to the unkempt, gone-to-seed yellow farmhouse, although Oliver wondered whether, originally, the old stone dwelling had not been the more attractive of the two. He leaned forward to see plainer, made an unwise move, and attracted the attention of the man on the step. The boy flushed scarlet as their eyes met, for Anthony Crawford, without making a sound, went through a pantomime of an ecstasy of glee. He had evidently expected to arouse Oliver's curiosity by his suggestion the day before, and was overcome with ill-natured delight to catch him in the very act of satisfying it. With a mutter of angry words, Oliver dropped back into the garden. "I wasn't looking just because he told me to--I _wasn't_!" he kept repeating. As he walked toward the house he looked back more than once at the high wall, wondering at the things it hid. Here was squalid poverty almost under the windows of the great, handsome house where Cousin Jasper lived with everything that heart could desire. It was the poverty, too, of a member of his own family. Here was jealous enmity also, a hatred that seemed to point ominously to trouble before them, to all the harm that could be accomplished by an angry, unscrupulous man. No wonder Cousin Jasper looked changed, and haunted. What hold did Anthony Crawford have upon his cousin; why should one have so little and the other so much; why did that high wall forbid all intercourse with that strange neighbor? It was plain to Oliver at last that their night ride through lanes and crossroads had been necessary because the wall cut off any direct path, and that the goal of their expedition in the dark had been Anthony Crawford's sagging, one-hinged gate. The morning sun was rising higher, the cheerful sound of a grass cutter was going up and down the garden, and smoke was mounting from the kitchen chimney. With some care, lest he should be asked the cause of his scratched hands and torn sleeve, Oliver slipped into the house and sought his own room. He and Janet talked over all that he had seen, but they could make little of it and were, indeed, more mystified than ever. At intervals during the day, they kept coming back to the subject and were still talking of it that evening as they sat in the library with the long windows open upon the terrace and upon the flowering garden. They had come to no conclusion, however, when the study door opened and Cousin Jasper came toward them across the hall. He looked less troubled to-night, and was smiling as though he had been looking forward to this hour they were to spend together. Yet his face changed in a moment at the sound of rattling wheels on the drive, followed by the appearance of a troubled Hotchkiss at the door, with the reluctant question: "Will you see Mr. Crawford, sir?" The visitor had not waited, but came pushing in behind him. "We do not need to stand on ceremony," he said, "when it is all in the same family. These are your two guests, eh? You need not introduce them, we have met before. I saw the boy very recently, in fact; he seems to be an enterprising fellow and was conducting some investigations of his own. Well, well, we won't talk of it now." Oliver writhed inwardly under his sharp glance, but could muster no appropriate reply. He was thinking again that Anthony Crawford might have been handsome except for those restless gray eyes that were set too near together. Although his host was obviously anxious to lead him away to the study, the visitor planted himself in the middle of the library floor and stood his ground firmly. "Have you thought over my offer, Jasper?" he said. "Are you ready to give me my share, or shall I take all?" "I have given up what seemed your share," Jasper Peyton returned steadily, "and rather than quarrel with you further I would gladly give you all. But I believe to shut one's eyes to justice is wrong, even in such a matter as this." The other's calm broke suddenly under the force of ungovernable anger. "You will be sorry," he cried. "You will lose more than those fat acres by the river and this fine house where you hoped to live so happily--until I came. You won't give in, will you? Your high principles--or your stubbornness--will still hold you back from giving me what is mine? Then I can tell you that I will drag your good name down where my own stands, I will publish that disgrace of mine that you hushed up to save the family pride. You will have people looking into your own past; they will be saying, 'If one of the family was crooked, why not another?' There is always a pack of gossips and scandalmongers who are only too glad to snap at the heels of any prominent man. I will loose them all upon you, Jasper Peyton, every one." He stopped, perhaps to draw breath, while Cousin Jasper stood before him, very silent and very white. The man's narrow eyes turned first to Oliver who was bursting with unexpressed rage and then to Janet who was regarding him with astonished and horrified disapproval. "You do not like my way of talking?" he said to her. "I assure you that all I have said is the truth." "Then I should not think," she replied bluntly, "that you would have many friends if you often tell them the truth in just that way." "I have no friends," he declared. "Friends exist only to hurt you; it is my belief that men prosper better alone. Have no illusions, trust nobody, feel that every man's hand is against you, and then you will know where you stand. That is my policy. Your soft-hearted cousin, here--his one mistake is that he trusts every one, he likes everybody. He even trusts me a little, on very small evidence, I can assure you. He would hate me if he could, but, because we are of the same blood, he cannot even bring himself to do that. Eh, Jasper, am I not right?" "If you think you have said enough to these children," said Cousin Jasper, wincing, but still quiet, "perhaps we had better discuss this business further in some other room." "Very well," returned the other, quite good-tempered again. "I should be glad enough to have them hear the whole. But of course if there are some things that you do not wish known----" He walked away toward the study, quite at his ease, humming a tune and casting sharp, appraising glances about him as though the thought of ownership were already in his mind. The door beyond the hall closed behind them. "What a hateful man!" cried Janet, almost in tears. "Poor Cousin Jasper! And we can't do anything to help him." Oliver, equally miserable, stood at the window. The moon was coming up behind the trees, a great red moon just past the full, misshapen and lopsided, that seemed to be laughing at them. He stamped his foot in angry impotence. "And he doesn't seem to me even to believe in himself; it is as though he were playing a part, just showing off." He pointed through the window at the disgraceful cart and dejected old horse standing before the wide white steps. "I don't think he has to drive that wretched wagon at all. He just does it to make Cousin Jasper ridiculous." The session in the study was prolonged so late that in the end Janet and Oliver abandoned their sleepy effort to wait until Anthony Crawford should depart, and went dispiritedly upstairs to bed. "I have made up my mind to one thing," said Oliver firmly, as they reached the top of the stairs, "I am going to ask the Beeman what we ought to do. I feel as though I had known him always and I am sure he can help us." "But ought we to tell him Cousin Jasper's secrets?" objected Janet doubtfully, "and, by the way, what is his name? You never told me." "Why--I don't know it," exclaimed Oliver in a tone of complete astonishment. "I never even noticed that I didn't. It doesn't matter, I will ask him to-morrow. And you understand, from the first minute he speaks, that you can trust the Beeman." He went away to his room where, so it seemed to him, he had been asleep a long time before the rattle of wheels aroused him. He peered drowsily through the window and saw the old white horse with its lean, erect driver move slowly down toward the gate, long-shadowed and unreal in the moonlight, fantastic omens of some unknown mischief that was brewing. Next morning, as he and Janet left the car beside the orchard wall and climbed the grassy slope of the hill, Oliver's one misgiving was lest the Beeman should not be there. But yes, as they came up the steep path they heard voices and smelled the sharp, pleasant odor of wood smoke drifting down toward them. The wind was high to-day, singing and swooping about the hilltop, slamming the swinging door of the house, and scattering in all directions such bold bees as had ventured out to ride down the boisterous breeze to the honey-filled meadows below. Janet was as warmly welcomed as Oliver, and they were both bidden to come in and sit down beside the table where Polly was sorting the little wooden boxes in which the bees build the honeycomb. "We were just going to begin a story," said the Beeman. "Polly has been clamoring for it for half an hour." "But I wanted to ask you something," broke in Oliver, too much excited for good manners. "Couldn't you wait?" "I believe," said the Beeman slowly, giving him an odd glance that seemed to carry a message of complete understanding, "I believe that sometimes it is better, when you are troubled about something, to cool off and settle down, and come at an affair slowly. And I think this is one of the times." Oliver nodded. He felt quite sure that the Beeman was right. CHAPTER V THE GHOST SHIP Cicely Hallowell sighed deeply as she pushed away the heap of papers before her and brushed back the hair from her aching forehead. She was weary of her task and the room was growing dark and cold. She was beginning, moreover, to be uneasily conscious that the two men at the far end of the long table had forgotten her presence behind the pile of great ledgers and were talking of things that she was not meant to hear. Half an hour earlier her brother Alan had rushed in to see whether she were not ready for their afternoon ride and had been disappointedly impatient when she shook her head. "It is a glorious day, so cold and the roads so deep in snow. The horses are like wild things, and will give us a famous gallop up the valley. Oh, do come, Cicely." But no, she must stay in the big gloomy countinghouse, to finish the letters that she had promised to copy for her father, while Alan had flung off, saying over his shoulder, as he departed to take his ride alone: "It is very wrong to miss fun and adventure by toiling and moiling here. Think how the sea will look and how the blasts will be blowing over our Windy Hill!" The place seemed very cheerless and empty after he had gone. The long windows gave little light on that gray winter afternoon, and the big fireplace with its glowing logs was at the far end of the room. There were shadows already on the shelves of heavy ledgers lining the walls, and on the rows of ship's models all up and down the sides of the big countingroom. Those lines of dusty volumes held records that Alan was forever reading, tales of wonderful voyages, of spices and gold dust and jewels brought home from the Orient, of famines in far lands broken by the coming of American grain ships, of profits reckoned in ducats and doubloons and Spanish pieces of eight. Cicely was fond of drawing and loved, far more than copying dull letters, to make sketches of those miniature vessels in the glass cases that stood for the Hallowell ships that had scoured the oceans of the world. They had been wrecked on coral reefs in hot, distant seas, they had lain becalmed with priceless cargoes in pirate-infested waters, their crews were as skillful with the long guns as they were at handling the sails, their captains were as at home in Shanghai or Calcutta as they were in the streets of the little seaport town where they had been born. Cicely could remember when the big countingroom had been crowded with clerks and had hummed like a beehive with the myriad activities of the Hallowell trade. It was a dull and empty place now, and the fleet of Hallowell ships was scattered, some lying at anchor, some dismantled and sold, some fallen into the hands of the enemy. For this was the third year of that struggle with England that the histories were to call the War of 1812. Cicely, for all her thirteen years, looked very small, sitting there at the end of the long table, in her "sprigged" high-waisted gown, her feet in their strapped slippers perched on the rung of the high office stool. She had just taken up her pen to begin writing again when the voices of the two men by the fire rose so suddenly that she dropped it, startled. Her father's tone fell almost immediately to strained quiet, but Martin Hallowell, his partner, went on with angry insistence. She knew him to be hot-headed and impetuous, but she had never heard such words from him before. With a quick, eager motion that was the embodiment of impatient greed, Martin was running his finger down the columns of the ledger before him. "There is no ship like a privateer, and no privateer like the _Huntress_," he was saying. "Send her on one more voyage and we shall be rich men." There was an ugly tremor in his voice, that quavered and broke in spite of his attempts to keep it calm. "I do not care to be one of those who gathers riches from a war," returned Reuben Hallowell, Cicely's father. There was something in the dry calm of his answer that seemed to stir Martin to uncontrollable anger. "It is like you, Reuben Hallowell," he said, "to be willing to ruin my plans by your foolish scruples just when a real prize is within reach. But I vow you shall not do it. You shall be a wealthy man in spite of yourself, and let me remind you that, two years ago, before we built the _Huntress_, you were a precious poor one." The Hallowell partners were not brothers, but cousins, with Cicely's father much the older of the two. They had inherited the business from their fathers, for such an ill-assorted pair would never have been joined together from choice. Many of their discussions ended in stormy words, but never before had Martin's dark face showed such white-hot, quivering rage as when he arose now, gathered up his papers, and went away to his own room, closing the door smartly behind him. Cicely got up also and went down the long countingroom to where her father sat by the fire. "I heard what you and Cousin Martin were saying," she told him hesitatingly, "I am afraid you did not remember that I was there. But it does not matter, for I did not understand what Cousin Martin was so angry about." "There is no reason why you should not understand," her father replied, rather slowly and wearily, she thought, "although sometimes I am not certain that I understand these troubled times myself. Across the seas the Emperor Napoleon, a long-nosed, short-bodied man of infinite genius for setting the world by the ears, has been warring with England for the last ten years and more. He and the British, with their blockades and embargoes and Orders in Council have long been striving to ruin each other, yet have achieved their greatest success in ruining a peaceable old gentleman in America who relies on his ships to bring him a livelihood. To oppress neutral shipping leads in the end to war, although I vow that often Congress must have felt that it should toss up a penny to determine whether the declaration should be against France or England. Some stubborn British minister, however, decided to countenance the stealing of sailors from our ships to fill up the scanty crews of their own navy, and a stubborn British nation felt that it must back him, so in the end the war was with England." "And have we not won many glorious victories?" asked Cicely. "Ay, there have been victories; out of her fleet of seven hundred and thirty sail, England has lost a handful to us and we have shown how small our navy is and how great is its spirit. There have been passages of arms on land, also, of which we do not love to talk. And we have sent out our privateer vessels, armed ships that prey upon England's commerce, yet do not belong to our navy. They have done great things, have cut deep into England's overseas trade, and have brought home many a valuable prize to fill the pockets of their owners. Such a vessel is our _Huntress_, built at your Cousin Martin's instigation and launched at the moment when our fortunes were at their lowest ebb. Since we had not sufficient funds to equip her, nearly every one in this town put money into her, from John Harwood the minister down to Jack Marvin who digs our garden. It was a patriotic venture and a risky one, but she has brought home great profits in prize money and our own share has reëstablished the firm of Hallowell. Your Cousin Martin says that one more voyage will bring us not only profit, but real wealth. But I say," he struck his hand suddenly upon the table, "I say that there shall not be another." "Why?" The question was startled from Cicely by his sudden vehemence, yet it was not from him that she was to receive the answer. The door opened to admit Martin Hallowell, who had come back, apparently, for a last word. "You say," he began at once, "that the _Huntress_ needs refitting and cannot be made seaworthy in less than a month?" His partner nodded. "I say that she shall sail in a week," declared Martin. "And I say no," cried Reuben Hallowell. "You say, too, that the war is nearly over, that the Peace Commission is sitting at Ghent, and that rumors are coming home that they are near to an agreement. That is your excuse for wishing to keep our privateers at home. You are a foolish and an overscrupulous man, Reuben Hallowell, for I say that such a reason makes all the more haste for her to be gone. We should reap what profit we can while there is yet time." He leaned forward, his dark, eager face close to theirs, all caution forgotten in the intensity of his purpose. "Once at sea the _Huntress_ is beyond reach of tidings or orders. If she should take her last and richest prizes a little after peace has been declared, who will ever know it?" He was silent and stood staring at them with unwavering, defiant eyes. Cicely could hear her sharply drawn breath as she waited for her father to answer. "We are partners no longer, Martin Hallowell," he said. "We were not born to work together and it is clear that we have come to the parting of the ways. To-morrow we will make division of our holdings, for I tell you plainly that I will have no more to do with you and your dishonest schemes." "It shall be as you say," Martin agreed, quick to press home an advantage. "And since it was I who urged the building and launching of the _Huntress_, it is only proper that she should fall to my share. She shall sail this day week, as I have told you. And you, my dear cousin, for your effort to stop her, shall soon be a most regretful man." He went out, this time closing the door very gently behind him. The echoes of his vague threat seemed to hang in the great room long after he was gone. "What--what can he do?" questioned Cicely. Her father, with a visible effort, answered cheerfully, "An angry man loves to threaten, but we have naught to fear from him. And now," he gathered the big ledger under his arm, "I must work for a little in the countingroom and then we will go home." Cicely, left alone, went back to fetch her letters and stopped for a moment at one of the long windows to look down upon the harbor where the _Huntress_ dipped and swayed at anchor, a stately, beautiful thing that seemed to quiver with life as she rocked in the choppy seas, her shimmering reflection, beginning to be colored by the sunset, rocking and dancing with her. "Oh, I must draw it," cried Cicely, catching up a sheet of fresh paper. "If only the light holds and the ship does not swing round with the tide!" The minutes passed while she worked eagerly, but finally was forced to lay down her pencil, unable to see more in the dusk. The door flew open and some one came in with the impulsive rush that belonged only to her brother Alan. "What, Cicely, still here and trying to draw in the dark? Let me see what you have done," he exclaimed. He lit a candle and examined the paper. "I vow, that is good. Oh, Cicely, that _Huntress_ is a wonderful ship!" For some reason there was a cold clutch at Cicely's heart. "Yes?" she answered faintly. "I have just had such a talk with Cousin Martin," the boy went on excitedly. "I did not quite understand the way of it, but he said that he and my father were to divide, and that the _Huntress_ was to be his own, entire. He wants me to go with her on her next voyage. He says the war is not nearly done and that there will be many months of fighting and prize-taking still. He thinks a great fellow of sixteen like me should have been a ship's officer long ago, and I think so, too. What a good fellow Cousin Martin is!" Alan admired his elder cousin greatly, Cicely well knew, and he had, indeed, a touch of the same excitable, headstrong nature. She could well understand how Martin Hallowell had dazzled the boy with tales of what he would see and do. Had there been such a plan in her cousin's mind when he first uttered his threat against her father? Or had it only flashed upon him as he met Alan running up the stairs, eager, vigorous, and ready for any adventure? "It is all arranged," declared Alan, "except just to tell my father." "No, no," she cried wildly, but he did not even listen. "I will go in and speak to him now," he said. She could not even cry out as the door closed behind him. Alan had his father's stern and steady pride, but there were differences of temperament that led to frequent clashes of will between them. Reuben Hallowell loved both his motherless children, but he understood his son less well than his daughter. What would be the result of that interview, Cicely wondered, sitting quaking beside the candle that burned so lonely in the gloom. Would her father know how to be firm and patient, how to undo the harm that Martin Hallowell had wrought? It seemed, as she sat there, shivering, that she could not endure the suspense. She had not long to wait. The door banged open and Alan stood for a moment on the threshold. "My father forbids my sailing on the _Huntress_. I have told him I should go in spite of him," he said. He walked away along the corridor and down the stone steps, his feet quicker and lighter than Martin Hallowell's but his footsteps sounding, in some vague, terrible way, like his cousin's as he strode out and down the stairs. Her father came in a moment later. "You should have been at home long since this, my child," was all he said, and they went out together, without further talk of the matter, into the sharp air of the snowy night. At the corner of the steep, narrow street, Cicely caught sight of Martin Hallowell talking to a man whom she recognized as an old seaman who had sailed for years upon the Hallowell ships. Something Martin had said must have angered the sailor, for he was talking loudly, regardless of who might hear. "No," the old man was saying, "there's not every one in the world will do your bidding, though you may think so. You can defy the old one and talk over the young one to go your way, but there's one man will not sail on any ship of yours and that's Ben Barton. I'll starve ashore first." Cicely's quick ear caught his words as she and her father passed by on the other side of the snow-muffled street. It did not seem that Reuben Hallowell had heard. One day passed, two, three, four days, and Cicely's one thought was that the _Huntress_ was to sail in seven. Workmen were swarming all over her like bees, hammering, calking, and painting, yet it was plain that they could not do in a week what needed a month to finish. Alan was at the wharf all day, holding frequent conferences with his cousin. Reuben Hallowell went to and fro among the townspeople, urging them to say that the ship in which they were part owners must abide at home. But either because they were less sure of peace than he, or because their eyes were blinded by past good fortune and hopes of future gain, they would not listen. Between father and son no words were passed, since each was waiting for the other's stubborn pride to give way. On the fifth day Cicely had gone out to ride, on a clear, snowy afternoon, with the white world shining before her and with the highway iron-hard under the horses' feet. She missed Alan sorely, for this was their favorite road, up the valley to the west of the town, as far as the round bare hill with the single oak tree that they liked to call theirs. The servant with her had dropped behind, and she was just turning her horse into the bypath leading to the hill when she saw a sturdy figure coming down the slope. The brown face, tattooed hands, and the small bundle of possessions done up in a blue handkerchief could only be a sailor's, a sailor who proved to be Ben Barton. "I'm going to the next seaport to find another berth, since I've refused to sail on the _Huntress_," he explained in answer to her questions. "Mr. Martin has had to get a new skipper and a new crew, for none of the old hands would sail when they heard it was against your father's wishes. There was a bark came in from Delaware to be laid up for repairs, with mostly Swedes aboard, and they have manned the _Huntress_ from her. The ship is to sail on Friday at midnight, with the turning tide, but she goes without Ben Barton." He dropped his voice and came nearer. "I will tell you this--though I should not," he said. "There's some one to join at the last minute, who will get into a boat waiting at the wharf in the dark, some one you love, miss, who ought to be stopping ashore with the rest of us. You should find some way to keep him back." "Oh, if I only could!" she cried. "There's only you can do it," he answered. "Hallowell blood can only be ruled by Hallowell blood, as we say on Hallowell ships. Well, I'll be going on again. I had climbed the path, there, to take one more look at the harbor, where you can see it between the hills. Maybe your father will find a place for me when his vessels go to sea for trade again, and I'll never forget him nor you, Miss Cicely. Do you remember how you and your brother once hid under the wharf, and called out from that echoing place as though you were lost souls out of the sea? There was one honest old sailorman that nearly lost his wits for terror, since we seafaring folk have no love for ghosts. Mark my words, there will no good come to the _Huntress_ from setting sail of a Friday. For that alone I would stay ashore though there's other things to hold me, too." He strode away down the snowy road, leaving Cicely, smiling at first at the recollection of that game that had so frightened him when she and her brother had played at ghosts, then grave in a moment when she thought how soon that brother was to be gone. On Friday, the day after to-morrow, he would sail unless she could stop him. But how could she? The next day she made the desperate effort of appealing to her father, but quite in vain. Reuben Hallowell would not believe either that the _Huntress_ would sail or that his son would go with her. "And if Alan wishes to cut himself off from his own people forever, let him," he said finally, unable to endure the thought that any one should dare to defy his will. Friday came, the shadows of Friday night stole through the big house, yet nothing had been done. Cicely sat by the fire in her chintz-hung bedroom, leaning back against the flowered cushion of the big armchair, gazing into the flames. In the next room she could hear vague sounds of Alan's preparations, feet going to and fro, a door opening and closing, a pair of heavy boots dropped upon the floor. The night was dark outside, with a blustering wind and occasional flurries of snow that struck sharply against the window. It was ten o'clock. The sounds had ceased as though Alan had finished making ready and was waiting, perhaps sitting silent in the dark, perhaps lying down for an hour or two of sleep before the fateful hour of the high tide. Cicely heard her father, below, barring the door, putting out the candles, making ready for a night that would surely bring him no sleep. Presently he passed her door, glanced inside, and came in to stand for a minute beside her fire. How worn he had grown to look just within the space of this last week! He said scarcely a word; it was as though his unhappiness merely craved company and shrank from the knowledge of what the night might bring. At last he said, "You should be in bed. Good night, my dear." As he went out he turned to look back at her with a glance of haggard, helpless misery. It was as though he said: "My pride has bound and stifled me. I cannot speak a word to stop him, but won't you, can't you, persuade him, somehow, not to go?" Very carefully and without a sound, Cicely rose and went to her closet, to take down her warm fur cloak. She had realized, in the moment of seeing her father's pleading look, that she had a plan, one that had been in her mind ever since the day that she had talked with Ben Barton. What she had really lacked was courage to put it into execution. Yet now, as she drew the cloak about her and pulled down her hood, her hands did not even tremble, nor did her determination falter. The house was absolutely still as she stole noiselessly down the stairs and slipped out of the door. For a girl who had almost never been allowed upon the street alone, the wintry night should have been full of terrors, but to Cicely they meant nothing. As she ran down the steep High Street with the gale blustering behind her, she saw things that she had never believed existed--a burly waterman quarreling with his wife behind a dirty lighted window, the open door of a tavern showing a candle-lit room with a crowd of shouting sailors drinking within, a furtive black shadow that skulked into an alleyway and remained there, silent and hidden, as she passed. She reached the wharves at last, where the wind was stronger and where the waves slapped and dashed against the barnacled piles, throwing their spray against the windows of the locked warehouses. Even now she did not hesitate. She ran, a gray, flitting form, across the open space at the head of the wharf and disappeared. There was a wait of a few minutes, then came the dip of oars through the dark and the sound of men's voices talking above the high wind. Martin Hallowell was coming ashore in the boat that was to carry Alan away. Beyond them, the lights of the _Huntress_ showed where she was getting up sail. Martin made the landing with some difficulty, climbed the ladder to the wharf, and stood bracing himself against the heavy wind. "We are a little early," he said. "Hold fast there with the boat hook. He will be here in a----" His voice was drowned by a strange sound, an unearthly wailing that seemed to rise from the water beneath, but which filled the air until there was no saying from what direction it came. It lifted and dropped, hung sobbing and echoing above the water, then died away. "Holy St. Anthony help us!" cried the nearest sailor. "It is the soul of some poor drowned creature caught among the weeds." "Give way," roared the man at the rudder, and with one accord the oars dropped into the water. "Stop, wait! It--it is nothing, you fools," cried Martin Hallowell, but his own voice quavered with terror, and carried little reassurance to the frightened men. The boat hung doubtfully a ship's length from the pier, the oars dipping to hold it into the wind, the men hesitating, ashamed of their terror yet fearing to come closer. Again the cry broke forth, resounding again and again, mingling in terrible, ghostly fashion with the splashing and gurgling of the water. The boat shot away into the dark, just as Alan came running down the wharf, shouting to them to come back. The sailors, however, bent to their oars, unheeding; the lantern in the stern dipped and jerked as they rowed away, and the light finally went out of sight as the boat drew alongside the _Huntress_. It was just possible to make out the big ship as she weighed anchor and, rolling and plunging, moved slowly out into the tideway. "She's gone--without me!" cried Alan. "Oh, they might have come back, the cowards!" "Did you hear that--that terrible sound?" asked Martin Hallowell. In a second's pause between the breaking of two waves, it was possible to hear his teeth chatter. "Terrible!" cried Alan in disgust. "That was only my sister Cicely, hiding under the wharf. It was a game we once played to frighten Ben Barton. Come out," he ordered sternly, kneeling down and thrusting an arm into the dark space to help her. Out Cicely came, wet and shivering, with her hair streaked with mud and her hands scratched and cut by the sharp barnacles. Her face showed white in the dark as she looked up appealingly at her brother, but he turned from her without a sign. Before she could follow him, Martin Hallowell had seized her by the arm. "You?" he cried. "You?" He shook her until she was dizzy, until the dark, windy world spun before her eyes, he cried out at her with a terrible voice and with words that she only half understood. All the rage stored up within him during his bitter struggle to get his ship under way, all the baffled hopes of his small-spirited revenge, all the shame for his recent terror broke forth into blind fury against the girl who had stood in his way. "I will teach you," he shouted, grasping her arm tighter until she winced with pain, "I will show you that you can't----" His words were cut short by a stinging blow across the mouth from which he staggered back, dropping Cicely's arm and staring in gaping astonishment at his assailant. "That is my sister," said Alan, very stiff and quiet and suddenly very like his father. "Whatever she has done you are not to touch her. She has ruined my chance of sailing with the _Huntress_, but at least she has shown me what--what you are, Martin Hallowell." With his arm about Cicely, Alan went down the pier, while Martin, confounded and silenced, stood staring after them. The two said nothing as they climbed the High Street, although much must have been passing in the boy's mind. As he pushed open their own door and came into the dusky hallway he spoke for the first time. "Can you wait here by the fire a minute, Cicely? I am going up first to--to tell my father what a fool I have been." * * * * * The weeks of winter passed, news came that peace had been signed on Christmas Eve, one after another the ships of war came straggling home. Some had taken prizes, all had been harried by the winter storms--and none brought news of the _Huntress_. One Carolina vessel that put in for repairs told of picking up a crew adrift in boats and of setting them aboard a ship bound for Chesapeake Bay and the coast of Delaware. "They were most of them Swedes," the sailors told Alan, "and they were not very willing to talk of the ship they had lost, but it might have been the _Huntress_." Reuben Hallowell was straining all his resources to send his idle ships to sea and to reëstablish the trade of peace. Yet when he urged his fellow townsmen to strive to gain the commerce America had lost, lest it be gone forever, they still hung back. "We must know first where we stand," they said. "There is hope still that we have not lost the _Huntress_ and that she will come to port with fortune for us all." A stormy February passed and there came at last a gusty day of March. It was a Sunday, with the air clean after a shower, and with all the townspeople moving down the High Street from their churches at the hour of noon. There had been a tempest of wind and rain, but it had cleared leaving the waters still gray but with the sky turning to blue. Cicely was among the first, walking with her father and brother, and had stopped, as they came to their own door, to glance down at the harbor laid out in a circle of moving blue water below them. "Oh, look, look!" she cried suddenly. A ship was sailing slowly up the bay, a stately ship that dipped a little and rose again as she came, but held her course steady for the wharves. Her sails shone white in the fitful sun, the lines of her hull showed dark against the gray water, the tracery of her rigging and even the colors of her flag were distinct against the sky, and yet--she did not seem like any ship they had ever seen before. Cicely having drawn that vessel, line for line, masts, hull, ropes, and spars, knew that this was the _Huntress_, yet what was so strange about her? Why was she so steady in those changing gusts of wind, what was there that made her sails so shining and transparent, like the texture of a cloud? The girl was aware that, among the crowd that had gathered to watch the strange vision, Martin Hallowell was pushing to the front, gazing with all his eyes. Ben Barton, too, who had come back the week before, to ask for a place on Reuben Hallowell's ships, was pressing close to Alan's elbow. "The wind's dead off shore and here she comes straight in," she heard the old sailor mutter. "Not even the _Huntress_ could sail like that. And yet it is the _Huntress_ right enough." The vessel came nearer and nearer, then of a sudden stopped, quivered, as though struck by a violent adverse wind. Her main topsail blew out suddenly and went streaming forth in the gale, a jib split to ribbons before their eyes, and spar after spar was carried away. She careened, as though before a hurricane, her foremast came down with a soundless smother of sail and wreckage. Further and further she tilted, and then suddenly she had vanished and there was nothing left but the March sunshine and the tossing, empty bay. The crowd stood breathless, waiting for some one to speak. It was only Ben Barton who was able to find his voice. "I've heard of such things before," he said. "The wise skippers all say it is a mirage, but the wiser sailormen say it is a message from another world. She's gone, our _Huntress_ is, and there's no wind under heaven will ever blow her home again." Martin Hallowell had swung on his heel and was walking away down the street facing the fact, finally, that his venture was at an end. A tall man with dangling watch seals edged up to Cicely's father. "I am satisfied at last, Reuben Hallowell, that our ship is lost," he said. "We did wrong to wait for war to make our fortunes, and it is high time that we went back to the lesser risks and the smaller gains of peace. Will you let me join in lading your next vessel? You are the only man among us who has known when a war ends and peace begins." "I'm thinking there will be some tall ships sailing out of this port soon," said Ben Barton, speaking low to Cicily and Alan. "It will be on a better craft than the _Huntress_ even that your brother will be officer before long. What seas we'll cruise, he and I, and what treasures we'll bring back to you, Miss Cicely. I'd go with the son of Reuben Hallowell to the ends of the earth--if only he never asks me to put to sea of a Friday!" CHAPTER VI JANET'S ADVENTURE Throughout the telling of the story, Polly and Janet had been very busy sorting and putting together the little honey boxes that were to be set in larger frames and hung in the upper story of the beehives. There was now such a great heap of them ready that the Beeman gathered them into a basket and, summoning Oliver to help him, carried them outside. He did not, immediately, go down the slope to the beehives, but set the basket on the step and sat down on the bench beside it. "You had something to tell me," he said, "something that disturbed and excited you. I thought it might be better for you to wait a little. I should like to hear it now." "Yes, it is clearer in my head now," Oliver agreed. "It is about my Cousin Jasper that we are visiting. I want to help him, though"--he smiled at the recollection, yet made frank confession--"that first day I was here I was so angry I almost hated him." "If I thought that were true," responded his friend gravely, "I should have to ask you never to come here again, not only because I am fond of your cousin myself, but because I value my bees. There is an old superstition that you must not hate where bees are, for they feel it and pine away and die. I cannot have my bees destroyed." The boy, looking up quickly at his broad, friendly smile, realized that the man believed neither the old superstition, nor that Oliver entertained any evil feelings. "Perhaps," went on the Beeman, "the bees were in some danger that first day. You had it in mind, then, to go away for good, I think." Oliver nodded. He wondered how he could ever have made that selfish resolution to run away. "How did you know?" he asked. "I had guessed it from--oh, various things. I am about the age of your Cousin Jasper, but I know more than he about people of your years from being Polly's father. I even had some idea of what was the immediate cause of your going." The boy flushed so guiltily that he went on, in kindly haste, "I am troubled about Jasper Peyton myself--yes, don't look surprised, I know him well enough to call him that. We all know one another in Medford Valley. I--I even work for him sometimes. Now tell me what you think is wrong." Oliver, as he set forth his tale, had a feeling that not all of it was new to his listener, but he hearkened attentively to all that the boy had to say, frowning when he heard of Anthony Crawford's insistent and disagreeable visits. "Your cousin doesn't know how to deal with a man like that," he commented. "He is too upright himself to know the mean, small, underhand ways that such a person will take to get what he wants. I know Anthony Crawford, too, and what he is trying to accomplish. It will take all of us, every one, to beat him. But we will, Oliver, I vow we will." "What can we do, what can I do?" the boy persisted. He felt ready to accomplish great things at once. "And can't you explain to me what it is all about?" To his great disappointment, the other shook his head. "I feel that if your cousin does not wish to tell you himself, I ought not to," he said, "though I should like you to know. But there are two things that you can do. One is not to be impatient with your cousin when he makes tactless mistakes about--about how you are to be entertained. He depends on you and Janet for a little cheerfulness in his house." "That isn't much to do," observed Oliver. "I hope the other is more." "It is only this. To borrow a boat from John Massey--can you manage a sailboat? Good, I thought you looked like the sort of boy who could--and take a cruise up and down Medford River where it skirts that level farming land in the valley. I want you to bring me word of how the dikes are holding. You may not see what bearing that has upon the matter, but I assure you it means a great deal. Anthony Crawford thinks that he is a very clever man, but he is preparing a pitfall for himself, unless I am very much mistaken. And you and I may be at hand to see him tumble into it. The only thing is to see that he doesn't harm others as well as himself." Oliver had one more question to ask. "I want to know your last name, and Polly's," he said. "I can't think how you knew mine and I had quite forgotten to wonder about yours until Janet reminded me that I had never heard it. I have no name for you but the Beeman." "If you want a longer name for Polly, you can call her Polly Marshall," his friend answered, "but as for me I rather like being called the Beeman. We will keep to that title a little longer if you are willing. And now it is high time that I gave some attention to my bees." Oliver had no difficulty, later in the day, in borrowing the sailboat from John Massey, although he was obliged to give the vague message, "that man who keeps bees up the hill said you would lend her to me." "Sure, I will," replied John Massey heartily. "Just be careful you don't go aground on the bars. The river is shallow for this time of year, though it can be pretty fierce when the floods are up." Oliver shook out the shabby sail, set the rudder for a long tack downstream, and was off. The breeze was coming in gentle puffs, so that the boat moved slowly through the water, the ripples making a sleepy whisper under the bow and the tiller, now and then, jerking lazily under his hand. One side of the stream was marshy so that he pushed into tall grass and cat-tails and startled an indignant kingfisher who was dozing on a dead tree. The bird went skimming off, a flash of blue and white that he followed as he came about. On the other side, the current ran close beside the high banks of earth that protected the fields within. The channel was scoured deep and the restless stream was cutting into the dikes, washing long black scars just above the water line. "That oughtn't to be," pronounced Oliver, and was glad to see that, farther downstream, the carving away of the earth had been stopped by patches of broken stone. For at least a mile, however, at the bend of the river, the banks were crumbling and neglected. He could look up and see, first the farms of the low-lying land, the treetops and pointed silos just showing above the dike, then the hillside, with the wavering white line of the road, then that strange, shabby dwelling of yellow stone almost hidden in its cluster of trees. Above it showed Cousin Jasper's house, very big and red, set upon the slope almost at the top of the ridge. On the other side of the stream there were fewer dwellings, the wooded slope rising to the more open green of the orchard and then to the grassy declivity of the Windy Hill. As he neared the bridge he passed a long gray stone house with its gardens a glowing mass of color that came down to the water's very edge. This, he remembered, was the abode of Cousin Eleanor, and he laughed at himself as, even at this safe distance, he steered his course very cautiously along the opposite bank. At the bridge he was obliged to turn, and run before the wind to make his way upstream again. He lay stretched out comfortably along the rail, paying little attention to the boat and thinking of many things. There was Cousin Jasper--how Oliver had misjudged him that day he thought of running away. His cousin had been tactless and stubborn, but the Cousin Eleanor affair had been well meant, after all. "I'll never meet her, though. I won't give in," he declared, almost aloud, and realized, in a breath, that his persistence and Cousin Jasper's were both cut from the same piece. "I'm sorry for him and I'll help him," he told himself, "and perhaps he will learn something about boys after a while." And there was Anthony Crawford! He flushed again as he thought of the man's gleeful delight when he had caught him looking over the wall. What power could he have, and what was the disgrace of which he had spoken? The Beeman was almost as mysterious as the others also; he had certainly managed to evade the question when Oliver had asked his name. "The only one that there isn't a mystery about is Polly," he declared as he came to John Massey's little landing and rounded with a sweep to the boat's mooring. Meanwhile Janet, who had been left to her own devices, had stumbled into an adventure of her own. She had made ready to go with her brother, but Cousin Jasper had called her to look at some new roses and had delayed her so long that the impatient Oliver had finally gone without her. When Cousin Jasper had returned to the house, she wandered rather disconsolately up and down the hedged paths and, finally coming to the big gate, she stood looking out. The road stretched away invitingly across the hillsides, the sleepy stillness of the afternoon was broken only by the occasional drone of a motor and by the grinding wheels of a big hay wagon that labored along the highway in the dust. She walked out along the road, thinking that she would find a vantage point to look down to the river and see how Oliver was faring. The way presently crossed an open ridge whence she could see the smooth stream and the sail creeping slowly out from the green shore. For some time she stood watching its progress, wishing vainly that she might have gone, until she became suddenly aware that some one was staring at her. Turning, she saw that a child with very yellow hair and very round blue eyes was sitting between two alder bushes on the edge of a ditch, gazing at her intently. "What are you doing?" she asked, astonished, for the youngster, a square little boy of four or five years old, seemed far too small to be on the road alone. "I was wishing I could go home," he answered. There was a slight quivering of his chin as he spoke, as though the problem was rather a desperate one, but he was determined not to cry. "I was wishing on that hay wagon when it went by," he explained sedately. "I shut my eyes so I wouldn't see it again and break the luck, and when I opened them, you were there." He climbed over the ditch and came to her side to tuck his hand confidently into hers. There seemed to be no doubt in his mind that she would take him home. "Can you show me where you live?" she asked as they went along together. "Oh, yes," he answered cheerfully. "There was a cow eating beside the road, and I passed it once, but it looked at me so hard when I went by that I was afraid to go back. I'll show you." They walked along for some distance, he tramping sturdily by her side and chattering contentedly, giving her all sorts of miscellaneous and unsought information, that his name was Martin, that he had a little brother, that the brother was crying when he went away from home, that his mother was crying a little, too, that they had a red calf in the barn, and that there was a scarecrow in the field beside their house. He led her into a crossroad, then down a narrow, shady lane, where, as he had said, there was a mannerly old black cow grazing beside the way, who came to the end of her tether rope to greet them. "I'm not afraid with you here," young Martin asserted boldly, and was even persuaded to pat the smooth black and white face of the friendly creature while Janet fed her a handful of clover. When they reached a broken-hinged gate at the end of the lane, the girl began to realize that she was coming to the same place that Oliver had described to her. She stopped, feeling that she would rather not go on, but the little boy tugged at her hand. "My father isn't here," he told her, as though some unhappy knowledge of his father's character made him understand her hesitation, "and my mother's crying." With some reluctance, Janet pushed open the gate and went in. A faded, shabbily dressed woman sat on one of the unpainted benches of the shady stoop, holding a baby in her arms. As Martin had said, slow tears of helpless misery were rolling down her cheeks, while from the bundle that she held came the worn-out, tired wail of a sick child. "I don't know much, but I would like to help you," Janet said, sitting down beside her, while the woman choked with a fresh gush of tears at the unexpected offer of aid and sympathy. "I don't dare put the baby down, he cries so," she managed to say at last. "Could you go into the kitchen and heat some water and bring out the blanket that I hung up to warm? I don't doubt the fire is out by now, but I haven't been able to move for fear he would begin choking again. Do you think you can manage?" Janet managed very well, with Martin trotting at her heels to tell her where things could be found. She heated the water, warmed the blankets, and even rummaged out the tea caddy and brewed a cup of hot tea for the weary mother. "You are a real blessing, my dear," said the woman as she put down the empty cup. "This boy has been sick with croup all night and I had quite forgotten that I had no breakfast." "Has his father gone for the doctor?" Janet asked, as she brought out a cushion for the baby, who seemed to be quieter now and almost ready to drop asleep. "No," replied the woman briefly. She offered no explanation. It was evidently not a thing to be expected that Anthony Crawford should take an interest in an ailing child. As Janet went back and forth, she was struck by the surprising charm that the old house showed within, quite out of keeping with its littered door-yard and outward disrepair. The white woodwork had gone long unpainted, it was true, and the floors were worn and uneven, but there was an airy spaciousness in the rooms, a comfortable dignity in the old mahogany furniture, and the grace of real beauty in the curved white staircase with its dark, polished rail. Everything was spotlessly clean, from the faded rag rugs to the cracked panes of the windows. The kitchen was, to her, the place of chief delight, for it ran all across the back of the house, with a row of low windows wreathed in ivy and commanding a wide view across the meadow lands beside the river. There was a modern cooking stove at one end of the room, a cheap, hideous, ineffective affair, but at the other was still the old fireplace, with its swinging crane, its warming cupboards, and its broad, stone-flagged hearth. The baby was so much better that his mother was actually able to smile and to lean back contentedly in the corner of the bench. "He is better off out here in the air," she said. "I believe he will be able to sleep in a little while. Now if I just had a strip of flannel to wrap around his chest! You would have to go up into the garret to look for it, and maybe rummage in one or two of the boxes. But I believe there should be some in the big cedar chest back under the eaves." Guided by the faithful Martin, Janet climbed the stairs to the garret, where, in the warm, dusty air that smelled of hot shingles and lavender, she went poking about, seeking the roll of flannel that Mrs. Crawford assured her was there. She could find everything else in the world--old clocks, spindle-legged chairs, a high-backed, mahogany sofa, and a spinning wheel. At last she discovered what she needed in a box far under the eaves, but in pulling it out so that she could raise the lid, she knocked down a row of pictures that leaned against it. She bent to pick them up and set them in order again, then stopped to stare at them with a gasp of delighted astonishment. Janet loved beautiful things, especially pictures, and she could be sure, at one glance, that these were pictures such as one does not often see. She remembered being taken by her father to a famous gallery to see a landscape so much akin to the one before her that they had undoubtedly been painted by the same artist, a green hillside with sailing clouds above it, on a clear October day, "the sort that makes you feel that you can see a hundred miles," as Janet put it. There was another, a winding white road running up a wind-swept valley with the trees bowing to a storm and a spatter of rain slanting across the hill, there was a portrait of a fierce old lady and another of a man with lace ruffles and a satin coat. There was a long, cool wave, breaking upon a beach where the whiteness of the sun-splashed sand was so vivid as almost to hurt her eyes. She set them out in a row against the eaves and sat back on her heels to look her fill. Such pictures, to be gathered here in the dusty attic, to crack and warp and fade into ruin! She could not understand how they could have come there, nor did she spend much thought in wondering, so lost was she in that pure delight that the sight of truly beautiful things can bring. An old print with a cracked glass and broken frame caught her attention almost the last of all. It showed a ship, a tall frigate, under full sail, and had all the quaint primness of the pictures of a hundred years ago. The group of people supposed to be standing on the wharf was composed of gentlemen in very tight trousers and ladies with very sloping shoulders and absurd, tiny parasols. The vessel floated on impossible scalloped billows, but no old-fashioned stiffness could disguise the free beauty of the ship's lines and the grace of her curving sails. Her name was inscribed in faded gold letters below--"The _Huntress_, 1813." The Beeman's tale was still so vivid in her mind that there was no need for her to wonder where she had heard that name before. "Why, it was a real story," she exclaimed, "and I thought he was only making it up!" As she moved the print to a better light, a smaller picture, almost lost among the rest, fell down between two frames and rolled across the floor. She took it up and saw that it was a miniature, painted on ivory and framed in gold, the portrait of a young girl with high-piled brown hair and eager, smiling eyes. "It looks like Polly," Janet thought, "but it could not really be a picture of her." She turned it over and found the single name engraved on the back, "Cicely, æt. 17." "Martin," she cried in the sudden inspiration of discovery, "Martin, come here quickly and tell me what is your whole name." The little boy came out from a far corner where he had been examining dusty treasures on his own account and stood for a minute just where a beam of slanting sunlight dropped through the tiny window under the roof. "Martin Hallowell Crawford," he said. She would always remember just how he looked, standing there with the sunshine on his yellow mop of curly hair, his chubby face smiling and then whitening suddenly as they both heard a sound behind them. She turned to see Anthony Crawford standing upon the stair. CHAPTER VII THE PORTRAIT OF CICELY If Janet had needed any further clue to Anthony Crawford's character, she would have had it in the sudden trembling terror of his little son. She was shaking herself, yet she mustered an outward appearance of courage for a moment, as she turned to face him squarely and to hear his biting words: "First the brother, peering over the wall, then the sister, rummaging through my house. Did Jasper Peyton send you here to find where I kept the picture of Cicely Hallowell that he was so reluctant to give up to me?" "I didn't know it was Cicely Hallowell," returned Janet, trying to speak steadily. "I didn't even know that she was a real person; I thought she was just some one in a story." Then as Crawford stepped nearer, as little Martin gave a sudden squeak of alarm, blind panic took possession of her. She ran toward the stairs and, though the man put out his arm to intercept her, she dodged under it with undignified agility and plunged down the steps. They were of the broad, shallow kind that made her feel, for all her speed, that she would never reach the bottom, yet she came at last into the hall below and out upon the stoop. She fled past Mrs. Crawford, sitting with the sleeping baby across her lap and looking up anxiously, with good cause for misgiving since she had heard her husband go up the stair. It was only when she was safely outside the gate that Janet stopped to draw breath, to realize how her knees were trembling and how her heart was pounding. Yet it stopped suddenly and seemed to miss a beat when she realized something further, that she still held in her hand the miniature of Cicely Hallowell. "Can I go back?" she wondered desperately, but knew instantly that she could never find courage to do so. She went on, hurrying and stumbling as she made her way down the lane. Only once she ventured to look over her shoulder and saw Anthony Crawford standing on the doorstep staring after her while the scarecrow that was so vaguely like him seemed to be lifting its straw-filled arm in a mocking gesture of farewell. Janet and Oliver held an anxious conference that evening as they sat on the terrace, for until that moment they had not been alone together. She brought out the miniature and told of the astonishing and disturbing manner in which it had come into her possession, while Oliver wondered, in frank dismay, how it was to be restored to its owner. "I can't think how I came to carry it away with me," wailed Janet. "Of course it was clutched tight in my hand and I was so frightened that I didn't think of anything but getting away. I thought of putting it down on the grass by the gate, but it is too valuable to risk being lost like that. And that man will say I stole it. I don't know what to do." "We shall have to give it back to him," said Oliver firmly. "To-morrow we will----" but he stopped in the middle of his sentence, unable, even in imagination, to contemplate facing Anthony Crawford and giving him the miniature. "Shall we tell Cousin Jasper?" Janet suggested, but Oliver declared against it. "Anthony Crawford will be quite ready to say that Cousin Jasper sent you to get it from him. The miniature and the pictures seem to be part of the trouble, though I don't understand why. So if that man comes here with such an accusation, it would be better for Cousin Jasper to be able to say he knew nothing about it." "Yes," assented Janet. "I believe, if he knew, Cousin Jasper would try to shield us and Anthony Crawford would use it as one more thing to hold over him. I am beginning to understand both of them better. We--we have overlooked a good many things about Cousin Jasper." It was only a few minutes later that Cousin Jasper joined them, nor had he yet sat down in the long wicker chair that Oliver placed for him, before Hotchkiss came out with a message. "John Massey is in the kitchen, sir, and he says to tell you that he would like to see you about something important." "Bring him out here," Cousin Jasper directed, and, when the somewhat embarrassed visitor in his worn best clothes appeared upon the terrace he got up with as elaborate courtesy as he would have accorded the most distinguished guest. "What is it, John?" he asked, for the sunburned farmer was evidently an old acquaintance. The other burst out with his news and his errand at once. "I've been turned off, sir," he said. "Told to leave the farm, with no notice at all and my crops all in the ground. I'll admit I'm a little behind on my rent, but not many landlords around here collect as closely as Mr. Crawford does; they get all their money at the end of the season and don't haggle over it month by month when the farmer has nothing coming in. And what can you do on land that's never improved? He lets the place run down and then turns me out because I can't make a fortune for him on it. I--I was wondering if you couldn't do something for me, sir." "Do something for you?" echoed Jasper Peyton. "I can't use any influence with Anthony Crawford, if that is what you wish." "I don't understand it," the man persisted. "Three years ago you were my landlord and none of us ever had dealings with Anthony Crawford except that we used to know him when he was a boy. The whole bottom land along the river was yours and all your tenants were farming it for a fair rent and every one was satisfied. But then--he comes, and the upper half is his, we hear, and it is bad luck for us, as we soon know. Everything runs down, no one is treated fairly, and here I am, turned off at a word, and all his doing. Couldn't you make room for me farther down the river somewhere, sir, where the land is yours?" He looked so red and anxious and unhappy that Janet's heart was fairly wrung for him. His wife was ailing, she knew, the season was backward, and here he stood, facing the loss of all his work and the necessity of beginning all over again. She waited eagerly to hear what offer Cousin Jasper would make. "I--I can't help you, John," he said at last, very slowly and heavily. "Even if I made room for you on one of the lower farms, it would only stir up trouble, and you might wake up some day to find that Anthony Crawford was your landlord again, after all. I can give you the money to pay your rent, if you wish to stay where you are, but that is all that I can do. There are times when we are none of us free agents, or masters of our own affairs." "I don't care to stay on, sir," John Massey returned. "I've had too many words with Anthony Crawford for things ever to go easy again. I've been patching up the dike with my own spare time, and maybe the farm has suffered by my doing it; anyway he says so and calls me a fool. I thought perhaps you would help me, since I'd been your tenant so long before _he_ came." His voice, dragging with disappointment, trailed lower and lower. "I don't seem to know just where to turn. Well, good night to you, sir." He turned and walked heavily away. They sat very silent after he was gone. Oliver was leaning against the terrace rail, Janet in her big chair was clenching her hands in her lap, Cousin Jasper, with his hands on the railing, stood in absolute quiet, staring out over the garden. The light of the house came through the long windows, falling on his face that was so pale and tired. He had seemed weary and unhappy for some time, but to-night he looked desperate. The minutes passed, but still he stood in silence, staring straight before him. The sight of his distress seemed more than either of the two could bear. Oliver could think of nothing to say, but stood dumbly helpless, while Janet moved closer to their cousin and spoke with shy hesitation: "Couldn't we help you? Won't you tell us what you are thinking?" "I was only thinking," Cousin Jasper answered very slowly, "I was wondering, as I do sometimes lately, how strangely life can change and twist itself and make things seem other than they should be. If you have lived all your years following your own sense of honor, if you have tried, in everything you do, to be fair and just, how can it be, when the years have passed, that suddenly all the results of honest dealing should be swept away? How can it be that a man who has disgraced himself, whose ways are known to be everything that is devious and unfair, how can he gain power over you, threaten to take from you everything that is yours, even say that he can destroy your good name? How can every effort you make toward a fair settlement only render matters worse? Is there really something so wrong with the world that a dishonest man can work more harm than a man of honor can ever undo? Do _you_ think so?" he concluded, turning to regard them from under his knitted brows as if he must, in his distress, find some word of reassurance somewhere. "No," said Oliver emphatically, finding his voice somewhat to his own surprise. "I don't think so at all. I believe a man who does dishonorable things can--can mix you up and make you miserable, but he can't go on forever. His plans are bound to come to grief in the end." His halting words carried the real earnestness of conviction. They seemed to give Cousin Jasper some sort of comfort, for his face relaxed, he moved from his tense attitude, and turned to walk up and down the terrace through the patches of light and shadow that lay between the windows. Janet thrust a friendly, affectionate hand under his arm as she walked beside him. It was a hot night, at June's very highest tide, with the garden at the summit of its beauty. The Madonna lilies were in bloom, showing ghostly white through the dark, rows and ranks and armies of them all up and down the walks and borders, sending sudden ripples of sweetness upward to the terrace whenever the faint breeze stirred. There was no moon yet, but the stars were thick overhead, and the moving lanterns of the fireflies glimmered among the trees, low down still as they always are in the first hours of the dark. Janet was thinking that when the world was so beautiful, it was difficult to believe that things could go entirely wrong in it, but she did not find it possible to put her idea into words. It may have been that Cousin Jasper was thinking the same thing as he stopped and stood for a long time at the head of the brick-paved stair leading down from the end of the terrace into the garden. At last he began to descend slowly, unable to make out the steps in the dark, so that he put his hand on her shoulder to steady himself. He spoke very suddenly. "It is not only in body but in spirit that the old must sometimes lean upon the young," he said, and then, with his voice quite cheerful again, began to talk of how well the flowers were doing this year. Oliver had followed them to the top of the stair and stood above them, listening, but not, apparently, to what Cousin Jasper was saying. His head was bent and he was straining every nerve to hear some far-off sound. His face looked troubled, then cleared suddenly as he came down the steps. "Cousin Jasper," he said, "didn't I tell you that the gardener wanted you to know that the night-blooming cereus is open just now? Suppose we walk out to the back of the garden and see it." His cousin hesitated. "It is rather late," he answered. "It will be open still to-morrow night." "Janet has never seen one," persisted Oliver, putting a firm arm through Cousin Jasper's, "and it might rain or something to-morrow night. She would be so disappointed and so would the gardener." They went down the last steps together, into the sea of white lilies and drifting fragrance, and disappeared into the darkness toward the back of the garden. In spite of his insistence, Oliver did not seem so deeply interested as the others in the plant that was slowly opening its pink flowers that have so brief and beautiful a season. The gardener, hastily summoned, came across the lawn to exhibit his favorite plant with the greatest pride, but Oliver left the others to admire and ask questions and, in ten minutes, came back alone. Coming upon the terrace again, he saw Hotchkiss, just inside the long window, ushering out a visitor who was talking in loud, easily recognizable tones. "No, he doesn't seem to be here," Anthony Crawford was saying, "though I didn't believe you, until you let me come in and see for myself. I had something of great importance to say to him--and to the girl. Well, I will come again to-morrow." He passed down the room and must have come very close to the light, for his shadow loomed suddenly, misshapen and bulky, all across the library, even dropping its black length over the terrace outside. It followed him, a striding giant, from window to window and then dwindled suddenly again as Anthony Crawford himself stood under the light in the doorway giving Hotchkiss final directions. "Be sure to tell him that I shall be here to-morrow night and that I shall expect him to be at home," he ordered, then climbed into the creaking cart and drove away. Hotchkiss stood peering into the dark after him, evidently sending no good wishes to speed him homeward. Seeing Oliver coming up the steps at the far end of the terrace, he walked down to speak to him. "There was something more than usual wrong to-night," he said anxiously. "He vowed that he must see Mr. Peyton and didn't want to take my word for it that he was out. It was fortunate that he had gone into the garden." "Yes," responded Oliver, "I thought I heard that miserable rattletrap turning in at the gate and I remembered, all of a sudden, that the gardener told me yesterday about the night-blooming cereus. I--I thought they ought to look at it at once." Hotchkiss had been nervous and agitated during what must have been a stormy interview, and he found this sudden relief too great for the composure even of a butler. He burst into a great laugh of delight and slapped his knee in ecstasy. "That was the way to serve him!" he cried. "To think that prying scoundrel found some one that was too clever for him, for once." Oliver grinned broadly, but recovered himself in a moment. "Hotchkiss," he said with great gravity, "you would never do for the movies." Janet was eating her breakfast very deliberately next morning, lingering even after Cousin Jasper had left them and while Oliver sat back in his chair fidgeting in frank impatience. When her brother finally urged her to make haste she broke forth into an explanation that was almost a wail. "It is because I can't forget where we have to go to-day," she declared. "Oh, why--why did I make such a terrible mistake and carry that miserable picture away?" Even Oliver looked none too cheerful at the prospect before them. "We have to do it," he agreed, "but I think we will go over to the Windy Hill first. I promised Polly's father I would tell him what I saw from the boat. But after that there will be plenty of time and we will go to Anthony Crawford's." "I ought to go alone," Janet said, "for it was I who made the trouble. And shall we tell the Beeman?" "Not until afterward," replied Oliver. "If there is difficulty about the picture it would be easier if no one were concerned but just ourselves. And indeed you won't go alone! We are in this thing together." It had rained in the night so heavily that the clumps of larkspur and more tender plants were beaten down and only the shower-loving lilies lifted their wet, shining faces above the green. The sky was still overcast, with threats of another downpour, yet the two put on their raincoats and set forth undeterred. "There is an old apple shed in the corner of the orchard where we can leave the car," said Oliver. "Polly showed me, last time, where we could drive in." The highway was smooth and wet and the river was perceptibly higher under the bridge. They pressed onward, up the grass-covered road, drove through the gap in the orchard wall, and felt their way along the open lane between the apple trees. The car was finally housed in the shelter of the shed and Janet and Oliver raced up the hill, for the first drops of a new shower were just beginning to fall, and Polly, in the doorway of the cottage, was beckoning them to make haste. The downpour was a sharp one that pattered on the roof, ran streaming from the eaves, and blotted out the hills opposite. The grass and the orchard, however, seemed to grow greener every moment under the refreshing rain, and the clumps of pink hollyhocks that crowded about the doorstep lifted their heads gratefully. "We can't do much with the bees for an hour or two," observed the Beeman, sitting down in the corner with his pipe. "Now tell me what you saw on the river, Oliver. I noticed your sail and knew that you were out." Oliver made his report upon the scouring banks while the Beeman listened and nodded gravely. "That is something we must look into," he declared. "It is like Anthony to have let things go. And now, if you have time to wait, suppose we have a story." They had ample time, they assured him, being only too glad to postpone the errand that must come later. They were eager for another tale, moreover, for they were beginning to realize that these were not mere haphazard narratives, but stories with some definite bearing upon the places and people about them. "We have plenty of time," Oliver assured him. "We are in no hurry at all. You might even make it a very long one." The Beeman nodded assent with that queer smile that seemed to betray an uncanny understanding of the whole situation. "A long one it shall be," he agreed, "for I have a good deal to tell you." CHAPTER VIII THE FIDDLER OF APPLE TREE LANE People said that the Brighton children could "never manage," when it was said that they were planning to live in the little cottage on the hill above Medford Valley. "There's always a wind there from the sea, dearie," said old Granny Fullerton to Barbara Brighton. "It will search out your very bones, come winter." Barbara shook her head cheerfully. A plump and rosy young person of twelve years old does not worry much about cold winds. People said also, with the strange blindness of those who can live close by for years and yet never know what is in their neighbors' hearts, that it was an odd thing that Howard Brighton should have built that little house so far from the town in the midst of that great stretch of wild land where so few folk lived. "It is marshy in the valley and wooded on the hills," Granny Fullerton said to Barbara, "with never a neighbor for miles. Of course the land has been in your family time out of mind, but those that are your nearest kin have always lived in the town. What could Howard Brighton have been thinking to do such a thing!" They did not know how he had toiled and planned in his narrow little office down near the wharves of the seaport town, how he and his wife had dreamed together that their three children should live in some other place than on the cramped, stony street where they had been born. After his wife's death he had still gone forward with his dream and, when he found that he had, himself, not very long to live, he had made haste to build the cottage that they had so greatly desired. "It is pleasure enough to think of the children's having it," he said to a plain-spoken neighbor who remonstrated with him on the ground that he could never live there. "The boys will be old enough to care for their sister, and the house on the hill will be just the place for a little maid to grow up." His children were of widely separated ages, for Ralph, the eldest, was twenty-one, Felix seventeen, and Barbara, as has been said, only twelve. It happened also that they had not all of them the same tastes, for while the two younger ones loved the country and looked forward to living on the Windy Hill, Ralph's desire was to go on working in the dusty office where he had already begun to prosper. "He is a good getter, but a poor spender," the neighbors said, and in this were right. Ralph, with his first success, had begun to think too much of money and too little of other things. In the end the cottage was never finished, only the main portion, a tiny dwelling, was completed without the two broad wings with which Howard Brighton had meant to enlarge it and which he did not live to build. When their father had gone from them his children found that he had left everything he had to Ralph, since the laws of seventy-five years ago made some difficulty over property being held by those who were not of age. "Ralph has a wise head on his young shoulders and will know how to take good care of the younger ones," was the comment of busy tongues. Perhaps Ralph heard them, with the result that he felt older and wiser than he really was, but of that no one can be sure. It was on a clear, warm day of mid-July when they moved from the airless street of the town to their new, wind-swept dwelling on the hill. "It looks like home already," Barbara said as they came up to the door, for, with its wide, low roof, its broad windows, and its swinging half doors that let in the sunshine and the fresh breezes, it seemed indeed a place in which to forget their sadness and to find a new, happy life. The rustling voice of the oak tree above seemed to be bidding them welcome, and a tall clump of hollyhocks by the door-stone, shell pink and white, seemed to have come into bloom that very day just for their home-coming. Barbara ran from room to room, exclaiming in delight over the new freedom, while the two brothers sat on the doorstep to look down over their new domain and to talk of the future. Their father had planned to turn the meadow below into an orchard, and had even managed to set out the first half of the little trees, slim, tiny saplings that dotted the sloping green. "We will put in the others next autumn and spring," Felix said, "and I will be building new cupboards and shelves for old Chloe in the kitchen, I will mend the press in Barbara's room and I will finish off the garret chamber under the eaves for myself, and there I can play the fiddle to my heart's content and never disturb you at all. I think that life will be very pleasant here." So their lives swung into the new channel, with Chloe, Barbara's old nurse, to cook for them and with Felix to tend the apple trees and the little garden, to saw and hammer and whistle all day at the task of setting the new place in order. "It's a pity you haven't a proper, handsome house, with long windows from the ceiling to the floor and a high roof and a carved front door and with black marble chimneypieces instead of these rough stone fireplaces," Chloe would sigh, for she thought that the elegance of that time was none too good for the people she loved. It may be that Ralph sighed with her, but Felix and Barbara were frankly delighted with the painted floors, the casement windows, and the low, big-beamed rooms. In the evenings, as the two would sit on the wide doorstep, the voice of Felix's violin would mingle with the voice of the wind in the oak, while Barbara listened, entranced, for her brother was a real master of his instrument. It would laugh and sing and sigh, while Barbara pressed closer and closer to his knee while the stars came out and the evening breeze stirred the hollyhocks and the great branches of the oak tree. Ralph rode every day to the town to labor over heavy account books in his cramped little office and he always brought home a sheaf of papers under his arm. He would sit at the table inside the window in the candlelight and, as the music rose outside, singing to the child and the flowers and the stars, he would scowl and fidget and tap irritably on the table with the point of his pen, for he did not love his brother's playing. "There is too much time spent on it," he would say, "when you might be doing useful things." "I have no head for adding up your endless columns of dollars and cents," Felix would answer, "so I must make myself useful in my own way." A warm, golden October had painted the valley with blazing colors, had turned the oak tree to ruddy bronze, and had afforded ideal weather for the further planting of the orchard. Here Felix was at work, with Barbara following at his heels, and helping, when each tree was planted, to hold it upright while he pressed down the earth about its roots. "We will leave an open space through the center," he said, "a lane that will lead straight up toward the house, so that when Ralph and I come home we can look up to the open door and the hollyhocks around the step. Only," he shook his head regretfully, "I am afraid Ralph won't see the flowers. His head is too full of dollar signs when he comes home from the town." Barbara turned about to look through the orchard. Some one came trudging along between the little trees, his heavy, tired feet crunching in the leaves. "Oh, it's a peddler," she cried eagerly, for she was always pleased when these traveling merchants came past, with their laces and gay embroideries and colored beads to dazzle the eyes of little girls. But this was a peddler of another sort, a dark-faced man with melting black eyes and eager speech that was less than half of it English. He was an immigrant Italian, newly come to this great America, he managed to explain, and he was trying to sell the trinkets and small household treasures that he had brought with him. They led him up to the house, for he was weary and hungry, and while Barbara brought him food, Felix was plying him with questions as to where he had come from and whither he was going. He had meant to settle down in the little seaport, so he told them, but--here he became so voluble that it was almost impossible to understand him--he did not wish to stop there now, he must go on--on. "It is the gold," he cried excitedly, making wide gestures with both his brown hands, "the beautiful yellow gold. They find it everywhere!" He brought out a tattered newspaper to let them see for themselves what he could not explain. News traveled slowly in those days, so that in this out-of-the-way corner of Medford Valley the brother and sister now heard for the first time of the discovery of gold in California. Yet in the towns and where people could gather to tell one another ever-growing stories, the world was rapidly going mad over tales of gold lying loose for the gathering, of nuggets as big as a fist, of rivers running yellow with the precious shining dust. "Listen, Barbara; why, it can't be true!" cried Felix as he read aloud, the Italian interrupting excitedly, trying to tell them more. It was for this that he had abandoned his plans, that he was selling everything he had to follow a far, golden dream across the country to California. "A terrible journey, they say," he admitted, "but what does one care, with such fortune at the other end?" He had little left to sell, nor had they much money to buy; but, so carried away were they by his ardor, they would have given him anything they had. There was a carved ivory crucifix, a silver chain and, at the very bottom of his bag, a square box that gave forth a curious humming noise. "Take care," he cautioned, as Barbara would have peeped within, "they fly away--the bees!" "Bees?" she echoed in astonishment. Yes, he had brought all the way to America a queen bee and her retinue of workers, for Italian bees, he told them gravely, were known the world over for their beauty, industry, and gentleness. "They sting you only if you hurt them," he declared. "Other times, never." He explained how they were to be put into a hive and just how they were to be tended, for he was wise in the bee lore of Italy. Felix had seen some of the farmers round about struggling with the wild black bees whose tempers were so vicious that the only way to gather their honey was to smoke the whole hiveful to death. The man opened the box a little way to let the yellow-banded creatures crawl over his fingers, to show their gentleness. "I must sell them quick," he said, "for they live not much longer in a box." They bought the bees, Felix and Barbara, though it took every penny they had in the house and even the store in the little carved box on the mantel which they were all saving, by Ralph's advice, against a rainy day. The man went away down through the orchard, turning to wave his ragged hat in joyful good-by, for now he had sold everything and was off and away to California. Felix sat on the doorstep, watching him go, while Barbara moved about inside, laying the table for supper. A thought suddenly struck her and she went to the door. "Felix," she said, "I wonder what Ralph will say?" But Felix was not listening. "Gold," he repeated softly. "Did you hear what he said, Barbara? The sands of the rivers yellow with it, the Indians giving their children nuggets to play with, a year's earnings to be picked up in a day!" He was so lost in his dream that he could talk of nothing else. It was not the sort of gold that Ralph loved, minted coins that could be saved and counted and stacked away, but it was the shining treasure of romance, wealth that, unlike dully satisfying riches, meant battle and adventure and triumph after overwhelming odds. He did at last consent to help Barbara house the bees in a suitable dwelling, but he talked still of the tale he had heard and his eyes were shining with the wonder of it. "Did you hear him say that there was just one beaten trail across the plains, all the way from the Mississippi to California? Think of a road, a single road, two thousand miles long, reaching out through the wilderness, over the deserts, through the mountains, with no towns or houses or people, just one lonely highway--and gold at the far end!" Ralph was late that evening, late and tired and impatient after an unsatisfactory day. He brushed past Felix, still sitting on the step, flung down his bundle of papers, and went over to the fire. The little carved money box stood open on the mantel, revealing its emptiness. "What is this?" he asked Barbara sternly, as she stood in the corner, twisting her apron and finding, suddenly, that it was very difficult to explain. Felix came in, the light of excitement still on his face, eager to tell the tale. He began to recount what they had heard, so carried away that he never noticed the gathering thundercloud upon his brother's face. The plains, the mountains, the shining rivers running to the sea--he seemed to conjure up all of them as he told the story, but Ralph's face never changed. "So," cut in the elder brother at last when the younger stopped for breath, "it is for a fairy tale like this that you have wasted your time and your substance, have emptied my money box. You bought bees with it--_bees_! To buy bees when the forest is full of them and you can have a swarm from any neighbor for the asking. You spend _my_ money that some lying rascal may be helped upon his way!" "It was our money," Felix reminded him gently, beginning to be awakened from his dream by the bitter anger of the other's tone. "Mine," repeated Ralph. A cold fury seemed to possess him, which discussions over money could alone bring forth. "Have you forgotten that everything here is mine, given me by our father? The bread you eat, the roof over your head, they belong to me; do you understand?" Barbara saw, in the firelight, that Felix's face flushed, then turned white. No one but herself could know just how such words would hurt him, how his pride, his love for his brother, and his sturdy independence were all cut to the very quick. He went out of the room without a word and could be heard climbing the ladderlike stairs that led to the room he had made for himself under the eaves. Ralph sat down by the fire, muttering uneasily something about "it all blowing over." With lagging steps Barbara went on setting the table. They were not prepared to see Felix come down the stairs a few minutes later with his coat and cap and with his violin under his arm. "I will take no man's charity, not even my brother's," he said huskily, as he stood still for a moment on the threshold. Then he was gone. Barbara leaned over the half door and watched him go down the path, saw him pass through the lane of tiny apple trees, saw the dusk gather about him as he went on, a smaller and smaller, plodding figure that disappeared at last into the dark. The autumn wind in the oak tree sounded blustering and cold as she closed the door and turned back to the room again. "He has only gone down to the town, he will come back to-morrow," growled Ralph, but Barbara knew better. "He has gone to look for gold," she cried, and, sitting down on the bench by the fire, she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. * * * * * Felix used to think, as the days and weeks passed, and as that strange journey upon which he had launched so suddenly dragged on and on, that the grassy slope above the orchard and the cool dark foliage of the oak tree must be the very greenest and fairest things on earth. There was no green now before his aching eyes, only the wide stretch of yellow-brown prairie, a rough trail, deep in dust, winding across it, a line of white-topped wagons crawling like ants over the vast plain, and a blue arch of sky above, blinding-bright with the heat. It was October when he went away from home, it was a month later when, by leisurely stage and slow canal boat, he arrived at the Mississippi River, the outpost of established travel. Here he was obliged to wait until spring, for even in the rush of '49 there were few bold enough to attempt the overland trail in winter. He turned his hand to every sort of work, he did odd jobs during the day and played his violin for dancing at night, he grew lean and out-at-elbows and graver than he used to be. He slept in strange places and ate stranger food, he suffered pangs of hunger and of homesickness, but he never thought of going back. His violin went everywhere with him, and in more than one of the little towns along the big river, people began to demand the boy fiddler who could make such gay music for their merrymakings. When at last the snow melted, the wild geese flew northward, and the wilderness trail was open again, he had no difficulty in finding an emigrant party to which to attach himself. Abner Blythe was a lean, hard Yankee, but he had lived for years in the Middle West and had made journeys out into the prairie, although he had never gone the whole of the way to the mountains and the coast. He knew how to drive cattle with the long black-snake whip, whose snapping lash alone can voice the master's orders and which can flick the ear or flank of a wandering steer at the outermost limit of reach. His frail, eager-eyed little wife was to go with them, their boy of five, and a company of helpers who were to drive the wagons of supplies and to serve for protection against Indians. The road was crowded at first, and the prairie grass grew green and high, full of wild strawberries, pink wild roses, and meadow larks. But as they journeyed slowly westward, as spring passed into summer, the green turned to brown under the burning sun, the low bluffs and tree-bordered water-courses were left behind, and they came to the wide, hot plains that seemed to have no end. At the beginning they sometimes passed farmhouses to the right and left of the trail, built by some struggling pioneer, where there was a little stream of water and where a few trees were planted. The places looked to Felix like the Noah's Ark he used to play with when he was small--the tiny, toy trees, the square toy house, little toy animals set out on the bare, brown floor of the prairie. Even the gaunt women in shapeless garments who always came to the door to watch the wagon train go by were not unlike the stiff wooden figures of Mrs. Noah. At last, however, even the scattered houses came to an end and there was nothing before them but the wilderness. It was desperately hot, with the blazing sun above and the scorching winds swooping over the prairie to blow in their faces like the blast of a furnace. They made long stops at noontime, resting in the shade of the wagons and pressed on late into the night, so that not an hour might be lost. They went by herds of buffalo, big, clumsy, inert creatures, that looked so formidable from in front and so insignificant from behind. They saw slim, swift little antelope and, on the far horizon, they sometimes made out moving dots that must be Indians. Their numbers and their vigilance, however, seemed great enough to keep them safe from attack. A deadly weariness began to fall upon them all, so that Abner Blythe became morose and silent, his wife looked haggard and hollow-eyed, the men grew irritable, and the animals lagged more and more. Others who had passed that way had left many of their footsore beasts behind them--horses, oxen, cows, and sheep--to fall a prey at once to the great gray prairie wolves that hung behind every wagon train, waiting for the stragglers who could not keep up. "It is only the human beings who have the courage to go on," Abner Blythe said to Felix. "You would think that horses were stronger than men and oxen the strongest of all, but the beasts give up and lie down by the road to die, yet the men keep on. It is not strength but spirit that carries us all to our journey's end." There was one high-spirited black mare, the dearly beloved of Felix's heart, who, whether dragging at the heavy wagon or cantering under the saddle, was always full of energy and fire. She was the boy's especial charge, and, as the weeks passed, the two became such friends as are only produced by long companionship and unbelievable hardships endured together. It was a dreadful hour when, one night as they were making camp, the little mare lay down and not even for a feed of oats or the precious lump of sugar offered her, would she get up again. The very spirit that had driven her forward more bravely than the rest had produced greater exhaustion now. "We will have to go on without her," said Abner Blythe dejectedly, as they sat about the camp fire. Felix was feeding the flame with the sparse fuel, and Anna Blythe, Abner's wife, was sitting on a roll of blankets with her child on her lap. The little boy was ill and lay wailing against her shoulder. "Don't leave the mare," Felix begged. "A day or two of rest will cure her entirely. There is water here, and grass beside the stream. We could camp two or three days until she can go on." Abner shook his head wearily. "We have no time to waste," he declared. "It is August now and we must cross the mountains before the middle of September. We haven't a day, not even an hour, to lose." Anna Blythe sighed a deep, quivering sigh. Felix knew that she loved the little horse, too, and, so he sometimes thought, she was herself so weary that she often longed to lie down beside the trail and perish as the tired dumb animals did. She had never made complaint before, but to-night, perhaps appalled by the thought of the mountains still to be crossed, she burst out into fierce questioning: "Abner, why don't we turn back? What is it all for? Can gold, all the gold we could ever gather, repay us for this terrible journey? We are little more than halfway and the worst is still before us. We could go back while there is still time. Why do we go on?" Abner, spreading his big hands upon his knees, sat staring into the fire. "I don't know," he said at last, "I vow I don't know. It is not the excitement, nor the gold that drives us, there is no telling what it may be. Our country must go on, she must press forward to new opportunities, she must dwell in new places. It is through people like us that such growth comes about, we don't ourselves know why. A little ambition, a little hope, a great blind impulse, and we go forward. That is all." They sat very still while the fire died out into charring embers and darkness filled the wide sky above them, showing the whole circling march of the stars like a sky at sea. "We must be moving," Abner said at last, "we can make a few miles more before it is time to sleep." They all arose wearily and made ready to go on. Felix went to where the black mare lay and passed his hand down her smooth neck. She whinnied and thrust her soft nose against his cheek, but would make no effort to move. He stood for a moment thinking deeply. Very clearly did he understand Abner's unreasoning desire to go forward, but, perhaps because he was only a boy, he did not feel that same wish so completely and passionately. There were other ideas in his mind, and uppermost among them was the feeling that one can not desert a well-loved friend. Just as the foremost wagon creaked into motion and rumbled forward into the dark, his resolution found its way into words. "I think I will stay with the mare," he said. "In three days at least she will be rested enough to go on, and then I can easily overtake you. We don't want to lose her." He tried to hide the depth of his feeling with commonplace words. "It wouldn't be sensible, when we have so few horses." Abner did not consent willingly, but he agreed at last. "She'll travel fast when she is on her feet again," he said, "and I don't like leaving her myself." Felix took some provisions from the cook's wagon, gathered up his blankets, slung his gun over his shoulder, and, as a last thought, reached in for his violin. It would be good company in the dark, he thought. "Keep your gun cocked for Indians," were Abner's last instructions, "look out for rattlesnakes at the water holes, and catch us up when you can. Good luck to you." The boy stood beside the trail and listened to the slow complaining of the wheels and the shuffling of the feet of horses and oxen in the dust as the whole train moved onward. For a little while he could hear them and could see the bulk of the wagon tops outlined against the stars, then the long roll of the prairie hid them and he was left all alone in the wide, wild, empty plain. CHAPTER IX THE FIDDLER OF APPLE TREE LANE (_Continued_) Felix tended the little horse as best he could, bringing her grass, which she would not eat and water, which she drank gratefully. At last, unbelievably tired, he built up the fire and lay down to sleep. His heavy eyes were just closing when he saw a black shadow move silently across the basin of the little watercourse and heard the crunch of a pebble dislodged by a softly padding foot. As he sat up, a big gray wolf, as unafraid as a dog, from long following at the heels of the emigrant trains, came out into the circle of light. With its head lowered and its eyes shining in the dark, it sat down--to wait. The fire dwindled, for there was little to burn save the dried twigs from the bushes that lined the stream, nor did Felix dare to leave the horse long enough to gather a fresh supply. More gray figures came through the dark to gather in a wide, waiting circle all about the fire. Within the limits of their brutish minds lay the knowledge that fires would die down, that strength of man and beast would fail, and that, once a straggler could not go on, patient waiting always made him their prey at last. Felix cocked his gun, took long aim at a pair of green eyes glittering in the dark, but in the end lowered the muzzle without firing. The flash of a rifle and its report carried far over the level prairie, and there were other eyes that might be watching for human stragglers, fiercer and hungrier eyes even than were the wolves'. As the foremost animal drew a little closer, he took up his violin and began to play. He had a strange audience, the greedy white-fanged beasts that slunk away at the first strains of the unwonted sound, stole back, yet moved uneasily away again, the little fat, inquisitive prairie dogs that popped out of their burrows and sat up to listen, the circling nighthawks that wheeled and called overhead. Hour after hour he played, but whenever he paused the hungry circle drew in about him and he was forced to raise his aching arm and ply his bow again. The first hint of dawn was brightening the sky when the creatures of the night began to slip away, and Felix, laying down his violin, suddenly laughed aloud. "I wish that Granny Fullerton, who thought that it wasn't quite safe for us to live on the Windy Hill," he said, "I wish that she could see me now!" Then he lay down, pillowed his head upon his arm, and fell so fast asleep that, as he said afterward, "a whole tribe of Indians could have ridden over him and he would never have moved." It was, indeed, horse's feet that aroused him, but not, by good fortune, the unshod hoofs of Indian ponies. A band of men was riding toward him from the westward, hard, grizzled men, weather-beaten and toil-worn beyond anything Felix had ever seen. "We met your party back yonder," said their leader. "They asked us to look out for you as we went by. Glad to see the Indians haven't got you yet." "Oh!" exclaimed Felix, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, "Have you--have you been in California?" The man nodded. He drew out of his pocket a greasy little buckskin bag, opened the strings, and poured a stream of something yellow into the boy's hand. "Ever see gold dust before?" he asked. It was Felix's first sight of the odd, flattened flakes of metal that shine dully in your hand, that are no two alike, so that you can turn them over and over, always seeing different shapes and sizes, different gleams and lights upon their changing surfaces. "There's a lot of it back there where we've been," the man said, grinning slowly as he saw Felix's excited face. "We left it there for you and those like you." "And did you find all you wanted? Are you going home now to be rich and comfortable all your days?" the boy inquired. The man's grin grew broader still. "You don't know gold miners, sonny," he said. "We've been at work on the American River diggings, where your folks ahead there are going, and we found it good enough, but we've heard of something better. Over to the southward of that valley there's another one deeper, wilder, hard to get into but with the richest pay dirt you ever dreamed of. We staked out our claims and left one man to hold it, while we go back to the States for supplies and better equipment. The gold's harder to get out, but it's there all right. It makes American River look like nothing at all." He turned in the saddle and looked up the little stream bed where the water lay in shallow pools below the overhanging bushes. The black mare had at last struggled to her feet and was now grazing on the sparse grass that bordered the river. "It is none too safe for you to be here alone, young fellow," the man observed. "There's a band of Indians have been doing considerable mischief around this neighborhood just lately. We've been hearing of them from every party as we came along." "I'm not afraid," returned Felix stoutly. "One boy and one horse would be hard to find in this great wide prairie. Aren't you afraid you will meet the Indians yourselves?" "Afraid!" The other laughed aloud. "Why, we're looking for them and it will be a sorry day for them when we find them." He sobered and went on earnestly: "The woman in that party you left called out a message for you as we came by. 'Tell him,' she said to us, 'that the horse is his and that he is to go back with you to the States. Tell him, God bless him,' she said. We'll be glad enough to have you if you care to come with us," he concluded. Felix looked at the long, empty trail before him; he looked up at the prospector's hard brown face, and then at the little heap of gold dust in his hand. "I'll not go back--just yet," he said. "There are things I must see first." They rode jingling away, the sun glinting on their gun barrels and pistol butts until they disappeared in the shimmering hot distance of the dusty trail. Felix, as the heat of the day increased, led the mare up the watercourse to where the bushes were tall enough to afford a little shade. He, himself, crawled under a rock beside one of the pools and lay there very quietly, waiting for the long, sleepy day to pass. It was noontime, with the world so still that he could actually hear the water of the stream filtering through the sand as it ran sluggishly from pool to pool, when a new sound caught his attention. There was a shuffling of muffled feet, a stone dislodged from the bank above, the click of metal against metal, but every noise so stealthy and quiet that he could hardly believe he heard. He did not dare to move, but peered through the branches of the bush beside him and saw a strange cavalcade passing on the high bank above, little brown and buckskin and piebald Indian ponies, their unshod hoofs stepping lightly and quietly over the dry grass, each with a painted, red-skinned rider, armed and decorated with all of an Indian's trappings of war. The feathered war bonnets that crowned their heads and reached to their heels were of every gay color, their fierce faces were daubed with red and ocher, they carried, some of them, guns, more of them rude lances and bows and arrows. Felix was so near that he could make out the strings of beads and claws of wild animals about their necks, could see their red skins glisten, and could watch the muscles of their slim thighs move and ripple as they guided their wise little horses more by pressure of the knee than by use of the rude Indian bridles. Not one of them spoke, once a pony snorted in the dust, but that was the only sound as they moved past him and turned into the trail with their faces eastward. The whole procession might have been a vision--a mirage of the high, hot noontide and of the boy's tired brain. But after the men were gone and he had crawled out from his hiding place he could see the horses' footprints in the dust and could assure himself that they were real. After a long time he heard shots, very faint and far away, lasting for an hour or more before the hush of the prairie fell again. The cool night came at last, and the little mare, visibly strengthened by the rest and grazing, came trotting to him, splashing happily through the water of the pool. Those gray enemies of the night before did not come near, nor, though he waited two days, watchful and alert, did any of the Indians return. He thought of that band of men he had talked with, hard, seasoned, and well armed for the struggle. From the very first he had felt little doubt as to what the issue of such a battle would be. It seems too long to tell of how Felix mounted the mare at last and cantered away along the trail, rejoicing in swift motion again after the long wait and the crawling pace of the ox team. Nor can it be fully told how he and his friends toiled forward across the plain, over that dreaded stretch of desert that came at the far edge of it, up the tempest-swept, snow-covered mountains, until that wondrous minute when the endless bleak slopes suddenly fell away before them and they looked down into the wide green wonder of a new land. In less than a week from that day, Felix's long dream had come true; he was standing knee-deep in a rushing stream with a miner's pan in his excited hands, he saw the gravel wash away, the muddy earth dissolve, the black sand settle to the bottom to be dried and blown away, leaving--it did not even then seem believable--the sparkling grains of yellow gold. They did well, he and Abner Blythe. Though their backs ached at the end of the day and they came home to sleep, worn out, wet, and dirty, their buckskin bags filled slowly with gold dust as the autumn passed. Yet Felix could not put from his mind the talk of the man he had met on the prairie, the tale of higher mountains, deeper valleys, and richer diggings over to the southward. When the rains came and there was little work to do, he thought of those words more and more, and when the open weather came once more he gathered supplies, said good-by one day to Abner and Anna, and set forth to seek a further, greater fortune for them all. It was a toilsome journey over the mountains, for very few had as yet passed that way. The deep, shadowy cañons, the rushing streams, the smooth faces of granite walls seemed impassable barriers, but Felix at last passed them all and came into the wild, rugged valley of Bear Creek. He staked his claim, put up his little tent, and went down to the river to wash his first pan of gold. Yes, the prospector had been right; here in this bleak, far region the toil was much heavier, but the reward was unbelievably great. There were not yet many miners who had come so far, but the one whose claim was next to Felix's and whose rough shanty stood almost side by side with his tent had been there among the first. He was a friend of those men from whom the boy had first heard of the place, and he willingly showed the newcomer the best slope for his claim and the easiest way to wash the gold. "There's room for all, so far," he said. "The others below there on American River haven't had time to get discontented yet, but there will be a rush up here soon. When the place begins to be crowded there will be jumping of claims, and robbery and fights, with knives out and blood shed, just as you have seen it down there. But we will be peaceable and friendly here as long as we can." The old miner seemed to take a great fancy to Felix and helped him with advice and kindness in unnumbered ways. He had built himself a little hut of pine logs roofed with bark as a better protection than a tent against the mountain storms. Felix sat there with him one night before the rude stone hearth, while the rain fell in deluges outside and the wind went calling and blustering down the valley. The miner piled the fuel high upon the fire and, as the hours passed, told story after story of wild adventure, of desperate escape, of bold crime, and of the quick, merciless justice of the frontier. At last his fund of narrative seemed to come to an end and he was silent for a little. "Yes, these are rich diggings," he said finally, going back to the subject of which they had first been talking, "but--there is more gold even than this somewhere beyond. A man I knew once, a prospector, told me a strange story. He was captured by the Indians and carried off to the south, over beyond the mountains to the edge of the desert. He escaped from them, but he got lost, trying to go back, and wandered for days, nearly dying with thirst, torn and cut by the cactus thorns, blind and nearly crazed by the terrible heat. He came to the foot of a hill that he was too weak to climb and he lay down there to die. But a rain fell and he lay soaking in it all night, drinking what gathered in a rock pool beside him, with rattlesnakes and lizards, he said, crawling up to drink with him and he never cared. In the morning his head was clear and he looked up the hill to see the outcropping of such a gold mine as you never dreamed of. Lying there on the open slope was the gold-bearing quartz in plain sight, to be picked up with your bare hands. He took some with him, but not much, for gold is heavy when you are staggering weak, and he went on and on, lost again and nearly dead, but at last he came to a settlement. He lay in a Mexican's house, raving with fever for weeks, but in the end he got well. But when he tried to go back to his mine he could never find the way." Felix was listening eagerly, but he did not interrupt or even ask a question when the man paused. The deep voice rasped huskily, for evidently the miner was telling his tale with an intent purpose. "I have always meant, some day, to go and look for that mine myself, when I found a comrade I could trust, one who would not be afraid of the hardship and the danger. The way there is a terrible journey, but I believe I know almost to a certainty where the place must be. Will you come, boy--will you come?" Felix got up and went to the tiny square window to look out. His voice was thick with excitement, but he did not answer directly. "The storm has passed," he said, "and I must go back to my tent. I--I will think about what you say and tell you in the morning." He went out into the dark, wet night, closing the door with a hand that shook and fumbled against the wooden latch. The old miner must have slept little, for it was scarcely dawn before he had crossed the muddy slope to Felix's tent. Early as he was, the boy was before him, gathering up his possessions and thrusting them into his pack. "You're going?" cried the man joyfully, but Felix shook his head. "I'm going back," he said and beyond that he would tell him nothing. He could not explain how, in the watches of the night, there had come to him the realization that the fever for finding gold is more consuming than the fever for getting it, that there is always the thirst to go on, to leave what one has and seek some new, dazzling discovery that seems just out of reach. To follow adventure is one thing; but, as the years pass, to surrender a whole life to a single and selfish desire is quite another. Some indwelling wisdom had told Felix that it was time to turn back, but he had no words by which to make the other understand. The old miner had given up to the dream long ago; he would always be seeking something richer and better, always leaving it for some golden vision that would lure him forward until at last he would disappear in the mountains or the desert and never return. "I am going to turn over my claim here to Abner Blythe," declared Felix. "It will make him rich and his wife happy, and you had better stay to work it with him, for I am going home." "I can't stay." The miner seemed to understand also, but he was as brief and inarticulate as was the boy. "I'm one of those that has to go on--and on." He turned away and walked back to his cabin through the rain-drenched flowers and the dripping green bushes. Who may know what pictures either of dark regret or of golden hope were passing before his eyes as vividly as were Felix's memories of the low cottage on the hill, of the apple trees that would be in bloom now all up and down Medford Valley, of the wind talking in the oak tree outside his window. A quarrel with one's only brother looks suddenly very small when so many thousand miles are stretched out between. * * * * * Ralph had often said that the hollyhocks were growing too many and should be uprooted, but Barbara's begging for their lives somehow always saved them in the end. They had spread out from the door and advanced down the hill in marching regiments, a glowing mass of color. The singing, yellow-banded bees were busy all day in the cups of scarlet fading to pink and white, and white shading into yellow. The afternoon sun was behind them, lighting them to unwonted glory, when Felix came plodding along the lane on each side of which the apple trees were beginning to grow tall. Barbara was in the garden cutting sweet peas into her apron and Ralph, beside her, was standing in silence, watching the bees. A dozen times the girl had read that same thought in his mind, that he would give ten years of life to unsay the words that had driven his brother away and that had taught himself such a bitter lesson. Then suddenly Barbara uttered such a cry of joy that even the bees hummed and hovered lower, and slow old Chloe came hurrying to the door. The old woman smiled, with tears running down her wrinkled face, as she saw who it was that came trudging up the hill. "There's good luck come back to this house at last," she said aloud an hour later when Felix, as the twilight was falling, sat down upon the doorstep and began to play his violin. He never grew tired of telling the tale of his adventurous journey, nor did his sister and brother ever grow tired of listening. Ralph Brighton had lost, in that one dreadful hour, his love for dollar signs, and he nodded in wise agreement over Felix's decision to give up the quest for gold. Barbara would hearken in awed fascination to that story of the man lost in the desert, whose eyes looked once upon fabulous wealth but who could never find it again. Wherever gold mines are, there is to be found such a legend, a tale of greater riches just beyond men's knowledge. No matter how dazzling is the wealth at hand there is always that tantalizing story of the lost mine, sometimes reputed to be far and inaccessible, sometimes only just over the next hill, yet always as difficult to discover as the end of the rainbow. But, as Abner Blythe said, it is so a country grows, and when men cease from following rainbows, then will the world stand still. CHAPTER X A MAN OF STRAW The shower had lifted and was moving away down the valley, a gray mist of rain with a slowly following flood of sunshine. Oliver got up and said without enthusiasm: "We must go now, we have an errand we must do. Come along, Janet." She rose to go with him but looked back wistfully several times as she went, with lagging feet, down the hill. She had wished that the story might last forever, so that she need not face Anthony Crawford at the end of it. They said nothing to each other as they climbed into the car and threaded the twisting lanes and byroads that would take them to the house they sought. Oliver was rehearsing within himself what he should say when they presented the picture. "My sister carried this away by mistake, we thought that we should return it to you as soon as possible. "And then he will say something sharp and unkind, and I won't know what to answer," he reflected drearily. "I will want to say that I am sure it isn't his anyway and that Janet did well to take it, even by accident. But what is the use of stirring up more trouble? Well, I can only explain and then get away as quickly as we can." It is probable that Janet, who sat by him in low-spirited silence, was really suffering less than he. Oliver had undertaken the responsibility of returning the picture, and Oliver was a dependable boy who could manage it far better than she could. She thought little of what was to be said or done and was only anxious to have the affair over. They left the car in the lane and walked together toward the sagging gate. A man was just coming through it, who proved, as they came near, to be John Massey. His good-natured, friendly face was pale under its sunburn and drawn into unfamiliar lines of anger and despair. "Mr. Peyton sent me the money to settle up my rent," he told them, "and I came up here to pay it and arrange about leaving. Crawford wants me to stay until the first of the month, but I am going to-day. He has never stocked the farm with the tools and machinery a landlord is supposed to furnish, so I've bought them myself, what I could, and now he says they are his. He wants to know how I can prove that I paid for them, when every one knows that it was his place to do it. He laughed at me when I said it would ruin me entirely. He said one man's gain was always from another man's loss. I vow there is the spirit of a devil in him." He looked back at the house among the trees, clenching his big hands and muttering to himself in helpless fury. "He just stood there grinning, even guessing my thoughts, for he said, 'You could knock me down, I know, but it would be no satisfaction to you, for I would get back at you through the law. It would cost you more than it is worth, John Massey.' It was what I knew was true myself, so I kept my hands off him and came away." Janet and Oliver stood looking at him miserably, knowing that there was nothing to be done. "Get into the car and wait for us," Oliver directed at last. "We will take you home when we have finished here. We won't stay long." "You won't want to," observed John Massey bitterly. "He is in a famous bad temper." They went through the gate with Janet's steps lagging more than ever. There was something almost uncanny about a man who could cause such misery to other people and yet go unscathed himself. They saw him almost immediately as they came up the path. He had been cutting down some weeds in the neglected field and was standing in the middle of it, close beside the scarecrow. He did not move, but waited for them to come close, evidently meditating what he could say that would hurt and anger them the most. He began to speak the moment they came near, giving Oliver no opening for what he had meant to say: "So Jasper Peyton, having sent one of you to steal my picture, has lost courage and sent two of you to bring it back again. Very clever, very clever of him indeed!" "He knew nothing about it," Janet was beginning passionately, when Oliver silenced her by a touch on her shoulder. "He knows that," he reminded her calmly; "he is only trying to make you angry." He caught a look of smoldering fury in Anthony Crawford's eye and a note of surprised irritation in his voice. "Well," the man snapped, "am I to have my property or not?" "You are to have it. We will not keep anything that you even claim as yours," returned Oliver. He felt hot rage surging up within him, yet he strove to keep it down. He had realized, of a sudden, that this man who could hurt his Cousin Jasper so deeply, who could ruin John Massey, could harm neither him nor Janet in the least. Oliver had felt real dread as he came through the gate, he had been haunted by the vague terror of what Anthony Crawford might be able to do, but he looked upon him now with disillusioned eyes, knowing him for nothing but a small-minded, selfish, spiteful man whose power over them was nothing at all. "If I can only keep as calm as he can, he will never get the better of me," the boy thought desperately as he struggled with his own rising tide of anger. "Perhaps you would be glad to have me establish my real rights," said Crawford. "You would like to have it brought up in court, perhaps, how your sister was found going through my possessions, and how she happened, quite by chance, of course, to select the most portable and valuable article in my house and carry it away with her. She would like, I am sure, to have public opportunity to make all that quite plain." Oliver heard Janet's gasp of panic-stricken horror, but he still, by a great effort, retained his own presence of mind. "We are not afraid of you," he asserted, looking straight into the other's narrow, shifting eyes. "I am nearly as big as you and I could roll you over and over in the mud of this wet field, only that would give you the legal hold on me that is just what you wish. You can't do us any real harm, no matter what you pretend. I don't believe you have anything behind those threats you make to Cousin Jasper, I don't think you believe in your claims yourself. You're a bluff; like this scarecrow here, you're nothing but a bogy man, stuffed with straw!" He caught the scarecrow by the shoulder, venting his rage upon the helpless bundle of rags, shaking it even out of its ridiculous resemblance to its master, until it fell to bits about his feet. He flung down the miniature upon the heap of rags and, followed by Janet, walked away across the field. Anthony Crawford stood looking after him, never offering a word. When Oliver reached the path he became aware that John Massey was leaning over the gate, grinning in half-terrified delight. The rain was beginning to fall steadily again as they came out into the lane and climbed into the car. It rained all of the afternoon, but ceased at nightfall, just in time, so Janet said, "to keep Mrs. Brown from nervous prostration." Oliver could not quite understand how plump, comfortable Mrs. Brown could be threatened with such a malady, for he had forgotten that next day there was to be a much heralded outing for all the members of Cousin Jasper's household. The occasion was a celebration at the next village, a glorified edition of the ordinary country fair in which farmers, summer visitors, and the residents of the bigger estates were all accustomed to take part. A magnificent affair it was to be with exhibitions, merry-go-rounds, peanut and lemonade stands, motor races, a horse show--something to please the taste of every variety of person. It was Cousin Jasper's custom to give the whole staff of servants a holiday for the festival, although the cook usually waited to serve an early lunch and Mrs. Brown came home before the others, to set out a late supper. No influence on earth could ever persuade Cousin Jasper to attend one of these merrymakings, but every other person under his roof was absorbed in looking forward to the great day of the summer. Elaborate preparations had been made and all that was now in question was the weather, for to make such an event a success it seemed absolutely necessary to have one of those clear, blazing-hot days that seem specially to belong to circuses, fairs, and midsummer festivals. Janet was to go under the safe, but excited, wing of Mrs. Brown, and Oliver, also, was looking forward to the day with some anticipation. "I wonder if the Beeman and Polly will be there," he thought, and went off into further speculation as to what the Beeman would look like in the more civilized clothes that such an occasion would demand. "I might not even know him," he reflected. When the day came, however, cloudless, hot, just what such a day should be, Oliver suddenly announced that he was not going. "I don't like to leave Cousin Jasper all alone when he is so worried," he said to Janet, but could not explain why there should be any cause for misgiving. "I didn't care a great deal about going anyway." He refused to listen to her suggestion that she should stay also. Lines of motors were rolling down the road from early morning onward, filled with flannel-coated or befrilled holiday makers or laden with farmers and farmers' wives and farmers' children. Janet and Mrs. Brown, the one an excited flutter of white organdie skirts, the other a ponderous rustle of tight brown taffeta, departed at ten o'clock and by one the great house was empty of all save Oliver and Cousin Jasper. The afternoon seemed very still and very long, as one hour followed another. Oliver strolled out to the gate and stood looking down the road, but the procession of motors had long since come to an end, so that the highway stretched, white and empty, to the far end of the valley. Yet as he stood, idly staring out in the hot quiet, he thought that he saw a small, dilapidated vehicle come round a distant turn and advance slowly toward him. When it was near enough for him to recognize the old white horse, the driver pulled up suddenly, turned the cart sharply about in the road, and rattled away in the direction from which he had come. Could it be that he had seen the boy there in the open gate, and therefore had decided not to come in? Oliver could scarcely believe that this was the reason. An hour later, when he had gone back to the house, he saw a ragged, barefoot youth in faded overalls come shuffling up the drive. He delivered to Oliver a letter addressed to Cousin Jasper and said it was "from Mr. Crawford and he was to be sure to get an answer." Oliver carried it away to the study and stood waiting, looking out through the window, while Cousin Jasper should read it and write a reply. The brightness of the holiday weather seemed to be growing dim somehow; the sun was still shining but with a touch of greenish, unreal light. "I hope there isn't going to be a storm," he thought. His reflections were interrupted by a sound in the room behind him; Cousin Jasper was tearing the letter sharply to pieces. "Anthony has sent what he calls an ultimatum," he said, trying to smile and not succeeding. "Tell the boy there is no answer." The messenger, on being so informed, seemed reluctant to believe it. "He said I must have one, not to come back without it," he kept insisting. How Anthony Crawford had found any one to carry his letter on this day when Medford Valley seemed quite emptied of inhabitants seemed rather a mystery, yet he had not only found one but had impressed him forcibly with the necessity of fulfilling his errand. It was only after he had received a coin from Oliver's pocket and a large apple from the fruit dish in the dining room, that the shabby youth finally decided to go away. "He said I wasn't to come back without an answer, so if I haven't one I needn't go back at all." He seemed to find this solution of the difficulty an excellent one and went striding away, whistling cheerfully. Whatever final threat Anthony Crawford's letter had contained, it seemed to be unusually disturbing to Cousin Jasper. Having evidently made up his mind to ignore it, he seemed, just as plainly, to be able to think of nothing else. He seemed unwilling to be alone, and yet to be very bad company, for he was restless, silent, and, when Oliver, with an effort, tried to talk of cheerful things, was completely inattentive. They went into the garden at last to see how the flowers were faring. The sunshine was more unreal than ever, and sudden, fitful gusts of wind were beginning to stir the trees. They had inspected the flowers and were halfway across the lawn on their way to the house when the sun vanished, the wind rose to a roar, and, before they could reach the steps, the blinding rain was upon them. It was not an ordinary thunderstorm, but one of those sinister tempests that occasionally break the tension of a hot summer day. Oliver, inside the hastily closed windows, could see the trees lashing helplessly, and could hear them groaning and snapping as one great branch after another came crashing to the ground. It was only a few minutes that the furious wind lasted, as it swept across the garden, but it left destruction in its wake. The beds of lilies were drenched and flattened, the smooth lawn was strewn with twigs and broken boughs, half a dozen trees were split, and one huge Lombardy poplar, with a mass of earth and roots turned upward, lay prone across the driveway. It was half past six by Oliver's watch, then seven, then eight. No one had come home. Cousin Jasper was growing more and more restless and overwrought, Oliver was anxious--and hungry. He saw his cousin gather up the fragments of the letter, piece them together for rereading, then fling them from him once more. The boy wandered about aimlessly in the solitude of the big house, wishing that this long miserable day would reach an end and that Janet and Mrs. Brown would come home. It grew dark and no one returned, although, after a long time, the telephone began to ring. It was Mrs. Brown's voice, nervous and only half audible, that sounded at the far end. Yes, she and Miss Janet were quite safe, they had been under shelter during the storm, but there had been such damage by the wind that both the railway and the road were blocked. They would not be able to get home for some hours, she feared. "Could you, Mr. Oliver, just slip down to the kitchen and make poor Mr. Peyton a cup of tea and some toast? It is so bad for him to wait so late for his dinner. You will find the tea in the right-hand cupboard and the butter----" The unsatisfactory connection cut her off, leaving Oliver standing aghast at her suggestion. "Just slip down to the kitchen," indeed, when he did not even know the way to that region of the house. And make tea! It seemed an utterly impossible task. Through the long vista of rooms he could see Cousin Jasper in his study, sitting before his desk, and, fancying himself unseen, suddenly bowing his head in his hands. "It won't do," thought Oliver determinedly, "he must have some one to help him, some one that knows more about this wretched business. There is that Cousin Tom he talks about, Eleanor's father. I can't think of any one else. I will send for him." If he could only have found the Beeman! He even searched the telephone book for the name of Marshall, but found none. And he had never discovered where the Beeman and Polly lived. Yes, the only choice was Cousin Tom. He got the connection with some difficulty and asked for Mr. Brighton. "Mr. Brighton is at dinner," returned the smooth voice of a well-trained servant; "he cannot be interrupted." "But this is very important," insisted Oliver. "I am quite sure that if he knew----" "My orders are that he is not to be disturbed," was the politely firm answer while the boy raged and fumed impotently. "Then tell him," Oliver directed, "that his cousin, Mr. Jasper Peyton, is in very great trouble and needs to see him as--as soon as he finds it quite convenient." His voice was trembling with anger and he slammed down the receiver without waiting for a reply. "There was no use sending for him, after all," he reflected in black discouragement. He was not used to such treatment nor did he think that a man should surround himself with so much ceremony that he could not hear a plea for help. "He is just what Cousin Eleanor's father would be," was his disgusted verdict. "I was a fool to hope for any help there. If it had been the Beeman----" Never had the house seemed so enormous or so silent as it was to-night. He went out through a swinging door, attempting to find the kitchen, fumbling down a passage, feeling in likely places for electric buttons, and not discovering them. He bumped his head against unexpected doors and cupboards, he upset something with a horrifying crash in the butler's pantry. At last he found the right door and the proper light switch, and stood in the big, shining white kitchen, looking about him helplessly at all the complicated apparatus of cookery, clean, polished, and complete, and utterly useless to him. "This is no place for a boy," he exclaimed stormily after he had pinched his fingers in a drawer, spilled the water, and produced a roaring, spitting flame in the gas burner that blew up in his face and then went out. After fifteen minutes of miserable effort he at last heard the water boil noisily in the kettle where he had placed water and tea together. He poured out a cupful of the poisonous brew and stood regarding it in despair. "I wish Mrs. Brown would come home," he groaned. "I'd be glad of any woman, any girl, even Cousin Eleanor." He had opened a window, for the place was hot and close and through this he could hear, of a sudden, the sound of an automobile coming up the drive. He dashed through the dark passage, hurried to the great front door, and flung it open. There was a crunching of big wheels on the gravel and the snorting of an engine checked suddenly to a stop. It was not Mrs. Brown and Janet, for, though he heard voices, they were not theirs. The car had stopped beyond the fallen tree and some one was coming across the grass--two people, for the voices were a man's and a girl's. Apparently Cousin Tom had not stopped to finish his dinner, after all, and he had brought Cousin Eleanor. "Yes, I'll be glad to see even her," he thought desperately. The two came nearer, a man in white flannels, but bareheaded in the hurry of his coming, and a girl in white also. There was something familiar in the swing of those broad shoulders, in the tone of that voice. Yet Oliver stood, blinking stupidly, holding to the side of the door, too dazed to speak when the two stepped out of the dark and came up the steps--the Beeman and Polly. CHAPTER XI THREE COUSINS "Good gracious, Oliver, do you mean to say you really did not know? We used to talk it over, Polly and I, and wonder whether you were not beginning to see through us. Janet had some suspicions, and when she met us at the fair this afternoon, she understood who we were at last. Now I will present you to Miss Eleanor Marshall Brighton, known to her own family as Polly. I would not have broken this thing to you so suddenly, if I had taken time to think." Oliver listened to Cousin Tom's half-apologetic explanations, yet he scarcely heard them, but still stood leaning against the doorpost, gaping with astonishment. Of course he had always known that there was something unusual about the Beeman, but as to who he really was he had never had an inkling. And this was Cousin Eleanor, the girl he had pictured so definitely that it seemed she could not be other than the prim, detested person he had so dreaded meeting. It was the very vividness of his idea of her that had stood in the way of his guessing the truth. But if the Beeman were really Cousin Tom, then he could, of course, put everything right and--more immediate cause for rejoicing--Polly could cook! "Oh, come down to the kitchen and get Cousin Jasper something to eat," he begged. "He is almost starved. It is half past eight and he had lunch at twelve." He gave Tom Brighton a rapid account of what had happened that day--of the letter, of Cousin Jasper's increasing agitation, of his final desperate call for help on his own responsibility. "Poor Oliver, what a day you have had, while the rest of us were enjoying ourselves at the fair!" said Cousin Tom. "Polly and I happened to come home early before the storm, so that your message found us and we came at once." "And he is starved himself," put in Polly. "He has not had anything to eat any more than Cousin Jasper." It was wonderful to watch Polly making short shrift of the remains of his own awkward preparations, to see her skillful manipulation of the gas burners and her marvelous dexterity with the egg beater. And this slim, eager, shy Polly, with her crinkled brown hair and her freckled nose, this was really Eleanor Brighton. Oliver sat down limply upon one of the kitchen chairs to contemplate the wonder of it anew. "I did not know who you were, myself, that first day," she said, "though Daddy guessed at once and even suspected that you were planning to go away. Janet told us all about it this afternoon, how Cousin Jasper made such a mistake and thought that he could force you to meet a girl that you were sure you wouldn't like. I would have done just the same myself if my father had tried to make me meet you, only he is too wise for such a thing." But Oliver could only shake his head and marvel that he had not guessed. Later, after Cousin Jasper and Oliver had feasted on the supper of Polly's providing, they all gathered about the table in the library and Cousin Tom unlocked the battered old strong box that he had brought in from the car. "As I am the family lawyer," he explained to Oliver--"yes, bees are only a hobby, and my real business is the law--I have in my possession most of the records belonging to this affair. I have gone into the whole matter of Anthony's claims from the very beginning and I am prepared to fight him for every inch that he demands." He began taking papers from the box, fat rolls of legal documents, letters with their edges worn into tatters and addressed in the crabbed writing of a century ago, title deeds discolored and yellow with age, most of them fastened with great red seals, a mass of musty records that looked dry and dull indeed. While he was spreading them out upon the table, the door opened quietly and Janet slipped in. She assured them that she had dined and had not got wet, that, except for Mrs. Brown's terrible fever of anxiety lest Cousin Jasper should not be properly cared for, all had gone well. Might she listen, please, and was there going to be another story? "Not of just the same kind that I have been telling you up yonder on the Windy Hill," replied Tom Brighton, "although here you see the source of all those tales and of a hundred others like them. They are all buried here in these dusty papers, the history of your forbears and of the lands in Medford Valley. It goes all the way back, does the record, to the time when our several times great-grandfather bought the first tract from the Indian, Nashola. I am always glad to think that the red man had enough intelligence and the white man enough honor to make something like a real bargain, that this valley was purchased for what the wild lands were worth instead of being paid for with a gun, a drink of bad spirits, and a handful of beads. See, here is Nashola's name; he learned to write after a fashion, although the Indian witnesses signed only with a mark. And here is the signature of that first one of our kin to settle in the New World, Matthew Hallowell." "Hallowell?" echoed Oliver. "Did he belong to those same Hallowells in the story, who quarreled over the _Huntress_?" "Yes," was the answer, "he was the beginning of a vigorous line, living in and near Medford Valley until there came at last the Hallowell who moved to the seaport town, who built his first ship there and launched into foreign trade. They became great merchants, the Hallowells, in that time between the Revolution and the War of 1812 when Yankee ships and Yankee owners were lords of the high seas. But fortune failed after the death of Reuben Hallowell; his son Alan loved sailing rather than trading and his daughter Cicely married a junior partner in a lesser firm, Howard Brighton, who thought it better for his sons and daughter to go to live on the lands in Medford Valley that had belonged to their mother and had been given by her to him. Cicely's children were Ralph and Felix and Barbara Brighton, of all of whom you have heard." "How have they heard, Tom?" asked Cousin Jasper, and the Beeman smiled. "I have been filling up their minds with family history, for I knew that they must understand about this whole affair some day and it would take too long to tell them all the facts at once. So we have come now to the latest portion of the story," he went on, turning again to the younger members of his audience, "to a period when three cousins, Jasper Peyton, Anthony Crawford, and Tom Brighton used to spend much time together when they were growing up. "Jasper and I are first cousins, since my father was Ralph Brighton and his mother was that younger sister, Barbara. I have had no reluctance in telling you of that bitter mistake my father made and the quarrel with his brother, for he spoke of it often himself and said that, in all his life, he never learned a more valuable lesson. Felix did not marry, since his zeal for the orchard and the bees and later for farming on a larger and larger scale seemed to occupy his every thought. It was he who reclaimed the marshy, waste ground in the valley, 'for,' he said, 'it is wrong that we on the seaboard leave our home acres and move farther and farther westward, looking for new land that is easy to till. It is a wasteful policy, even for a new country.' That was one of the things he had learned on his long journey across the West and back again." "But I do not understand about Anthony Crawford," put in Oliver. "I haven't seen yet where he comes in at all." "He calls us cousin, but it is a distant kinship, since he is grandson of that Martin Hallowell who broke with his partner Reuben over the matter of the _Huntress_. He used to come often to stay in Medford Valley, for he had been left without parents and Felix Brighton was his guardian. My Aunt Barbara, Jasper's mother, had lost her husband early, and she went to live with her brother Felix in the yellow stone farmhouse that had come to him from some earlier Hallowell who had built it a hundred years ago. How we loved the place and how happy we all were there, for I spent almost as much time under that wide, friendly roof as did Anthony. How patient and good Jasper's mother was to three mischievous, active boys, and how unceasingly, wisely kind was Felix Brighton! He has done much for us, Jasper and me, and he would, if he could, have made a man of Anthony. "He was not like the other two of us, we could see that even when we were children. He was quicker and more clever than we, and he was better, or at least wiser, at holding his tongue and keeping his temper when the occasion served. But the key to his whole character was that he could never see any possession in the hands of another without instinctively wishing to have it for himself. I have seen him move heaven and earth to get something that he did not really want, merely because it seemed of value when it belonged to some one else. There was no one more clever than he at acquiring what he desired. "Felix Brighton prospered greatly, but he never moved out of the comfortable farmhouse of which we were all so fond. It became very beautiful under his hands, extended and improved and filled with the rarest treasures of his gathering. He was especially fond of pictures, so that there was a wealth of portraits and landscapes that he had collected or inherited, that glowed like jewels on the mellow old walls. He did us unnumbered kindnesses when we were boys, and when, on growing up, we decided that we would all three be lawyers, he set us up as partners, Peyton, Crawford & Brighton. We felt very important with our law books, our profound knowledge, our newly painted sign and very little else. Even while we were studying, it was plain that Anthony, in his erratic, changeable way, was the cleverest of us all. "And then history repeated itself, as it so often does. The grandson of Martin Hallowell and the two great-grandsons of Reuben fell out with each other over just such a questionable enterprise as had wrecked a partnership a hundred years ago. I can see him now as he came hurrying into our office that day full of the plan for his great scheme--just a quibble of the law and the thing was done. We were all to be made rich and successful by it, he explained. There is no use in describing to you the intricacies of his idea; it was one of those shoal waters in which the honesty of young lawyers can sometimes come to grief. The pursuit of law will winnow out the true from the false; it makes an upright man a hundred times more certain and more proud of his honor: it searches out the small, weak places of a meaner man's soul. "Anthony tried to make this project sound quite simple and straightforward, but I can remember how narrowly he watched us and how, when he attempted to laugh at our objections, his voice cracked into shrill falsetto, under pressure of his excitement. I would have argued with him, explained, tried to dissuade him, but Jasper scorned my temporizing and would have had none of it. His sense of justice blazed high within him and his words leaped forth, a very avalanche of scorn and wrath. Anthony heard him through without replying, then turned on his heel and went out. Our partnership was at an end. Later we heard that he had become involved with his scheme even before he spoke to us, that he had made himself liable for a sum of money, and that, to pay it--don't wince, Jasper, these children must know the truth--to pay it he forged Felix Brighton's name. "There is something very terrible in the sudden destruction of your confidence in some one you have loved and trusted. Anthony is greatly changed now, although there is still a little of his old charm left. Yet you would not think of him as some one who had been an intimate part of our lives, a comrade whose cleverness we admired and whose honesty we had never doubted. And then he was suddenly blotted out of our existence. The wrong he had done was hushed up, he disappeared somewhere in the West, and it seemed that we were never to hear of him again. The years went by, Jasper's mother and then our Uncle Felix went from us. He had given me the lands on the west side of the river, since I was already owner of the cottage, the Windy Hill, and the bees that he had taught me to tend and love. To Jasper he had given the yellow stone house that had been like home for us all and his intimate possessions, the treasures it contained. He had given him also the drained farm lands by the river, a legacy that was an occupation in itself. He had seen that Jasper's bent was not really for the law, but that his best calling was the care of such an estate as this. More years passed, I became more and more absorbed in my own work down in the seaport town that has become a city, spending my holidays and my vacations in caring for the bees, not seeing Jasper so often, for he was over-busy also. And then Anthony came home. "Whatever he had been doing in all this time we have no way of knowing. He had altered greatly, so that there seemed nothing left of his old self except his cleverness, some lingering affection for the place where he had been happy as a boy, and that old habit of coveting what other people had. He came back with a claim to make, one that went back as far as the day when Reuben and Martin Hallowell quarreled and made a hasty division of what had belonged to them in common. There had always been a slight doubt as to the title of the land upon which the yellow stone farmhouse stood, and to the upper end of the farms by the river. Anthony knew of it from the days when we studied law together and he came back determined to make that property his. I will not deny that he had some slight basis for his claim. He would accept no compromise or offer of purchase, so in the end Jasper gave in to him." Cousin Jasper had not spoken throughout Tom Brighton's recounting of the whole affair. But now he took up the tale himself, going over the ground that, very evidently, he had pondered and argued and weighed within himself a hundred times. "I had much and he had nothing, he was in real want and had a wife and two children besides. There was, as Tom says, some real basis for his claim since the title had never been made quite clear. And there is, further, no more bitter thing than a family quarrel, a division over the settlement of property, this one asking for what is more than his, that one fighting to hold what is not his own--no, it was unthinkable. So we settled the matter peaceably enough. I built a new house above him on the hill and he settled down in the place that had been home to all of us. He seemed to have repented of the wrong he had done and we were ready to forget it. I do not think that I ever doubted the honesty of his purpose, at first. Then it came to my wishing for some of the old possessions for my new house and he vowed that every one of them was his." "I know," said Janet, nodding quickly. "He wouldn't give up the pictures, though he did not care for them himself. They were stored in the dust and dirt under the eaves and he asked me if you had sent me to see where he kept them. He only wanted them because they were yours." "I suppose he meant to sell them some day," Cousin Jasper answered, "for there were several that were of almost as much value as the house itself. But less than ever was I willing to bicker and haggle over what I had really loved, and since he would not sell them to me I gave the matter up. Even then, there was a little justice on his side, for the pictures had been purchased with money from the lands that he called his. But it was my great mistake, since he did not understand at all why I yielded to him, and from that time he made certain that he had but to force me and I would relinquish everything." Oliver muttered something angrily and went to stand by the window. He wanted a minute to think it out, to understand clearly before the tale went on. He could see just how Anthony had read Cousin Jasper's character, sensitive, high-strung, with strong affections that not even great wrongs could quite break down. But how mistaken the man had been who thought Jasper Peyton was a weak-willed person to be led anywhere! "His success in getting made him greedy for more," went on Cousin Jasper, "and he began to push his claims further and further until I verily believe he began to think that everything I had should be his own. When I refused to yield one more inch, then the difficulties began indeed. He let the old house fall into unbelievable disrepair and he took the stand that since I was defrauding him, he was too poor to do otherwise. I built the high wall across the garden so that I need not see the home I had loved dropping to pieces before my eyes. At that his anger seemed to pass beyond control. He claims this, and he claims that, but I know that his final aim is the whole of what I have. He sent me a letter to-day, I do not understand why he did not come himself. He says that he is about to take public action, that he will bring into court the story of how Felix Brighton became his guardian and used that position as a blind to live in possession of Anthony's inheritance. Oh, I cannot repeat it all, his threats against our good name and against the memory of those who are gone." Cousin Jasper's voice dropped wearily into silence. Oliver dug his hands deep into his pockets and stood staring and scowling out through the window although all that he saw was the blackness outside and the dim reflection of his own face upon the pane. "Our Uncle Felix never had the least notion that Anthony had a claim upon the place," Tom Brighton was saying behind him. "It was a legal technicality that Anthony was clever enough to find and make the most of. I do not at all believe in his right to it, even yet." "He doesn't believe in it himself," Oliver made his declaration, whirling suddenly about upon them. "I told him that he was only bluffing and he could not even deny it. How I hate him," he cried huskily. "It is lucky that there are none of your bees near by, just now!" Jasper Peyton looked at him in blank inquiry, but the Beeman smiled, yet shook his head at the same time. "It is not only bees that are destroyed by hating," he said, "it is every good thing in life that dries up and blows away under the force of dislike and bitterness. Look at Anthony, who vows he has no affection for any one, who does not believe in friends or kindliness. He has hurt others, he has brought no happiness to himself, and, unless I am mistaken, he is going to wreck his whole scheme in one tremendous crash that we cannot now foresee. A lawyer, like myself, sees many hard, miserable, sordid things, but a Beeman has leisure to speculate as to whither they tend. And they all tend to the same thing." They sat for some time about the table, explaining, discussing, and questioning, until finally the muffled booming of the clock in the hall proclaimed the hour of ten. Polly's eyes were beginning to look heavy, a fact that did not escape her father's watchful observation. "These girls have had a long day and it is time for them to be in bed," he announced. "We have been over this whole matter and made things clear, and we have only to decide, since we are to fight Anthony in court, just what stand we will make. We will talk that over, Jasper, while Oliver takes your car and drives Polly home." "I'll go with them," said Janet, jumping up also. She had been listening, bright-eyed and alert, through all of the story and showed no signs of sleepiness. Oliver tore himself away with some regret, for he did not wish to miss a word of the plans the two men were making. But Polly was evidently weary and ready to go home. "Come along, Cousin Eleanor," he said briskly, and the three went, laughing, out through the door and down the steps. It was very dark when Oliver brought out the big car and, skirting the fallen tree, made his way carefully down the drive. A bank of clouds to the eastward was all that was left of the storm, however, and through this the moon was breaking, with promise to rise clear, and come out into an empty sky. Oliver slowed down the car as they came to the gate and stopped for a moment to consider. The wind had dropped so completely that they could hear every sound of the summer night, even the dull, far-off roar of the flooded river. "Do you know," he began slowly, "we never remembered to tell them that John Massey has left his place. I don't think any one but ourselves knows that he went away immediately; they will be thinking that he is still there, watching the dike. And to-night--listen how loud the river sounds!" "Suppose we go down and look," said Polly. "It will not take us long and the road runs close to the bank." He turned the car accordingly and they sped down the steep road, the sky growing brighter above them and the darkness fading as the moon came out. When they reached the last incline the whole of the valley lands, spread below them, were so flooded with light that the broad picture looked like an etching--white fields, black trees with blacker splashes of shade, sharp-cut, pointed shadows of houses and farm buildings, the silver expanse of the river, and the straight, white ribbon of the road. It was all very still and peaceful, with scarcely a light in any house and no single moving figure upon the highway. Medford Valley, worn out with its day of merrymaking, was wrapped in heavy sleep. Very strangely, the sight of this unsuspecting, slumbering community seemed to fill them all with sudden misgiving. "I hope there's nothing wrong," muttered Oliver, swinging the car into its highest speed as they dashed down the road. John Massey's house lay still and dark in the moonlight, its windows staring with the blank eyes that an uninhabited dwelling always shows the moment home life has gone out of it. They stopped the car near his gate and climbed out, all three of them, to walk at the foot of the high, grass-covered bank and search for signs of danger. It looked firm and solid enough, with its thick, green sod, its fringe of willows along the top, but with the whispering haste of the river sounding plainly against its outer wall. Standing on tiptoe, they could catch sight of the swift, sliding water, risen so high that it touched the very top of the bank. The roar of the swollen current could be heard all across the valley, but it was not so ominous, somehow, as the smaller voices of the ripples sucking and gurgling so close to their ears. They walked along, three ghostly figures in the moonlight, until Janet, who happened to be ahead, stopped suddenly. "I hear something strange; I don't understand what it is," she said. Oliver stepped forward, bending his head to listen. Yes, he could hear it, too. The sound was a soft hissing, as though a tiny snake might be hidden in the grass at their feet. But there was no grass thick enough for such shelter, only a few sparse stalks, rising in a drift of sand at the foot of the dike. The noise was made by the moving of the sand particles, as they stirred and seethed, with drops of water bubbling between them like the trickle of a spring. As they watched, the round wet space widened; it had been as big as a cup, now it was like a dinner plate. "It's a leak in the bank." Oliver regarded it intently, thinking it quite too small to be dangerous. "I ought to be able to put my thumb in it," he added cheerfully, "but either there is something wrong with that Dutch story or there is something wrong with this hole." "It isn't a joke," said Polly quickly. "They always begin that way. It--oh, run, run!" For the boiling circle of sand had changed suddenly to a spout of muddy water that shot upward, spreading into a wide, brown pool that came washing over the grass to hide the spot where they had stood a moment before. From the higher ground of the road they watched it follow them, rising, pausing a little, then rising again. "Back up the car or you will have to drive through the water," directed Polly. "Henry Brook's is the nearest house where we can find help. If that leak is to be blocked, the men will have to be quick." They were in the car, Oliver had backed it round almost within its own length, and they were flying up the road before Polly had finished speaking. "Once, years ago, this long stretch of dike caved in and the whole current of the river came roaring down through the bottom lands. But there were no houses here then." They came to a crossroad, turned into it, and stopped short before a gate. Oliver did not take time to open it, but tumbled over the top, raced across the grass, and thundered at the door of a dark, silent house. Oh, why did country people sleep so soundly? He knocked and knocked again and, after what seemed an interminable time, saw a light above and heard a window open. "What do you want?" The farmer's big voice sounded none too pleased, but it changed quickly when Oliver told his news. "A break in the dike? Where? On Anthony Crawford's land, is it? Well, that's just where it would be. We don't any of us, around here, have much friendship for Crawford. Of course if the leak is very bad it will threaten us all. I'll spread the alarm while you go to get Mr. Peyton." They were away up the road again; but, fast as they flew, the news seemed to travel faster. The rural telephone and the comfortable country habit of "listening in" on every message can spread tidings broadcast at a moment's notice. The largest farm, at the foot of the valley, had a great bell swung above its central barn, a bell whose excited voice could carry but one of two messages--flood or fire. Before they were halfway up the hill its wild clanging was calling all across the valley. Up Cousin Jasper's avenue they came with a rush, flung themselves out of the car, and ran to the house. The two men were still bending over the papers, Cousin Jasper, with his thin, intent face, listening, Tom Brighton talking steadily, his eyes alight with that cheerful, eager kindliness that had so drawn Oliver to him from the first moment. They both turned in astonishment as the three came bursting in. "A break in the dike at John Massey's place? And where was John Massey?" Cousin Tom questioned sharply. "Gone? If we had known that he had left, neither Jasper nor I would have been sitting here so quietly all evening, with the river in flood. And you have given the alarm? That is good." There was a bustle of hasty preparations, but they were still standing in the hall when there came the sound of flying wheels on the drive and the uneven hoofbeats of an uncertain old horse urged to utmost speed. "It's Anthony Crawford," said Oliver suddenly. The man came in, the outcast cousin who had turned his hand against them all. His face was white, his gray eyes were burning with excitement, his voice was harsh and choked when he tried to speak. "The dike--I see you know already. I went down over the hill to look and saw the moonlight on that pool of water. It was at John Massey's place. I came to get help." Cousin Tom alone answered. "Why was John Massey gone?" he said. Oliver stepped forward to Tom Brighton's side and looked curiously at the man who been their enemy. He could see his hands shake as they crushed his battered old hat between them. "We had quarreled," Anthony Crawford explained, his voice suddenly gone little and husky. "I turned him away three days ago and--and we had some words, so that he wouldn't stay even overnight after that. He watched the dike--and now the water is coming in." One more question Cousin Tom asked. "Why did you come to us?" he inquired steadily. "It would have been quicker to go down through the fields to the farms in the valley, to call out Henry Brook and send him with men and shovels and sandbags to stop the flood. To get here is a mile by the road and there was no time to lose." He pressed his question mercilessly. "Why did you come to us?" Anthony Crawford moistened his dry lips, but he did not speak. There was a pause, though all of them knew that every second the waters of Medford River were sweeping higher and higher. It was finally Tom Brighton who answered his own question. "You were afraid to go elsewhere. It was your doing, this flood; you took the land, you neglected the dikes, you sent John Massey away who would have watched against such a disaster as this. You were afraid to face those men, below, and tell them what you had done." The other nodded. "I haven't a friend in Medford Valley to help me--except you. Yes, I was afraid to face them; the break is in just the place where it may flood the whole bottom land. I thought they wouldn't move to help me until it was too late. And, on my life, Tom Brighton, if we can stop the flood I do not care what becomes of me." It was quite true, as they could all see, that the man's desperate terror was not all for himself, that the situation was far too bad for that. He was picturing how the whole torrent of Medford River might soon be sweeping across those fields of ripening grain, those comfortable barns with their cows and sheep and horses, those pleasant white farmhouses where a hundred people lay asleep. He was seeing how, little by little, he had built up the wrong that was to be his ruin, he had driven away his friends, he had seized the land, he had turned off its guardian, and now, in a wild whirlwind, the results of his misdoing were upon him. He did not look at Tom Brighton's set face but at Jasper Peyton, the one he had wronged most. "A man can't live without friends," he said. "Will you stand by me, Jasper, not for what I deserve, but for what I need?" "Yes," answered Jasper Peyton. He smiled suddenly, with all the old, tense misery quite gone from his face. "We're going to stand by you, Anthony, all of us. We are with you still." CHAPTER XII MEDFORD RIVER Cousin Tom was giving rapid directions as they went out to the waiting automobiles. "I will go on with Jasper and we will pick up some men from the farms as we pass. Anthony, you had better come with Oliver, we shall want to crowd in all the farmers we can. What is it, Polly? You want to come with me? I suspect you think you are going to keep your father out of danger and I think the same of you. There is room in front here, between us; jump in!" The engine grumbled and roared and the first car slid away into the shadows. "Get in," said Oliver curtly to Anthony Crawford, while Janet opened the door of the second motor and slipped to the far side to give him room. None of the three spoke as they went down the drive behind Cousin Tom. As they came through the gate they could hear, faintly, the wild clanging of the bell in the valley below. Oliver was too much occupied with his driving to have any other thought, Janet was awed into silence by the alien presence at her side, but Anthony Crawford, in that same husky, broken voice, suddenly began to speak as though he were following his thoughts out loud. "I don't know why I came back to Medford Valley," he said. "I had lived through every sort of thing since I went away, but I was making good at last. Martha--that's the girl I married, she was a miner's daughter--had helped me to go straight. I was working in a mine, harder work than I had ever dreamed of in my life. It was good for me, yet I kept telling myself that it was being in prison. Perhaps it was, but I had forgotten that prison was the place where I ought to be." Oliver tilted back his head that he might hear better, but his only answer was an inarticulate sound like a mutter of agreement. To reach the valley as soon as possible and without mishap, was more important to him, at that moment, than explanations. But Janet looked up with round, wondering eyes, eager to hear the rest. "I kept thinking how it was here at home, so green and clean and peaceful, not like that stark, bare mountain country where I seemed to be working my whole life away. I told myself that a certain portion of Medford Valley belonged to me, that I could come back and live a life of dignified idleness, if only I had my rights, if only Jasper would give me what was my own." "But it wasn't true. You knew that he wouldn't keep what belonged to you," burst out Janet. "I knew it wasn't true, but people love to deceive themselves, and I had to explain to Martha. She would never have come if she had known how things really stood; she was unwilling, even as it was. But I was so sure, I thought I knew Jasper so well, exactly how I could threaten him, just where I could hurt him most. Had I not learned, when I was a boy, how proud and sensitive and generous he could be? I was as successful as I had hoped to be, but I wanted more and more, and see where it has brought me in the end!" It seemed a relief to him to confess the very whole of his wrong-doing, to leave hidden no single meanness or small-souled thought. It was as though, in the clean night air, in the face of two just and clear-seeing companions, he wished to cast aside all the wrong of the past before making a new beginning. "I am going away," he said. "It isn't because I found that my plan didn't pay as I had hoped it would. It is because I was happier back there in the West, serving out a sentence at hard labor, learning to live by the work of my hands rather than by my dishonorable wits. I can look back over my life and see just where my honesty began to waver, just when I first compromised with my own conscience and persuaded myself that something was fair and honest when I knew it was not. We had all the same chance, Jasper and Tom and I; look at them and look at me. You may wonder why I say all this to you. Perhaps it is because you alone saw through me, dared to tell me that I had no confidence even in my own claims, called me a man of straw and a bogy. Well, after to-night I am going back, to be a real man again." For the first time Oliver slackened the speed of the car and nearly stopped in the road. "Do you want to go now?" he inquired shortly. "We can take you to the station if you do. They don't need us down there, as they do the others." "No, not now. I must know what my criminal bungling has amounted to, first. When I have seen the flood go down, then it will be time to go. I want to see this thing through." They had straightened out into the level road and were forced to drive more slowly, for the highway was no longer empty. A big tractor was lumbering ahead, farm wagons turned out for them to pass, and hastily dressed men were thronging alongside. Two of them jumped upon the running board, but, seeing who sat in the car, muttered some imprecation and dropped off again. Anthony Crawford stood up and opened the door. "I'll walk," he announced briefly. "Load in all the men you can carry. You will need every one." Janet climbed over to the place beside her brother, and the tonneau filled up with men, who crowded the seats, clung to the step and the fenders, and sat in a row across the back of the car. They came to the end of the road at last where, in that place that had been so empty and quiet half an hour ago, there was now gathered a surging crowd of men, of horses, tractors, automobiles, and wagons. Oliver could see, on a knoll above the others, Polly standing with two farmers' wives, the only women there. At first he could not see the water, but, as they pressed into the crowd, he caught sight of the broad pool, dark even in the moonlight. It was over the road, now, through the fence, and had crept halfway across the stretch of grass before John Massey's door. Tom Brighton's white-clad figure was going back and forth among the men, but it was Cousin Jasper, standing high above the others on the seat of a wagon, who was directing operations and getting this confused army of workers into rapid organization. "Tom, take half the men to shovel dirt and pile up the sand sacks, and send the other half back to the sand pits to fill them. Clear the road so that the wagons can go back and forth. Henry Brook, take out your horses and join your team with Johnson's, the tractor can pull two wagons and we need four horses to each of the others. Now, go to it and bring the sandbags as fast as they can be filled. We can't save John Massey's house, but we will build a dam to hold the water a hundred yards back, where the ground begins to rise. And remember, you can't be too quick if you want to save the valley." Oliver took off his coat and jumped out of the car. "Go over where Polly is," he told Janet "I am going into this game with the others." He was in every portion of it, as the night wore by, never quite knowing how he passed from one task to another, but following orders blindly, hour after hour. He helped to dig, but was not quite so quick as the others; he carried the sacks of sand that were brought up, loaded high upon the wagons, but he had not the quick swing of the more sturdy farmers. He found himself at last on the high, vibrating seat of the heavy tractor, rumbling down the road with a line of wagons behind him, stopping at the sand pits to have them filled, then turning laboriously to haul them back again. The owner sat beside him on the first trip, directing him how to manage the unfamiliar machine, but as they made ready for a second he ejaculated, "You'll do," and jumped down to labor with the diggers. Oliver was left to drive his clumsy, powerful steed alone. He saw the broad, semicircular wall of piled sandbags, banked with earth, rise slowly as the men worked with feverish haste, he saw the water come up to the foot of it, seem to hesitate, and then creep up the side. He saw, suddenly, just as they had all stopped to breathe, a long portion of the dike begin to tremble, then cave in with a hideous, sucking crash that shook the ground under them, he saw the flood of muddy water come roaring in and sweep against the painfully built rampart which swayed and crumbled to its fall. In a wild turmoil of running, shouting men, backing wagons and rearing horses, he managed to extricate the clumsy monster that had been put under his care, brought it laboring and snorting out on higher ground and fell to work again. The barrier they had set up with so much toil was tumbling and collapsing in great gaps where the hungry current flung against it, but it held just long enough for them to raise another wall, longer, higher, firmer than the other and built with the frantic haste of desperate men. The hours went by, it was long after midnight, with the sky growing pale for the morning. Once or twice Oliver had seen Anthony Crawford working among the rest, carrying sacks of sand, jostled and cursed by the men about him, but in spite of their abuse, toiling steadily onward. When the dike collapsed and the men ran for their lives, one wagon lurched off the road; its driver was flung from the seat and caught under the wheel, while the horses, having jammed the tongue against the bank, reared and plunged helplessly. Oliver saw Anthony Crawford run out, with the swift, muddy water flowing knee-deep around him, watched him extricate the man, drag him to the seat, and back the frantic horses away from the bank to bring them struggling through the water to safety. There was no time for words of commendation. Both men at once went back to their task of carrying sacks as the slow building of another wall began. Some one had built a fire on the knoll, and here the farmers' wives, with Janet and Polly among them, were boiling coffee, frying bacon, and serving out food to the hungry, worn-out men. Oliver had munched a generous sandwich as he drove down the road. As he came back again he noticed a strange lull and observed that the men were leaning on their shovels and that the work had ceased. Tom Brighton, wet and muddy from head to foot, motioned him to come near. "We've done all we can," the big farmer beside them was saying, "the sacks are nearly gone and the men are dead beat. If she breaks through now, the whole valley will have to go under." The water was halfway up the side of the earth-banked wall and was still rising. Here and there a muddy trickle came oozing through, to be stopped by a clod of earth, but otherwise there was nothing to do. To Oliver it seemed that they stood for hours, staring, waiting as the water lifted slowly, rose half an inch, paused and rose again. It was three-fourths of the way up; it was a foot below the lip of the wall. The space of a foot dwindled to six inches. "If there should be a wind, now," said the man beside him hoarsely. Oliver looked back along the valley at the arch of sky showing blue instead of gray, at the trees moving gently in a morning breeze that touched the hilltop, but that did not stir the still air below. He heard Tom Brighton suddenly draw a sharp breath and he looked back quickly. Was that space above the water a little wider, was there a wet black line that stretched all along the rough wall where the flood had touched and fallen again? He was not dreaming; it was true. The level of the muddy tide was dropping, the crest of the flood had passed. It was broad daylight now, with the morning sunlight moving slowly down the slope into the valley. For the first time Oliver could see clearly the sullen, yellow pool of water, the crevasse in the dike, and John Massey's little house, submerged to its very eaves. He watched the shining streak of wet earth that marked the drop in the water, he saw it broaden into a ribbon and from a ribbon turn into a wide, glistening zone of safety that proved to all the danger had gone by. "We can go now," said Cousin Tom at last. "There is work enough still to do, but it is time for us all to rest a little. We are certainly a wet and weary-looking crew." They had breakfast, all of the cousins together, at Cousin Jasper's house, where Mrs. Brown, having spent half the night wringing her hands in helpless anxiety, had seemed to spend the other half superintending the preparation of a feast that should be truly worthy of the occasion. The guests were all cheerful and were still so keyed up by the struggle of the night that they did not yet feel weariness. Anthony Crawford sat on one side of Cousin Jasper, Tom Brighton on the other, while the three younger members of the party watched them wonderingly from the other end of the table. Everything, for the moment, seemed forgotten except the old comradeship of their boyhood. The only reminder of the unhappy days just passed lay in the atmosphere of relief and peacefulness that seemed to pervade the whole house. The windows stood wide open and the morning wind came in to lift the long curtains and to stir the great bowl of flowers on the table. Oliver, hungrily devouring chicken and rolls and bacon and sausages and hot waffles with maple sirup, was saying little but was listening earnestly to the jokes and laughter of Cousin Jasper. After a day and night of anxiety, depression, struggle, and victory, he seemed suddenly to have become a new man. They were talking, the three elders, of their early adventures together, but Oliver noticed that the reminiscences never traveled beyond a certain year, that their stories would go forward to the time when they were nearly grown, and then would slip back to their younger days again. Some black memory was laid across the happy recollection of their friendship, cutting off all that came after; yet they talked and laughed easily of the bright, remote happiness that was common to them all. The boy noticed, also, as they sat together, that Anthony was like the others in certain ways, that his eyes could light with the same merriment as Cousin Jasper's, and that his chin was cut in the same determined line as Tom Brighton's. Yet--no--there was something about his face that never could be quite like theirs. They had finished at last, and Anthony Crawford, pushing back his chair, came abruptly out of the past into the present. He thrust his hand into the inner pocket of his coat and brought out some legal-looking papers like those that Cousin Tom had locked away in the tin box. "Here is the deed that you made out, Jasper, for the house and the land that you gave up to me. I put it in my pocket yesterday morning; it seems a year ago. The purpose I had then is something that I would rather forget, if I ever can. But this is what I do with it now." He tore the heavy paper into pieces, smaller and smaller, as though he could not demolish completely enough the record of what he had demanded. The breeze from the garden sent the scraps fluttering over the table and across the rug, it carried the round, red seal along the tablecloth and dropped it into Janet's lap. "Tom will have to make out some official papers," he said, "but I want you to understand this fully, that there among those fragments lies the end of this whole affair." Cousin Jasper was about to speak, but Tom Brighton broke in ahead of him. "It has turned out better than we could have hoped, Anthony," he began, "so that we can all agree to let bygones be bygones." Anthony Crawford turned very slowly and looked, with those penetrating gray eyes, at Oliver. "We owe a great deal to these children here," he said, "and as for one of them----" Convinced that something was about to be said of him, Oliver got up quickly, pretending that it was merely because he had finished his breakfast and wished to be excused, hurried across the room, and slipped out through one of the long windows that opened on the terrace. He could still hear Anthony Crawford's voice, however, in the room behind him saying: "It was these children who found the leak in the dike; it was Oliver who thought of going to look for it. It was Oliver who saw through me, saw that I had not a shred of honor or honesty behind my claim and told me what I was." The boy moved farther away from the window so that he could not hear and stood, his hands clenched on the terrace rail, looking out over the garden, across the pools of color and stretches of green lawn, over the wall and down the white road that led away the length of the valley. No matter what words they might speak of him they could never make him forget how he had walked away down that road, meaning to leave all this vaguely understood trouble behind him. Only a chance meeting, the Beeman's friendly smile, the interest of a story that had caught him for a moment, and all would have been changed. No, there should be no words of praise for him. The voices were louder behind him, for the three men were passing through the library, and Cousin Jasper was speaking just within. "We still have to talk over this matter of rebuilding the dike," he said. "We must have your advice in that, Anthony." "Go into the study," Anthony Crawford replied. "I must speak to Oliver for a moment." He came out through the window while the others walked on together. Oliver turned to face him. "I am going now," Anthony said quietly. "I thought you would be ready to help me when it was time." Oliver reddened when he remembered the promptness of his offer the evening before. "Do you need to go," he said awkwardly, "when you are friends again with every one here? Even the men in the valley don't hate you," he added bluntly, "after what you did last night. I believe Cousin Jasper will want you to stay." "If I let him tell me so, I will not go," the other replied quickly. "It must be this minute, while my mind is still made up, or never. I will write to Martha to follow, I cannot even trust myself to wait for her. It is better that I should go, better for them, in the study there, better for the community, for myself, even better for you, Oliver, I know. Come," he insisted, as the boy still hesitated, "my confidence in you will be less great if you do not tell me that you know it also." "Yes," returned Oliver grudgingly at last. "Yes, I know it too." They drove away down the rain-washed, empty road with the early morning wind rushing about their ears. As they climbed to the highest ridge, Anthony Crawford stood up to look back down the sun-filled, green length of Medford Valley. Yet he did not speak until they had reached the station, with the train thundering in just as they drew up beside the platform. "Good-by, Oliver," he said briefly. The boy knew that the word of farewell was not for him but for all that the man was leaving--friends, memories, the place that he had loved in his strange, crooked way, all that he was putting behind him forever. A bell rang, a voice shouted the unintelligible something that stands for "All aboard," the train ground into motion, and he was gone. Almost every one in Medford Valley must have slept that morning through the long hours until far past noon. But by four o'clock Oliver had slumbered all his weariness away, and so had Janet. They were restless after their excitement of the night before, and they found the house very still and with Cousin Jasper nowhere visible. They went out to the garage, got into the car, and set off along the familiar way toward the Windy Hill. "Just to see if they are there," as Oliver said to Janet. They came up the slope through the grass and saw the blue wood smoke rising lazily above them, unmistakable signal that the Beeman was at work. Polly greeted them gayly, for she, like them, was quite refreshed by the hours of slumber that had passed. Her father still looked weary, as though he had spent the interval in troubled thought rather than sleep, but he hailed them cheerily. All up and down the hill was a subdued and busy humming, for the day after rain is the best of all seasons for bees to gather honey. "We thought we must find out what the storm had done to our hives," the Beeman said. "Only three were blown over, but there must have been a great commotion. Now we have everything set to rights and we are not in the mood, to tell the truth, for a great deal more work to-day." "Are you too tired," Janet asked, "for--for a story?" "No," he answered, "stories come easily for a man who has had training as Polly's father. I thought there was no one like her for demanding stories, but you are just such another." They sat down on the grass with the broad shadow of the oak tree lying all about them and stretching farther and farther as the afternoon sun moved down the sky. They had chosen the steeper slope of the hill so that they could look down upon the whole length of the winding stream, the scattered house-tops, and the wide green of those gardenlike stretches that still lay, safe and serene, ripening their grain beside the river. The Beeman's eyes moved up and down the valley, resting longest upon the slope opposite, where the yellow farmhouse stood at the edge of its grove of trees and showed its wide gray roof, its white thread of pathway leading up to the door, its row of broad windows that were beginning to flash and shine under the touch of the level rays of the sun. "Poor Anthony," he said slowly at last, "to be banished from a place he loved so much. And yet a person thinks it a little thing when he first confuses right with wrong!" He drew a long breath and then turned to the girls with his old cheery smile. "A story?" he repeated. "It will not be like the others, a tale from old dusty chronicles of Medford Valley, to tell you things that you should know. We have lived the last chapter of that tale and now we will go on to something new." Oliver leaned back luxuriously in the grass, to stare up at the clear sky and the dark outline of the oak tree, clear-cut against the blue. Its heavy branches were just stirring in the unfailing breeze that blew in from the sea, and its rustling mingled sleepily with the Beeman's voice as he began: "Once upon a time----" * * * * * +------------------------------------------------------------+ | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | Page 16: himeslf replaced with himself | | Page 124: aferward replaced with afterward | | Page 159: 'byroads that would take take them to the house' | | replaced with | | 'byroads that would take them to the house' | | Page 173: realy replaced with really | | Page 180: attemped replaced with attempted | | | +------------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * 
59904	----	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 59904-h.htm or 59904-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/59904/59904-h/59904-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/59904/59904-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/tonyheroorbraveb00alge Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by plus signs is in bold face (+bold+). [Illustration: Tony set to work with rapid hands to tie the prostrate tramp hand and foot.--(See page 73.)] TONY, THE HERO; --Or,-- A Brave Boy's Adventures With a Tramp. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR., Author of "Tom, the Bootblack;" "Joe's Luck;" "Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy;" "Tom Temple's Career;" "Tom Thatcher's Fortune;" "The Errand Boy," etc., etc. Illustrated. [Illustration: Logo] New York. A. L. Burt, Publisher. Copyright 1890, by A. L. Burt. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. THE TWO WANDERERS. 7 II. THE FARM-HOUSE. 14 III. RUDOLPH'S DISAPPOINTMENT. 20 IV. SETTING A TRAP. 26 V. AN ATTEMPT AT BURGLARY. 33 VI. ABNER'S RUSE. 37 VII. A STRANGE HOTEL. 47 VIII. TONY HIRES OUT AS A COOK AND HOUSEKEEPER. 54 IX. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 61 X. THE TRAMP'S UNEXPECTED DEFEAT. 68 XI. THE PRISONER. 74 XII. TONY STARTS OUT ONCE MORE. 81 XIII. TONY GETS A PLACE. 88 XIV. TONY'S RIVAL. 92 XV. THE BOYS' DUEL. 96 XVI. RUDOLPH ESCAPES AND SEES AN ADVERTISEMENT. 103 XVII. THE LADY AT THE ST. NICHOLAS. 110 XVIII. TWO CONSPIRATORS. 116 XIX. THE WICKED COMPACT. 123 XX. THE FIGHTING QUAKER. 130 XXI. RUDOLPH HEARS OF TONY. 134 XXII. RUDOLPH FINDS TONY. 137 XXIII. THE NEGLECTED WELL. 142 XXIV. THE DEED IS DONE. 145 XXV. "I HOLD YOU TO THE BOND." 152 XXVI. TONY'S ESCAPE. 159 XXVII. TONY IS DISCHARGED. 166 XXVIII. THE WORLD BEFORE HIM. 173 XXIX. A STRANGE ADVENTURE. 180 XXX. BREAKFAST AT THE ST. NICHOLAS. 187 XXXI. TONY AND HIS GUARDIAN SET UP HOUSEKEEPING. 194 XXXII. HOME AGAIN. 201 XXXIII. CAPTAIN GREGORY LOVELL. 208 XXXIV. TONY ASTONISHES HIS OLD FRIENDS. 215 XXXV. TONY'S BAD LUCK. 223 XXXVI. "I HATE YOU!" 230 XXXVII. MRS. MIDDLETON AND HER LOVER. 236 XXXVIII. A STORMY INTERVIEW. 240 XXXIX. TONY'S ESCAPE. 243 XL. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 249 WHITMARSH'S REVENGE. 254 THE BOY IN THE BUSH. 264 THE MIDNIGHT RIDE. 273 A THOUSAND A YEAR. 281 A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS 1 TONY, THE HERO. CHAPTER I. THE TWO WANDERERS. A man and a boy were ascending a steep street in a country town in Eastern New York. The man was tall and dark-complexioned, with a sinister look which of itself excited distrust. He wore a slouch hat, which, coming down over his forehead, nearly concealed from view his low, receding brow. A pair of black, piercing eyes looked out from beneath the brim. The first impression produced upon those who met him was that he was of gipsy blood, and the impression was a correct one. Where he was born no one seemed to know; perhaps he did not himself know, for all his life he had been a wanderer, but English was the tongue that he spoke, and, apart from the gipsy dialect, he knew no other. His companion was a boy of fourteen. Between the two there was not the slightest resemblance. Though embrowned by exposure to the sun and the wind, it was easy to see that the boy was originally of light complexion. His hair was chestnut and his eyes blue. His features were regular and strikingly handsome, though, owing to the vagrant life he was compelled to lead, he was not able to pay that attention to cleanliness which he might have done if he had had a settled home. It was five o'clock in the afternoon, and the boy looked weary. He seemed scarcely able to drag one foot after the other. His companion turned upon him roughly. "What are you dawdling that way for, Tony?" he demanded. "You creep like a boy of three." "I can't help it, Rudolph," said the boy, wearily; "I'm tired." "What business have you to be tired?" "I've walked far to-day." "You've walked no farther than I. I don't dawdle like you." "You're a man. You're stronger than I am, Rudolph." "And you're a milksop," said the man contemptuously. "I'm nothing of the sort," said the boy, with a flash of spirit. "I'm not made of cast-iron, and that's why I can't stand walking all day long. Besides, I have had no dinner." "That isn't my fault, is it?" "I didn't say it was, but it makes me weak for all that." "Well," said Rudolph, "perhaps you're right. I feel like eating something myself. We'll go to some house and ask for supper." Tony looked dissatisfied. "I wish we were not obliged to beg our meals," he said; "I don't like it." "Oh, you're getting proud, are you?" sneered Rudolph. "If you've got money to pay for your supper, we won't beg, as you call it." "Why can't we do as other people do?" asked Tony. "What's that?" "Live somewhere, and not go tramping round the country all the time. It would be a good deal pleasanter." "Not for me. I'm a vagrant by nature. I can't be cooped up in one place. I should die of stagnation. I come of a roving stock. My mother and father before me were rovers, and I follow in their steps." The man spoke with animation, his eye flashing as he gazed about him, and unconsciously quickened his pace. "Then, I'm not like you," said Tony, decidedly. "I don't want to be a tramp. Were my father and mother rovers like yours?" "Of course they were," answered Rudolph, but not without hesitation. "Ain't I your uncle?" "I don't know. Are you?" returned Tony, searchingly. "Haven't I told you so a hundred times?" demanded Rudolph, impatiently. "Yes," said the boy, slowly, "but there's no likeness between us. You're dark and I am light." "That proves nothing," said the elder tramp, hastily. "Brothers are often as unlike. Perhaps you don't want to look upon me as a relation?" The boy was silent. "Are you getting ashamed of me?" demanded Rudolph, in a harsh tone. "I am ashamed of myself," said Tony, bitterly. "I'm nothing but a tramp, begging my bread from door to door, sleeping in barns, outhouses, in the fields, anywhere I can. I'm as ignorant as a boy of eight. I can just read and that's all." "You know as much I do." "That don't satisfy me. When I grow up I don't want to be----" Tony hesitated. "You don't want to be like me. Is that it?" asked Rudolph, angrily. "No, I don't want to be like you," answered Tony, boldly. "I want to have a home, and a business, and to live like other people." "Humph!" muttered Rudolph, fixing his eyes thoughtfully upon his young companion. "This is something new. You never talked like that before." "But I've felt like that plenty of times. I'm tired of being a tramp." "Then you're a fool. There's no life so free and independent. You can go where you please, with no one to order you here nor there, the scene changing always, instead of being obliged to look always upon the same people and the same fields." "What's the good of it all? I'm tired of it. I've got no home, and never had any." "You've got no spirit. You're only fit for a farm-boy or an apprentice." "I wish I was either one." "Sit down here if you are tired," said the man, abruptly, throwing himself down under a wide-spreading tree by the roadside. Tony stretched himself out at a little distance, and uttered a sign of relief as he found himself permitted to rest. "Have you been thinking of this long?" asked Rudolph. "Of what?" "Of not liking to be a tramp?" "Yes." "You have not spoken of it before." "I've been thinking of it more lately." "How did that come?" "I'll tell you," said Tony. "Don't you remember last week when we passed by a school house? It was recess, and the boys were out at play. While you were away a few minutes, one of the boys sat down by me and talked. He told me what he was studying, and what he was going to do when he got older, and then he asked me about myself." "What did you tell him?" "What did I tell him?" said Tony, bitterly. "I told him that I was a tramp, and that when I got older I should be a tramp still." "Well," said Rudolph, sharply, "what then?" "The boy told me I ought to get some regular work to do, and grow into a respectable member of society. He said that his father would help me, he thought; and----" "So you want to leave me, do you?" demanded Rudolph, fiercely. "Is that what you're coming to, my chicken?" "It isn't that so much as the life you make me lead. I want to leave that, Rudolph." "Well, you can't do it," said the man, shortly. "Why not?" "I say so, and that's enough." Tony was silent for a moment. He was not greatly disappointed, for he expected a refusal. He changed the subject. "Rudolph," he said, "there's something else I want to ask you about." "Well?" "Who am I?" "Who are you? A young fool," muttered the tramp, but he appeared a little uneasy at the question. "I want to know something about my father and mother." "Your mother was my sister. She died soon after you were born." "And my father?" "He was put in jail for theft, and was shot in trying to make his escape. Does that satisfy you?" "No, it doesn't, and what's more, I don't believe it," said Tony, boldly. "Look here," said Rudolph, sternly. "I've had enough of your insolence. Do you see this strap?" He produced a long leather strap, which he drew through his fingers menacingly. "Yes, I see it." "You'll feel it if you ain't careful. Now get up. It's time to be moving." CHAPTER II. THE FARM-HOUSE. "Where are we going to stop to-night?" asked Tony ten minutes later. "There," answered Rudolph, pointing out a farm-house, a little to the left. "Suppose they won't let us." "They will admit us into their barn, at least, if we play our cards right. Listen to what I say. You are to be my son." "But I am not your son." "Be silent!" said the other tramp, "and don't you dare to contradict me. You have been sick, and are too weak to go farther." "That is a lie, Rudolph." "That doesn't matter. If they believe it, they won't turn us away. Perhaps they will let you sleep in the house." "Away from you?" "Yes." Tony was puzzled. It seemed as if Rudolph wanted him to be more comfortably provided for than himself, but the boy knew him too well not to suspect that there was some concealed motive for this apparent kindness. "Well, what are you thinking about?" demanded Rudolph, suspiciously, as he observed the boy's earnest gaze. "Why do you want me to sleep in the house?" he asked. "I will tell you. When all the family are asleep, I want you to steal down stairs, open the back door, and let me in." "What for?" asked the boy, startled. "Never you mind. Do as I tell you!" "But I don't want to do it. You never asked me to do that before." "Didn't I? Well, I had no occasion. I ask you now." "What are you going to do? Are you going to harm any one?" "No. I'll tell you what I'm going to do, but mind you, if you breathe a word to any being, I'll cut your tongue out." Tony looked troubled, but not frightened. "Go on," he said. Rudolph continued in a rapid tone. "I want money to carry out a plan of importance. This farm belongs to a farmer who is rich, and who keeps a part of his money in the house." "How do you know that?" "A friend of mine stopped there last week, and found out. He put me on the scent. The old man keeps from two to three hundred dollars in his desk. I must have that money." "I don't want to help you in this, Rudolph," said Tony. "I won't betray you, but you mustn't compel me to be a thief." "I can't get along without you, and help me you must." "Suppose we fail?" "Then we must take to our legs. If we're caught we're both in the same box. I don't ask you to take any risk that I don't run myself." Tony was about to remonstrate further, but it was too late. They had already reached the farm house, and caught sight of the owner standing under a tree in the front yard. "Remember!" hissed the older tramp. "Follow my lead, or I'll beat you till you are half dead. Good evening, sir." This last was said in a humble tone to the farmer, who advanced to the gate. "Good evening," said the farmer, ingeniously. He was a man of sixty, roughly dressed to suit his work, with grizzled hair, a form somewhat bowed, and a face seamed with wrinkles. He had been a hard worker, and showed abundant traces of it in his appearance. "We are very tired and hungry, my boy and I," whined Rudolph. "We've traveled many miles since morning. Would you kindly give us some supper and a night's lodging?" "My wife'll give you something to eat," said the old man. "Thank Heaven! we've got enough for ourselves and a bit for the poor besides. But I don't know about lodging. I don't like to take in strangers that I know nothing about." "I don't blame you, sir," said Rudolph, in a tone of affected humility. "There's many rogues going round the country, I've heard, but I'm a poor, hardworking man." "Then why are you not at work?" "Times are hard, and I can get nothing to do. I am in search of work. I can do almost anything. I'm a carpenter by trade." Rudolph knew no more of the carpenter's trade than the man in the moon, but that would do as well as any other. "Where are you from?" "From Buffalo," he answered, with slight hesitation. "Is business dull there?" "Nothing doing." "Well, my friend, you haven't come to the right place. There's nothing but farming done here." "I don't know anything about that," said Rudolph, hastily, for he had no disposition to be set to work in the fields. "I don't need any extra hands," said the farmer. "I am glad of that," thought the tramp. "Go round to the back door, and I will speak to my wife about supper," said the old man. "Come, Tony," said Rudolph, motioning to take the boy's hand, but Tony did not see fit to notice the movement, and walked in silence by his side. A motherly-looking old woman made her appearance at the back door. "Come in," she said. "Come right in, and sit down to the table. Abner, make room for the poor man and his son." Abner was a stalwart youth of eighteen, hard-handed and muscular. He was the only permanent "hired man" employed on the farm. In haying time there were others transiently employed. A farmer's table is plentiful, though homely. The two tramps made an abundant meal, both doing justice to the homely fare. The farmer's wife looked on with hospitable satisfaction. She could not bear to have anybody hungry under her roof. "You'll excuse our appetite, ma'am," said Rudolph, "but we've had nothing to eat since breakfast." "Eat as much as you like," said she. "We never stint anybody here. Is that your son?" "Yes, ma'am." Tony bent his eyes upon his plate, and frowned slightly. He wanted to deny it, but did not dare. "He don't look a bit like you," said the woman. "He's light, and you're very dark." "His mother was light," said Rudolph. "He takes after her." "How old is he?" "Tony, tell the lady how old you are." "Fourteen." "He is well grown of his age." "Yes; he will make a good-sized man. He's been sick." "Has he? What has been the matter?" "I don't know. Poor folks like us can't call in a doctor." "He don't look sick," said the farmer's wife, thoughtfully. "He's delicate, though he don't look it. It's sleeping out in the open air, I expect." "Do you have to sleep out in the open air?" "Yes; we can't afford to pay for lodgings, and people won't take us into their houses. I don't mind myself--I'm tough--but Tony can't stand it as well as I can." While this conversation was going on, Tony fixed his eyes upon his plate. He was annoyed to have such falsehoods told about him; but if he should utter a word of objection he knew there would be an explosion of wrath on the part of his guardian, and he remained silent. The farmer's wife was a simple-minded, kind-hearted woman, and though Tony did not look at all delicate, she never thought of questioning the statement of Rudolph. Indeed she was already revolving in her mind inviting the boy to sleep in the house. She was rather prejudiced in favor of Rudolph by his show of parental solicitude. When supper was over, having in the meantime consulted her husband, she said to Rudolph: "My husband says you may sleep in the barn, if you don't smoke. We can find a bed for your son with Abner. You won't mind taking him into your room?" "He can come," said Abner, good-naturedly. So it was arranged. At half-past eight, for they retired at that early hour in the farm house, Rudolph left the fireside, and sought the barn. As he left the room he looked suspiciously at Tony, and shook his head warningly. CHAPTER III. RUDOLPH'S DISAPPOINTMENT. Abner slept in a large room in the attic. It had been roughly partitioned off, and was not even plastered. The beams were plainly visible. Upon nails which had been driven into them hung Abner's limited wardrobe. There were two cot-beds in the room, as a part of the year the farmer employed more than one hired man. "You can sleep there, youngster," said Abner, pointing to one of the beds. "This is my bed." "Thank you," said Tony, politely. "I s'pose you've traveled round considerable," said Abner, with curiosity. "Yes, a good deal." "Do you like it?" "No; I'm tired of it." "How do you make your livin'?" "As we can. We often go hungry." "Why don't your father settle down somewhere?" Tony thought of disclaiming the relationship implied, but he reflected that Rudolph would be angry, and merely answered: "He prefers to travel round." "Was you ever in New York?" asked Abner. "Do you mean the city of New York? Yes." "I'd like to see it," said Abner, regarding Tony with new respect. "I've heard a sight about it. It's powerful big, isn't it?" "It's very large." "There's as many as a thousand houses, isn't there?" "There's a hundred thousand, I should think," answered Tony. "Sho? you don't say so!" exclaimed Abner, awestruck. "I'd like to go there." "Didn't you ever visit the city?" "No; I never traveled any. I never was more'n fifteen miles from home. Dad wouldn't let me. When I'm a man, I'm bound to see the world." "Ain't you a man now?" inquired Tony, surveying his Herculean proportions with astonishment. "No; I'm only eighteen." "You're as big as a man." "Yes, I'm pooty big," said Abner, with a complacent grin. "I can do a man's work." "I should think you might. I thought you were more than four years older than me. I'm fourteen." "I guess I weigh twice as much as you." "I'm not small of my age," said Tony, jealously. "Maybe not. I'm a regular bouncer. That's what dad says. Why, I'm half as big again as he is." "Does he ever lick you?" asked Tony, smiling. "I'd like to see him try it," said Abner, bursting into a roar of laughter. "He'd have to get upon a milkin' stool. Does your dad lick you?" "No," answered Tony, shortly. "He looks as if he might sometimes. He's kinder fractious-looking." Tony did not care to say much on the subject of Rudolph. He felt that it was his policy to be silent. If he said anything he might say too much, and if it got to Rudolph's ears, the man's vindictive temper would make it dangerous for him. "We get along pretty well," he said, guardedly. "Do you get up early?" "Four o'clock. You won't have to, though." "What time do you get breakfast?" "Half-past five, after I've milked and done the chores. You must be up by that time, or you won't get anything to eat." "That's pretty early," thought Tony. "I don't see the use of getting up so early." "I guess I'll go to sleep," said Abner. "I'm tuckered out." "Good-night, then," said Tony. "Good-night." The young giant turned over, closed his eyes, and in five minutes was asleep. Tony did not compose himself to sleep so readily, partly because Abner began to snore in a boisterous manner, partly because he felt disturbed by the thought of the treachery which Rudolph required at his hands. Tony was only a tramp, but he had an instinct of honor in him. In the farm house he had been kindly treated and hospitably entertained. He felt that it would be very mean to steal down in the dead of night and open the door to his companion in order that he might rob the unsuspecting farmer of his money. On the other hand, if he did not do this, he knew that he would be severely beaten by Rudolph. "Why am I tied to this man?" he thought. "What chance is there of my ever being anything but a tramp while I stay with him?" He had thought this before now, but the circumstances in which he now found himself placed made the feeling stronger. He had been often humiliated by being forced to beg from door to door, by the thought that he was a vagrant, and the companion of a vagrant, but he had not been urged to actual crime until now. He knew enough to be aware that he ran the risk of arrest and imprisonment if he obeyed Rudolph. On the other hand, if he refused, he was sure of a beating. What should he do? It was certainly a difficult question to decide, and Tony debated it in his own mind for some time. Finally he came to a determination. Rudolph might beat him, but he would not be guilty of this treachery. He felt better after he had come to this resolve, and the burden being now off his mind, he composed himself to sleep. He did not know how long he slept, but he had a troubled dream. He thought that in compliance with his companion's order he rose and opened the door to him. While Rudolph was opening the farmer's desk, he thought that heavy steps were heard, and Abner and the farmer entered the room, provided with a lantern. He thought that Rudolph and himself were overpowered and bound. Just as he reached this part he awaked, and was reassured by hearing Abner's heavy breathing. "I'm glad it's a dream," he thought, breathing a sigh of relief. At this instant his attention was called by a noise upon the panes of the only window in the room. He listened, and detected the cause. Some one was throwing gravel stones against it. "It's Rudolph!" he thought instantly. "He's trying to call my attention." He thought of pretending to be asleep, and taking no notice of the signal. But he feared Abner would awake, and ascertain the meaning of it. He decided to go to the window, show himself, and stop the noise if he could. He rose from his bed, and presented himself at the window. Looking down, he saw the dark figure of Rudolph leaning against the well-curb, with his eyes fixed on the window. "Oh, you're there at last," growled Rudolph. "I thought I'd never wake you up. Is the man asleep?" "Yes," said Tony. "Then come down and let me in." "I would rather not," said Tony, uneasily. "What's the fool afraid of?" answered Rudolph, in a low, menacing tone. "The man might wake up." "No danger. Such animals always sleep heavily. There's no danger, I tell you." "I don't want to do it," said Tony. "It would be mean. They've treated me well, and I don't want to help rob them." "Curse the young idiot!" exclaimed Rudolph, in low tones of concentrated passion. "Do you mean to disobey me?" "I can't do as you wish, Rudolph. Ask me anything else." "I wish I could get at him!" muttered Rudolph, between his teeth. "He never dared to disobey me before. Once more! Will you open the door to me?" demanded Rudolph. Tony bethought himself of an expedient. He might pretend that Abner was waking up. "Hush!" he said, in feigned alarm. "The man is waking up. Get out of sight quick." He disappeared from the window, and Rudolph, supposing there was really danger of detection, hurriedly stole away to the barn where he had been permitted to lodge. He came out half an hour later, and again made the old signal, but this time Tony did not show himself. He had made up his mind not to comply with the elder tramp's demands, and it would do no good to argue the point. "I wish I knew whether he was asleep, or only pretending, the young rascal," muttered Rudolph. "I must manage to have him stay here another night. That money must and shall be mine, and he shall help to get it for me." CHAPTER IV. SETTING A TRAP. At half-past five Tony got up. He would have liked to remain in bed two hours longer, but there was no chance for late resting at the farm house. Rudolph, too, was awakened by Abner, and the two tramps took their seats at the breakfast table with the rest of the family. Rudolph furtively scowled at Tony. To him he attributed the failure of his plans the night before, and he was furious against him--the more so that he did not dare to say anything in presence of the farmer's family. "Where are you going to-day?" asked the farmer, addressing Rudolph. "I am going to walk to Crampton. I may get employment there." "It is twelve miles away. That's a good walk." "I don't mind it for myself. I mind it for my son," said Rudolph, hypocritically. "He can stay here till you come back," said the farmer, hospitably. "If you're willing to have him, I will leave him for one more night," said Rudolph. "It'll do him good to rest." "He can stay as well as not," said the farmer. "When are you coming back?" "Perhaps to-night, but I think not till to-morrow." "Don't trouble yourself about your son. He will be safe here." "You are very kind," said the elder tramp. "Tony, thank these good people for their kindness to you." "I do thank them," said Tony, glancing uneasily at the other. When breakfast was over, Rudolph took his hat, and said: "I'll get started early. I've a long walk before me." Tony sat still, hoping that he would not be called upon to join him. But he was destined to be disappointed. "Come and walk a piece with me, Tony," said Rudolph. Reluctantly Tony got his hat, and set out with him. As long as they were in sight and hearing, Rudolph spoke to him gently, but when they were far enough for him to throw off the mask safely, he turned furiously upon the boy. "Now, you young rascal," he said, roughly, "tell me why you didn't obey me last night." "It wasn't safe," said Tony. "We should both have been caught." "Why should we? Wasn't the man asleep?" "He stirred in his sleep. If I had moved about much, or opened the door, it would have waked him up." "You are a coward," sneered Rudolph. "When I was of your age, I wouldn't have given up a job so easily. Such men sleep sound. No matter if they do move about, they won't wake up. If you had had a little more courage, we should have succeeded last night in capturing the money." "I wish you'd give it up, Rudolph," said Tony, earnestly. "You don't know what you're talking about," said the tramp, harshly. "You're a milksop. The world owes us a living, and we must call for it." "I'd rather work than steal." "There's no work to be had, and we must have money. More depends on it than you think. But we've got one more night to work in." "What do you mean to do?" asked Tony, uneasily. "Thanks to my management, you will sleep in the same room to-night. Look round the house during the day; see if the key's in the desk. If you can get hold of the money, all the better. In that case, come and hide it in that hollow tree, and we can secure it after the hue and cry is over. Do you hear?" "Yes." "But, if there is no chance of that, look out for me at midnight. I will throw gravel against your window as a signal. When you hear it, steal down stairs, with your shoes in your hands, and open the door to me. I will attend to the rest. And mind," he added, sternly, "I shall take no excuses." "Suppose I am caught going down stairs?" "Say you are taken sick. It will be easy enough to make an excuse." "Are you going to Crampton?" asked Tony. "Of course not. Do you think I am such a fool as to take a long walk like that?" "You said you were going." "Only to put them off the scent. I shall hide in yonder wood till night. Then I will find my way back to the farmhouse." "Do you want me to go any farther with you?" "No; you can go back now if you want to. Don't forget my directions." "I will remember them," said Tony, quietly. The two parted company, and Tony walked slowly back to the farm. He was troubled and perplexed. He was in a dilemma, and how to get out of it he did not know. It was not the first time that he thought over his relations to Rudolph. As far back as he could remember he had been under the care of this man. Sometimes the latter had been away for months, leaving him in the charge of a woman whose appearance indicated that she also was of Gipsy descent. He had experienced hunger, cold, neglect, but had lived through them all, tolerably contented. Now, however, he saw that Rudolph intended to make a criminal of him, and he was disposed to rebel. That his guardian was himself a thief, he had reason to know. He suspected that some of his periodical absences were spent in prison walls. Would he be content to follow his example? Tony answered unhesitatingly, "No." Whatever the consequences might be, he would make a stand there. He had reason to fear violence, but that was better than arrest and imprisonment. If matters came to the worst, he would run away. When he had come to a decision he felt better. He returned to the farm and found Abner just leaving the yard with a hoe in his hand. "Where are you going?" he asked. "To the corn field." "May I go with you?" "If you want to." So Tony went out to the field with the stalwart "hired man," and kept him company through the forenoon. "That's easy work," said Tony, after a while. "Do you think you can do it?" "Let me try." Tony succeeded tolerably well, but he could not get over the ground so fast as Abner. "Why don't you hire out on a farm?" asked Abner, as he took back the hoe. "I would if I could," answered Tony. "Why can't you? Won't your father let you?" "He wants me to go round with him," answered Tony. "Wouldn't he take me instead of you?" asked Abner, grinning. "I'd like to travel round and see the world. You could stay here and do farm work." "If he and the farmer agree to the change, I will," answered Tony, with a smile. At noon they went back to the farm house to dinner. Tony stared with astonishment at the quantity of food Abner made away with. He concluded that farm work was favorable to the appetite. The afternoon passed rapidly away, and night came. Again Tony went up into the attic to share Abner's room. He got nervous as the night wore on. He knew what was expected of him, and he shrank from Rudolph's anger. He tried to go to sleep, but could not. At last the expected signal came. There was a rattling of gravel stones upon the window. "Shall I lie here and take no notice?" thought Tony. In this case Rudolph would continue to fling gravel stones, and Abner might wake up. He decided to go to the window and announce his determination. When Rudolph saw him appear at the window, he called out: "Come down quick, and open the door." "I would rather not," answered Tony. "You must!" exclaimed Rudolph, with a terrible oath. "If you dare to refuse, I'll flay you alive." "I can't do it," said Tony, pale but resolute. "You have no right to ask it of me." Just then Tony was startled by a voice from the bed: "Is that your father? What does he want?" "I would rather not tell," said Tony. "You must!" said Abner, sternly. "He wants me to open the door and let him into the house," Tony confessed, reluctantly. "What for?" "He wants to get your master's money." "Ho, ho!" said Abner. "Well, we'll go down and let him in." "What!" exclaimed Tony, in surprise. "Call from the window that you will be down directly." "I don't want to get him into trouble." "You must, or I shall think you are a thief, too." Thus constrained, Tony called out that he would come down at once. "I thought you'd think better of it," muttered Rudolph. "Hurry down, and waste no time." Five minutes later, Abner and Tony crept down stairs, the former armed with a tough oak stick. CHAPTER V. AN ATTEMPT AT BURGLARY. Unsuspicious of danger, Rudolph took a position on the door-step. He was incensed with Tony for having given him so much unnecessary trouble, and he was resolved to give the boy a lesson. It was quite dark in the shadow of the house, and when the door opened, Rudolph, supposing, of course, it was Tony who had opened it, seized the person, whom he saw but dimly, by the arm, exclaiming venomously, as he tried to reach him: "I'll teach you to keep me waiting, you young rascal." He was not long in finding out his mistake. Abner was considerably larger and more muscular than the tramp, and he returned the compliment by shaking off Rudolph's grasp, and seizing him in his own vise-like grasp. "You'll teach me, will you, you villain," retorted Abner. "I'll teach you to come here like a thief." "Let go," exclaimed the tramp, as he felt himself shaken roughly. "Not till I've given you a good drubbing," returned Abner, and he began to use his cudgel with effect on the back and shoulders of the tramp. "You've come to the wrong house, you have." Rudolph ground his teeth with ineffectual rage. He lamented that he had not a knife or pistol with him, but he had made so sure of easy entrance into the house, and no resistance, that he had not prepared himself. As to brute force, he was no match for Abner. "The boy betrayed me!" he shrieked. "I'll have his life." "Not much," said Abner. "You'll be lucky to get away with your own. It isn't the boy. I was awake, and heard you ask him to let you in. Now take yourself off." As he said this he gave a powerful push, and Rudolph reeled a moment and sank upon the ground, striking his head with violence. "He won't try it again," said Abner, as he shut to the door and bolted it. "I guess he's got enough for once." Tony stood by, ashamed and mortified. He was afraid Abner would class him with the tramp who had just been ignominiously expelled from the house. He was afraid he, too, would be thrust out of doors, in which case he would be exposed to brutal treatment from Rudolph. But he did not need to fear this. Abner had seen and heard enough to feel convinced that Tony was all right in the matter, and he did not mean to make the innocent suffer for the guilty. "Now let us go to bed, Tony," he said in a friendly manner. "You don't want to go with him, do you?" "No," said Tony. "I never want to see him again." "I shouldn't think you would. He's a rascal and a thief." "I hope you don't think I wanted to rob the house," said Tony. "No; I don't believe you're a bit like him; what makes you go with him?" "I won't any more." "He isn't your father?" "No; I don't know who my father is." "That's strange," said Abner, who had seen but little of the world. Every one that he knew had a father, and knew who that father was. He could not realize that any one could have an experience like Tony's. "I wish I did know my father," said Tony, thoughtfully. "I'm alone in the world now." "What do you mean to do?" "I'll go off by myself to-morrow, away from Rudolph. I never want to see him again." "Have you got any money?" They had now got back into the chamber, and were taking off their clothes. "I've got five cents," answered Tony. "Is that all?" "Yes; but I don't mind; I'll get along somehow." Tony had always got along somehow. He had never--at least not for long at a time--known what it was to have a settled home or a permanent shelter. Whether the world owed him a living or not, he had always got one, such as it was, and though he had often been cold and hungry, here he was at fourteen; well and strong, and with plenty of pluck and courage to carry with him into the life struggle that was opening before him. Abner's training had been different, and he wondered at the coolness with which Tony contemplated the future. But he was too sleepy to wonder long at anything, and with a yawn he lapsed into slumber. Tony did not go to sleep immediately. He had need to be thoughtful. He had made up his mind to be his own master henceforth, but Rudolph, he knew, would have a word to say on that point. In getting away the next morning he must manage to give the tramp a wide berth. It would be better for him to go to some distant place, where, free from interference, he could make his own living. There was another thought that came to him. Somewhere in the world he might come across a father or mother, or more distant relative--one of whom he would not be ashamed, as he was of the companion who tried to draw him into crime. This was the last thought in his mind, as he sank into a sound sleep from which he did not awaken till he was called to breakfast. CHAPTER VI. ABNER'S RUSE. To say that Rudolph was angry when he recovered from the temporary insensibility occasioned by his fall, would be a very mild expression. He had not only been thwarted in his designs, but suffered violence and humiliation in presence of the boy of whom he regarded himself as the guardian. He thirsted for revenge, if not on Abner, then on Tony, whom it would be safer to maltreat and abuse. Anger is unreasonable, and poor Tony would have fared badly, if he had fallen into Rudolph's clutches just then. It made no difference that Abner had exonerated Tony from any share in the unpleasant surprise he had met. He determined to give him a severe beating, nevertheless. There is an old proverb: "You must catch your hare before you cook it." This did not occur to the tramp. He never supposed Tony would have the hardihood or courage to give him the slip. The remainder of the night spent by Tony in sleeping was less pleasantly spent by Rudolph in the barn. He meant to be up early, as he knew he was liable to arrest on account of his last night's attempt, and lie in wait for Tony, who, he supposed, would wait for breakfast. He was right there. Tony did remain for breakfast. The farmer--Mr. Coleman--had already been informed of Rudolph's attempted burglary, and he did Tony the justice to exonerate him from any share in it. "What are you going to do, my boy?" he asked at the breakfast table. "I am going to set up for myself," answered Tony, cheerfully. "That's right. Have nothing more to do with that man. He can only do you harm. Have you got any money?" "I've got five cents." "That isn't enough to buy a farm." "Not a very large one," said Tony, smiling. Abner nearly choked with laughter. This was a joke which he could appreciate. "I don't think I'll go to farming," continued Tony. "You can stay here a week or two," said the farmer, hospitably, "till you get time to look round." "Thank you," said Tony. "You are very kind, but I don't think it will be safe. Rudolph will be on the watch for me." "The man you came with?" "Yes." "Guess he won't touch you while I'm round," said Abner. "I don't think he'll want to tackle you again," said Tony. "Didn't I lay him out though?" said Abner, with a grin. "He thought it was you, ho! ho!" "He didn't think so long," said Tony. "I haven't got such an arm as you." Abner was pleased with this compliment to his prowess, and wouldn't have minded another tussle with the tramp. "Where do you think that chap you call Rudolph is?" he asked. "He's searching for me, I expect," said Tony. "If I'm not careful he'll get hold of me." Just then a neighbor's boy, named Joe, came to the house on an errand. He was almost Tony's size. He waited about, not seeming in any hurry to be gone. "Abner," said the farmer, "if you've got nothing else to do, you may load up the wagon with hay, and carry it to Castleton. We shall have more than we want." "All right," said Abner. "May I go, too? May I ride on the hay?" asked Joe, eagerly. "Will your father let you?" asked the farmer. "Oh, yes; he won't mind." "Then you may go," was the reply. "Do you want to go, too, Tony?" Tony was about to say yes, when an idea seized him. "If the other boy goes, Rudolph will think it is I, and he will follow the wagon. That will give me a chance of getting off in another direction." "So it will," said Abner. "What a head-piece you've got," he added, admiringly. "I wouldn't have thought of that." Abner's head-piece was nothing to boast of. He had strength of body, but to equalize matters his mind was not equally endowed. The plan was disclosed to Joe, who willingly agreed to enter into it. This was the more feasible because he was of about Tony's size, and wore a hat just like his. The hay was loaded, and the wagon started off with Abner walking alongside. Joe was perched on top, nearly buried in the hay, but with his hat rising from the mass. This was about all that could be seen of him. They had gone about half a mile when from the bushes by the roadside Rudolph emerged. He had seen the hat, and felt sure that Tony was trying to escape him in this way. "Well," said Abner, with a grin, as he recognized his midnight foe, "how do you feel this morning?" "None the better for you, curse you!" returned the tramp, roughly. Abner laughed. "That's what I thought," he said, cracking his whip. Rudolph would like to have punished him then and there for his humiliation of the night before, but Abner looked too powerful as he strode along manfully with vigorous steps. Besides, he had a heavy whip in his hand, which the tramp suspected would be used unhesitatingly if there were occasion. The prospect was not inviting. But, at any rate, Rudolph could demand that Tony be remitted to his custody. "Where's my boy?" asked the tramp, keeping at a safe distance. "Didn't know you had a boy," said Abner. "I mean that villain Tony. Is that he on the load of hay?" "Kinder looks like him," answered Abner, grinning. Rudolph looked up and caught sight of the hat. "Come down here, Tony," he said sternly. Joe, who had been instructed what to do, answered not a word. "Come down here, if you know what's best for you," continued the tramp. "Guess he's hard of hearing," laughed Abner. "Stop your wagon," said Rudolph, furiously; "I want to get hold of him." "Couldn't do it," said Abner, coolly. "I'm in a hurry." "Will you give me the boy or not?" demanded the tramp, hoarsely. "He can get off and go along with you if he wants to," said Abner. "Do you want to get down, Tony?" "No!" answered the supposed Tony. "You see, squire, he prefers to ride," said Abner. "Can't blame him much. I'd do it in his place." "Where are you going?" demanded the tramp, who hadn't discovered that the voice was not that of Tony. "I'm going to Castleton," answered Abner. "Are you going to leave the hay there?" "Yes, that's what I calc'late to do." "How far is it?" "Six miles." "I'll walk along, too." "Better not, squire, you'll get tired." "I'll risk that." Of course Rudolph's plan was manifest. When the hay was unloaded, of course Tony would have to get down. Then he would get hold of him. "You can do just as you've a mind to," said Abner. "You'll be company to Tony and me, but you needn't put yourself out on our account, hey, Tony?" There was a smothered laugh on top of the hay, which the tramp heard. His eyes snapped viciously, and he privately determined to give Tony a settlement in full for all his offenses just as soon as he got hold of him. So they jogged on, mile after mile. Abner walked on one side, swinging his whip, and occasionally cracking it. The tramp walked on the other side of the road, and the boy rode along luxuriously embedded in his fragrant couch of hay. Abner from time to time kept up the tramp's illusions by calling out, "Tony, you must take keer, or you'll fall off." "I'll catch him if he does," said Rudolph, grimly. "So you will," chuckled Abner. "You'd like to, wouldn't you?" "Certainly. He is my son," said Rudolph. "Do you hear that, Tony? He says you're his son," said Abner, grinning again. There was another laugh from the boy on the load of hay. "You won't find anything to laugh at when I get hold of you," muttered Rudolph. So they rode into Castleton. From time to time Abner, as he thought how neatly the tramp had been sold, burst into a loud laugh, which was echoed from the hay wagon. Rudolph was not only angry, but puzzled. "Does the boy hope to escape me?" he asked himself. "If so, he will find himself badly mistaken. He will find that I am not to be trifled with." "Say, squire, what makes you look so glum?" asked Abner. "Maybe it's because I didn't let you in when you called so late last night. We don't receive visitors after midnight." Rudolph scowled, but said nothing. "How long has the boy been with you?" asked Abner, further. "Since he was born," answered the tramp. "Ain't I his father?" "I don't know. If it's a conundrum I give it up." "Well, I am, and no one has a right to keep him from me," said the tramp, in a surly manner. "I wouldn't keep him from you for a minute," said Abner, innocently. "You are doing it now." "No, I ain't." "I can't get at him on that hay." "He can come down if he wants to. I don't stop him. You can come down if you want to, Tony," he said, looking up to where the boy's hat was visible. Tony did not answer, and Abner continued: "You see he don't want to come. He'd rather ride. You know he's been sick," said Abner, with a grin, "and he's too delicate to walk. He ain't tough, like you and me." "He'll need to be tough," muttered the tramp, as he thought of the flogging he intended to give Tony. "What did you say?" "Never mind." "Oh, I don't mind," said Abner. "You can say what you want to. This is a free country, only you can't do what you've a mind to." Rudolph wished that he had a double stock of strength. It was very provoking to be laughed at and derided by Abner without being able to revenge himself. A pistol or a knife would make him even with the countryman, but Rudolph was too much of a coward to commit such serious crimes when there was so much danger of detection and punishment. At last they entered Castleton. The hay was to be delivered to a speculator, who collected large quantities of it, and forwarded over the railroad to a large city. It had to be weighed, and Abner drove at once to the hay scales. "Now," thought Rudolph, with exultation, "the boy must come down, and I shall get hold of him." "I guess you'd better slide down," said Abner. "I can't sell you for hay, Tony." There was a movement, and then the boy slid down, Abner catching him as he descended. Rudolph's face changed ominously when he saw that it wasn't Tony who made his appearance. "What does this mean?" he demanded furiously. "What's the matter?" "This isn't Tony." "Come to look at him, it isn't," said Abner, with a twinkle in his eye. "Didn't you say it was Tony?" asked the tramp, exasperated. "I guess I was mistaken, squire," said Abner, grinning. "Where is he?" "I don't know, I'm sure. It seems he didn't come. Guess he must have given us the slip." The tramp, unable to control his rage, burst into a volley of execrations. "Hope you feel better, squire," said Abner, when he got through. The tramp strode off, vowing dire vengeance against both Abner and Tony. [Illustration: "What does this mean?" demanded the tramp furiously. "This isn't Tony."--(See page 45.)] CHAPTER VII. A STRANGE HOTEL. From the upper window in the farm house, which was situated on elevated ground, Tony saw his old guardian follow Abner. Thus the way was opened for his escape. He waited, however, a short time to make sure that all was safe, and then bade farewell to the farmer and his wife, thanking them heartily for their kindness to him. "Won't you stay longer with us?" asked the farmer. "You can as well as not." "Thank you," answered Tony, "but I wouldn't dare to. Rudolph may be back for me, and I want to get away before he has a chance." "Are you going to walk?" asked the farmer's wife. "Yes," said Tony. "I've only got five cents in my pocket, and I can't ride far on that." "I'm afraid you will be tired," said she, sympathetically. "Oh, I'm used to tramping," returned Tony, lightly. "I don't mind that at all." "Can't you put up some dinner for him, wife?" suggested the farmer. "It'll make him hungry, walking." "To be sure I will," she replied, and a large supply of eatables were put in a paper, sufficient to last Tony twenty-four hours, at least. The farmer deliberated whether he should not offer our hero half a dollar besides, but he was naturally close, so far as money was concerned, and he decided in the negative. So Tony set out, taking a course directly opposite to that pursued by Abner. In this way he thought he should best avoid the chance of meeting Rudolph. He walked easily, not being in any special hurry, and whenever he felt at all tired he stopped by the way side to rest. Early in the afternoon he lay down under a tree in the pasture and fell asleep. He was roused by a cold sensation, and found that a dog had pressed his cold nose against his cheek. "Haven't you any more manners, sir?" demanded Tony, good-naturedly. The dog wagged his tail, and looked friendly. "It's a hint that I must be on my journey," he thought. About five o'clock he felt that it was about time to look out for a night's rest. A hotel was, of course, out of the question, and he looked about for a farm house. The nearest dwelling was a small one, of four rooms, setting back from the road, down a lane. "Perhaps I can get in there," thought Tony. An old man, with a patriarchal beard, whose neglected and squalid dress seemed to indicate poverty, was sitting on the door-step. "Good evening," said Tony. "Who are you?" demanded the old man, suspiciously. "I am a poor traveler," said Tony. "A tramp!" said the old man, in the same suspicious tone. "Yes, I suppose so," said Tony, although he did not like the title overmuch. "Well, I've got nothing for you," said the old man, roughly. "I don't want anything except the chance to sleep." "Don't you want any supper?" "No, I've got my supper here," returned our hero, producing his paper of provisions. "What have you got there?" asked the old man, with an eager look. "Some bread and butter and cold meat." "It looks good," said the other, with what Tony thought to be a longing look. "I'll share it with you, if you'll let me sleep here to-night," said Tony. "Will you?" the other answered. "Yes; there's enough for both of us." The old man was a miser, as Tony suspected. He was able to live comfortably, but he deprived himself of the necessaries of life in order to hoard away money. His face revealed that to Tony. He had nearly starved himself, but he had not overcome his natural appetites, and the sight of Tony's supper gave him a craving for it. "I don't know," he said, doubtfully. "If I let you sleep here you might get up in the night and rob me." Tony laughed. "You don't look as if you had anything worth stealing," he said, candidly. "You're right, quite right," said old Ben Hayden, for this was his name. "I've only saved a little money--a very little--to pay my funeral expenses. You wouldn't want to take that?" "Oh, no," said Tony. "I wouldn't take it if you'd give it to me." "You wouldn't? why not?" "Because you need it yourself. If you were a rich man it would be different." "So it would," said old Hayden. "You're a good boy--an excellent boy. I'll trust you. You can stay." "Then let us eat supper," said Tony. He sat down on the door-step, and gave the old man half of his supply of food. He was interested to see the avidity with which he ate it. "Is it good?" he asked. "I haven't eaten anything so good for a long time. I couldn't afford to buy food." "I am sorry for you." "You haven't got any left for breakfast," said the old man. "Oh, somebody will give me breakfast," said Tony. "I always get taken care of somehow." "You are young and strong." "Yes." "Do you travel around all the time?" "Yes; but I hope to get a chance to go to work soon; I'd rather live in one place." "You might live with me if I were not so poor," said the old man. "Thank you," answered Tony, politely; but it did not appear to him that it was exactly such a home as he would choose. "Do you live alone?" he asked. "Yes." "I didn't know but you might be married." "I was married when I was a young man, but my wife died long ago." "Why don't you marry again?" inquired Tony, half in fun. "I couldn't afford it," answered Hayden, frightened at the suggestion. "Women have terrible appetites." "Have they?" returned Tony, amused. "And I can't get enough for myself to eat." "Have you always lived here?" "No; I lived in England when I was a young man." "What made you leave it?" "Why do you ask me that?" demanded old Ben, suspiciously. "Oh, if it's a secret, don't tell me," said Tony, indifferently. "Who said it was a secret?" said the old man, irritably. "Nobody that I know of." "Then why do you ask me such questions?" The old man surveyed Tony with a look of doubt, as if he thought the boy were laying a trap for him. "Don't answer anything you don't want to," said our hero. "I only asked for the sake of saying something." "I don't mind telling," said old Ben, more calmly. "It was because I was so poor. I thought I could do better in America." "And didn't you?" "When I was able to work. Now I'm weak and poor, and can't always get enough to eat." "Do you own this place?" "Yes, but it's a very poor place. It isn't worth much." "I shouldn't think it was," said Tony. "You're a good lad--an excellent lad. You see how poor I am." "Of course I do, and I'm sorry for you. I would help you, only I am very poor myself." "Have you got any money?" asked Ben, with interest. "I've got five cents," answered Tony, laughing. "I hope you've got more than that." "A little more--a very little more," said Ben, cautiously. The old miser began to consider whether he couldn't charge Tony five cents for his lodging, but sighed at the recollection that Tony had already paid for it in advance by giving him a supper. When eight o'clock came the miser suggested going to bed. "I haven't any lights," he said; "candles cost so much. Besides, a body's better off in bed." "I'm willing to go to bed," said Tony. "I've walked a good deal to-day, and I'm tired." They went into the house. There was a heap of rags in the corner of the room when they entered. "That's my bed," said old Ben; "it's all I have." "I can sleep on the floor," said Tony. He took off his jacket, and rolled it up for a pillow, and stretched himself out on the bare floor. He had often slept so before. CHAPTER VIII. TONY HIRES OUT AS A COOK AND HOUSEKEEPER. Tony was not slow in going to sleep. Neither his hard bed nor his strange bed-chamber troubled him. He could sleep anywhere. That was one of the advantages of his checkered life. Generally he slept all night without awaking, but to-night, for some unknown reason, he awoke about two o'clock. It was unusually light for that hour, and so he was enabled to see what at first startled him. The old man was out of bed, and on his knees in the center of the room. He had raised a plank, forming a part of the flooring, and had raised from beneath it a canvass bag full of gold pieces. He was taking them out and counting them, apparently quite unconscious of Tony's presence. Tony raised himself on his elbow, and looked at him. It occurred to him that for a man so suspicious it was strange that he should expose his hoard before a stranger. Something, however, in the old man's look led him to think that he was in a sleepwalking fit. "Ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven," Tony heard him count; "that makes nine hundred and seventy dollars, all gold, good, beautiful gold. Nobody knows the old man is so rich. There's another bag, too. There are one hundred pieces in that. Three more, and this will be full, too. Nobody must know, nobody must know." He put back the pieces, replaced the bag in its hiding-place, and then putting back the plank, laid down once more on his heap of rags. "How uneasy he would be," thought Tony, "if he knew I had seen his treasures. But I wouldn't rob him for the world, although the money would do me good, and he makes no use of it except to look at it." If Tony was honest, it was an instinctive feeling. It could not have been expected of one reared as he had been. But, singular as it may seem, beyond a vague longing, he felt no temptation to deprive old Ben of his money. "Let him get what satisfaction he can from it," he said to himself. "I hope he'll keep it till he dies. I am only afraid that some night some one will see him counting the gold who will want to take it." Tony went to bed again, and slept till six. Then he was awakened by a piteous groaning, which he soon found proceeded from the other bed. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Who's there?" demanded Ben, terrified. "It's only I. Don't you remember you let me sleep here last night?" "O, yes; I remember now. I'm sick; very sick." "How do you feel?" "I'm aching and trembling all over. Do you think I am going to die?" he asked, with a startled look. "Oh, no, I guess not," said Tony, reassuringly. "Everybody is sick now and then." "I never felt so before," groaned Ben. "I'm an old man. Don't you think--don't you really think I shall die?" He looked appealingly at Tony, as if the fiat of life and death lay with him. Tony, of course, knew nothing of medicine or of diseases, but he had the sense to understand that the old man would be more likely to recover if his terror could be allayed, and he said, lightly: "Oh, it's only a trifle. You've taken cold, very likely. A cup of hot tea would be good for you." "I haven't any tea," groaned Ben. "It costs a great deal, and I'm very poor. I can't afford to buy it." Tony smiled to himself, remembering the hoard of gold under the floor, but he would not refer to it, at least not at present. "Are you sure you haven't got a little money?" he asked. "If you want to get well, you must be made comfortable." "It's hard to be poor," whined Ben. "I guess you've got some money," said Tony. "You'd better let me go to the store, and buy some tea and a fresh roll for you." "How much will it cost?" asked Ben. "I can get some bread, and tea, and sugar for thirty or forty cents," answered Tony. "Forty cents! It's frightful!" exclaimed Ben. "I--I guess I'll do without it." "Oh, well, if you prefer to lie there and die its none of my business," said Tony, rather provoked at the old man's perverse folly. "But I don't want to die," whined Ben. "Then do as I tell you." Tony jumped out of bed, unrolled his coat, and put it on. "Now," said he, "I'm ready to go for you, if you'll give me the money." "But you may take it, and not come back," said the old man, suspiciously. "If you think you can't trust me, you needn't," said Tony. "I've offered to do you a favor." "I think I'll go myself," said Ben. He tried to raise himself, but a twinge of pain compelled him to lie down again. "No, I can't," he said. "Well, do you want me to go for you?" "Yes," answered Ben, reluctantly. "Then give me the money." Still more reluctantly Ben produced twenty-five cents from his pocket. "Isn't that enough?" he asked. "Better give me more," said Tony. He produced ten cents more, and vowed it was all the money he had in the world. Tony decided not to contradict his assertion, but to make this go as far as it would. He put on his hat and started out. He meant also to call at the doctor's, and asked him to call round, for he thought it possible that the old man might be seriously sick. First, however, he went to the grocery store, which had only just been opened, and obtained the articles which he had mentioned to Ben as likely to do him good. Next he called at the house of the village doctor, obtaining the direction from the storekeeper. In a few words he made known his errand. "Old Ben sick!" said Doctor Compton. "What's the matter with him?" Tony explained how he appeared to be affected. "How did you happen to be in his house?" asked the doctor, with curiosity. "You are not a relation of his, are you?" Tony laughed. "I don't think he would let me into the house if I were," he said. "He would be suspicious of me." "Then how does it happen that you were with him?" Tony explained. "He has been repaid for taking you in," said the doctor. "I'll put on my hat, and go right over with you." After Tony left the house, old Ben lay and tormented himself with the thought that the boy would never come back. "Just as like as not," he thought, "he will go off with the money, and leave me here to die." Then he tried to sit up, but without success. Half an hour later he was relieved by seeing the door open, and Tony enter. But he looked dismayed when he saw the doctor. "What did you come for?" he asked, peevishly. "To see what I can do for you, Mr. Hayden. Let me feel your pulse." "But I can't afford to have a doctor. I am poor, and can't pay you," whined old Ben. "We'll talk about that afterward." "You can't charge when I didn't send for you." "Make your mind easy. I won't charge for this visit. Let me feel your pulse." Old Ben no longer opposed medical treatment, finding it would cost nothing. "Am I going to die?" he asked, with an anxious look. "You need nourishing food and care, that is all," was the reply. "You have had a chill, and you are reduced by insufficient food." "I have some bread and tea here," said Tony. "Do you know how to make the tea?" asked the doctor. "Yes," said Tony. "Then make a fire, and boil it at once. And, by the way, Mr. Hayden needs somebody to be with him for a few days. Can you stay with him and look after him?" "If he will give me money enough to buy what he needs," said Tony. "Will you do it, Mr. Hayden?" asked the doctor. Old Ben whined that he was poor, and had no money, but the doctor interrupted him impatiently. "That's all nonsense," he said. "You may not have much money, but you've got some, and you'll die if you don't spend some on yourself. If you don't agree to it, I shall advise this boy here to leave you to your fate. Then your only resource will be to go to the poor-house." This proposal was not acceptable to Ben, who was unwilling to leave the house where his treasures were concealed. He therefore reluctantly acceded to the doctor's conditions, and Tony got his breakfast. Despite his sickness, he relished the tea and toast, and for the moment forgot what it cost. "Well," thought Tony to himself with a smile, "I've got a situation as plain cook and housekeeper. I wonder how long it will last, and what'll come of it. I don't believe Rudolph will look for me here." But in this Tony was mistaken. CHAPTER IX. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. Tony was not only cook and housekeeper, but he was sick-nurse as well. Nor were his duties easy. The main difficulty was about getting money to buy what was absolutely necessary. This was very aggravating, especially since Tony knew what he did about Ben's hidden treasure. Moreover, he had reason to suspect that Ben had more money concealed elsewhere. One morning Tony went to Ben for money, saying: "There isn't a scrap of food in the house, except a little tea." "You can make some tea. That will do," said Ben. "It may do for you, but it won't for me," said Tony, resolutely. "I ain't going to stay here to starve." "It costs a sight to support two people," whined the old man. "I don't know about that. I've only spent two dollars in six days. You don't call that much, do you?" "Two dollars!" ejaculated the old man, terrified. "O, it's too much. I am ruined!" "Are you?" said Tony, coolly. "Then all I can say is, you're easy ruined. I want half a dollar." "I shan't give it to you," snarled Ben. "Do you mean to starve?" "I won't part with all I have. You are robbing me." "That won't make much difference, as you'll be dead in three days," said Tony. "What?" almost shrieked Ben, in dismay. "Who told you so? The doctor?" "No." "You ain't goin' to murder me, are you?" "No; you are going to murder yourself." "What do you mean?" demanded Ben, peevishly. "You're not willing to buy anything to eat," explained Tony, "and you can't live above three days on nothing." "Is that all? What made you frighten me so?" complained Ben, angrily. "I only told you the truth. Are you going to give me the money?" "Perhaps you'll tell me where I am to get so much money?" said Ben, in the same tone. "I will tell you if you want me to," answered Tony. "Where?" asked Ben, eagerly. "Under the floor," returned Tony, composedly. "What!" screamed Ben, in consternation. "Just where I said. There's plenty of money under that plank." "Who told you?" groaned the old man, livid with terror. "Have--have you taken any?" "Not a dollar. It's all there. You needn't be frightened." "Have you been spying when I was asleep?" demanded Ben, incensed. "No, I haven't. That ain't my style," answered Tony, independently. "You did. I know you did." "Then you know too much." "How could you find out, then?" "If you want to know, I'll tell you. The first night I was here you got up in your sleep and took up the board. Then you drew out two bags of gold pieces and counted them." "Oh, I'm ruined! I'm undone!" lamented Ben, when he found that his secret had been discovered. "I don't see how you are." "I shall be robbed. There's only a little there--only a few dollars to bury me." "I guess you mean to have a tall funeral, then," said Tony, coolly. "There's as much as a thousand dollars there." "No, no--only fifty," answered the old man. "There's no use talking, I know better. If you don't believe it, suppose I take up the bags and count the pieces." "No, no!" "Just as you say. All is, you've got plenty of money, and I know it, and if you ain't willing to use some of it, I'll go off and leave you alone." "Don't go," said Ben, hastily. "You're a good boy. You wouldn't rob a poor old man, would you?" "Nor a rich old man either; but I don't mean to starve. So give me fifty cents, and I'll go over to the store and get some fresh bread and butter, and tea and sugar." "No matter about the butter. It costs too much." "I want butter myself. My constitution requires it," said Tony. "You needn't eat it if you don't want to." Ben groaned again, but he produced the money required, and Tony soon returned from the grocery store with small supplies of the articles he had named. "Now we'll have some breakfast," said Tony, cheerfully. "Don't you feel hungry?" "A--a little," acknowledged Ben, reluctantly. "I wish I wasn't. It costs so much to live." "I don't think it costs you much," said Tony. "This morning I'm going to give you a boiled egg besides your tea and toast." "Where did you get it?" "I bought it at the store." "I can't afford it," groaned the old man. "You may as well eat it as it's here. I bought two, one for myself." "How much did you pay?" "Three cents for two." Ben groaned again, but when breakfast was ready he showed an unusually good appetite, and did not refrain from partaking of the egg, expensive as it was. Dr. Compton came in the next morning, and pronounced the old man better and stronger. "Shall I be able to get up soon, doctor?" asked Ben. "In a day or two, I think." Ben heaved a sigh of relief. "I'm glad of it," he said. "I can't afford to be sick." "Has it cost you much?" asked the doctor, amused. "It costs a sight to live. He eats a good deal," indicating Tony. "He's a growing boy; but he's worth all he costs you. You'd better ask him to stay with you a few weeks, till your strength is entirely recovered." "No, no; I can't afford it," said Ben, hastily. "He's a good boy; but he's very hearty--very hearty." Tony laughed. "Don't vex him, doctor," said our hero. "I'm tired of staying here. I want to get out on the road again. There isn't much fun in staying shut up here." Ben looked relieved. He had feared that Tony would be reluctant to go. "Right, boy," he said, "you're right. It's a dull place. You'll be better off to go." "You have been lucky to have him here during your sickness," said the doctor. "Without his care, or that of some one else, you would probably have died." "But I won't die now?" asked old Ben, anxiously, peering up into the doctor's face. "Not at present, I hope. But you must live better than you have been accustomed to do or you will fall sick again." "I shall be glad to get away," said Tony, hurriedly, to the doctor, outside of the house. "I'm used to tramping, and I can't stand it much longer. There's one thing I want to tell you before I go, and I might as well do it now." "Go on, my boy." "I'm afraid the old man will be robbed some time." "Is there anything to steal?" "Yes; I think I had better tell you about it." Tony, in a low tone, imparted to Dr. Compton the discovery he had made of the old miser's hoards. "I suspected as much," said the doctor. "I will do what I can to induce Ben to have the gold moved to a place of safety, but I don't feel confident of my ability to do it. Such men generally like to have their hoards within their own reach." * * * * * * Two nights later, Tony woke shortly after midnight. It was a bright, moonlight night, as on the first night he slept there. Again he saw Ben crouched on the floor, with the plank removed from its place, engaged in counting his hoards. The old man had recovered enough strength to get out of bed without assistance. This time, too, he was broad awake. Tony was not the only witness of the spectacle. Casting his eyes toward the window he was startled by seeing a dark, sinister face, pressed against the pane, almost devouring the old man and his gold. It was a face he well knew, and he trembled not alone for Ben, but for himself. _It was the face of Rudolph, the tramp._ CHAPTER X. THE TRAMP'S UNEXPECTED DEFEAT. "Has Rudolph tracked me, or is it only accident that has brought him here?" This was the thought which naturally suggested itself to our hero, as in a very disturbed state of mind he stared at Rudolph through the uncertain light. He decided that it was accident, for as yet the tramp did not appear to have discovered him. His eyes were fastened upon old Ben with unmistakable cupidity. It was the gold that attracted him, and between him and the possession of the gold it seemed as if there were no obstacle to intervene. What was the old man's feeble strength, more feeble still through disease, against this powerful man? Tony felt the difficulties of the position. Not only would the gold be taken, but as soon as Rudolph discovered him, as he would, he too would fall into the power of the tramp. Old Ben had not yet discovered the sinister face at the window. He was too busily occupied with his pleasant employment of counting over his gold for the hundredth time, it might be, to be aware of the dangerous witness at the window. But he was speedily aroused by the noise of the window being raised from the outside. Then he turned with a startled look which quickly deepened into astonishment and dismay as he caught the lowering look fixed upon him. There was more than this. There was recognition besides. "You here?" he gasped, mechanically gathering up the gold in his trembling fingers, with the intention of replacing it in the bag. "Yes, Ben, it's me," answered the tramp, with a sneer. "May I come in?" "No, no!" ejaculated the old man, hastily. "I think I must," returned the tramp, in the same mocking tone. "I came to see you as an old friend, but I never dreamed you were so rich. That's a pretty lot of gold you have there." "Rich!" repeated Ben, with his usual whine. "I'm very poor." "That looks like it." "It's only a few dollars--enough to bury me." "Very well, Ben, I'll take charge of it, and when you need burial I'll attend to it. That's fair, isn't it?" Rudolph, who had paused outside, now raised the window to its full height, and despite the old man's terrified exclamations, bounded lightly into the room. "Help! help! thieves!" screamed Ben, almost beside himself with terror, as he spread his feeble hands over the gold which he had so imprudently exposed. "Hold your jaw, you driveling old idiot," said Rudolph, harshly, "or I'll give you something to yell about." "Help, Tony, help!" continued the old man. The tramp's eyes, following the direction of Ben's, discovered our hero on his rude bed in the corner of the room. A quick gleam of exultation shot from them as he made this discovery. "Ho, ho!" he laughed with a mirth that boded ill to Tony, "so I've found you at last, have I? You served me a nice trick the other day, didn't you? I owe you something for that." "I hoped I should never set eyes on you again," said Tony. "I've no doubt you did. You undertook to run away from me, did you? I knew I should come across you sooner or later." While this conversation was going on, Ben glanced from one to the other in surprise, his attention momentarily drawn away from his own troubles. "Do you know this boy, Rudolph?" he inquired. "I should think I did," answered the tramp, grimly. "You can ask him." "_Who is he?_" asked Ben, evidently excited. "What is that to you?" returned Rudolph. "It's a boy I picked up, and have taken care of, and this is his gratitude to me, and I've had a long chase to find him." "Is this true?" asked Ben, turning to Tony. "Some of it is true," said our hero. "I've been with him ever since I could remember, and I ran away because he wanted me to join him in robbing a house. He calls me his son sometimes, but I know he is not my father." "How do you know?" demanded the tramp sternly. "Didn't you say so just now?" "It was none of the old man's business, and I did not care what I told him." "There's something within me tells me that there's no relationship between us," said Tony, boldly. "Is there, indeed," sneered the tramp. "Is there anything within you tells you you are going to get a good flogging?" "No, there isn't." "Then you needn't trust it, for that is just what is going to happen." He advanced toward Tony in a threatening manner, when he was diverted from his purpose by seeing the old man hastily gathering up the gold with the intention of putting it away. Punishment could wait, he thought, but the gold must be secured now. "Not so fast, Ben!" he said. "You must lend me some of that." "I can't," said Ben, hurrying all the faster. "It's all I have, and I am very poor." "I am poorer still, for I haven't a red to bless myself with. Come, I won't take all, but some I must have." He stooped over, and began to grasp at the gold pieces, some of which were heaped up in piles upon the floor. Even the weakest are capable of harm when exasperated, and Ben, feeble as he was, was gifted with supernatural strength when he saw himself likely to lose the hoards of a lifetime, and his anger rose to fever heat against the scoundrel whom he had known years before to be utterly unprincipled. With a cry like that of a wild beast he sprang upon the tramp, who, in his crouching position, was unable to defend himself against a sudden attack. Rudolph fell with violence backward, striking his head with great force against the brick hearth. Strong as he was, it was too much for him, and he lay stunned and insensible, with the blood gushing from a wound in his head. The old man stood appalled at the consequence of his sudden attack. "Have I killed him? Shall I be hanged?" he asked, with anguish. "No, he's only stunned!" said Tony, springing over the floor with all his wits about him. "We have no time to lose." "To run away? I can't leave my gold," said Ben. "I don't mean that. We must secure him against doing us any harm when he recovers. Have you got some stout cord?" "Yes, yes," said Ben, beginning to understand our hero's design. "Stay, I'll get it right away." "You'd better, for he may come to any minute." The old man fumbled round until in some out-of-the-way corner, where he had laid away a store of odds and ends, he discovered a quantity of stout cord. "Will that do?" he asked. "Just the thing," said Tony. The boy set to work with rapid hands to tie the prostrate tramp hand and foot. He was only afraid Rudolph would rouse to consciousness while the operation was going on, but the shock was too great, and he had sufficient time to do the job effectually and well. "How brave you are," exclaimed the old man, admiringly. "I wouldn't dare to touch him." "Nor I if he were awake. I didn't think you were so strong. He went over as if he were shot." "Did he?" asked the old man, bewildered. "I don't know how I did it. I feel as weak as a baby now." "It's lucky for us you threw yourself upon him as you did. A little more cord, Mr. Hayden. I want to tie him securely. You'd better be gathering up that gold, and putting it away before he comes to." "So I will, so I will," said Ben, hastily. Scarcely was the money put away in its place of concealment, when the tramp recovered from his fit of unconsciousness, and looked stupidly around him. Then he tried to move, and found himself hampered by his bonds. Looking up, he met the terrified gaze of old Ben, and the steady glance of Tony. Then the real state of the case flashed upon him, and he was filled with an overpowering rage at the audacity of his late charge, to whom he rightly attributed his present humiliating plight. CHAPTER XI. THE PRISONER. "Let me up!" roared Rudolph, struggling vigorously with the cords that bound him. Ben was terrified by his demonstration, and had half a mind to comply with his demand. But Tony had his wits about him, and felt that there was no safety in such a course. "Don't you do it, Mr. Hayden!" he exclaimed, hastily. "What! young jackanapes," said the tramp, scowling fiercely. "You dare to give him this advice?" "Yes, I do," said Tony, boldly. "He will be a fool if he releases you." "If he don't I'll kill him and you too," returned Rudolph. "What shall I do?" added Ben, hopelessly. He turned for advice to the boy, who was fifty years his junior. Strong and resolute spirits naturally assume the place of leading at any age. "Do you know what he'll do if you untie him?" asked Tony. "What will I do?" demanded Rudolph. "You will steal this old man's money. It was what you were about to do when you fell over backwards." "He threw me over," said the tramp, now gazing resentfully at Ben. "I didn't mean to," said the terrified old man. "You almost stunned me." "I'm very sorry," stammered Ben. "If you're very sorry, untie them cords and let me up." "I didn't tie you." "Who did?" "The--the boy." "You _dared_ to do it?" exclaimed Rudolph, turning upon Tony with concentrated fury. "Yes, I did," said Tony, calmly. "It was the only way to keep you out of mischief." "Insolent puppy; if I only had my hands free I would strangle you both." "You hear what he says?" said Tony, turning to old Ben. "Are you in favor of untying him now?" "No, no!" exclaimed Ben, trembling. "He is a dreadful man. O, why did he come here?" "I came for your gold, you fool, and I'll have it yet," said Rudolph, losing sight of all considerations of prudence. "What shall I do?" asked the old man, wringing his hands in the excess of his terror. "Let me up, and I won't hurt you," said the tramp, finding that he must control his anger for the present. "Just now you said you would strangle the both of us, Rudolph." "I'll strangle you, you cub, but I will do no harm to the old man." "You will take his gold." "No." "Don't you trust him, Mr. Hayden," said Tony. "He will promise anything to get free, but he will forget all about it when he is unbound." "I'd like to choke you!" muttered Rudolph, who meant thoroughly what he said. "But what shall I do, Tony? I can't have him in here all the time." "I'll go and call for help to arrest him," said Tony. "And leave me alone with him?" asked Ben, terrified. "No; we will lock the door, and you shall go and stay outside till I come back." Tony's proposal was distasteful to Rudolph. He had a wholesome dread of the law, and didn't fancy the prospect of an arrest, especially as he knew that the testimony of Tony and the old man would be sufficient to insure him a prolonged term of imprisonment. He made a fresh and violent struggle which portended danger to his captors. "Come out quick," said Tony, hastily. "It is not safe for you to stay here any longer." The old man followed him nothing loth, and Tony locked the door on the outside. "Do you think he will get free?" asked Ben, nervously. "He may, and if he does there is no safety for either of us till he is caught again." "The door is locked." "But he may get out of the window." "Oh, my gold! my gold!" groaned Ben. "He may get it." "Yes, he may; our only hope is to secure him as soon as possible." "I am so weak I can't go fast. I am trembling in every limb." "You must conceal yourself somewhere, and let me run on," said Tony, with decision. "There is no time to be lost." "I don't know of any place." "Here's a place. You will be safe here till I come for you." Tony pointed to an old ruined shed, which they had just reached. "Will you be sure and come for me." "Yes; don't be alarmed. Only don't show yourself till you hear my voice." Ben crept into the temporary shelter, glad that in his weakened condition he should not be obliged to go any farther. To be sure he tormented himself with the thought that even now the desperate tramp might be robbing him of his treasures. Still he had great confidence in what Tony had told him, and hope was mingled with his terror. "He's a brave boy," he murmured. "I am glad he was with me, though he does eat a sight. Oh, how many wicked men there are in the world." Tony hurried on to the village, where he lost no time in arousing a sufficient number to effect the capture of the burglar. He no longer felt any compunction in turning against his quondam guardian, recognizing him as his own enemy and the enemy of society. "I owe him nothing," thought Tony. "What has he ever done for me? He is not my father. Probably he kidnapped me from my real home, and has made me an outcast and a tramp like himself. But I will be so no longer. I will learn a trade, or do something else to earn an honest livelihood. I mean to become a respectable member of society, if I can." It took him half an hour before he could rouse the half-dozen men whom he considered necessary to effect the arrest and get them under way. Meanwhile Rudolph was not idle. It may be thought strange that he should have so much difficulty in freeing himself from the cords with which Tony had bound him. But it must be remembered that the boy had done his work well. The cord was stout and strong, and he had had time to tie it in many knots, so that even if one had been untied, the tramp would have found himself almost as far from liberty as ever. After he had been locked in, Rudolph set about energetically to obtain release. He succeeded in raising himself to his feet, but as his ankles were tied together this did not do him much good. By main strength he tried to break the cords, but the only result was to chafe his wrists. "What a fool I am," he exclaimed at length. "The old man must have some table-knives about somewhere. With these I can cut the cords." It was not till some time had elapsed, however, that this very obvious thought came to him. Further time was consumed in finding the knives. When found, they--there were two--proved so dull that even if he had had free use of one of his hands it would not have been found easy to make them of service. But when added to this was the embarrassment of his fettered hands, it will not excite surprise that it required a long time to sever the tough cords which bound him. But success came at length. His arms were free, and he stretched them with exultation. His ankles next demanded attention, but this was a much easier task. "Now for revenge!" thought the tramp. "The boy shall rue this night's task, or my name is not Rudolph." Whatever else he might do, he must secure the miser's gold. He had seen the hiding-place. He removed the plank, and there, beneath him, visible in the moonlight, lay the much-coveted bags of golden treasure. He rose from the floor, and, with the bags in his hand, jumped out of the still opened window. But he was too late. Two strong men seized him, each by an arm, and said, sternly: "You are our prisoner." [Illustration: Tony set to work with rapid hands to tie the prostrate tramp hand and foot.--(See page 73.)] CHAPTER XII. TONY STARTS OUT ONCE MORE. It was not until after Rudolph's seizure that Ben, who had followed the extemporized police, discovered the bags of gold in the hands of the tramp. "Give me my money!" he shrieked, in excitement and anguish. "Don't let him carry it off." "It's safe, Ben," said one of the captors. "But who would have supposed you had so much money?" "It isn't much," faltered the old man. "The bags are pretty heavy," was the significant rejoinder. "Will you take two hundred dollars apiece for them?" "No," said the old man, embarrassed. "Then it seems there is considerable after all. But never mind. Take them, and take better care of them hereafter." Ben advanced with as much alacrity as he could summon in his weakness, and stooped to pick up the bags. He had got hold of them when the tramp, whose feet were unconfined, aimed a kick at him which completely upset him. Even though he fell, however, he did not lose his grip of the bags, but clung to them while crying with pain. "Take that, you old fool!" muttered the tramp. "It's the first instalment of the debt I owe you." "Take him away, take him away! He will murder me!" exclaimed old Ben, in terror. "Come along. You've done mischief enough," said his captors, sternly, forcing the tramp along. "I'll do more yet," muttered Rudolph. He turned to Tony, who stood at a little distance watching the fate of his quondam companion. "I've got a score to settle with you, young traitor. The day will come for that yet." "I'm sorry for you, Rudolph," said Tony; "but you brought it on yourself." "Bah! you hypocrite!" retorted the tramp. "I don't want any of your sorrow. It won't save you when the day of reckoning comes." He was not allowed to say more, but was hurried away to the village lockup for detention until he could be conveyed to more permanent quarters. Doctor Compton was among the party who had been summoned by Tony. He lingered behind, and took Ben apart. "Mr. Hayden," he said, "I want to give you a piece of advice." "What is it?" asked the old man. "Don't keep this gold in your house. It isn't safe." "Who do you think will take it?" asked Ben, with a scared look. "None of those here this morning, unless this tramp should escape from custody." "Do you think he will?" asked the old man, in terror. "I think not; but he may." "If he don't, what danger is there?" "It will get about that you have money secreted here, and I venture to say it will be stolen before three months are over." "It will kill me," said Ben, piteously. "Then put it out of reach of danger." "Where?" "I am going over to the county town, where there is a bank. Deposit it there, and whenever you want any, go and get it." "But banks break sometimes," said Ben, in alarm. "This is an old, established institution. You need not be afraid of it. Even if there is some danger, there is far less than here." "But I can't see the money--I can't count it," objected Ben. "You can see the deposit record in a book. Even if that doesn't suit you as well, you can sleep comfortably, knowing that you are not liable to be attacked and murdered by burglars." The old man vacillated, but finally yielded to the force of the doctor's reasoning. A day or two later he rode over to the neighboring town, and saw his precious gold deposited in the vaults of the bank. He heaved a sigh as it was locked up, but on the whole was tolerably reconciled to the step he had taken. We are anticipating, however. When the confusion incident to the arrest was over, Tony came forward. "Mr. Hayden," he said, "you are so much better that I think you can spare me now." "But," said the old man, startled at the boy's question, "suppose Rudolph comes back." "I don't think he can. He will be put in prison." "I suppose he will. What a bold, bad man." "Yes, he is a bad man, but I am sorry for him. I don't like to think of one I have been with so long in the walls of a prison. I suppose it can't be helped, though." "How did you come to be with him?" asked the old man, in a tone of interest. "I don't know. I have been with him as long as I can remember. You used to know him, didn't you?" "A little," said the old man, hastily. "Where was it?" "In England--long ago." "In England. Was he born in England?" asked Tony, in surprise. "Yes." "And you, too?" "Yes, I am an Englishman." "Do you think I am English, too?" asked the boy, eagerly. "I think so; yes, I think so," answered Ben, cautiously. "Have you any idea who I am--who were my parents?" "No, I don't know," said Ben, slowly. "Can you guess?" "Don't trouble me now," said Ben, peevishly. "I am not well. My head is confused. Some day I will think it over and tell you what I know." "But if I am not here?" "I will write it down and give it to the doctor." "That will do," said Tony. "I know he will keep it for me. Now, good-by." "Are you going?" "Yes, I have my own way to make in the world. I can't live on you any longer." "To be sure not," said Ben, hastily. "I am too poor to feed two persons, and you have a very large appetite." "Yes," said Tony, laughing, "I believe I have a healthy appetite. I'm growing, you know." "It must be that," said old Ben, with the air of one to whom a mystery had just been made clear. "What is your name?" "Tony," answered our hero, in surprise at the question. "No. I mean your full name." "That is more than I know. I have always been called Tony, or Tony the Tramp. Rudolph's last name is Rugg, and he pretends that I am his son. If I were, I should be Tony Rugg." "You are not his son. He never had any son." "I am glad to hear that. I shan't have to say now that my father is in jail for robbery. Good-by, Mr. Hayden." "Good-by," said Ben, following the boy thoughtfully with his eyes till he had disappeared round a turn in the road. "Well," thought Tony, "I've set up for myself now in earnest. Rudolph can't pursue me, and there is no one else to interfere with me. I must see what fortune waits me in the great world." With a light heart, and a pocket still lighter, Tony walked on for several miles. Then he stopped at a country grocery store, and bought five cents worth of crackers. These he ate with a good appetite, slaking his thirst at a wayside spring. He was lying carelessly on the green sward, when a tin peddler's cart drove slowly along the road. "Hallo, there!" said the peddler. "Hallo!" said Tony. "Are you travelin'?" "Yes." "Do you want a lift?" "Yes," said Tony, with alacrity. "Then get up here. There's room enough for both of us. You can hold the reins when I stop anywhere." "It's a bargain," said Tony. "Are you travelin' for pleasure?" asked the peddler, who was gifted with his share of curiosity. "On business," said Tony. "What is your business? You're too young for an agent." "I want to find work," said Tony. "You're a good, stout youngster. You'd ought to get something to do." "So I think," said Tony. "Ever worked any?" "No." "Got any folks?" "If you mean wife and children, I haven't," answered our hero, with a smile. "Ho, ho!" laughed the peddler. "I guess not. I mean father or mother, uncles or aunts, and such like." "No, I am alone in the world." "Sho! you don't say so. Well, that's a pity. Why, I've got forty-'leven cousins and a mother-in-law to boot. I'll sell her cheap." "Never mind!" said Tony. "I won't deprive you of her." "I'll tell you what," said the peddler, "I feel interested in you. I'll take you round with me for a day or two, and maybe I can get you a place. What do you say?" "Yes, and thank you," said Tony. "Then it's settled. Gee up, Dobbin!" CHAPTER XIII. TONY GETS A PLACE. Toward the close of the next day the tin-peddler halted in front of a country tavern, situated in a village of moderate size. "I'm going to stay here over night," he said. "Maybe they'll let me sleep in the barn," said Tony. "In the barn! Why not in the house?" "I haven't got any money, you know, Mr. Bickford." "What's the odds? They won't charge anything extra for you to sleep with me." "You're very kind, Mr. Bickford, but they won't keep me for nothing, and I don't want you to pay for me." At this moment the landlord came out on the piazza, and asked the hostler: "Where's Sam?" "Gone home--says he's sick," answered James. "Drat that boy! It's my opinion he was born lazy. That's what's the matter with him." "I guess you're right, Mr. Porter," said James. "The boy don't earn his salt." "I wouldn't take him back if I had anybody to take his place." "Do you hear that, Tony?" said the peddler, nudging our hero. Tony was quick to take the hint. He walked to the landlord, and said: "I'll take his place." "Who are you?" asked the landlord, in surprise. "I never saw you before." "I have just come," said Tony. "I am looking for a place." "What can you do?" "Anything you want me to do." "Have you any references?" "I can refer to him," said Tony, pointing to the tin peddler. "Oh, Mr. Bickford," said the landlord, with a glance of recognition. "Well, that's enough. I'll take you. James, take this boy to the kitchen, and give him some supper. Then tell him what's to be done. What's your name, boy?" "Tony Rugg." "Very well, Tony, I'll give you three dollars a week and your board as long as we suit each other." "I've got into business sooner than I expected," thought Tony. The hostler set him to work in the barn, and though he was new to the work, he quickly understood what was wanted, and did it. "You work twice as fast as Sam," said the hostler, approvingly. "Won't Sam be mad when he finds I have taken his place?" asked Tony. "Probably he will, but it's his own fault." "Not if he's sick." "He's no more sick than I am. He only wants to get a day or two off." "Well, I'm glad he left a vacancy for me," said Tony. "Where did you work last?" asked the hostler. "Nowhere." "Never worked? Then how did you live?" "I traveled with my guardian." "Were you rich?" asked James, rather impressed by Tony's answer. "No; I just went round and lived as I could. I didn't like it, but I couldn't help it. I had to go where Rudolph chose to lead me." "Where is he now?" "I don't know. I got tired of being a tramp, and ran away from him." "You did right," said James, who was a steady man, and looked forward to a snug home of his own ere long. "All the same, Mr. Porter wouldn't have taken you if he had known you were a tramp." "I hope you won't tell him, then. I don't want to be a tramp any longer." "No; I won't tell him. I want you to stay here. I'd rather have you than Sam." "Thank you. I'll try to suit." Tony was assigned to a room in the attic. There were two beds in this chamber, one being occupied by James. He slept soundly, and was up betimes in the morning. After breakfast, Mr. Bickford, the tin peddler, made ready to start. "Good-by, Tony," he said, in a friendly manner. "I'm glad you've got a place." "I wouldn't have got it if I hadn't you to refer to," said Tony. "The landlord didn't ask how long I'd known you," said Bickford, smiling. "However, I guess I know enough of you to give you a recommend. Good luck to you." As the peddler drove away, Tony noticed a big, overgrown boy, who was just entering the hotel yard. "That's Sam," said the hostler. "He don't know he's lost his place." CHAPTER XIV. TONY'S RIVAL. Sam was about two inches taller than Tony, red haired and freckled, with a big frame, loosely put together. He was a born bully; and many were the tricks he had played on smaller boys in the village. He liked his place at the hotel because he was no longer obliged to go to school; but he was too lazy to fulfill the duties satisfactorily. His father was a blacksmith, of surly disposition, very much like Sam's, who was generally believed to ill-treat his wife, a meek, uncomplaining woman, who filled the position of a household drudge. Sam strutted into the yard with the air of a proprietor. He took no particular notice of Tony, but accosted James. The latter made a signal to Tony to be silent. "Well, have you just got along?" asked the hostler. "Ye-es," drawled Sam. "What made you go home yesterday afternoon, and not come back?" "I didn't feel well," said Sam, nonchalantly. "What was the matter with you?" "I had a sort of headache." "Do you think Mr. Porter can afford to pay you wages and let you go home three times a week in the middle of the afternoon?" "I couldn't work when I was sick of course," said Sam. "You're mighty delicate, getting sick two or three times a week." "Couldn't help it," said Sam, unconcerned. "I suppose you have come to work this morning?" "Ye-es, but I can't work very hard--I ain't quite got over my headache." "Then you'll be glad to hear that you won't have to work at all." "Ain't there anything to do?" asked Sam, with an air of relief. "Yes, there's plenty to do, but your services ain't required. You're discharged!" "What!" exclaimed Sam, his eyes lighting up with anger. "Mr. Porter's got tired of your delicate health; it interferes too much with business. He's got a tougher boy to take your place." "Where is he?" demanded Sam, with an ominous frown. "There," answered the hostler, pointing out our hero, who stood quietly listening to the conversation. Sam regarded Tony with a contemptuous scowl. So this was the boy who had superseded him. He hated him already for his presumption in venturing to take his place. "Who are you?" he demanded, roughly. "Your successor," answered Tony, coolly. He knew that his answer would make Sam very angry, but he was not afraid of him, and felt under no particular obligations to be polite. "You won't be my successor long," retorted Sam. "Why not?" "What business had you to take my place?" "The landlord hired me." "I don't care if he did. He hired me first." "Then you'd better go to him and complain about it. It's none of my business----" "It's _my_ business," said Sam, with emphasis. "Just as you like." "Will you give up the place?" "No," said Tony. "You must think I'm a fool. What should I give it up for?" "Because it belongs to me." "I don't see that; I suppose Mr. Porter has a right to hire anybody he likes." "He had no right to give you my place." "That's his business. What shall I do next, James?" "Go to the barn and shake down some hay for the horses." "All right." Sam walked off, deeply incensed, muttering threats of vengeance against Tony. Three days later a boy entered the stable, and calling for Tony, presented the following missive: "If you ain't a coward, meet me to-morrow night at seven o'clock, back of the school house, and we'll settle, by fighting, which shall have the place, you or I. If you get whipped, you must clear out, and leave it to me. "SAM PAYSON." Tony showed the note to the hostler. "Well, Tony, what are you going to do about it?" asked James, curiously. "I'll be on hand," said Tony, promptly. "He won't find it so easy to whip me as he thinks." CHAPTER XV. THE BOYS' DUEL. Sam Payson felt perfectly safe in challenging Tony to single combat. He had measured him with his eye, and seen that he was two inches shorter, and probably twenty pounds lighter. But appearances were deceitful, and he had no idea that Tony had received special training, which he lacked. This was the way it had happened: In the course of his extensive wanderings, Tony had attracted the attention of a certain pugilist who was a friend of Rudolph. "I'll tell you what, Rudolph," said the pugilist, "you can make something of that boy." "How?" asked the tramp. "I'll teach him to box, and you can get an engagement for him in a circus." "Do it if you like," said the tramp. "It won't do him any harm." So Tony received a gratuitous course of lessons in boxing, which were at last interrupted by a little difficulty between his teacher and the officers of the law, resulting in the temporary confinement of the former. The lessons were never resumed, but they had gone so far that Tony was quite a skillful boxer for a boy. He, too, had measured Sam, and felt quite sure of being able to conquer him, and that with ease. He did not, however, mention the grounds of his confidence to James, when the latter expressed some apprehension that he would find Sam too much for him. "Don't be alarmed, James," said Tony, quietly. "I'm enough for him." "He's bigger than you," said James. "I know that, but he's clumsy." "He's slow, but he's pretty strong." "So am I." "You've got pluck, and you deserve to beat, Tony," said his friend. "I mean to," answered Tony. "Come along and see that it's all fair." "I will if I can get away. Will you give up your place if you are licked?" "Yes," replied Tony, "I'll give up my place and leave the village." "I don't believe Mr. Porter will take Sam back." "I see you are expecting I will be whipped," said Tony, laughing; "but you're mistaken. Sam isn't able to do it." James feared that Tony overestimated his prowess, but earnestly hoped that the boy, in whom he already felt a strong interest, would achieve the victory. Meanwhile, Sam had made known the duel which was about to take place. He confidently anticipated victory, and wanted the village boys to be witnesses of the manner in which he was going to polish off that interloper. "I'll learn him to cut me out of my place," he said, boastfully; "I'll learn him to mind his own business." "Will you get your place again if you lick him?" asked one of his companions. "Of course I will." "Suppose he won't give it up?" "Then I'll lick him every day till he's glad to clear out. All you boys know I don't stand no nonsense." The result of Sam's boastful talk was that about a hundred boys collected about the school house to witness the boys' duel. Many of them who had suffered from Sam's bullying disposition would have been glad to see him worsted, but none anticipated it. Nothing was known of Tony except that he was considerably smaller and lighter, and probably weaker. It was generally thought that he would not be able to hold out long, and that Sam would achieve an easy victory. Tony tried to be on hand at the time appointed, but he had more than usual to do, and it was five minutes past seven when he entered the field, accompanied by James. There had been various speculations as to the cause of his delay. "He won't come," said Sam, with a sneer; "he's afraid." "What'll you do if he don't come?" asked John Nolan. "What will I do? I'll pitch into him wherever I see him." "Didn't he accept your challenge?" "Yes, he accepted, but he's thought better of it, likely." "There he comes!" shouted a small boy. All eyes were turned upon Tony, as he entered the field, with James at his side. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, boys," said our hero, politely. "We concluded you'd backed out," said Sam, with a sneer. "That isn't my style," returned Tony, with a quiet smile. "I had more to do than usual to-night." "You've still more to do," said Sam, jeeringly. "I pity you." "Do you? You're very kind," said Tony, unmoved. "Oh, don't thank me too soon." "Then I won't. When are the exercises to commence?" "He takes it cool," said Nolan. "Oh, it's only show off," said Sam. "You'll see how he'll wilt down when I get hold of him." The two boys stripped off coat and vest, and faced each other. Tony was wary and watchful, and quietly looked into the eyes of his adversary, showing no disposition to begin. Sam began business by thrusting his right fist violently in his face, or rather trying to do so. With scarcely an effort Tony parried the blow, and returned it quick as lightning, striking Sam full in the nose. Sam was not only maddened, but disagreeably surprised, especially when he discovered that blood was trickling from the injured organ. He was still more incensed by the murmur of applause which followed from the crowd of boys. Had the applause been elicited by his success, he would have enjoyed it, but now it was quite a different matter. He breathed an audible curse, and, losing all prudence, began to let drive at Tony with each fist in rapid succession, with the intention of overpowering him. But, unfortunately for him, this exposed him to attack, and a couple of forcible blows in his face warned him that this was too dangerous. Tony stood upright, as cool and collected as at first. He had warded off every blow of his adversary, and thus far was untouched. There was a murmur of surprise among the boys. They had come to see Tony used up, and all the using up had proved to be from the other side. James was as much delighted as surprised. He could not repress clapping his hands, a movement which was quickly imitated by the boys. "Tony knows how to take care of himself," he thought. "That's why he took matters so coolly. I didn't half believe him when he told me there was no danger." Sam felt humiliated and maddened. He regretted now that he had undertaken a task which seemed every moment more formidable. What! was it possible that he, Sam Payson, the crack fighter of the village, was being ignominiously whipped, and that by a smaller boy. He felt that if he permitted this his prestige would be forever gone, and with it the influence which he so much prized. He must make one desperate effort. "If I can only get hold of him," he thought, "I can shake the life out of him." He tried to grasp Tony round the body, intending to throw him violently down upon the ground; but our hero was too quick for him, and showered the blows upon him with such rapidity that, blinded and overwhelmed, Sam himself fell on his back. Instead of following up the victory, Tony drew off and let his adversary rise. Sam renewed the attack so wildly that in two minutes he was again lying flat. "That's enough, Sam! You're whipped," shouted the boys. But Sam was not convinced. He renewed the attack once more, but there was no hope for him now. He got up sullenly, and, in a voice nearly choked with rage, said: "I'll be even with you yet, see if I don't." "Hurrah for the stranger!" shouted the boys enthusiastically, as they crowded around our hero. "Boys," said Tony, modestly, "I'm much obliged to you for your congratulations. Was it a fair fight?" "Yes, yes." "Then it's all right. Don't say anything to him about it. He feels bad, as I should do in his place. I haven't any ill will toward him, and I hope he hasn't toward me." This speech made Tony a still greater favorite and the boys, making a rush, took him on their shoulders, and bore him in triumph to the inn. Poor Sam slunk home, suffering keener mortification than he had ever before experienced in his life. CHAPTER XVI. RUDOLPH ESCAPES AND SEES AN ADVERTISEMENT. Leaving Tony for a short time, we must return to Rudolph, whom we left in charge of a self-constituted body of police on his way to the station-house. Of course there was no regular prison in the village. There was not properly even a station-house. But under the engine house was a basement room, which was used as a lock-up. It was not often used, for few rogues of a serious character disturbed the tranquility of the village. Occasionally a man was put in who had disturbed the peace while under the influence of liquor, but even such cases were rare. When first arrested Rudolph was disposed to be violent and abusive. His disappointment was keen, for he was just congratulating himself on the possession of the miser's gold. Five minutes later, and he would probably have been able to make good his escape. Mingled with his disappointment was a feeling of intense hostility against Tony for his part in defeating his plans. "I'll be revenged upon him yet," he muttered between his teeth. "What did you say?" asked one of his captors. "Nothing," answered Rudolph. "I thought I heard you say something." "I said I was tired." "Then you will have a chance to rest in the lock-up." Rudolph frowned, but said nothing. They reached the lockup. The door was opened, and he was led in. A small oil lamp was lighted, and set on the floor. "Where are the handcuffs?" asked one of the captors. "I don't know. They haven't been needed for so long that they have been mislaid." "They won't be needed now. The man can't get out." Rudolph's face betrayed satisfaction, but he thought it prudent to say nothing. "There's your bed," says Moses Hunt, who had Rudolph by the arm, pointing to a rude cot in the corner. Rudolph threw himself upon it. "I'm dead tired," he said, and closed his eyes. "He'll be quiet enough. We can leave him alone," said Hunt. "All right." The door was locked, and Rudolph was left alone. When five minutes had elapsed--time enough for his captors to get away--he rose in bed, and looked about him. Beside the bed in which he was lying there was no other furniture in the room than a wooden chair. He got up and walked about. "I must get away from this if I can," thought the tramp, "and before morning. I am glad they didn't put on handcuffs. Let me see, how shall I manage it." He looked about him thoughtfully. It was a basement room, lighted only by windows three feet wide and a foot high in the upper part of the room. "I should like to set fire to the building, and burn it up," thought the tramp. "That would cost them something. But it wouldn't be safe. Like as not I would be burnt up myself, or, at any rate, be taken again in getting away. No, no; that won't do." "I wonder if I can get through one of those windows?" was the next thought that came into his mind. He stood on the chair, and as the room was low-slatted he found he could easily reach the windows in question. He shook them, and found to his joy that it would be a comparatively easy thing to remove one of them. "What fools they are," he muttered contemptuously. "Did they really expect to keep me here. They must think I am a green hand." He removed the window, and by great effort succeeded in raising himself so that he might have a chance of drawing himself through the aperture. It did not prove so easy as he expected. He did, however, succeed at length, and drew a long breath of satisfaction as he found himself once more in the possession of his liberty. "I'm a free man once more," he said. "What next?" He would have been glad to return to the miser's house, and possessed himself of some of his gold, but the faint gray of dawn was already perceptible, and there was too much risk attending it. He felt that this must be deferred to a more fitting occasion. A few days later the tramp found himself in the streets of New York. For the time he had given up the pursuit of Tony. Indeed, he had wholly lost the clew. Moreover, prudence dictated his putting as great a distance as possible between himself and the village where he had been arrested. The hundred miles intervening between New York and that place he had got over in his usual way, begging a meal at one house, and a night's lodging at another. He was never at a loss for a plausible story. At one place where he was evidently looked upon with suspicion, he said: "I ain't used to beggin'. I'm a poor, hard-workin' man, but I've heard that my poor daughter is sick in New York, and she's in the hospital. Poor girl! I'm afraid she'll suffer." "What took her to New York?" asked the farmer whom he addressed. "She went to take a place in a store," said Rudolph readily, "but she's been taken sick, and she's in the hospital. Poor girl! I'm afraid she'll suffer." "I'm sorry for you," said the farmer's wife, sympathizingly. "Ephraim, can't we help along this poor man?" "If we can believe him. There's many impostors about." "I hope you don't take me for one," said Rudolph, meekly. "Poor Jane; what would she think if she knew how poor father was so misunderstood." "Poor man! I believe you," said the farmer's wife. "You shall sleep in Jonathan's bed. He's away now." So Rudolph was provided with two abundant meals and a comfortable bed. The farmer's wife never doubted his story, though she could not help feeling that his looks were not prepossessing. But, was her charitable thought, the poor man can't help his looks. Of course Rudolph had been in New York often, and his familiar haunts. As a general thing, however, he shunned the city, for he was already known to the police, and he felt that watchful eyes would be upon him as soon as it was known that he was back again. On the second day he strolled into a low drinking place in the lower part of the city. A man in shirt sleeves, and with unhealthy complexion, was mixing drinks behind the bar. "Hallo, Rudolph! Back again?" was his salutation. "Yes," said the tramp, throwing himself down in a seat. "What's the news with you? Been prospering?" "No." "Where have you been?" "Tramping round the country." "Where's the boy you used to have with you?" "Run away; curse him!" returned the tramp with a fierce scowl. "Got tired of your company, eh?" "He wants to be honest and respectable," answered Rudolph, with a sneer. "And he thought he could learn better under another teacher, did he?" said the bartender, with a laugh. "Yes, I suppose so. I'd like to wring his neck," muttered the tramp. "You're no friend to the honest and respectable, then?" "No, I'm not." "Then, there's no love lost, for they don't seem to fancy you. What'll you have to drink?" "I've got no money." "I'll trust. You'll have some some time?" "Give me some whisky, then," said the tramp. The whisky was placed in his hands. He gulped it down, and breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Then resuming his seat, he took up a morning paper. At first he read it listlessly, but soon his face assumed a look of eager interest. This was the paragraph that arrested his attention: "Should this meet the eye of Rudolph Rugg, who left England in the fall of 1857, he is requested to communicate with Jacob Morris, attorney-at-law, Room 11, No. --, Nassau street." Rudolph rose hurriedly. "Going?" asked the bartender. "Yes; I'll be back again soon." CHAPTER XVII. THE LADY AT THE ST. NICHOLAS. When Rudolph reached the sidewalk he stopped a moment to reflect on the probable meaning of the advertisement. "Perhaps it is a trap," he thought. "Perhaps, after so many years, they want to punish me. Shall I go?" His hesitation was only temporary. "There's nothing to be afraid of," he concluded. "Very likely I shall hear something to my advantage. I will go." Ten minutes' walk brought him to Nassau street. He ascended two flights of stairs, opened the door of No. --, and found himself in a lawyer's office. A tall man of forty was seated at a desk, with some papers and books lying before him. "Well," he said inquiringly, "what can I do for you, sir?" The address was not very cordial, for Rudolph did not have the look of one likely to be a profitable client. "Are you Mr. Jacob Morris, attorney-at-law?" asked the tramp. "That is my name." "I am Rudolph Rugg." "Rudolph Rugg!" exclaimed the lawyer, briskly, jumping from his chair, "you don't say so. I am very glad to see you. Take a chair, please." Reassured by this reception, Rudolph took the seat indicated. "So you saw my advertisement?" said the lawyer, brushing away the papers with which he had been occupied. "Yes, sir. I only saw it this morning." "It has been inserted for the last two weeks, daily. How happens it that you did not see it sooner?" "I have been away from the city. I have been traveling. It was only an accident that I happened to see it to-day." "A lucky accident, Mr. Rugg." "I hope it is, sir, for I have been out of luck myself, and I've been hoping something would turn up for me. What is the business, sir?" "My business has been to find you. I can't say anything more." "To find me?" "Yes." "What for?" "For a client of mine--an English lady." "A lady?" ejaculated the tramp, with unconcealed surprise. "Yes." "Who is it?" "I suppose I am at liberty to tell. The lady is Mrs. Harvey Middleton, of Middleton Hall, England." A peculiar expression swept over Rudolph's face, but he only said: "I have heard the name of Harvey Middleton. Is--is the lady in New York?" "Yes; she is staying at the St. Nicholas Hotel." "And she wants to find me?" "Yes, she authorized me to seek you out?" "Well," said Rudolph, after a brief pause, "I'm found. What next?" "I shall at once send a messenger to Mrs. Middleton, and await her orders. You will stay here." He went to the door and called "John," in a loud voice. "Look here," said Rudolph, suspiciously, "just tell me one thing. There ain't any trap is there?" "Trap, my good friend? What can you possibly mean?" "You ain't sending for the police?" "To be sure not. Besides, why should a gentleman like you fear the police?" "Oh, that's all gammon. I do fear the police uncommon. But if you tell me it's all on the square, I'll believe you." "On my honor, then, it's all on the square, as you call it. No harm whatever is designed you. Indeed, I have reason to think that you will make considerable money out of it. Now, hark ye, my friend, a word in confidence. We can do each other good." "Can we?" asked the tramp, surveying the lawyer, in surprise. "Yes, and I'll tell you how. This lady, Mrs. Middleton, appears to be rich." "She is rich." "So much the better for us. I mean to give her the idea that I have been at great trouble and expense in finding you." "I see," said Rudolph, smiling. "You mean to charge it in the bill." "Of course, I shall represent that I sent out messengers in search of you, and you were found by one of them." "Very good." "So you need not say anything about the advertisement." "All right, sir." "Grant me a moment while I pencil a note to the lady." * * * * * * * In a private parlor at the St. Nicholas sat a lady of middle age. She had a haughty face, and stern, compressed lips. She was one to repel rather than to attract. She had a note before her, which she threw down with an exclamation of impatience. "So he has heard nothing yet. For three weeks I have been wasting my time at this hotel, depending on this lawyer, and he has done absolutely nothing. And the issue is so important. I may have to employ another person, and that will be a fresh bill of expense." At this moment a light knock was heard at the door. "Enter," said the lady. "A note for Mrs. Middleton," announced a servant. She took the missive and hastily opened it. It read thus: "MY DEAR MADAM--At last, after unwearied exertions, I have succeeded. The man, Rudolph Rugg, has been found by one of my messengers, and is at this moment in my office, ready to obey your summons. Shall I send him to you? "Yours, respectfully, "JACOB MORRIS." "P. S.--I assured you at the outset that if he were living I would find him. I am sure you will appreciate my exertions in your behalf." "That means a larger bill," thought the lady. "However, I am willing to pay handsomely. The man is found, and he can, doubtless, produce the boy." "Wait!" she said, in an imperious tone, to the servant, who was about to withdraw. "There is an answer." She hastily penciled the following note: "I am very glad you have found Rudolph Rugg. I wish to speak to him at once. Send him here directly." "Short and not sweet!" commented the lawyer, when it was placed in his hands. "She says nothing about the compensation." "Is it about me?" asked the tramp, watching the lawyer's face eagerly. "Yes; it is from Mrs. Middleton. She wants you to come to the hotel at once. But, my friend, if you will excuse the suggestion, I would advise you, since you are about to call upon a lady, to put on a better suit of clothes." The tramp scowled at the hint. "How am I to do it," he demanded roughly, "when these are all the clothes I have?" The lawyer whistled. "A pretty looking figure to call upon a lady at a fashionable hotel!" he thought. "You must go as you are," he said. "Wait a minute." He took a blank card and wrote upon it the name: RUDOLPH RUGG. "When you reach the hotel," he said, "inquire for Mrs. Middleton, and send that card up to her." "Very well, sir." The tramp started for the hotel, his mind busily occupied. "What does she want with me? She wasn't Mrs. Middleton when I knew her; she was Miss Vincent, the governess. I suppose she's a great lady now. So she got Mr. Harvey to marry her. That ain't surprisin'. She looked like a schemer even then, and I was a fool not to see what she was at. Likely she was up to the other thing. Well, I shall soon know." CHAPTER XVIII. TWO CONSPIRATORS. "You want to see Mrs. Middleton?" demanded the hotel clerk, surveying Mr. Rugg's exterior with a glance which betokened suspicion. "Yes," said the tramp. "I don't think she'll see one of your sort." "That's where you're mistaken, young feller," said Rudolph, loftily. "She wants to see me uncommon." "You're a strange visitor for a lady." "What if I am? There's my card. Just you send it up, and see if she won't see me." The clerk took the card, and looked at it doubtfully. Then summoning an attendant, he said: "Take this up to 57." Presently the servant returned. "The gentleman is to go up," he said. Rudolph looked at the clerk triumphantly. "What did I tell you?" he said. "Show the _gentleman_ up," said the clerk, purposely emphasizing the word. As Rudolph entered the handsome parlor occupied by Mrs. Middleton, she said: "Take a seat, sir." Then to the attendant: "You may go. You are Rudolph Rugg?" she commenced when they were alone. "Yes, ma'am," he answered; "and you are Miss Vincent, the governess. I haven't forgotten you." "I am Mrs. Harvey Middleton," she said haughtily. "Excuse me, ma'am. I hadn't heard as you had changed your condition. You was the governess when I knowed you." "You never knew me," she said, in the same haughty tone. "Well, I knowed Mr. Harvey, at any rate." "That is not to the purpose. Do you know why I have sought you out?" "I couldn't guess, ma'am," said Rudolph, cunningly. He could guess, but he wanted to force her to speak out. "Where is the boy? Is he living?" she demanded, eagerly. "What boy?" asked Rudolph, vacantly. "You know very well. Robert Middleton, my husband's cousin, whom you stole away when he was scarcely more than an infant." "Can you prove what you say, Miss Vincent--I mean Mrs. Middleton?" "Yes. It is idle to beat about the bush. My husband has told me all." "Then he has told you that he hired me to carry the boy off, in order that he might inherit the estate?" The tramp looked searchingly in the lady's face as he said this. "Yes, he told me that," she answered, composedly. "Well, I didn't think he'd own up to that," said the tramp, in surprise. "My husband and I had no secrets," said the lady, coldly. "What does he want of the boy now?" asked Rudolph. "It is I that want to find the boy." "Without his knowledge?" "If you refer to my husband, he is dead." "Dead! You don't say so?" "He died six months ago." "Well, I didn't expect that. Who has got the estate?" "I have." The tramp whistled, and surveyed the lady with genuine admiration. Here was a poor governess, who had succeeded in life with a vengeance. When he knew her she was not worth fifty pounds in the world. Now she was a mistress of a fine English estate, with a rental of two thousand pounds. "Wasn't there no heirs?" he asked. "Only this boy." "And if this boy was alive would the estate be his?" The lady paused, meanwhile fixing her eyes steadily upon the man before her. Then, as if rapidly making up her mind, she approached him, and placed her jeweled hand on his arm. "Rudolph Rugg," she said, "do you want to be comfortable for life?" "Yes, ma'am, that's exactly what I do want. I've been wanting it ever since I was old enough to know the power of money, but it has never come to me." "It will come to you now if you say the word," she said. "I'll say it quick enough. Tell me what you want." "You talk like a sensible man. But first tell me, is the boy living?" "He is alive and well." She frowned slightly, as if the intelligence didn't please her. "Do you know where he is?" "Yes," answered Rudolph. It was false, of course, but he thought it was for his interest to answer in the affirmative. "When did you see him last?" "Last week." "Very well, you know where he is. That is important. Now, in order that you may understand what service I want of you, I must tell you a little of my circumstances. I told you that my husband left me the estate." "Yes, ma'am." "But only in trust." "For the boy?" asked the tramp, in excitement. "Precisely." "Well, I'll be blowed." "What excites you, Mr. Rugg?" "To think that Tony, the tramp, should be the owner of a splendid estate in old Hingland, and not know anything about it." "I am the owner," said the lady, frowning. "But you're only takin' care of it for him." "I don't mean that he shall ever know it." Rudolph whistled. "I wish you would forbear whistling in the presence of a lady. It is unmannerly," said Mrs. Middleton, annoyed. "I ain't much used to associating with ladies," said the tramp. "Bear it in mind, then," she said, sharply. "Now to business." "Yes, ma'am, to business." "My husband secured the inheritance, as you are aware, through the disappearance of his young cousin. And mighty well he managed it. "But after he fell into ill health, and was given over by the doctors, he became a prey to superstitious fears, the result of his weakness, and at times experienced great regret for the hand he had in the abduction of the boy." "You surprise me, ma'am. He wasn't that sort when I knew him." "No; he was then in perfect health, and was bold and resolute. Ill health and the approach of death made him superstitious." "You ain't that way, ma'am, I take it," said Rudolph, with a leer. "No; I have a stronger will and greater resolution, I hope." Her face did not belie her words. There was a cold look in her light-gray eyes, and a firmness in her closely-pressed lips, which made it clear that she was not likely to be affected by ordinary weakness. She was intensely selfish, and thoroughly unscrupulous as to the means which she employed to carry out her selfish ends. "So you're afraid the boy'll turn up, ma'am?" asked Rudolph. "Precisely." "Then why do you look for him?" "I want to guard against his ever turning up. I hoped you would be able to tell me he was dead." "He don't know about the property." "But he might have learned, or you might. My husband, with the idea of reparation, left the property to me, in trust, but if it should ever be fully ascertained that the boy had died, then it was to be mine absolutely. There must be clear proof." "I begin to see what you're driving at, ma'am." "You say the boy is alive?" "Yes, ma'am." "And well?" "Stout and hearty, ma'am. He's been under my care ever since he was a young 'un, ma'am, and I've treated him like he was my own." "Indeed!" "Yes, ma'am. I'm poor, but I've always shared my crust with him, givin' him the biggest half." "Very kind, I'm sure," said the lady, sarcastically. "I suppose you're very fond of him." "Of course I am," said Rudolph, "but," he added, after a slight pause, "there's one thing I like better." "What is that?" "Money." "Good!" said the lady, her face lighting up with satisfaction. "I see we understand one another." "That's so, ma'am. You needn't be afraid to say anything to me. Business is business." "Draw your chair near mine, Mr. Rugg," said Mrs. Middleton, affably. The tramp did so. He foresaw what was coming, but did not flinch. CHAPTER XIX. THE WICKED COMPACT. "It appears to me, Mr. Rugg, that you have prospered," said the lady. "That's where you're right, ma'am, and you couldn't be righter." "I'm as poor as I can be." "So am I," said the tramp, adding, with a cunning look, "but times will be better now." "Why will they be better?" asked Mrs. Middleton, suspiciously. "Tony won't see me want when he comes into ten thousand a year." "Who said he was coming into it?" demanded the lady, coldly. "You said he was the heir." "He hasn't got the estate, and I don't mean he shall have it." "How will you prevent that ma'am?" Mrs. Middleton again put her hand on the man's tattered coat sleeve, and in a voice scarcely above a whisper, said: "Mr. Rugg, you must prevent it." "How can I prevent it?" asked the tramp, with an assumption of innocence. "I take it, you are not a religious man?" "Not much," answered the tramp, with a short laugh. "You are not afraid--to do wrong?" "Yes, I am, ma'am; but if I was paid for it I might not mind." "You shall be paid, and paid well." "What do you want me to do?" Mrs. Middleton said, with slow significance: "This boy is in my way. Don't you think he might manage to get sick and die?" "Perhaps he might," said Rudolph, who did not appear to be shocked at the suggestion. "Couldn't you manage it?" she asked, her eyes fixed upon the tramp. "I might," he answered, shrewdly, "if it was going to do me any good." "Then the only question is as to pay," she continued. "That's about it ma'am. It's a big risk, you know. I might get caught, and then money wouldn't do me much good." "Nothing venture, nothing have. You don't want to be a pauper all your life?" "No, I don't," answered the tramp with energy. "I'm tired of tramping round the country, sleeping in barns and under hay-stacks, and picking up meals where I can. I've had enough of it." "Do as I wish, and you need never suffer such privations again," said the tempter. "How much will you give me?" asked Rudolph, in a business-like manner. "Five hundred dollars down and five hundred dollars income as long as you live." This was good fortune of which Rudolph had never dreamed, but he understood how to make the best of the situation. "It is not enough," he said, shaking his head. "Not enough!" exclaimed Mrs. Middleton, with a look of displeasure. "Why, it seems to me very liberal. You can live comfortably all your life just for doing one thing." "A thing which may bring me to the gallows. It's all very well to talk, but I can't risk my neck for that." The lady was not surprised. She had expected that she would be compelled to drive a bargain, and and she had named a sum less than she was willing to pay. "You see," continued Rudolph, "it's going to be a great thing for you. You'll be sure of a big estate and an income of two thousand pounds--that's ten thousand dollars--a year, and it'll be me that gives it to you." "You overestimate your services, Mr. Rugg," she said, coldly. "If I decline to proceed further the estate will be mine." "Not if I bring on the boy, and say he's the real heir." "I shall deny it," said the lady, composedly, "and challenge you to the proof." "You will?" queried the tramp, disconcerted. "Of course I shall." "Then I'll prove it," he continued, in tone of triumph. "Who will believe you?" asked Mrs. Middleton, quietly. "Why shouldn't they?" "You are a tramp, and a discreditable person. Your appearance would be against you. I suspect the boy is one of the same sort." "No, he isn't. I don't like him overmuch, but he's a handsome chap, looks the gentleman every inch, even if he is dressed a little shabby." "I should charge you with conspiracy, Mr. Rugg. You'd find it uphill work fighting me without influence and without money. To begin with, how would you get over to England?" As presented by Mrs. Middleton, certainly the chances did not look flattering. But an idea occurred to Rudolph, and he instantly expressed it: "Then, if there ain't no danger from me or the boy, why do you offer me anything to put him out of the way?" Mrs. Middleton hesitated. "I may as well tell you," she said, after a moment's pause. "I take it for granted you will keep the matter secret." "Of course I will." "Then it is this: I married Mr. Harvey Middleton to secure a home and a position. I didn't love him." "Quite right, ma'am." "I was a poor governess. It was a great thing for me to marry Mr. Middleton." "I should think so." "I made him a good wife. He had no reason to complain of me, and when he died he left me in charge of the estate." "For the boy?" "Yes, for the boy, and this has given me trouble." "He hasn't never troubled you." "Not yet, and but for one thing I would not have come to America in search of him." "What is that?" "That is the secret I am going to tell you. I want to marry again." The tramp whistled. Mrs. Middleton frowned, but went on: "This time I love the man I want to marry. He is from an excellent family, but he is a younger son, and has little or nothing himself. If the estate were mine absolutely, there would be no opposition on the part of his family to his marrying me to-morrow, but with the knowledge that the boy may turn up at any time, nothing will be done." "I see," said the tramp, nodding. "But for this, I never would have stirred in the matter at all. I did not think it probable that the boy would ever hear of his inheritance." "He don't even know who he is," said Rudolph. "You never told him, then?" said the lady in a tone of satisfaction. "No. What was the good?" "There was no good, and you did wisely. Now I have told you how matters stand, and I renew the offer which I made you a few minutes since." "It is too little," said the tramp, shaking his head. "Tell me what you expect. Mind, I don't say that I will meet your views if they are extravagant. Still I might agree to pay you a little more." "I want just double what you offered me, ma'am." "Why, that's extortion." "That's as you choose to consider it, ma'am. It'll leave you money enough. It's one-tenth." "Suppose I refuse." "Then I'll go and see a lawyer, and he'll tell me what I had better do." "Even if you succeeded, and got the boy in possession, do you think he would give you any more than I offered?" This was a consideration which had not occurred to the tramp. He had only thought of punishing the lady for not acceding to his terms. He asked himself, moreover, did he really wish Tony to come into such a piece of good fortune, and that after the boy had been instrumental in having him arrested. No, anything but that! He decided to work for Mrs. Middleton, and make the best terms he could. "I'll tell you what I'll do ma'am," he said. "I'll say eight hundred dollars down, and the same every year." To this sum Mrs. Middleton finally agreed. "You say you know where the boy is?" she asked. "Yes, ma'am." "Then there need be no delay." "Only a little. But I shall want some money. I haven't a penny." Mrs. Middleton took out her purse. "Here are a hundred dollars," she said. "The rest shall be paid you when you have earned it." Rudolph rose to go, and as he went down stairs thoughtfully, he said to himself: "That woman's a case if ever there was one. How coolly she hires me to kill the boy. I don't half like the job. It's too risky. But there's money in it, and I can't refuse. The first thing is to find him!" CHAPTER XX. THE FIGHTING QUAKER. The tramp decided that the best way to find Tony would be to return to that part of the country where he had lost him, and make inquiries for a boy of his description. He could do it more comfortably now, being provided with funds, thanks to Mrs. Middleton. He was now able to command fair accommodations, and this was satisfactory. But there was another difficulty which, at times, gave him uneasiness. He had escaped from the custody of the law, and was liable to be arrested. This would have disconcerted him, and interfered seriously with the purpose he had in view. "I must disguise myself," thought Rudolph. "It won't do to run any risk. When I was a tramp I didn't care, but now I've got something to live for." It was not the first time in his varied experience that he had felt the need of a disguise, and he knew just where to go to find one. In the lower part of the city there was a shop well provided with such articles as he required. He lost no time in seeking it out. "What can I do for you, Mr. Rugg?" asked the old man who kept the establishment. "I want a disguise." "Then you've come to the right shop. What will you be--a sailor, a Quaker, a--" "Hold, there," said Rudolph. "You've named the very thing." "What?" "A Quaker. Can you make me a good broad-brim?" "Yea, verily," answered the old man, laughing, "I can suit thee to a T." "Do so, then." From out a pile of costumes of various styles and fashions the old man drew a suit of drab and a broad-brimmed hat. "How will that do?" he asked. "Capital!" answered Rudolph, with satisfaction, "that is, if it will fit." "I'll answer for that. It's made for a man of your size. Will you try it on?" "First tell me the price." "Thirty dollars." "Thirty dollars!" exclaimed the tramp, aghast. "Do you think I am made of money?" "Look at the quality, my good friend. Look at the cloth." "Why, I may not want the things for more than a week." "Then, I'll tell you what I'll do. If you only use them a week, you shall bring them back, and I will pay you back twenty-five dollars; that is," added the old man cautiously, "if you don't hurt 'em too much." "That's better," said Rudolph. "I'll try them on." He went into an inner room, provided for the purpose, and soon came out entirely transformed. In addition to the drab suit, a gray wig had been supplied, which gave him the appearance of a highly respectable old Quaker. The old man laughed heartily, for he had a merry vein. "How dost thee like it?" he asked. "Capital," said Rudolph; "would you know me?" "I wouldn't dream it was you. But, Mr. Rugg, there's one thing you mustn't forget." "What's that?" "To use the Quaker lingo. Just now you said, 'Would you know me?' That isn't right." "What should I say?" "Would thee know me?" "All right. I'll get it after a while. There's your money." "There you are again. You must say thy money." "I see you know all about it. You've been a Quaker yourself, haven't you?" "Not I; but I was brought up in Philadelphia, and I have seen plenty of the old fellows. That's right. Now, don't forget how to talk. Where are you going?" "Into the country on a little expedition," said Rudolph. "When will you be back?" "In a week, if all goes well." "Well, good luck to you." "I wish thee good luck, too," said the tramp. "Ha, ha! You've got it; you'll do." The tramp emerged into the street, a very fair representative of a sedate Quaker. At first he forgot his gray hair, and walked with a briskness that was hardly in character with his years. He soon attracted the attention of some street boys, who, not suspecting his genuineness, thought him fair game. "How are you, old Broadbrim?" said one. Rudolph didn't resent this. He felt rather pleased at this compliment to his get up. "You'd make a good scarecrow, old buffer," said another. Still the tramp kept his temper. A third boy picked up a half-eaten apple and fired it at him. This was too much for the newly-converted disciple of William Penn. "Just let me catch you, you little rascal," he exclaimed, "and I'll give you the worst licking you ever had." The boys stared open mouthed at such language from the sedate old gentlemen. "He's a fighting Quaker," said the first one, "keep out of his way." "If thee don't, thee'll catch it," said Rudolph, fortunately remembering how he must talk. He had thought of pursuing the disturbers of his peace, but motives of prudence prevented him. CHAPTER XXI. RUDOLPH HEARS OF TONY. Four days afterward Rudolph arrived in the town where Tony was employed. He had not been drawn thither by any clew, but by pure accident. He put up for the night at the hotel where our hero had found work. He enrolled himself on the register as "Obadiah Latham, Philadelphia." This, he thought, would answer very well for a Quaker name, much better, certainly, than Rudolph Rugg, which on other accounts also was objectionable. "Can thee give me a room, friend?" he inquired at the desk. "Certainly, sir," was the polite reply. "Here, Henry, show this old gentleman up to No. 6. No. 6 is one of our best rooms, Mr. Latham." "I thank thee," said the tramp, who, by this time, was quite accustomed to the peculiar phraseology of the Friends. "The Quakers are always polite," said the bookkeeper. "They are good pay, too, and never give any trouble. I wish we had more of them stop here." "If all your customers were of that description, your bar wouldn't pay very well." "That is true." But later in the evening the speaker was obliged to change his opinion. The Quaker came up to the bar, and asked: "Will thee give me a glass of brandy?" "Sir?" said the barkeeper, astounded, and hardly believing his ears. "A glass of brandy!" repeated Rudolph, irritably. "Where is thy ears?" "I beg pardon, sir, but I was surprised. I did not know that gentlemen of your faith ever drank liquor." "Thee is right," said the tramp, recollecting himself. "It is only for my health. Thee may make it strong, so that I may feel better soon." Rudolph drained the glass, and then after a little hesitation, he said: "I feel better. Will thee mix me another glass, and a little stronger?" A stronger glass was given him, and he poured it down rapidly. The barkeeper looked at him shrewdly. "Quaker as he is, he is evidently used to brandy," he said to himself. "If he wasn't those two glasses would have upset him." But Rudolph did not appear to be upset, or, indeed, to be in the least affected. He put his broad-brimmed hat more firmly on his head, and went outside. He determined to take a walk about the village. This was his usual custom on arriving in a new place. On such occasions he kept his eyes open, and looked about, in the hope that he might somewhere see the object of his search. He little suspected that Tony was at that very moment in the stable-yard in the rear of the hotel. He walked on for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and then leaned against a fence to rest. As he stood here, two boys passed him slowly, conversing as they walked. "I was surprised, Sam, at Tony Rugg's whipping you," said the first. "He couldn't do it again," said Sam, sullenly. Rudolph's attention was at once drawn. Tony Rugg! Why, there could be but one Tony Rugg. He advanced toward the boys. "Boys," he asked, "did thee mention the name of Tony Rugg?" "Yes, sir." "Does thee know such a boy?" "Yes, sir. He is working at the hotel. He got my place away from me," said Sam. "Do you know him?" "I once knew such a boy. But no! his name was Charles." "Perhaps he's a relation." "Perhaps thee are right." This the tramp said cunningly, not wishing Tony to hear that he had been inquiring after him. CHAPTER XXII. RUDOLPH FINDS TONY. Rudolph was very much elated at what he had heard. His object then was already attained, and the boy was found. "Well, good luck has come to me at last," he said to himself. "The young scoundrel is found, and now I must consider how to get him into my hands once more." The Quaker, to designate him according to his present appearance, at once made his way back to the hotel. He wanted to see Tony and verify the information he had obtained from the boys, though he saw no reason to doubt it. "There can't be two Tony Ruggs in the world," he said to himself. "I am sure this is the boy." On reaching the hotel he sauntered out into the stable-yard in the rear of the house. His eyes lighted with pleasure, for he at once caught sight of Tony, standing beside James, the hostler. "There comes old Broadbrim," said James in a low voice. "The barkeeper told me he took two stiff horns of brandy. He's a queer sort of Quaker in my opinion." Tony gave a curious glance at the disguised tramp, but entertained no suspicion of his not being what he represented. The white hair and costume made it difficult to doubt. "I never saw a Quaker before," he said. "Didn't you?" Meantime Rudolph came nearer. His disguise had been so successful that he felt perfectly safe from discovery. "Does thee keep many horses?" he asked. "Yes, sir; we have twelve." "That is a large number. Yea, verily, it is," said the tramp. "Well, it is, but we need them all. There's a good deal of carting to do for the hotel, besides Mr. Porter keeps a livery stable. Was you ever this way before?" asked James, thinking he might as well ask a few questions also. "Nay, verily." "Where might you be from?" "From Philadelphia." "I've heard there's a good many Quakers out that way." "Yea, verily, my friend, thee is right." "Are you going away to-morrow morning?" "Nay, friend, I think I shall tarry a day or two. Is that lad thy son?" "Tony, he asks if you are my son," said James, laughing. "No, his name is Tony Rugg, while mine is James Woodley." "Anthony, was thee born in this town?" asked the tramp, boldly defying detection. "No, sir," answered Tony. "I only came here a few weeks ago." "Yea, verily," was the only comment Rudolph made. "I'd like to choke the boy. I can hardly keep my hands off him," he said to himself. "But I'd better be going. He is looking at me closely. He might suspect something." "Good-night," he said, and the two responded civilly to the salutation. "Well, Tony, what do you think of Broadbrim?" asked James. "I don't know, there's something in his voice that sounds familiar to me." "Perhaps you may have met him somewhere before," suggested the hostler. "No, I am sure I have not. I never met any Quaker before." "Well, there's strange likenesses sometimes. Did I ever tell you my adventure out in Maine?" "No, what was it?" "I went down East to see a sister of mine that is married down near Augusta. When, as I was goin' through Portland, a woman came up and made a great ado about my deserting her. She took me for her husband, and came near having me arrested for desertion. You see I and her husband was as like as two peas, that's what some of her neighbors said." "How did you get off?" "Luckily I had documents in my pocket showing who I was. Besides, my brother-in-law happened to be in the city, and he identified me." Rudolph sat in the public room of the hotel for a time, and then he went up to his room, partly to be out of the way of possible recognition, partly to think how he could manage to get Tony into his clutches once more, without betraying himself, or exciting any interference. He had a back room, the window of which looked out upon the stable-yard. He seated himself at this window, and in this position could easily see and hear all that passed there. Tony and the hostler were lounging about, the latter smoking a clay pipe, their work being done for the day. "Tony," said the hostler, "I almost forgot to tell you, you're to go to Thornton to-morrow." "What for?" "There's a top-buggy Mr. Porter has sold to a man there. You're to take it over, and lead the horse back." "How far is it?" "About five miles." "All right. I'd just as leave go as stay here. Can I find the road easily?" "There's no trouble about that. It's straight all the way. Part of it runs through the woods--about a mile, I should say." "Did Mr. Porter say when he wanted me to start?" "About nine o'clock; by that time you'll be through your chores." "Well, I'm willing." Rudolph heard this conversation with no little pleasure. "It's the very chance I was waiting for," he said to himself. "I'll lie in wait for him as he comes back. I can easily hide in the woods." CHAPTER XXIII. THE NEGLECTED WELL. Rudolph took care to breakfast in good season the next morning. He felt that this day was to make his fortune. The deed which would entitle him to a life support was to be perpetrated on that day. He shuddered a little when he reflected that in order to compass this a life must be sacrificed, and that the life of the boy who had been for years under his guardianship, who had slept at his side, and borne with him the perils and privations of his adventurous career. He was a reckless man, but he had never before shed blood, or at any rate taken the life of a human being. He would have been less than human if the near approach of such a crime had not made him nervous and uncomfortable. But against this feeling he fought strenuously. "What's the odds?" he said to himself. "The boy's got to die some time or other, and his dying now will make me comfortable for life. No more hungry tramps for me. I'll settle down and be respectable. Eight hundred dollars a year will relieve me from all care, and I shall only need to enjoy myself after this." Rudolph must have had strange notions of respectability to think it could be obtained by crime; but in fact his idea was that a man who could live on his own means was from that very power respectable, and there are plenty of persons of a higher social grade who share in this delusion. At a few minutes after nine Tony set out on his journey. It never occurred to him that the old Quaker in suit of sober drab, who sat on the piazza and saw him depart, was a man who cherished sinister designs upon him. In fact, he had forgotten all about him, and was intent upon his journey alone. Most boys like to drive, and our friend Tony was no exception to this general rule. He thought it much better than working about the stable-yard. "Take care of yourself, Tony," said James, the hostler, in a friendly tone. "Oh, yes, I'll do that," said Tony, little dreaming how necessary the admonition was likely to prove. "I may as well be starting too," thought Rudolph, and some ten minutes afterward he started at a walk along the road which led to Thornton. "I'll keep on as far as the woods," he thought, "and then I'll form my plans. The boy must not escape me, for I may never have as good a chance to dispose of him again." About two miles on began the woods to which reference has already been made. The tramp selected this as probably the best part of the road to accomplish his criminal design. They extended for nearly a mile on either side of the road, and this was likely to facilitate his purpose. "I'll explore a little," thought Rudolph. "I shall have plenty of time before the boy comes back." Some forty rods from the road on the right hand side, the tramp discovered a ruined hut, which had once belonged to a recluse who had for years lived apart from his kind. This had now fallen into decay, for the former occupant had been for some time dead, and no one had been tempted to succeed him. The general appearance of the building satisfied Rudolph that it was deserted. Impelled partly by curiosity, he explored the neighborhood of the house. A rod to the east there was a well, open to the view, the curb having decayed, and being in a ruined condition, Rudolph looked down into it, and judged that it might be about twenty feet deep. A diabolical suggestion came to him. If he could only lure Tony to this well and dispose of him forever. "I'll do it," he muttered to himself, and started to return to the road, where he hoped to intercept our hero. Poor Tony! he little dreamed of the danger that menaced him. CHAPTER XXIV. THE DEED IS DONE. Tony drove rapidly to Thornton and sought the purchaser of the buggy. There was a delay of half an hour in finding him, but at last his business was done, and he set out for home. It was not quite so amusing leading the horse as sitting in a buggy and driving him. But all our pleasures have to be paid for, and Tony was ready to pay the price of this one. After all, he reflected, it was quite as amusing as working about the stable yard, especially after it occurred to him to mount the animal and thus spare himself fatigue. Everything went smoothly till he entered the woody part of the road. "Now I shall be home soon," he said to himself. "But, hallo! who's that?" as a figure stepped out from the side of the road. "Oh, it's the Quaker. I wonder what brought him here?" "Friend, is thee in a hurry?" asked the impostor. "I suppose I ought to get back as soon as I can," said Tony. "Why, what's up?" "Thee is the boy from the hotel, is thee not?" asked Rudolph. "Yes. You're the Quaker gentleman that is stopping there?" "Yes." "Well, what do you want of me?" "There's a man in the woods that has fallen down a well, and I fear he is badly hurt." "A man fallen down a well!" exclaimed Tony. "Yes." "Where is the well?" "Back in the woods." "How did you find him?" "I was walking for amusement when I heard groans, and looking down I could see the poor man." Tony never thought of doubting this statement, and said, in a tone of genuine sympathy: "Poor fellow!" "Will thee go with me and help get him out?" asked the Quaker. "Yes," said Tony, readily, "I'll do it. Never mind if I am a little late. Where shall I put the horse?" "Lead him into the woods and tie him to a tree." "All right. I guess that'll be the best way." The horse was disposed of as had been suggested, and the two set forth on what Tony supposed to be their charitable errand. "I don't see what made you go into the woods?" said our hero, a little puzzled. "I was brought up in the woods, my young friend. It reminds me of the time when I was a boy like thee." "Oh, that's it. Well, it was lucky for the man, that is if we can get him out. Did you speak to him?" "Yes, verily." "And did he answer?" "He groaned. I think he was insensible. I saw that I should need help, and I came to the road again. Luckily thee came by." "Had you been waiting long?" "Only five minutes," answered Rudolph. In reality he had been compelled to wait near an hour, much to his disgust. In fact, he had been led to fear that there might be some other road by which one could return from Thornton, and that Tony had taken it. Should this be the case, his elaborate trap would be useless. They had come quite near the ruined dwelling, and already the curb of the well was visible. "Is that the well?" asked Tony. "Yes," answered the Quaker. "Let us hurry, then," said Tony. But the time had come when Tony was to have revealed to him the real character of his companion. A branch, which hung unusually low, knocked off the hat and wig of the pseudo Quaker, and Tony was petrified with dismay when he saw revealed the black, cropped head and sinister face of Rudolph, the tramp. "Rudolph!" he exclaimed, stopping short in his amazement. "Yes," said the tramp, avowing himself, now that he saw disguise was useless; "it's Rudolph. At last I have you, you young scamp!" and he seized the boy's arm as in the grip of a vise. Tony tried to shake off the grip, but what could a boy do against an athletic man. "It's no use," said the tramp, between his teeth, "I've got you, and I don't mean to let you go." "What do you mean to do, Rudolph?" asked Tony, uneasily. "What do I mean to do? I mean to make you repent of what you've done to me, you young whelp." "What have I done?" "What haven't you done? You've betrayed me, and sold me to my enemies. That's what you've done." "I've only done what I was obliged to do. I don't want to do you any more harm. Let me go, and I won't meddle with you any more, nor say a word about you at the hotel." "Really," said Rudolph, with a disagreeable sneer, "I feel very much obliged to you. You are very kind, upon my soul. So you won't tell them at the hotel that the Quaker gentleman is only a tramp after all." "No, I will say nothing about you." "I don't think you are to be trusted, boy." "Did you ever know me to tell a lie, Rudolph?" asked Tony, proudly. "I don't pretend to be a model boy, but there's one thing I won't do, and that is lie." "I think I had better make sure that you don't say anything about me," said the tramp, significantly. "How?" asked Tony. "I don't mean to let you go back to the hotel at all." "But I must go back. I must drive the horse back." "That's of no importance." "Yes, it is," persisted Tony, anxiously. "They will think I have stolen it." "Let them think so." "But I don't want them to think me a thief." "I can't help it." "What are you going to do with me? Where are we going?" "Before I tell you that I will tell you something more. You have often asked me who you were." "You always told me I was your son." "It was not true," said Rudolph, calmly. "You are not related to me." "I felt sure of it." "Oh, you did!" sneered the tramp. "You are glad that you are not my son!" "Who am I?" "I will tell you this much, that you are the heir to a fortune." "I the heir to a fortune!" exclaimed Tony, in natural excitement. "Yes; and I could help you to secure it if I pleased." Tony knew not what to say or to think. Was it possible that he--Tony, the tramp--was a gentleman's son, and heir to a fortune? It was almost incredible. Moreover, what was the object of Rudolph in imparting this secret, and at this time, when he sought revenge upon him. "Is this true?" he asked. "Perfectly true." "And you know my real name and family?" "Yes, I do." "Oh, Rudolph, tell me who I am," Tony said, imploringly. "Help me to the fortune which you say I am entitled to, and I will take care that you are rewarded." Rudolph surveyed the boy, whom he still held in his firm grasp, and watched his excitement with malicious satisfaction. "There is one objection to my doing that, boy," he said. "What is that?" "I'll tell you," he hissed, as his grasp grew tighter, and his dark face grew darker yet with passion, "_I hate you!_" This he uttered with such intensity that Tony, brave as he was, was startled and dismayed. "Then why did you tell me?" he asked. "That you might know what you are going to lose--that you might repent betraying me," answered Rudolph, rapidly. "You ask me what I am going to do with you? I am going to throw you down that well, and leave you there--to die!" Then commenced a struggle between the man and boy. Tony knew what he had to expect, and he fought for dear life. Rudolph found that he had undertaken no light task, but he, too, was desperate. He succeeded at last in dragging Tony to the well-curb, and, raising him in his sinewy arms, he let him fall. Then, without waiting to look down, he hurried out of the wood with all speed. He reached the hotel, settled his bill, and paid to have himself carried over to the nearest railroad station. Not until he was fairly seated in the cars, and was rushing through the country at the rate of thirty miles an hour, did he pause to congratulate himself. "Now for an easy life!" he ejaculated. "My fortune is made! I shall never have to work any more." CHAPTER XXV. "I HOLD YOU TO THE BOND." On reaching New York, Rudolph made his way at once to the shop from which he had obtained his Quaker dress. "Has thee come back?" asked the old man, in a jocular tone. "Yea, verily," answered Rudolph. "How do you like being a Quaker?" "I've had enough of it. I want you to take them back. You promised to return me twenty-five dollars." "Let me look at them," said the old man, cautiously. "They've seen hard usage," he said. "Look at that rip, and that spot." "Humbug!" answered Rudolph. "There's nothing but what you can set straight in half an hour, and five dollars is handsome pay for that." But the old man stood out for seven, and finally the tramp, though grumbling much, was obliged to come to his terms. "Where have you been?" asked the old man, whose curiosity was aroused as to what prompted Rudolph to obtain the disguise. "That's my business," said Rudolph, who had his reasons for secrecy, as we know. "I meant no offense--I only wondered if you left the city." "Yes, I've been into New Jersey," answered the tramp, who thought it politic to put the customer on the wrong scent. "You see I've got an old uncle--a Quaker--living there. The old man's got plenty of money, and I thought if I could only make him think me a good Quaker, I should stand a good chance of being remembered in his will." "I see--a capital idea. Did it work?" "I can't tell yet. He gave me four dollars and his blessing for the present," said Rudolph, carelessly. "That's a lie every word of it," said the old man to himself, after the tramp went out. "You must try to fix up a more probable story next time, Mr. Rudolph. He's been up to some mischief, probably. However, it's none of my business, I've made seven dollars out of him, and that pays me well--yes, it pays me well." When Rudolph left the costumer's, it occurred to him that the tramp's dress which he had resumed had better be changed, partly because he thought it probable that a journey lay before him. He sought out a large ready-made clothing establishment on Fulton street, and with the money which had been returned to him obtained a respectable-looking suit, which quite improved his appearance. He regarded his reflection in a long mirror with considerable satisfaction. He felt that he would now be taken for a respectable citizen, and that in discarding his old dress he had removed all vestiges of the tramp. In this, however, he was not wholly right. His face and general expression he could not change. A careful observer could read in them something of the life he had lead. Still he was changed for the better, and it pleased him. "Now," he reflected, "I had better go and see Mrs. Harvey Middleton. I have done the work, and I shall claim the reward." He hurried to the St. Nicholas, and, experienced now in the ways of obtaining access to a guest, he wrote his name on a card and sent it up. "The lady will see you," was the answer brought back by the servant. "Of course she will," thought Rudolph. "She'll want to know whether it's all settled, and she has no further cause for fear." Mrs. Middleton looked up as he entered. "Sit down, Mr. Rugg," she said, politely. Her manner was cool and composed; but when the servant had left the room, she rose from her chair, and in a tone which showed the anxiety which she had till then repressed, she asked, abruptly: "Well, Mr. Rugg, have you any news for me?" "Yes, ma'am, I have," he answered, deliberately. "What is it? Don't keep me in suspense," she said, impatiently. "The job's done," said Rudolph briefly. "You mean that the boy--" "Accidentally fell down a well, and was killed," said the visitor, finishing the sentence. "Horrible!" murmured the lady. "Wasn't it?" said Rudolph, with a grin. "He must have been very careless." Mrs. Middleton did not immediately speak. Though she was responsible for this crime, having instigated it, she was really shocked when it was brought home to her. "You are sure he is dead?" she said, after a pause. "When a chap pitches head-first down a well thirty feet deep, there isn't much hope for him, is there?" "No, I suppose not. Where did this accident happen?" asked the lady. "That ain't important," answered Rudolph. "It's happened--that's all you need to know. Tony won't never come after that estate of his." "It would have done him little good. He was not fitted by education to assume it." "No; but he might have been educated. But that's all over now. It's yours. Nobody can take it from you." "True!" said Mrs. Middleton, and a look of pleasure succeeded the momentary horror. "You will be ready to testify that the boy is dead?" "There won't be any danger, will there? They won't ask too many questions?" "As to that, I think we had better decide what we will say. It won't be necessary to say how the boy died." "Won't it?" "No. Indeed, it will be better to give a different account." "Will that do just as well?" "Yes. You can say, for instance, that he died of small-pox while under your care in St. Louis, or any other place." "And that I tended him to the last with the affection of a father," added Rudolph, grinning. "To be sure. You must settle upon all the details of the story, so as not to be caught in any discrepancies." "What's that?" asked the tramp, rather mystified. "Your story must hang together. It mustn't contradict itself." "To be sure. How long are you going to stay in New York?" "There is no further occasion for my staying here. I shall sail to England in a week." "Will it be all right about the money?" asked Rudolph, anxiously. "Certainly." "How am I to be sure of that?" "The word of a lady, sir," said Mrs. Middleton, haughtily, "ought to be sufficient for you." "That's all very well, but suppose you should get tired of paying me the money?" "Then you could make it very disagreeable for me by telling all you know about the boy. However, there will be no occasion for that. I shall keep my promise. Will you be willing to sail for England next week." "Do you mean that I am to go with you?" "I mean that you are to go. Your testimony must be given on the other side, in order to make clear my title to the estate." "I see, ma'am. If I'd known that I wouldn't have had no fears about the money." "You need have none, Mr. Rugg," said Mrs. Middleton, coldly. "The fact is, we are necessary to each other. Each can promote the interests of the other." "That's so, ma'am. Let's shake hands on that," said Rudolph, advancing with outstretched hand. "No, thank you," said Mrs. Middleton, coldly. "You forget yourself, sir. Do not forget that I am a lady, and that you are--" "We are equal, ma'am in this matter," said Rudolph, offended. "You needn't shrink from shaking hands with me." "That is not in the agreement," said Mrs. Middleton, haughtily. "I shall do what I have agreed, but except so far as it is necessary in the way of business, I wish you to keep yourself away from me. We belong to different grades in society." "Why didn't you say that the other day, ma'am?" said Rudolph, frowning. "Because I didn't suppose it to be necessary. You did not offer to shake hands with me then. Besides, at that time you had not--" "Pushed the boy down the well, if that's what you mean," said Rudolph, bluntly. "Hush! don't refer to that. I advise you this for your own sake." "And for the sake of somebody else." "Mr. Rugg, all this discussion is idle. It can do no good. For whatever service you have rendered, you shall be well paid. That you understand. But it is best that we should know as little of each other henceforth as possible. It might excite suspicion, as you can understand." "Perhaps you are right, ma'am," said Rudolph, slowly. "Call here day after to-morrow, and I will let you know by what steamer I take passage for England, that you may obtain a ticket. Good afternoon." Rudolph left the lady's presence not wholly pleased. "Why wouldn't she shake my hand?" he muttered to himself. "She's as deep in it as I am." CHAPTER XXVI. TONY'S ESCAPE. We must now return to our young hero, who was certainly in a critical position. Though strong of his age, the reader will hardly be surprised that he should have been overpowered by a man like Rudolph. When the false Quaker's hat and wig were taken off, though he was at first surprised, he for the first time understood why the man's face and voice had seemed familiar to him from the time they first met. He struggled in vain against the fate in store for him. He felt that with him it was to be a matter of life and death, and taken by surprise though he was, he was on the alert to save his life if he could. The well curb was partially destroyed, as we have said, but the rope still hung from it. At the instant of his fall, Tony managed while in transit to grasp the rope by one hand. He swung violently from one side to the other, and slipped a few feet downward. This Rudolph did not see, for as soon as he had hurled the boy into the well he hurried away. Tony waited for the rope to become steady before attempting to ascend hand over hand. Unfortunately for his purpose the rope was rotten, and broke just above where he grasped it, precipitating him to the bottom of the well. But he was already so far from the opening that his fall was not over ten feet. Luckily also the water was not over two feet in depth. Therefore, though he was jarred and startled by the sudden descent, he was not injured. "Well," thought Tony, "I'm as low as I can get--that's one comfort. Now is there any chance of my getting out?" He looked up, and it gave him a peculiar sensation to look up at the blue sky from the place where he stood. He feared that Rudolph was still at hand and would resist any efforts he might make to get out of the well. "If he don't interfere I'm bound to get out," he said to himself, pluckily. His feet were wet, of course, and this was far from comfortable. He made a brief examination of the situation, and then decided upon his plan. The well, like most in the country, was provided by a wall of stones, piled one upon another. In parts it looked rather loose, and Tony shuddered as he thought of the possibility of the walls falling, and his being buried in the ruins. "It would be all up with me, then," he thought, "I must get out of this as soon as I can. If I can only climb up as far as the rope I can escape." This, in fact, seemed to be his only chance. Using the wall as a ladder, he began cautiously to ascend. More than once he came near falling a second time, but by greatest exertion he finally reached the rope. He did not dare to trust to it entirely, but contrived to ascend as before, clinging to the rope with his hands. He was in constant fear that it would break a second time, but the strain upon it was not so great, and finally, much to his delight, he reached the top. He breathed a deep sigh of relief when he found himself once more on _terra firma_. He looked about him cautiously, under the apprehension that Rudolph might be near by, and ready to attack him again. But, as we know, his fears were groundless. "He made sure that I was disposed of," thought Tony. "What could have induced him to attempt my life? Can it be true, as he said, that I am heir to a fortune? Why couldn't he tell me? I would have paid him well for the information when I got my money. Then he said he knew who I was--I care more for that than the money." But Tony could not dwell upon these thoughts. The claims of duty were paramount. He must seek the horse, and go back to the hotel. He had been detained already for nearly three-quarters of an hour, and they would be wondering what had become of him. He made his way as quickly as possible to where he had tied the horse. But he looked for him in vain. He had been untied and led away--perhaps stolen. Tony felt assured that the horse of himself could not leave the spot. "It must be Rudolph," he said to himself. "He has made off with the horse. Now I am in trouble. What will Mr. Porter say to me?" Tony was in error, as we know, in concluding that Rudolph had carried away the horse. The tramp had no use for him. Besides, he knew that such a proceeding would have exposed him to suspicion, which it was very important for him to avoid. Who, then, had taken the horse? That is a question which we are able to answer, though Tony could not. Fifteen minutes before Sam Payson, whose place Tom had taken, with a companion, Ben Hardy, while wandering through the woods had espied a horse. "Hallo!" said Ben, "here's a horse." "So it is," said Sam. "It's rather odd that he should be tied here." "I wonder whose it is?" Sam had been examining him carefully, and had recognized him. "It's Mr. Porter's Bill. Don't you see that white spot? That's the way I know him. I have harnessed that horse fifty times." "But how did he come here? That's the question?" "I'll tell you," said Sam. "I was at the hotel this morning, and heard that that boy Tony was to go over to Thornton with him." "That don't explain why he is tied here, does it?" "Tony must have tied him while he was taking a tramp in the woods. Wouldn't Porter be mad if he knew it?" "I shouldn't wonder if Tony would get bounced." "Nor I. I tell you what, Ben, I've a great mind to untie the horse, and take him back myself." "What's the good? It would be an awful job. We came out here to have some fun," grumbled Ben. "This would be fun to me. I'll get Tony into trouble, and very likely get back the place he cheated me out of. I guess it'll pay." "All right, Sam. I didn't think of that. I'd like to see how Tony looks when he comes back, and finds the horse gone." "It'll serve him right," said Sam. "What business had he to interfere with me, I'd like to know." "If you're going to do it you'd better hurry up. He may go back any time." "That's so. Here goes, then." In a trice Bill was untied, and Sam taking the halter led him away. When Tony came up he was not in sight. Though Tony felt convinced that Rudolph had carried away the horse, he felt it to be his duty to look about for it. There was a bare chance that he might find it somewhere in the wood. In this way he lost considerable time. Had he started for the hotel immediately he would very likely have overtaken the two boys. Sam kept on his way, and finally arrived at the hotel. As he led the horse into the stable-yard James, the hostler, exclaimed in surprise: "How came you by that horse, Sam Payson?" "Is that the way you thank me for bringing him back?" asked Sam. "He left the stable under the charge of Tony Rugg this morning." "Pretty care he takes of him, then." "What do you mean? Where did you find him?" "Down in the woods?" "What woods?" "Between here and Thornton." "Wasn't Tony with him?" "No." "Are you sure of that? Are you sure you two boys didn't attack Tony and take the horse away?" demanded James, suspiciously. "No, we didn't. If you don't believe me, you may ask Ben." "How was it, Ben?" he asked. "Just as Sam has said. We found the horse alone in the woods. We thought he might be stolen, and we brought him home. It was a good deal of trouble, for it's full two miles." James looked from one to the other in perplexity. "I don't understand it at all," he said. "It don't look like Tony to neglect his duty that way." "You've got too high an opinion of that boy entirely," said Sam, sneeringly. [Illustration: Tony sprung forward and seized the would-be murderer by the arm. (See page 182.)] CHAPTER XXVII. TONY IS DISCHARGED. Presently Tony came into the yard. He was looking very sober. He had lost the horse, and he didn't know how to excuse himself. He didn't feel that he had been to blame, but he suspected that he should be blamed nevertheless. "What did you do with the horse, Tony?" asked James. "He was stolen from me," answered Tony. "How could that be?" "I expect it was the Quaker." "The Quaker!" repeated James, in amazement. "Are you sure you're not crazy--or drunk?" "Neither one," said Tony. "It's a long story and----" "You must tell it to Mr. Porter then. He wants to see you right off. But I'll tell you for your information that the horse is here." "Is here? Who brought it?" "Sam Payson brought it a short time since." "Sam Payson! Where did he say he found it?" "In the woods." "Then he might have left it there," said Tony, indignantly. "What business had he to untie it, and give me all this trouble?" "You can speak to Mr. Porter about that." "Where is he?" "In the office." Tony entered the office. Mr. Porter regarded him with a frown. "How is this, Tony?" he began. "You leave my horse in the woods to be brought home by another boy. He might have been stolen, do you know that?" "I've been deceived, and led into a trap," said Tony. "What on earth do you mean? Who has deceived and trapped you?" "The Quaker who was stopping here. Has he come back?" "He has settled his bill and left the hotel. What cock-and-bull story is this you have hatched up?" "It is a true story, Mr. Porter. This man was not a Quaker at all. He was a tramp." "Take care what you say, Tony. Do you take me for a fool?" "He is a man I used to know. When I was coming home he was waiting for me in the woods, only I didn't know who he really was. He told me there was a man who had fallen into a well in the woods, and he wanted my help to get him out. So I tied the horse and went with him. I wouldn't have left him but for the story of the man in the well." "Go on," said the landlord. "I warn you I don't believe a word of this wonderful story of yours." "I can't help it," said Tony, desperately. "It's true." "Go on, and I'll give you my opinion of it afterward." "Just before we got to the well a branch took off his hat and wig, and I saw that he was no Quaker, but my enemy, Rudolph Rugg." "Rudolph Rugg! A very good name for a romance." Tony proceeded: "Then I tried to get away, but it was too late. The man seized me and threw me down the well. But first he told me that he knew who I was, and that I was heir to a large fortune." "Indeed! How happens it that you are not at the bottom of the well still?" "I got out." "So I see; but how?" "I climbed up by the stones till I reached the rope, and then I found it easy. I hurried to where I had left the horse, but it was gone. I supposed that the Quaker had taken it, but James tells me Sam Payson found it and brought it back." "Look here, boy," said the landlord, sternly, "do you expect me to believe this romance of yours?" "I don't know whether you will or not, sir. All I can say is that it is the exact truth." "I cannot keep you in my employ any longer. I have been deceived by you, and should no longer trust you. You certainly have mistaken your vocation. You are not fit to be a stable boy." "I should like to know what I am fit for," said Tony, despondently. "I will tell you, then. Judging from the story you have told me, I should think you might succeed very well in writing a romance. I don't know whether it pays, but you can try it." "Some time you will find out that I have told the truth," said Tony. "Perhaps so, but I doubt it." "When do you want me to go?" "You can stay till to-morrow morning. Wait a minute. Here is a five-dollar bill. That is a fair price for the time you have been with me." As Tony was going out he came near having a collision with Sam Payson. Sam looked at him inquiringly. "Have you been discharged?" he asked. "Yes," said Tony. "It was your fault. What made you take that horse?" "I was afraid Mr. Porter might lose it. Is he in?" "Yes. You can apply for my place, if you want to." "I mean to." Sam went in, and addressed the landlord. "I brought your horse back," he said. "Thank you. Here's two dollars for your trouble." Sam tucked it away with an air of satisfaction. "Tony tells me he is going away." "Yes. He don't suit me." "Wouldn't I suit you?" asked Sam, in an ingratiating tone. "No; I've tried you, and you won't suit," was the unexpected reply. "But I brought back the horse," pleaded Sam, crest-fallen. "I've paid you for that," said the landlord. "Didn't I pay you enough?" "Yes, sir; but I thought you'd take me back again." "I know you too well, Sam Payson, to try any such experiment. The Widow Clark told me yesterday that she wanted to get her boy into a place, and I am going to offer it to him." "He don't know anything about horses," said Sam. "He will soon learn. He is a good boy, and industrious. I am sure he will suit me better than you." "I wish I hadn't brought back his old horse," muttered Sam, as he left the office and went back into the yard. He hoped to triumph over Tony by telling him that he had taken his place, but the opportunity was not allowed him. "Well, Sam, are you going to take my place?" asked Tony. "No, I'm not," said Sam. "Didn't you ask for it?" "The old man had promised it to another boy," said Sam, sourly. "He's been pretty quick about it, then," said James. "A boy that don't know the first thing about horses," grumbled Sam. "Who is it?" "Joe Clark." "He's a good boy; I'm glad he's coming, though I'm sorry to lose Tony." "Thank you, James," said Tony. "I'd like to stay, but I can't blame Mr. Porter for not believing my story. It was a strange one, but it's true for all that." James shrugged his shoulders. "Then you believe you're heir to a fortune, as he told you?" "Yes; he had no reason to tell me a lie." "What's that?" asked Sam. "The Quaker gentleman who was here told Tony that he was heir to a large fortune." "Ho, ho!" laughed Sam, boisterously. "That's a likely story, that is." "Why isn't it?" asked Tony, frowning. "You heir to a fortune--a clodhopper like you! Oh! I shall split!" said Sam, giving way to another burst of merriment. "I am no more a clodhopper than you are," said Tony, "and I advise you not to laugh too much, or I may make you laugh on the other side of your mouth." "It'll take more than you to do it," said Sam, defiantly. "I have done it already, Sam Payson, and I'm ready to try it again before I leave town." "I wouldn't dirty my hands with you," said Sam, scornfully. "You'd better not." When Sam had gone, Tony turned to James. "I wonder whether I shall ever see you again, James?" he said, thoughtfully. "I hope so, Tony. I'm sorry you're going; but you couldn't expect Mr. Porter to believe such a story as that." "Then you don't believe it, James? I'll come back some day just to prove to you that it is true." "Come back at any rate; I shall be glad to see you. When do you go?" "To-morrow morning." "Where shall you go first?" "To New York; but I'll help you till I go." So Tony did his work as usual for the remainder of the day. He felt rather sober. Just as he had found a home his evil genius, in the character of Rudolph, appeared and deprived him of it. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE WORLD BEFORE HIM. Though Tony was out of a place he was considerably better off than he had generally been. He had five dollars in his pocket for the first time in his life. A few weeks ago he would have considered himself rich with this amount, and would have been in high spirits. But now he took a different view of life. He had known what it was to have a settled home, and to earn an honest living, and he had learned to like it. But fortune was against him, and he must go. "Good-by, James," he said, soberly, to the hostler the next morning. "Good-by, Tony, and good luck," said the kind-hearted hostler. "I hope I shall have good luck, but I don't expect it," said Tony. "Pooh, nonsense! You're young, and the world is before you." "That's so, James, but so far the world has been against me." "Come here a minute, Tony," said James, lowering his voice. As Tony approached, he thrust a bank-note hastily into his hand. "Take it," he said, quickly. "I don't need it, and you may." Tony looked at the bill, and found it was a ten-dollar note. "You're very kind, James," he said, touched by a kindness to which he was unaccustomed, "but I can't take it." "Why not? I shan't need it." "Nor I, James. I've got some money. It isn't much, but I'm used to roughing it. I've done it all my life. I always come down on my feet like a cat." "But you may get hard up." "If I do, I'll let you know." "Will you promise that?" "Honor bright." So James took back the money reluctantly, and Tony bade him good-by. It was a rainy day when Tony arrived in New York. The stores were deserted, and the clerks lounged idly behind the counter. Only those who were actually obliged to be out appeared in the streets. If Tony's hopes had been high they would have been lowered by the dreary weather. He wandered aimlessly about the streets, having no care about his luggage for he had brought none, looking about him listlessly. He found himself after a while in the lower part of Broadway, not far from the Battery. It is here, as my city readers know, the most of the European steamer lines have their offices. At once Tony saw a figure that attracted his eager attention. It was Rudolph Rugg, his old comrade, and now bitter enemy. "Where is he going?" thought Tony. This question was soon solved. Rudolph entered the office of the Anchor Line of steamers. "What can he want there?" thought Tony. "I'll watch him." He took a position near by, yet far enough off to avoid discovery, and waited patiently for Rudolph to reappear. He waited about fifteen minutes. Then he saw the tramp come out with a paper in his hand, which he appeared to regard with satisfaction. He turned and went up Broadway. As soon as he thought it safe Tony crossed the street and entered the office. He made his way up to the counter and inquired the price of passage. The rates were given him. "Can you tell me," he asked, carelessly, "if a Mr. Rugg is going across on one of your steamers?" "Mr. Rugg? Why, it is the man who just left the office." "Did he buy a passage ticket?" "Yes." "When does he sail?" "On Saturday." "And where does he go?" "To Liverpool, of course. Can I sell you a ticket?" "I haven't decided," said Tony. "If you go, you will find it to your advantage to go by our line." "I'll go by your line, if I go at all," said Tony. "I wonder whether he'd be so polite if he knew I had but three dollars and a quarter in my pocket?" said our hero to himself. Then he began to wonder how it happened that Rudolph was going. First, it was a mystery where he could have obtained the money necessary for the purchase of a ticket. Next, what could be his reason for leaving America. "Probably he has picked somebody's pocket," thought Tony. That disposed of the difficulty, but, as we know, Tony was mistaken. It was money that he had received for a worse deed, but Tony never thought of connecting the state of Rudolph's purse with the attempt that had been made upon his own life. When Tony came to think of it he felt glad that Rudolph was going abroad. He felt that his own life would be safer with an ocean flowing between him and the man who latterly had exhibited such an intense hatred for him. As to his motive, why perhaps he thought that he would be safer in London than in New York. Tony bethought himself of securing a temporary home. He was not a stranger in New York, and knew exactly where to go. There was a house not far from Greenwich street, where he had lodged more than once before, and where he was known. It was far from a fashionable place, but the charge was small, and that was a necessary consideration with Tony. He rang the bell, and the proprietor, a hard-favored woman of fifty, came to open it. "How do you do, Mrs. Blodgett?" said Tony. "Why, it's Tony," said the woman, not unkindly. "Where have you been this long time?" "In the country," answered our hero. "And where is your father?" "Do you mean the man I used to be with?" "Yes. He was your father, wasn't he?" "No. He was no relation of mine," said Tony, hastily. "We used to go together, that is all." "Where is he?" "I don't know exactly. We had a falling out, and we've parted." "Well, Tony, what can I do for you?" "Have you got any cheap room to let, Mrs. Blodgett?" "I've got a room in the attic. It's small, but if it'll suit you, you can have it for a dollar a week." "It's just the thing," said Tony, in a tone of satisfaction. "Can I go right up?" "Yes, if you want to. I generally want a week's pay in advance, but you've been here before----" "No matter for that. Here's the money," said Tony. "I'll show you the way up." "All right. I guess I'll lie down awhile. I've been about the streets all day, and am pretty tired." The room was quite small, and the furniture was shabby and well-worn; but Tony was not particular. He threw himself on the bed, and soon fell asleep. How long he slept he did not know, but when he woke up the room was quite dark. He stretched, and did not immediately remember where he was; but it flashed upon him directly. "I wonder what time it is?" he asked himself. "I must have slept a long time. I feel as fresh as a lark. I'll get up a take and tramp." When he went down stairs he found that it was already ten o'clock. "I feel as fresh as if it were morning," thought Tony. "I'll go out on Broadway and watch some of the theatres when the people come out." Ten o'clock seems late in the country; it is the usual hour for retiring for many families; but in the city it is quite different. There are still many to be seen in the streets, and for many it is the commencement of a season of festivity. Tony walked for half an hour. He was so thoroughly rested that he felt no fatigue. Presently he stepped into a crowded billiard-room, and seating himself, began to watch a game between a young man of twenty-five and a man probably fifteen years his senior. The first was evidently a gentleman by birth and education; his dress and manners evinced this. The other looked like an adventurer, though he was well-dressed. "Come, let us play for drinks," said the elder. "I've drank enough," said the young man. "Nonsense. You can stand a little more." "Just as you say." The game terminated in favor of the elder, and the drinks were brought. This went on for some time. The young man was evidently affected. Finally he threw down his cue, and said; "I won't play again." "Why not?" "My hand is unsteady. I have drank too much." "I've drank as much as you, but I am all right." "You can stand more than I. I'll settle for the drinks and games and go home." "Shan't I see you home?" asked the elder. "I don't want to trouble you." "No trouble at all." The young man paid at the bar, displaying a well-filled pocketbook. There was something in his companion's expression which made Tony suspicious. He formed a sudden resolve. "I'll follow them," he said, and when they left the room he was close behind them. CHAPTER XXIX. A STRANGE ADVENTURE. The young man leaned on the arm of his companion. He was affected by the potations in which he had indulged, and was sensible of his condition. "I ought not to have drank so much," he said, in unsteady accents. "Pooh! it's nothing," said the other, lightly. "Where are you stopping?" "St. Nicholas." "We'd better walk; it will do you good to walk." "Just as you say." "Of course, I would only advise you for your good." "I know it; but old fellow, why did you make me drink so much?" "I thought you could stand it better. I'm as cool as a cucumber." He pressed the young man's arm, and led him into a side street. "What's that for? This ain't the way to St. Nicholas." "I know it." "Why don't you go up Broadway?" "You are not fit to go in yet. You need a longer walk, so that your condition will not be noticed when you go in." "Go along old fellow; you're right." Still Tony kept behind. All seemed right enough, but somehow he could not help feeling suspicious of the older man. "I'll watch him," he thought, "and if he attempts any mischief I'll interfere." The two men walked in a westerly direction, crossing several streets. "Look here," said the young man, "we'd better turn back." Now was the time. The other looked swiftly around, but did not notice Tony, who was tracking him in the darkness. "Give me your watch and money at once, or I'll blow your brains out." "Look here, you're only trying to play a joke on me." "You're mistaken. I'm a desperate man. I will do as I say." "Then you're a villain," said the young man, with spirit. "You've made me drunk in order to rob me." "Precisely. Your money or your life. That's about what I mean." "I'll call the police." "If you do it will be your last word. Now make up your mind." The young man, instead of complying, endeavored to break away, but in his intoxication he had lost half his strength, and was no match for the other. "You fool! your blood be on your own hands!" said his companion, and he drew a pistol from his side pocket. An instant and he would have fired, but Tony was on the alert. He sprang forward, seized the would-be murderer by the arm, and the pistol went off, but the bullet struck a brick wall on the opposite side of the street. "Police!" shouted Tony, at the top of his lungs. "Confusion!" exclaimed the villain. "I must be getting out of this." He turned to fly, but Tony seized him by the coat, and he struggled fiercely, but in vain. "Let go, you young scoundrel!" he shouted, "or I'll shoot you." "With an unloaded pistol?" asked Tony. "That don't scare much." A quick step was heard, and a policeman turned the corner. "What's the matter?" he asked. "I charge this man with an attempt at murder," said Tony. "The boy is right," said the young man. "They are both lying," said the adventurer, furiously. "It's a plot against me." "I know you, Bill Jones," said the policeman, after a careful scrutiny of the man's features. "You're a hard ticket. Come along with me. You two must go with me to prefer your charge." "Let me have your arm, my boy," said the young man; "I'm ashamed to own that I need your help. It is the last time I will allow liquor to get the better of me." "I guess you're about right there," said Tony. "You've had a narrow escape." "I owe my life to you," said the young man, warmly. "How did you happen to come up just in the nick of time?" "I suspected the man meant you no good. I followed you from the billiard saloon, where I saw you playing." "You were sharper than I. I never suspected harm. You have done me the greatest possible service." "Curse the young brat!" muttered the man in custody. "I'd like a good chance to wring your neck." "I've no doubt of it," said Tony. "I'll keep out of your way." The station house was not far off. The party entered. The charge was formally made, and Tony and the young man went out. "Won't your father and mother feel anxious about your being out so late?" asked George Spencer, for this was the young man's name. "I don't think they will," answered Tony. "I haven't got any for that matter." "Who do you live with then?" "I take care of myself." "Have you no one belonging to you?" "Not one." "Are you poor?" asked Spencer, for the first time taking notice of Tony's rather shabby apparel. "Oh, no," said our hero. "I've got a little over two dollars in my pocket." "Is that all?" "Yes, and it's a good deal more than I generally have." "You don't say so. How do you make your living?" "Any way I can. Any way that's honest." "And don't you ever get discouraged--down in the mouth?" "Not often," answered Tony. "I've always got along, and I guess something will turn up for me. But there's one thing I'm sorry for." "What's that?" "I would like to get some sort of an education; I don't know much." "Can you read?" "A little, and write a little. I mostly picked it up myself." The young man whistled. "Have you any place to sleep to-night?" "I've hired an attic room for a week." "What do you pay?" "A dollar a week." "Of course, it's a poor room?" "Yes; but it's all I can expect, and better than I often have. Why, I've slept in barns and under haystacks plenty of times." "What is your name?" "Tony Rugg." "Well, Tony, you must come and stop with me to-night." "With you?" "Yes; at the St. Nicholas Hotel. You can help me get there, and share my room." Tony hesitated. "Do you mean it?" he asked. "Why shouldn't I?" "Because you're a gentleman, and I--do you know what they call me?" "What?" "Tony, the Tramp." "It is your misfortune and not your fault. I repeat my invitation--will you come?" "I will," answered Tony. He saw that the young man was in earnest, and he no longer persisted in his refusal. "To-morrow morning I will talk with you further about your affairs. I want to do something for you." "You are very kind." "I ought to be. Haven't you saved my life? But there is the hotel." Tony and his new friend entered the great hotel. It was brilliantly lighted, though it was now nearly midnight. Mr. Spencer went up to the desk. "My key," he said; "No. 169." "Here it is, sir." "This young man will share my room; I will enter his name." The clerk looked at Tony in surprise. He looked rather shabby for a guest of the great caravansery. "Has he luggage?" asked the clerk. "None to-night; I will pay his bill." "All right, sir." They got into the elevator, and presently came to a stop. Mr. Spencer opened the door of 169. It was a good-sized and handsomely furnished chamber, containing two beds. "You will sleep in that bed, Tony," said Spencer. "I feel dead tired. Will you help me off with my coat?" Scarcely was the young man in bed than he fell asleep. Tony lay awake some time, thinking of his strange adventure. "It's the first time in my life," he said to himself, "when I've had two beds--one here and the other at my lodgings. What would Rudolph say if he knew I was stopping at a fashionable hotel, instead of being at the bottom of the well, where he threw me?" CHAPTER XXX. BREAKFAST AT THE ST. NICHOLAS. When Tony woke up in the morning he looked about him with momentary bewilderment, wondering where he was. George Spencer was already awake. "How did you sleep, Tony?" he asked. "First rate." "It must be late. Please look at my watch and tell me what time it is." "Half-past eight," said Tony, complying with his request. "Why, it's late." "Not very. I didn't get up until ten yesterday. Well, what do you say to getting up and having some breakfast?" "Am I to breakfast with you, Mr. Spencer?" "To be sure you are, unless you have another engagement," added Spencer, jocosely. "If I have it can wait," said Tony. "How much do they charge here for board, Mr. Spencer?" "Four or five dollars a day. I really don't know exactly how much." "Four or five dollars a day!" exclaimed Tony, opening his eyes in amazement. "How much I shall cost you!" "I expect you will cost me a good deal, Tony," said the young man. "Do you know, I have a great mind to adopt you!" "Do you really mean it, Mr. Spencer?" "Yes; why shouldn't I. I like what I have seen of you, and I have plenty of money." "It must be a nice thing to have plenty of money," said Tony, thoughtfully. "There is danger in it, too, Tony. I am ashamed to tell you how much I have spent in gambling and dissipation." "I wouldn't do it, Mr. Spencer," said Tony, soberly. "Capital advice, Tony. I am going to keep you with me for fear I might forget, that is, if you think you will like me well enough to stay." "I am sure to like you, Mr. Spencer, but you may get tired of me." "I'll let you know when I do, Tony. How much income do you think I have?" "A thousand dollars!" guessed Tony, who considered that this would be a very large income. Spencer laughed. "It is over ten thousand," he said. "Ten thousand!" exclaimed Tony. "How can you spend it all?" "I did spend it all, last year, Tony, and got a thousand dollars in debt. I gambled, and most of it went that way. But I'll leave that off. I shall have you to take up my time, now." "Did you know that man you played billiards with last night, Mr. Spencer?" "I made his acquaintance in a gambling house, and I was well punished for keeping company with such a man." Tony was now nearly dressed. "You didn't get your clothing from a fashionable tailor, I should judge," said his new guardian. "No," said Tony, "I haven't been to fashionable tailors much." "After breakfast I must go with you and see you properly clothed. If you are to be my ward, I must have your appearance do me credit." "How very kind you are to me, Mr. Spencer," said Tony, gratefully. "I don't know how to repay you." "You've done something in that way already." "It seems like a dream that a poor boy like me should be adopted by a rich gentleman." "It is a dream you won't wake up from very soon. Now if you are ready we will go down to breakfast." Tony hung back. "Won't you be ashamed to have me seen with you in these clothes?" he asked. "Not a bit. Besides you will soon be in better trim. Come along, Tony." They went down together, and entered the breakfast room. A considerable number of persons were there. Several stared in surprise at Tony as he entered and took his seat. Our hero noticed it, and it made him nervous. "Do you see how they look at me?" he said. "Don't let it affect your appetite, Tony," said his friend. "When you appear among them again you will have no reason to feel ashamed." A speech which Tony heard from a neighboring table did not serve to reassure him. An over-dressed lady of fifty said to a tall, angular young lady, her daughter: "Elvira, do you see that very common-looking boy at the next table?" "Yes, ma." "He looks low. He is not as well dressed as our servants. It is very strange they should let him eat at an aristocratic hotel like this." "Isn't he with that gentleman, ma?" "It looks like it. He maybe the gentleman's servant. I really think it an imposition to bring him here." Mr. Spencer smiled. "Don't mind it, Tony," he said. "I know those people by sight. They are parvenus. I suppose you don't understand the word. They are vulgar people who have become rich by a lucky speculation. They will change their tune presently. What will you have for breakfast?" "There's such a lot of things," said Tony, "I don't know what to choose." "You'll get used to that. I'll order breakfast for both." The waiter appeared, and Mr. Spencer gave the order. The waiter looked uncomfortable. "Mr. Spencer," he said, "it's against the rules for you to bring your servant to the table with you." "I have not done so," said Mr. Spencer, promptly. "This young gentleman is my ward." "Oh, excuse me," said the waiter, confused. "Has any one prompted you to speak to me about him?" "Those ladies at the next table." "Then those ladies owe an apology to my ward," said the young man, loud enough for the ladies to hear. The shot told. The ladies looked confused and embarrassed, and Tony and his guardian quietly finished their breakfast. There was another lady who noticed Tony, and this was Mrs. Harvey Middleton. She was to sail for England in the afternoon. As Tony and Mr. Spencer were going out of the breakfast-room, they met her entering. She started at the sight of Tony, and scanned his face eagerly. "Who are you, boy?" she asked, quickly, laying her hand on his arm. Tony was too surprised to answer, and Mr. Spencer answered for him. "It is my ward, madame," he answered. "He has been roughing it in the country, which accounts for the state of his wardrobe." "O, I beg pardon, sir," said Mrs. Middleton. "I thought his face looked familiar." "You see, Tony, that your appearance attracts attention," said Mr. Spencer, laughing. "Now we'll go out, and I'll get you a fit-out." They went to a well-known clothier's, and Mr. Spencer purchased two handsome suits for our hero, one of which he put on at once. At another place a plentiful supply of under-clothing was purchased. Next a hat and shoes were procured. Tony's hair was cut, he took a bath, and in a couple of hours he was transformed into a young gentleman of distinguished appearance. "Really, Tony, I shouldn't have known you," said his friend. "I shouldn't have known myself," said Tony. "I almost think it must be some other boy. Who'd think I was Tony, the Tramp, now?" "You are not to be a tramp any longer. I have not yet formed my plans for you, but I shall soon. I suppose, Tony, your education has been neglected." "I should think it had," answered Tony. "I'm as ignorant as a horse." "Then you ought to learn something." "I wish I could." "You shall, but, as I said, I must arrange details later." * * * * * * * About this time Rudolph and Mrs. Middleton were conversing, preparatory to starting for the steamer. "You are sure the boy is dead?" she said. "Sure? I ought to be. Didn't I see him dead with my own eyes?" "I saw a boy this morning who looked as I suppose the boy would have looked--of the same age, too." "Where did you see him?" "He was with a gentleman, coming out of the breakfast-room as I was entering it." "It couldn't have been he," said Rudolph, positively. "Even if he were alive, he wouldn't be here. But he's dead, I tell you. There's no doubt of it." "There are strange resemblances," said the lady. "But, of course, it couldn't have been the boy. Indeed, the gentleman with him told me that it was his ward." Rudolph laughed. "Tony wasn't likely to have a gentleman for a guardian," he said. But Rudolph would have felt less easy in his mind if he had known that the boy whom he supposed dead at the bottom of a well was really in the hotel at that very moment. CHAPTER XXXI. TONY AND HIS GUARDIAN SET UP HOUSEKEEPING. "Now, Tony," said George Spencer, after dinner, "I want to tell you what plans I have formed for you and myself. I have got tired of hotel life, and want a home. I shall seek a couple of handsomely-furnished rooms up town, make it social and pleasant with books and pictures, and we will settle down and enjoy ourselves." "I am afraid you will get tired of me, Mr. Spencer," said Tony, modestly. "I am too ignorant to be much company for you." "Ignorance, like poverty, can be remedied," said the young man. "I shall obtain a private tutor for you, and expect you to spend some hours daily in learning." Tony's face brightened up. "That is just what I would like," he said. "You would like it better than going to school?" "Yes, for at school I should be obliged to go into a class with much younger boys." "While with a tutor you can go on as fast as you please." "Yes, sir." "To-night we both need a little recreation. Suppose we go to some place of amusement. Have you ever been to Barnum's?" "Yes, sir, but I didn't take a reserved seat." "I suppose not." "I sat in the upper gallery." "To-night you shall be fashionable. Have you a pair of kid gloves?" "The last pair I had is worn out," said Tony, laughing. "Then you must have another pair. We will get a pair on our way there." It was already time to start. At eight o'clock Tony found himself occupying an orchestra chair near the stage, his hands encased in a pair of gloves of faultless fit, and looking enough like a young patrician to pass muster among his fashionable neighbors. "How does it seem, Tony?" asked Spencer, smiling. "Tip-top," answered Tony: "but how queer kid gloves feel. I never had a pair on in my life before." "There are the two ladies who found fault with your appearance at the breakfast table this morning." "They are looking at me through an opera-glass." "Wondering if you can be the same boy. I have no doubt they are puzzled to account for your transformation." Mr. Spencer was right. The two ladies were at the same moment exchanging remarks about our hero. "Goodness, Elvira! there is that boy that was at breakfast this morning at the hotel." "The boy that was so shabbily dressed, mamma? Where?" "Just to the left. He isn't shabby now. See how he is decked out. Who would have thought it?" "It's queer, isn't it?" "I think we must have been mistaken about him. He looks like a young gentleman now. But why should he have worn such clothes before?" "I can't tell, I am sure." "That's a nice-looking young man, Elvira. I wish he would take a fancy to you." "La! mamma, how you talk," said Elvira, bridling and smiling. "Depend upon it, Tony, those ladies will be polite to you if they get a chance," said Spencer, laughing. "It makes a great deal of difference how a boy is dressed," said Tony. "You are right, Tony. Remember you are fashionable now." "There's a gentleman in front that I know," said Tony, suddenly. "Where." "The man with a partly bald head." "How do you know him?" "He was staying two or three days at the country hotel where I was stable boy." "Do you think he would know you now?" "May I see?" "Yes, but don't let him find you out. It won't do in society to let it be known that you were ever a stable-boy." "All right." Tony leaned over, and addressing the gentleman, said: "Would you be kind enough to lend me your programme a minute, sir?" "Certainly," was the reply. Then, looking at Tony: "Your face looks very familiar. Where have I seen you before?" "Perhaps at the St. Nicholas, sir," said Tony; "I am stopping there." "No; I never go to the St. Nicholas. Bless me! You're the very image of a boy I have seen somewhere." "Am I?" said Tony. "I hope he was good-looking?" "He was; but he was not dressed like you. In fact--I remember now--he was employed as stable-boy in a country hotel." "A stable boy!" exclaimed Tony, with comic horror. "I hope you don't think I am the boy." "Of course not. But really the resemblance is striking." "Mr. Spencer," said Tony, "this gentleman has met a stable boy who looks like me." "I really beg your pardon," said the gentleman; "I meant no offense." "My ward would not think of taking offense," said Mr. Spencer, courteously. Tony smiled to himself; he had a strong sense of humor, and was much amused. It is needless to say that he enjoyed the performance--all the more so from his luxurious seat and nearness to the stage. "It's a good deal better than sitting in the gallery," he said, in a whisper to his companion. "I should think so. I never sat up there, Tony." "And I never sat anywhere else." As they were leaving the house, they found themselves close to the ladies whom they had noticed at breakfast. Elvira chanced to drop her handkerchief, probably intentionally. Tony stooped and picked it up. Though he had led the life of a tramp, he had the instincts of a gentleman. "Thank you, young gentleman," said Elvira. "You are very polite." "Oh, don't mention it," said Tony. "Really, Mamma, he is a born gentleman," said Elvira, later, to her mother. "How could we make such a mistake." "His clothes were certainly very shabby, my dear." "Very likely he had been out hunting or something. We must not judge so hastily next time." The ladies were foiled in their intentions of cultivating the acquaintance of Tony and his guardian, as two days later they left the hotel, and installed themselves in an elegant boarding-house on Madison avenue. "Now," said Mr. Spencer, "we must go to work." "I must," said Tony. "And I too," said Spencer. "What can you have to do?" "I have received a proposal to invest a part of my money--only one-fourth--in a business down town, and shall accept. I don't need to increase my income, but I think I shall be less likely to yield to temptation if I have some fixed employment. I shall be so situated that I can do as much or as little as I please. As to yourself I have put an advertisement in a morning paper for a teacher, and expect some applicants this morning. I want you to choose for yourself." "I am afraid I shan't be a very good judge of teachers. Shall I examine them to see if they know enough?" "I think, from what you say of your ignorance, that any of them will know enough to teach you for the present. The main thing is to select one who knows how to teach, and whom you will like." "I wish you were a teacher, Mr. Spencer." "Why?" "Because then I should have a teacher whom I liked." "Thank you, Tony," said the young man, evidently gratified. "The liking is mutual. I think myself fortunate in having you for my companion." "The luck is on my side, Mr. Spencer. What would I be but for you. I wouldn't be a tramp any more, for I am tired enough of that, but I should have to earn my living as a newsboy or a bootblack, and have no chance of getting an education." So the relations between Tony and his new friend became daily more close, until Mr. Spencer came to regard him as a young brother, in whose progress he was warmly interested. A tutor was selected, and Tony began to study. His ambition was roused. He realized for the first time how ignorant he was, and it is not too much to say that he learned in one month as much as most boys learn in three. He got rid of the uncouth words he had acquired in early life, and adapted his manners to the new position which he found himself occupying in society. Mr. Spencer, too, was benefited by his new friend. He gave up drink and dissipation, and contented himself with pleasures in which he could invite Tony to participate. Meanwhile Mrs. Harvey Middleton and Rudolph had arrived in England, and we must leave our hero, for a time and join them. CHAPTER XXXII. HOME AGAIN. When Mrs. Harvey Middleton reached England, she delayed but a day in London to attend to necessary business. This business was solely connected with her mission to America. Rudolph Rugg accompanied her to the chambers of a well-known lawyer, and testified to having had the charge of Tony, closing with the description of his death. Of course nothing was said of the well, or about his having thrown him in, for Rudolph was not a fool. The details of a probable story had been got up by Mrs. Middleton and Rugg in concert. According to them and the written testimony, Tony had been run over by a train on the Erie railway, and a newspaper paragraph describing such an accident to an unknown boy was produced in corroboration. It was an ingenious fabrication, and Mrs. Middleton plumed herself upon it. "Poor boy!" she said, with a hypocritical sigh, "his was a sad fate." "It was, indeed," said the lawyer; "but," he added, dryly, "you have no cause to regret it, since it secures the estate." "Don't mention it, Mr. Brief. It is sad to profit by such a tragedy." "You don't take a business view of it, madame. Such things happen, and if we can't prevent them, we may as well profit by them." "Of course I will not refuse what has fallen in my way," said Mrs. Middleton; "but I had formed the plan, if I found the boy alive, of bringing him home and educating him for his position. He would not have let me want." "Don't she do it well, though?" thought Rudolph, who heard all this with a cynical admiration for the ex-governess. "If I was a gentleman, I'd make up to her, and make her Mrs. Rugg if she'd say the word." "You think this man's evidence will substantiate my claim to the estate?" she asked, after a pause. "I should say there was no doubt on that point, unless, of course, his evidence is impeached or contradicted." "That is hardly likely, Mr. Brief. The poor man suffered much at the death of the boy, to whom he was ardently attached." "So you loved the boy, Mr. Rugg?" said the lawyer. "Oh, uncommon," said Rudolph. "He was my pet, and the apple of my eye. We was always together, Tony and I." "And I suppose he loved you." "He couldn't bear me out of his sight; he looked upon me as a father, sir." "If he'd come into the estate, he would probably have provided for you," suggested the lawyer, watching him keenly. "It's likely, sir. I wish he had." "So it's a personal loss to you--the death of the boy." "Yes, sir." "Mrs. Middleton probably will not forget your services to the boy." "No, sir. I shall, of course, do something for Mr. Rugg, though not as much, perhaps, as my poor cousin would have done. Mr. Rugg, will you see me to my carriage?" "Certainly, ma'am." Mrs. Middleton was anxious to go away. The conversation had taken a turn which she did not like. It almost seemed as if the lawyer was trying to find out something, and she thought it best to get Rudolph away from the influence, lest Mr. Brief should catechise him, and draw out something to her disadvantage. "Mr. Rugg," she said, as they were going down stairs, "I advise you not to go near Mr. Brief again." "Why not, ma'am?" "These lawyers are crafty. Before you knew what he was after, he would extract the secret from you, and there would be trouble for both of us." "Do you think so, ma'am? I didn't see nothing of it?" "I think he suspects something. That matters nothing if it does not go beyond suspicion. Unless he can impeach your testimony and draw you into contradictions, we are safe, and you are sure of an income for life." "You needn't be afraid for me, ma'am. We are in the same boat." She frowned a little at the familiar tone in which he spoke. It was as if he put himself on an equality with her. But it was true, nevertheless, and it was unpleasant for her to think of. Was there nothing else that was unpleasant? Did she not think of the poor boy who, as she thought, was killed, and at her instigation? Yes, she thought often of him, but as much as she could she kept the subject away from her thoughts. "He's better off," she said to herself. "He didn't know anything of the property, and he wasn't fit to possess it. All the troubles of life are over for him." "What are your plans, Mr. Rugg?" she asked. "I have a mind to go down to Middleton Hall with you, ma'am. I used to live there years ago, and I might find some of my old cronies." "For that very reason you must not go," she said, hastily. "They would be asking you all sorts of questions, and you'd be letting out something." "They wouldn't get nothing out of me." "If you made no answer it would be as bad. They would suspect you." "And you, too." "Precisely." "It's rather hard, Mrs. Middleton, I can't see my old friends." "You can make new ones. A man with money can always find friends." "That's true, ma'am," said Rudolph, brightening up. "Then you'd recommend me to stay in London?" "In London, or anywhere else that you like better. Only don't come within twenty miles of Middleton Hall." "Well, ma'am, you're wiser than I am, and you know better what it's best to do." "Of course I do. You are safe in being guided by me." "But about the money, ma'am. How am I to get that if I don't see you?" "Once a quarter I will pay in forty pounds to your account at any bank you choose. You can let me know." "All right, ma'am. It's strange to me to think of having a bank account." "It need not be strange henceforth. And now, Mr. Rugg, we must part. I must hasten down to Middleton Hall to look after the estate. I have been absent from it now for nearly three months." "I suppose you are in a hurry to see your young man," said Rudolph, with a grin. "Mr. Rugg," said the lady, haughtily, "I beg you will make no reference to my private affairs. You speak as if I were a nursery maid." "I beg your pardon, ma'am. No offense was meant." "Then none is taken. But remember my caution." She stepped into the hansom which was waiting for her, and Rudolph remained standing on the sidewalk. "She's puttin' on airs," said the tramp, frowning. "She forgets all about her bein' a governess once, without five pounds in the world. She acts as if she were a lady born. I don't like it. She may try her airs on others, but not on Rudolph Rugg. He knows a little too much about Mrs. Harvey Middleton. Rich as you are, you're in his power, and if he was so inclined he could bring you down from your high place, so he could." But Rudolph's anger was only transient. He was too astute not to understand clearly that he could not harm Mrs. Middleton without harming himself quite as much. As things stood, he was securely provided for. No more tramping about the country for him in all weathers. He had enough to lodge and feed him, and provide all the beer and tobacco he could use. This was certainly a comfortable reflection. So he sought out a comfortable lodging and installed himself before night, determined to get what enjoyment he could out of London and the income he had so foully won. And Mrs. Middleton, she, too, congratulated herself. She leaned back in the cab and gave herself up to joyful anticipations of future happiness and security. "Thank Heaven, I have got rid of that low fellow," she ejaculated, inwardly. "I never want to see the brute again. He was necessary to my purpose, and I employed him, but I should be glad if he would get drowned, or be run over, or end his miserable life in some way, so that I might never see or hear of him again." But the thought of Rudolph did not long trouble her. She thought rather of the handsome Captain Lovell, whom she loved, and to marry whom she had committed this crime, and the hard woman's face softened, and a smile crept over it. "I shall soon see him, my Gregory," she murmured. "He will soon be mine, and I shall be repaid for my long, wearisome journey." CHAPTER XXXIII. CAPTAIN GREGORY LOVELL. A carriage drove rapidly up the avenue leading to Middleton Hall. The hall was not large, but was handsome and well proportioned, and looked singularly attractive, its gray walls forming a harmonious contrast with the bright green ivy that partially covered them, and the broad, smooth lawn that stretched out in front. Mrs. Middleton regarded her home with unmingled satisfaction. It was to be her home now as long as she lived. Now that the boy was dead no one could wrest it from her. She would live there, but not in solitary grandeur. The news of her success would bring Captain Gregory Lovell to her side, and their marriage would follow as soon as decency would permit. If afterward he should desire to have the name of the residence changed to Lovell Hall, Mrs. Middleton decided that she would not object. Why should she? She had no superstitious love for her present name, while Lovell had for her the charm which love always gives to the name of the loved one. The housekeeper, stout and matronly, received her mistress at the door. "Welcome home, Mrs. Middleton," she said; "how long it seems since you went away." "How do you do, Sarah," said her mistress, graciously. "I can assure you I am glad to be back." "You will find everything in order, mum, I hope and believe," said Sarah. "We expected to see you sooner." "I hoped to be back sooner, but the business detained me longer than I desired." "And did you succeed, mum, if I may be so bold," inquired the housekeeper, curiously. "As I expected, Sarah. I found that the poor boy was dead." "Indeed, mum." "I hoped to bring him back with me, according to my poor husband's desire, but it was ordered otherwise by an inscrutable Providence." Sarah coughed. "It is very sad," she said, but she looked curiously at her mistress. She knew very well that this sad news rejoiced the heart of Mrs. Middleton, and the latter knew that she could not for a moment impose upon her clear-sighted housekeeper. But the farce must be kept up for the sake of appearances. "Come up to my chamber with me, Sarah. I want to ask you what has been going on since I went away? Have you heard from Lady Lovell's family? Are they all well?" Lady Lovell was the mother of Captain Gregory Lovell, and the question was earnestly put. "They are all well except the captain," answered Sarah. "Is he sick?" demanded her mistress, turning upon her swiftly. "No, mum; I only meant to say that the captain was gone away." "Gone away! When? Where?" "He's ordered to India, I believe, mum. He went away a month ago." Mrs. Middleton sank into her chair, quite overcome. Her joy was clouded, for the reward of her long and toilsome journey was snatched from her. "Did he not leave any message?" she asked. "Did he not call before he went away?" "Yes, mum. He left a note." "Give it to me quick. Why did you not mention it to me before?" "It's the first chance I got, mum. The letter is in my own chamber. I took the best care of it. I will get it directly." "Do go, Sarah." Mrs. Middleton awaited the return of Sarah with nervous impatience. Perhaps the captain had thrown her over, after all, and, loving him as she did, this would have torn the heart of the intriguing woman, who, cold and selfish as she was so far as others were concerned, really loved the handsome captain. Sarah speedily reappeared with the letter. "Here it is, mum," she said. "I have taken the best care of it." Mrs. Middleton tore it open with nervous haste This is the way it ran: "MY DEAR JANE--I am about to set out for India--not willingly, but my regiment is ordered there, and I must obey or quit the service. This, as you well know, I cannot do; for apart from my official pay, I have but a paltry two hundred pounds a year, and that is barely enough to pay my tailor's bill. I am sorry to go away in your absence. If I were only sure you would bring home good news, I could afford to sell my commission and wait. But it is so uncertain that I cannot take the risk. "I need not say, my dear Jane, how anxious I am to have all the impediments to our union removed. I am compelled to be mercenary. It is, alas! necessary for me, as a younger son, to marry a woman with money. I shall be happy, indeed, if interest and love go hand in hand, as they will if your absolute claim to your late husband's estate is proved beyond a doubt. I append my India address, and shall anxiously expect a communication from you on your return. If you have been successful, I will arrange to return at once, and our union can be solemnized without delay. Once more, farewell. "Your devoted "GREGORY LOVELL." Mrs. Middleton, after reading this letter, breathed a sigh of relief. He was still hers, and she had only to call him back. There would be a vexatious delay, but that must be submitted to. She had feared to lose him, and this apprehension, at least, might be laid aside. To some the letter would have seemed too mercenary. Even Mrs. Middleton could not help suspecting that, between love and interest, the latter was far the most powerful in the mind of Captain Lovell. But she purposely closed her eyes to this unpleasant suspicion. She was in love with the handsome captain, and it was the great object of her life to become his wife. She decided to answer the letter immediately. Her desk was at hand, and she opened it at once, and wrote a brief letter to her absent lover: "DEAR GREGORY--I have just returned. I am deeply disappointed to find you absent, for, my darling, I have succeeded. I have legal proof--proof that cannot be disputed--that the boy, my husband's cousin, is dead. The poor boy was accidentally killed. I have the sworn affidavit of the man who took him to America, and who was his constant companion there. "It is a sad fate for the poor boy. I sincerely deplore his tragical end--he was run over by a train of cars--yet (is it wicked?), my grief is mitigated by the thought that it removes all obstacle to our union. I do not for an instant charge you with interested motives. I am sure of your love, but I also comprehend the necessities of your position. You have been brought up as a gentleman, and you have the tastes of a gentleman. You cannot surrender your social position. It is necessary that, if you marry, you should have an adequate income to live upon. My darling Gregory, I am proud and happy in the thought that I can make you such. You know my estate. The rental is two thousand pounds, and that is enough to maintain our social rank. Come home, then, as soon, as you receive this letter. I am awaiting you impatiently, and can hardly reconcile myself to the delay that must be. Make it as short as possible, and let me hear from you at once. "Your own, "JANE MIDDLETON." There was unexpected delay in the reception of this letter. It was three months before it came into the hands of Captain Lovell. When at length it was received, he read it with a mixture of emotions. "Decidedly," he said, removing the cigar from his mouth, "the old girl is fond of me. I wish I were fond of her, for I suppose I must marry her. It will be rather a bad pill to swallow, but it is well gilded. Two thousand pounds a year are not to be thrown away by a fellow in my straits. The prospect might be brighter, but I suppose I have no right to complain. It will make me comfortable for life. I must take care to have the estate settled upon me, and then the sooner the old girl dies the better." So Captain Lovell wrote at once, saying that he would return home as soon as he could make arrangements for doing so--that every day would seem a month till he could once more embrace his dear Jane. The letter was signed, "Your devoted Gregory." Mrs. Middleton read it with unfeigned delight. Her plans had succeeded, and the reward would soon be hers. But there was fresh delay. Arrangements to return could not be made so easily as Captain Lovell anticipated. It was seven months from the day Mrs. Middleton reached England when Captain Lovell was driven to his hotel in London. Meanwhile events had occurred which were to have an effect upon Mrs. Middleton's plans. CHAPTER XXXIV. TONY ASTONISHES HIS OLD FRIENDS. "Tony," said George Spencer one evening, "you have been making wonderful progress in your studies. In six months you have accomplished as much as I did at boarding school in two years when at your age." "Do you really mean it, Mr. Spencer?" said Tony, gratified. "I am quite in earnest." "I am very glad of it," said Tony. "When I began I was almost discouraged. I was so much behind boys of my age." "And now your attainments raise you above the average. Your tutor told me so yesterday when I made inquiries." "I am rejoiced to hear it, Mr. Spencer, I was very much ashamed of myself at first, and I did not like to speak before your friends for fear they would find out what sort of a life I led. That is what made me work so hard." "Well, Tony, you may congratulate yourself on having succeeded. I think you can venture now to take a little vacation." "A vacation! I don't need one." "Suppose it were spent in Europe?" "What!" exclaimed Tony, eagerly, "you don't think of our going abroad?" "Yes. The house with which I am connected wants me to go abroad on business. If I go you may go with me if you would like it." "Like it!" exclaimed Tony, impetuously. "There is nothing I would like better." "So I supposed," said George Spencer, smiling. "I may as well tell you that our passage is taken for next Saturday, by the Russia." "And this is Monday evening. How soon it seems!" "There won't be much preparation to make--merely packing your trunk." "Mr. Spencer," said Tony, "I want to ask a favor." "What is it?" "I have told you about being employed at a country hotel, just before I came to the city and found you." "Yes." "I would like to go back there for a day, just to see how all my old friends are." "You don't mean to apply again for your old place?" "Not unless you turn me off, and I have to find work somewhere." "Turn you off, Tony! Why, I shouldn't know how to get along without you. You are like a younger brother to me," said the young man, earnestly. "Thank you, Mr. Spencer. You seem like an older brother to me. Sometimes I can hardly believe that I was once a tramp." "It was your misfortune, Tony, not your fault. So you want to go back and view your former home?" "Yes, Mr. Spencer." "Then you had better start to-morrow morning, so as to be back in good time to prepare for the journey." "Do you know, Mr. Spencer," said Tony, "I've got an idea. I'll go back wearing the same clothes I had on when I left there." "Have you got them still?" "Yes, I laid them away, just to remind me of my old life. I'll take my other clothes in a bundle, and after a while I can put them on." "What is your idea in doing this, Tony?" asked the young man. "I want to give them a surprise." "Very well, do as you please. Only don't stay away too long." * * * * * * Tony proceeded to carry out the plan he had proposed. He traveled by rail to a village near by, and then with his bundle suspended to a stick, took up his march to the tavern. He entered the familiar stable yard. All looked as it did the day he left. There was only one person in the yard, and that one Tony recognized at once as his old enemy, Sam Payson, who appeared to be filling his old position, as stable boy. "Hallo, Sam!" said Tony, whose entrance had not been observed. Sam looked up and whistled. "What, have you come back?" he said, not appearing overjoyed at the sight of Tony. "Yes, Sam," said Tony. "Where have you been all the time?" "In New York part of the time." "What have you been doing for a living?" "Well, I lived with a gentleman there." "What did you do--black his boots?" "Not exactly." "Did he turn you off?" "No; but he's going to Europe next Saturday." "So you're out of a place?" "I have no employment." "What made you come back here?" demanded Sam, suspiciously. "I thought I'd like to see you all again." "That don't go down," said Sam roughly. "I know well enough what you're after." "What am I after?" "You're after my place. You're hoping Mr. Porter will take you on again. But it's no use. There ain't any chance for you." "How long have you been back again, Sam?" "Three months, and I am going to stay, too. You got me turned off once, but you can't do it again." "I don't want to." "Oh, no, I presume not," sneered Sam. "Of course, you don't. You've got on the same clothes you wore away, haven't you?" "Yes, it's the same suit, but I've got some more things in my bundle." "I guess you haven't made your fortune, by the looks." "The fact is, Sam, I haven't earned much since I went away." "I knew you wouldn't. You ain't so smart as people think." "I didn't know anybody thought me smart." "James, the hostler, is always talking you up to me, but I guess I can rub along as well as you." "You talk as if I was your enemy, Sam, instead of your friend." "I don't want such a friend. You're after my place, in spite of all you say." Just then James, the hostler, came out of the stable. "What, is it you, Tony?" he asked, cordially. "Yes, James; I hope you're well." "Tip-top; and how are you?" asked the hostler, examining Tony, critically. "I'm well." "Have you been doing well?" "I haven't wanted for anything. I've been with a gentleman in New York." Here Mr. Porter appeared on the scene. He too, recognized Tony. "What! back again, Tony?" he said. "I thought I'd just look in, sir." "Do you want a place!" "What sort of a place?" "Your old place." Sam heard this, and looked the picture of dismay. He took it for granted that Tony would accept at once, and privately determined that if he did he would give him a flogging, if it were a possible thing. He was both relieved and surprised when Tony answered: "I am much obliged to you, Mr. Porter, but I wouldn't like to cut out Sam. Besides, I have a place engaged in New York." "I would rather have you than Sam, any day." "Thank you, sir, but I've made an arrangement, and can't break it." "How long are you going to stay here?" "If you've a spare room, I'll stay over till to-morrow." "All right. Go into the office, and they'll give you one." "I say, Tony," said Sam, after the landlord had gone, "you're a better fellow than I thought you were. I thought you'd take my place when it was offered you." "You see you were mistaken, Sam. I'll see you again." Tony went into the hotel--went up to a small chamber that had been assigned him, changed his clothes for a handsome suit in his bundle, took a handsome gold watch and chain from his pocket and displayed them on his vest, and then came down again. As he entered the yard again, Sam stared in amazement. "It can't be you, Tony!" he said. "Where'd you get them clothes, and that watch?" "I came by them honestly, Sam." "But I can't understand it," said Sam, scratching his head. "Ain't you poor, and out of work?" "I'm out of work, but not poor. I've been adopted by a rich gentleman, and am going to sail for Europe on Saturday." "Cracky! who ever heard the like? Wouldn't he adopt me, too?" "I believe there is no vacancy," said Tony, smiling. "Was that the reason you wouldn't take my place?" "One reason." "James!" called Sam, "just look at Tony now." James stared, and when an explanation was made, heartily congratulated our hero. "Sam," said Tony, producing a couple of showy neck-ties, "to prove to you that I am not your enemy, I have brought you these." "They're stunning!" exclaimed the enraptured Sam. "I always thought you was a good fellow, Tony. Are they really for me?" "To be sure they are, but I'm afraid, Sam, you didn't always think quite so well of me." "Well, I do now. You're a trump." "And, James, I've brought you a present too." Here Tony produced a handsome silver watch with a silver chain appended. "It's to remember me by." "I'd remember you without it, Tony, but I'm very much obliged too. It's a real beauty." When the landlord was told of Tony's good fortune, he was as much surprised as the rest. Our hero was at once changed to the handsomest room in the hotel, and was made quite a lion during the remainder of his stay. There is something in success after all. "Good-by, Tony," said Sam heartily, when our hero left the next day. "You're a gentleman, and I always said so." "Thank you, Sam. Good luck to you!" responded Tony, smiling. "I'm a much finer fellow than when I was a tramp," he said to himself. "Sam says so, and he ought to know. I suppose it's the way of the world. And now for Europe!" CHAPTER XXXV. TONY'S BAD LUCK. Two weeks later Tony and his friend were guests at a popular London hotel, not far from Charing Cross. "We will postpone business till we have seen a little of London," said George Spencer. "Luckily my business is not of a pressing character, and it can wait." "You have been in London before, Mr. Spencer," said Tony. "I am afraid you will find it a bore going round with me." "Not at all. I spent a week here when a boy of twelve, and saw nothing thoroughly, so I am at your disposal. Where shall we go first?" "I should like to see Buckingham Palace, where the queen lives." "She doesn't live there much. However, we'll go to see it, but we'll take the Parliament House and Westminster Abbey on the way." In accordance with this programme they walked--for the distance was but short--to Westminster Abbey. It would be out of place for me to describe here that wonderful church where so much of the rank and talent of past ages lies buried. It is enough to say that Tony enjoyed it highly. He afterward visited the Parliament House. This occupied another hour. When they came out Mr. Spencer said: "Tony, I have got to go to my banker's. Do you care to come?" "No, thank you, Mr. Spencer, I would rather walk round by myself." "Very well, Tony, just as you please. Only don't get lost." "I'll take care of that; I'm used to cities." "You are not used to London. It is one of the blindest cities in the world; it is a complete labyrinth." "I don't mean to get lost. You'll find me at the hotel at four o'clock." "Very well. That will be early enough." So George Spencer went his way, and Tony set out upon his rambles. He found plenty to amuse him in the various buildings and sights of the great metropolis. But after awhile he began to wonder where he was. He had strayed into a narrow street, scarcely more than a lane, with a row of tumble-down dwellings on either side. "There's nothing worth seeing here," said our hero. "I'll inquire my way to Charing Cross." He went into a small beer house, and preferred his request. "Charing Cross!" repeated the publican. "It's a good ways from 'ere." "How far?" asked Tony. "A mile easy, and there's no end of turns." "Just start me, then," said Tony, "and I'll reach there. Which way is it?" "Turn to the left when you go out of this shop." "All right, and thank you." Tony noticed that there were three or four men seated at tables in the back part of the shop, but he had not the curiosity to look at them. If he had, he would have been startled, for among these men was Rudolph Rugg, more disreputable than ever in appearance, for he had been drinking deeply for the last six months. He stared at Tony as one dazed, for he supposed him dead long ago at the bottom of a well three thousand miles away. "What's the matter, Rugg?" asked his companion. "You look as if you'd seen a ghost." "So I have," muttered Rugg, starting for the door. "Where are you going?" "I've got a headache," said Rudolph. "You've left your drink." "I don't want it." "What's come over him?" said his late companion, in surprise. "No matter. He'll be back soon." Rudolph swiftly followed Tony. He wanted to find out whether it was really the boy whom he had sought to murder or not. Then what did his appearance in London mean? Was he possibly in search of him--Rugg? It was wonderful, certainly. How had he obtained the means of coming to England?--as a gentleman, too, for Rudolph had not failed to notice his rich clothes. Had he obtained rich and powerful friends, and was he in search of the inheritance that had been wrongfully kept from him? Rudolph asked himself all these questions, but he could not answer one. "If I could only ask him," he thought, "but that wouldn't be safe." By this time he had come in sight of Tony, who was walking along slowly, not feeling in any particular hurry. An idea struck Rudolph. A boy who had been employed in begging was standing on the sidewalk. "Gi'me a penny, sir," he said. Rudolph paused. "Walk along with me, and I'll show you how you can earn half a crown," he said. "Will you?" said the boy, his face brightening. "Yes, I will, and you won't find it hard work, either." "Go ahead, gov'nor." "Do you see that boy ahead?" "That young gentleman?" "Yes," said Rudolph. "I see him." "I want you to manage to get him up to my room; it's No. 7 ---- street, top floor, just at the head of the stairs." "Shall I tell him you want to see him?" "No, he wouldn't come. Tell him your poor grandfather is sick in bed--anything you like, only get him to come." "S'posin' he won't come?" "Then follow him, and find out where he is staying. Do you understand?" "Yes, gov'nor. I'll bring him." "Go ahead, and I'll hurry round to the room. I'll be in bed." "All right." The boy was a sharp specimen of the juvenile London beggar. He was up to the usual tricks of his class, and quite competent to the task which Rudolph had engaged him to perform. He came up to Tony, and then began to whimper. "What's the matter, Johnny?" said Tony, addressing him by the usual New York name for an unknown boy. "Oh, my poor grandfather is so sick," said the boy. "What's the matter with him?" "I don't know. I guess he's goin' to die." "Why don't you send for a doctor?" "He wouldn't come--we're so poor." "Do you live near here?" "Oh, yes, sir; only a little way." "I want to go to Charing Cross--is it much out of the way?" "No, sir; it's right on the way there." "Then, if you'll show me the way to Charing Cross afterward, I will go round with you and look at your grandfather. Perhaps I can do something for him." "Oh, sir, how kind you are! I know'd you was a gentleman when I fust saw you." "When was your grandfather taken sick?" "Two days ago," said the boy. "Is he in bed?" "Yes, sir. Leastways, he was when I came out. We didn't have no breakfast." "I am sorry for that. Don't you want to buy something to take to him?" "If you'll give me a shillin', sir, I'll ask him what he can eat. Sick folks can't eat the same things as the rest of us." "To be sure. You are right. Well, here's a shilling." "The boy little thinks that I have known many a time what it is to be without breakfast or money to buy any," thought Tony. "I'll do something for the poor man, if only to show how grateful I am for my own good fortune." He followed the boy for about ten minutes, until they reached rather a shabby building. This was No. 7. "Come right up after me," said the boy. The two went up till they reached the room indicated by Rudolph. The boy pushed the door open. A sound of groaning proceeded from the bed. "Grandfather, I've brought a kind young gentleman," said the boy. "Come here," muttered the person in bed. Tony came up to the bed. In an instant Rudolph had thrown off the clothes and had him seized by the arm. "There's your money, boy. Go!" he said to the other, flinging a half-crown. "I've got you at last!" he shouted. "Now, you young villain, I'll get even with you!" His face was almost fiendish with rage, as he uttered these words. CHAPTER XXXVI. "I HATE YOU!" To say that Tony was not startled would not be true. Without a moment's warning he found himself in the power of his old enemy--completely in his power, knowing, too, the desperate character of the man, which would let him stick at nothing. Rudolph enjoyed his evident surprise. "I've been waiting for this," he said. "It's a great joy to me to have you here in my power." By this time Tony had collected himself, and had become composed. "Rudolph," he said, "what makes you hate me so?" "Haven't you tried to injure me--didn't you get me arrested? Do you forget that night in the old miser's hut?" "No, I don't forget it, but you forced me to act as I did. But even if I did injure you, you took your revenge." "When, and how?" "When you threw me into the well. How could you do such a dark deed? What had I done that you should seek to murder me?" "How did you get out?" asked Rudolph, giving way to curiosity. "I climbed out." "How?" "By means of the wall that lined the well. Finally I got hold of the rope." "So that was the way, was it? I ought to have made surer of your fate." "How could you do that?" "By throwing some rocks down on you," answered the tramp, with a malignant frown. "I am glad I have not such a wicked disposition as you, Rudolph," said Tony, looking at him fixedly. "Take care how you insult me, boy!" said Rudolph, angrily. "I have no wish to insult you. Now tell me why you have lured me here? I suppose you hired the boy." "I did, and he did the work well," said the tramp, triumphantly. "Well, now I am here, what do you want of me?" "First, tell me how you happen to be in London? Did you know I was here?" "I knew you crossed the Atlantic." "How?" "I saw you buy your ticket." "What?" exclaimed the tramp, in surprise. "Did you reach New York so soon?" "Yes. I lost my situation at the inn, for they did not believe my story about having been thrown down the well by a Quaker." Rudolph laughed. "It was a good disguise," he said. "So they discharged you? That was good." "I did not think so at the time, but it proved to be the luckiest thing that could happen to me." "How was that?" "It led me to go to New York. There I found a rich and generous friend. I have been with him ever since." "As a servant?" "No; as his adopted brother. He supplied me with teachers, and in little more than six months I have acquired as much as most boys do in two or three years." "So you have gone in for education, have you?" said Rudolph, sneering. "Yes. Could I go in for anything better?" "And you consider yourself a young gentleman, now, do you?" "That is the rank I hold in society," said Tony, calmly. "And you forget that you were once Tony, the Tramp?" "No, Rudolph, I have not forgotten that. It was not my fault, and I am not ashamed of it. But I should be ashamed if I had not left that kind of life as soon as I was able." "By Heaven, you shall go back to it!" said Rudolph, malignantly. "I never will," answered Tony, gently, but firmly. "I will force you to it." "Neither you nor any one else can force me to it. I will black boots in the street first." "That will suit me just as well," said the tramp, laughing maliciously. "You have grown too proud. I want to lower your pride, young popinjay." "I am not afraid of anything you can do to me, Rudolph," said Tony, bravely. "Suppose I choose to kill you?" "You won't dare do it. We are not in the woods now." Tony had hit the truth. Rudolph did not dare to kill him, though he would have been glad to. But he knew that he would himself be arrested, and he had more to live for now than formerly. He had an income, and comfortably provided for, and he did not choose to give up this comfortable and independent life. "No," he said, "I won't kill you; but I will be revenged for all that. First, I will keep you from that generous friend of yours." "What will he think has become of me?" thought Tony, uneasily. A thought came to him. He would appeal to the man's love of money. "Rudolph," he said, "I am afraid my friend will be uneasy about me. If you will let me go I will give you ten pounds that I have in my pocket." "I don't believe you have so much money," said Rudolph, cunningly. Tony fell into the snare unsuspectingly. He drew out his pocket-book and displayed two five-pound notes on the Bank of England. Rudolph quickly snatched them from him. "They are mine already," he said, with a mocking laugh. "So I see," said Tony, coolly; "but I was about to offer you fifty pounds besides." "Have you the money in your pocketbook?" "No, I haven't, but I could get it from Mr. Spencer." "It don't go down, Tony," said Rudolph, shaking his head. "I am not so much in need of money as to pay so dearly for it. Listen to me. If you have been lucky, so have I. I have an income, safe and sure, of one hundred and fifty pounds." "You have!" exclaimed Tony, surprised. "Yes." "Do you hold any position?" "No; I merely promise to keep my mouth shut." "Is it about me?" "Yes. The long and short of it is that there is an English estate, bringing in two thousand pounds rental, that of right belongs to you." "To me--an estate of two thousand pounds a year?" exclaimed Tony, in astonishment. "Yes; the party who owns it pays me an income as hush money. I have only to say the word, and the estate will be yours, Tony." "Say the word, Rudolph, and you shall have the same income," entreated Tony. "It isn't the money I so much care for, but I want to know who I am. I want to be restored to my rightful place in society. Is my mother living?" "No." "Nor my father?" "No." Tony looked sober. "Then I should not care so much for the money. Still it ought to be mine." "Of course it ought," said Rudolph, gloating over the boy's emotion. "You shall lose nothing by telling me--by becoming my friend. I will never refer to the past--never speak of what happened in America." "No doubt," sneered Rudolph, "but it can't be." "Why can't it be?" "_Because I hate you!_" hissed the tramp, with a baleful look. "Not another word. It's no use, I shall lock you up here for the present, while I am out. When I come back I will let you know what I am going to do to you." He left the room, locking the door behind him. Tony sat down to reflect upon the strange position in which he was placed. CHAPTER XXXVII. MRS. MIDDLETON AND HER LOVER. When Rudolph left Tony imprisoned, he began to think over the situation with regard to his own interest. He was already dissatisfied with the income he received from Mrs. Middleton; though at the time it seemed to him large, he found that he could easily spend more. He did not have expensive lodgings--in fact, they were plain, and quite within his means, but he drank and gambled, and both these amusements were expensive. He had already made up his mind to ask for a larger income, and Tony's offer stimulated him to ask at once. "If Mrs. Middleton won't, the boy will," he said to himself. Mrs. Middleton was in London. In fact, at that moment she was conversing with Captain Lovell, to whom she had been formally betrothed. He had satisfied himself that the prospects were all right, and then had renewed his offer. The marriage was to take place in a month, and Mrs. Middleton was in town to make suitable preparations for it. She was perfectly happy, for she was about to marry a man she loved. As for Captain Lovell, he was well enough contented. He did not care much for the lady as regards love, but he was decidedly in love with her property. "It will make me comfortable for life," he said, with a shrug of the shoulders, "and after marriage I can pay as little attention to Mrs. Lovell as I choose. She must be content with marrying my name." The widow had taken handsome apartments at a West End boarding house. There she received callers. Captain Lovell was lounging in an easy chair, looking rather bored. His _fiancee_ was inspecting an array of dry goods which had been sent in from a fancy London shop. "Don't you think this silk elegant, Gregory!" she asked, displaying a pattern. "Oh, ah, yes, I suppose so," he answered with a yawn. "I would like to have your taste, Gregory." "I have no taste, my dear Mrs. Middleton, about such matters." "Don't you think it will become me?" "Why, to be sure; everything becomes you, you know." She laughed. "Would a yellow turban become me?" she asked. "Well, perhaps not," he said, "but of course you know best." "How little you men know about a lady's dress!" "I should think so. The fact is, my dear Mrs. Middleton, that part of my education was neglected." "When I am your wife, Gregory, I shall always appeal to your taste." "Will you?" he said, rather frightened. "'Pon my honor, I hope you won't now." "And I shall expect you to consult me about your wardrobe." "What, about my trousers and coats? Really, that's very amusing; 'pon my honor it is." "Don't you think I feel an interest in how my dear Gregory is dressed?" "I don't know, I'm sure." "But I do, and shall I tell you why?" "If you want to." "Because I love you," she said softly, and she rose from her chair, and crossing, laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder. He shrank, just the least in the world, and felt annoyed, but didn't like to say so. She might be angry, and though he did not love her, he did want to marry her, and so escape from his money troubles. "Of course, I'm ever so much obliged to you," he said, "and all that sort of thing." "And you love me, Gregory, don't you?" she asked, tenderly. "Did you ever! I wish she'd stop," he said to himself. "She makes me awful uncomfortable." "Don't you love me, Gregory?" "If I didn't love you, do you think I would have asked you to become Mrs. Lovell?" he said, evading the question. "To be sure, Gregory," she replied, trying to look satisfied. "And now I must go; I must, 'pon my honor," he said, rising. "You have been here so short a time," she pleaded. "But I promised to be at the club. I'm to meet a fellow officer, and it's the hour now." "Then I must let you go. But you'll come again soon?" "Yes, 'pon honor," and the captain kissed his hand to his _fiancee_. "I wonder if he really loves me!" she said to herself, wistfully. At this moment the servant entered. "Please, ma'am, there's a rough-looking man below, who says he wants to see you. His name is Rugg." "Admit him," said Mrs. Middleton, looking annoyed. CHAPTER XXXVIII. A STORMY INTERVIEW. "Why are you here Mr. Rugg?" demanded Mrs. Middleton, coolly. "On business," said the tramp, throwing himself, uninvited upon the same chair from which Captain Lovell had just risen. Mrs. Middleton flushed with anger, but she did not dare to treat his insolence as it deserved. "What business can you have with me?" she asked, coldly. "It's about the allowance." "It was paid punctually, was it not?" "Yes." "Then you can have no business with me. Have I not told you that you are not to call upon me at any time? My agent attends to that." "I want the allowance raised," said Rudolph, abruptly. "Raised?" "Yes, you must double it." Mrs. Middleton was now really angry. "I never heard such insolence," she said. "You have taken your trouble for nothing. I shall not give you a pound more." "You'd better, Mrs. Middleton," said Rudolph, "or I may tell all I know." "You would only ruin yourself, and lose your entire income." "I should ruin you, too." "Not at all. No one would believe you against me. Besides, are you ready to be tried for murder?" "Who has committed murder?" "You have." "Prove it." "Didn't you kill the boy?" "No." "You swore to me he was dead." "Suppose he didn't die." "You are wasting your time, Mr. Rugg," said Mrs. Middleton, coldly. "Of course I understand your motives. You have been extravagant, and wasted your money, hoping to get more out of me. But it is useless." "You'll be sorry for this, ma'am," said Rugg, angrily. "I don't think I shall. Before doing anything that _you_ will be sorry for, consider that to a man in your position the income I give you is very liberal." "Liberal! It isn't one-tenth of what you get." "Very true, but the case is different." "You may believe me or not, but the boy is alive, and I know where he is." Mrs. Middleton did not believe one word of what he said. She was convinced that Tony had been killed by the man before her, and was indignant at the trick which she thought he was trying to play upon her. She felt that if she yielded to his importunity, it would only be the beginning of a series of demands. She had courage and firmness, and she decided to discourage him once for all in his exactions. "I don't believe you," she said, "and I am not afraid." "Then you won't increase my income," he said. "No, I will not. Neither now nor at any other time will I do it. What I have agreed to do I will do, but I will not give you a penny more. Do you understand me, Mr. Rugg?" "I believe I do," said Rudolph, rising, "and I tell you you'll be sorry for what you are saying." "I will take the risk," she said, contemptuously. Rudolph's face was distorted with passion as he left the room. "I hate her more than the boy," he muttered. "He shall have the estate." CHAPTER XXXIX. TONY'S ESCAPE. When Tony found himself left a prisoner in his enemy's room, he did not immediately make an effort to escape, in fact, he did not feel particularly alarmed. "I am in a large city, and there are other lodgers in this building. There can be no danger. I will wait awhile and think over what Rudolph has told me. Can it be true that I am heir to a large estate in England, and that he can restore me to it if he will? He can have no motive for deceiving me. It must be true." Tony felt that he would give a great deal to know more. Where was this estate, and who now held it? It occurred to him that some where about the room he might find some clew to the mystery. He immediately began to explore it. Rudolph was not a literary man. He had neither books nor papers whose tell-tale testimony might convict him. In fact, the best of his personal possessions was very small. A few clothes were lying about the room. Tony decided to examine the pockets of these, in the hope of discovering something in his interest. Finally, he found in the pocket of a shooting coat a small memorandum book, in which a few entries, chiefly of bets, had been made. In these Tony felt no interest, and he was about to throw down the book, when his eye caught this entry: "Dead broke. Must write to Mrs. Middleton for more money." Tony's heart beat rapidly. This must be the person from whom Rudolph received his income, and, by consequence the person who was in fraudulent possession of the estate that was rightfully his. "Mrs. Middleton!" "I wish I knew where she lives," thought our hero. "No doubt there are hundreds of the name in England." This might be, but probably there was but one Mrs. Middleton in the possession of an estate worth two thousand pounds rental. "I am on the track," thought Tony. "Now let me get away, and consult George Spencer." It was easier said than done. The door was locked, and it was too strong to break down. "There must be somebody in the room below," thought Tony. "I'll pound till they hear me." He jumped up and down with such force that it did attract attention in the room below. Presently he heard a querulous voice at the key-hole: "What's the matter? Are you mad?" "No, but I'm locked in," said Tony. "Can't you let me out?" "I have no key to the door, but the landlady has." "Won't you please to ask her to let me out? I'll be ever so much obliged." "Stop pounding then." "I will." Scarcely two minutes had elapsed when a key was heard in the lock and the door was opened. "How came you here, sir?" asked the landlady, a short, stout woman--suspiciously. "The gentleman locked me in--in a joke," said Tony. "Maybe you're a burglar," said the landlady, eyeing him doubtfully. Tony laughed. "Do I look like it?" he asked. "Well, no," the landlady admitted, "but appearances are deceitful." "Not with me, I assure you. I am really sorry to put you to so much trouble to let me out. Won't you accept of this?" and Tony produced a half sovereign. "Really, sir, I see that you are quite the gentleman," said the landlady, pocketing the piece with avidity. "Can't I do anything for you?" "Only, if you'll be kind enough to give this to the gentleman when he returns." Tony hastily wrote a line on a card, and gave it to the now complacent dame. Fifteen minutes after Tony's departure Rudolph returned. He sprang up stairs only to find the room empty and the bird flown. "What's come of the boy!" he exclaimed in dismay; "how did he get out?" He summoned the landlady quickly. "Do you know anything of the boy that was in my room, Mrs. Jones?" "Yes, Mr. Rugg, I let him out. He said you locked him in in fun." "Humph! what else did he say?" "He left this card for you." Rugg seized it hastily, and read with startled eyes: "I am at Morley's. Come and see me soon, or I will go to Mrs. Middleton. "TONY." "Confusion? where did the boy find out?" thought the tramp. "I must do something, or I am ruined." It was a mystery to him how Tony had learned so much, and he naturally concluded that he knew a good deal more. He felt that no time was to be lost, and started at once for Morley's. Inquiring for Tony, he was at once admitted to the presence of Tony and George Spencer. "So you got my card!" said Tony. "Yes. What do you know about Mrs. Middleton?" demanded Rudolph. "That she possesses the estate that ought to be mine. That's about it, isn't it?" "Yes," said Rudolph, "but you can't get it without me." "Why not?" "I was the man that was hired to abduct you when you was a boy." "Can you prove that?" asked Spencer. "I can." "Will your story be believed?" "Yes. The tenantry will remember me. I was one of them at the time." "Are you ready to help my young friend here to recover his rights?" asked Spencer. "This morning I said no. Now I say yes, if he'll do the fair thing by me." A conference was entered into and a bargain was finally made. Rudolph was to receive two hundred pounds a year as a reward for his services, if successful. When this arrangement had been completed, an appointment was made for the next morning; at which hour a lawyer of repute was also present. After listening attentively to Rudolph's statement, he said, decisively: "Your young friend has a strong case, but I advise you to see Mrs. Middleton privately. It may not be necessary to bring the matter into court; and this would be preferable, as it would avoid scandal." "I put myself in your hands," said Tony, promptly. "Mrs. Harvey Middleton is in London," said the lawyer. "I will call this afternoon." CHAPTER XL. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. Mrs. Harvey Middleton sat in her boudoir, trying to read a novel. But it failed to interest her. She felt uneasy, she scarcely knew why. The evening previous she had been at the Haymarket Theatre, and had been struck by a boy's face. Ten feet from her sat Tony, with his friend, George Spencer. He looked wonderfully like his father, as she remembered him, and she was startled. She did not know Tony, but Rugg's angry warning struck her. "Was he right? Can this be the boy I have so much reason to dread?" she asked herself. She was thinking of this when the servant entered the room with a card. "C. Barry," she repeated, "wishes to see Mrs. Middleton on business of the greatest importance." "Ask him to come up," she said, uneasily. It was the lawyer, as the reader may have suspected. "Mrs. Middleton," he said, with a bow, "I must apologize for my intrusion." "You say your business is important," said the lady. "It is--of the first importance." "Explain yourself, I beg." "I appear before you, madame, in behalf of your late husband's cousin, Anthony Middleton, who is the heir of the estate which you hold in trust." It was out now, and Mrs. Middleton was at bay. "There is no such person," she said. "The boy you refer to is dead." "What proof have you of his decease?" "I have the sworn statement of the man who saw him die." "And this man's name?" "Is Rudolph Rugg." "I thought so. Mr. Rugg swore falsely. He is ready to contradict his former statement." "He has been tampered with!" exclaimed Mrs. Middleton, pale with passion. "That may be," said the lawyer; but he added, significantly, "Not by us." "The boy is an impostor," said Mrs. Middleton, hotly. "I will not surrender the estate." "I feel for your disappointment, madame; but I think you are hasty." "Who will believe the statement of a common tramp?" "_You_ relied upon it before, madame. But we have other evidence," continued the lawyer. "What other evidence?" "The striking resemblance of my young friend to the family." "Was--was he at the Haymarket Theatre last evening?" "He was. Did you see him?" "I saw the boy I suppose you mean. He had a slight look like Mr. Middleton." "He is his image." "Suppose--suppose this story to be true, what do you offer me?" asked Mrs. Middleton, sullenly. "An income of three hundred pounds from the estate," said the lawyer. "If the matter comes to court, this Rugg, I am bound to tell you, has an ugly story to tell, in which you are implicated." Mrs. Middleton knew well enough what it meant. If the conspiracy should be disclosed, she would be ostracised socially. She rapidly made up her mind. "Mr. Barry," she said, "I will accept your terms, on a single condition." "Name it, madame." "That you will give me six weeks' undisturbed possession of the estate, keeping this matter secret meanwhile." "If I knew your motive, I might consent." "I will tell you in confidence. Within that time I am to be married. The abrupt disclosure of this matter might break off the marriage." "May I ask the name of the bridegroom?" "Captain Gregory Lovell." The lawyer smiled. He knew of Captain Lovell, and owed him a grudge. He suspected that the captain was mercenary in his wooing, and he thought that it would be a fitting revenge to let matters go on. "I consent, upon my own responsibility," he said. "Thank you," said Mrs. Middleton, with real gratitude. She would not lose the man she loved, after all. * * * * * * * A month later the marriage of Captain Gregory Lovell, of Her Majesty's service, and Mrs. Harvey Middleton, of Middleton Hall, was celebrated. There was a long paragraph in the Morning "Post," and Mrs. Lovell was happy. When, a week later, at Paris, the gallant captain was informed of the trick that had been played upon him, there was a terrible scene. He cursed his wife, and threatened to leave her. "But, Gregory, I have three hundred pounds income," she pleaded. "We can live abroad." "And I have sold myself for that paltry sum!" he said, bitterly. But he concluded to make the best of a bad bargain. Between them they had an income of five hundred pounds, and on this they made shift abroad, where living is cheap. But the marriage was not happy. He was brutal at times, and his wife realized sadly that he had never loved her. But she has all the happiness she deserves, and so has he. Rudolph drank himself to death in six months. So the income which he was to receive made but a slight draft upon the Middleton estate. And Tony!--no longer Tony the Tramp, but the Hon. Anthony Middleton, of Middleton Hall--he has just completed a course at Oxford, and is now the possessor of an education which will help fit him for the responsibilities he is to assume. His frank, off-hand manner makes him an immense favorite with the circle to which he now belongs. He says little of his early history, and it is seldom thought of now. He has made a promise to his good friend, George Spencer, to visit the United States, and will doubtless do so. He means at that time to visit once more the scenes with which he became familiar when he was A POOR BOY. WHITMARSH'S REVENGE. Roger Blake and Belcher Whitmarsh were both called quite good boys, but for different reasons. As their friends used sometimes to put it, Belcher was liked _because_ of his temper, and Roger was liked _in spite of_ his temper. Roger was quick to fly into a passion, and as quick to get over it, while Belcher was almost always good natured, but when once really offended remembered the offense like an Indian. The broad play-green in front of the country schoolhouse, where the boys spent their term times together, was surrounded by trees and rocky pasture lots. A pretty brook ran through it. On the sides of the brook and in the rain-gulleys there were plenty of pebbles and small stones. One noon, when the boys had begun a trial of skill in firing stones at a mark, an unlucky turn was given to this small "artillery practice" by the thoughtless challenge of one of the youngsters to a playmate: "I stump you to hit _me_." The stones soon began to fly promiscuously, and the play grew more lively than safe. The boys became excited and ran in all directions, exclaiming "Hit _me_, hit _me_!" The missiles were dodged with exultant laughter, and the shots returned with interest. As must be supposed, some of the players were really hit, and sore heads, and backs, and limbs made the sham skirmish before long a good deal like a real battle. Belcher Whitmarsh was about the only really cool fellow on the ground. "Come, fellows," he remonstrated, "this is getting dangerous. What's the good of throwing stones when you're mad? It's poor play, any way." "Ho, you're afraid," shouted Roger Blake, and in this he was joined by several others. Roger had received one rather hard thump, and feeling quite fiery about it determined to be "even with somebody." He kept on hurling right and left reckless of consequences. Belcher paid no attention to the derision with which his words were treated. He was preparing, with one or two companions, to leave the playground when he saw Roger near him with a heavy stone in his hand drawing back for a furious throw. Partly in sport and partly out of regard for the lad aimed at, he stepped behind the excited boy and caught his arm. Roger whirled about instantly in a great heat. As Belcher stepped quickly backward, laughing, he let fly the stone at him with all his force, crying: "Take it yourself, then!" The stone struck Belcher full in the face, breaking two of his front teeth and knocking him down. Seeing what he had done, Blake sobered in an instant and ran to the aid of his fallen schoolfellow. "I didn't mean to, Belcher," said Roger, bending over him remorsefully, and evidently afraid he had killed him. The boys began to express their indignation quite loudly, but Blake made no attempt to defend himself, only hanging over the injured lad, and declaring how sorry he was. "Come," pleaded he, "try to get up, and let me help you down to the schoolhouse--I'll pay the doctor anything in the world to make you well again." But Whitmarsh, as soon as he recovered a little, showed that he resented his sympathy as bitterly as he did his blow. Pushing away his hand spitefully, he staggered to his feet with the help of another boy, and holding his handkerchief to his bloody face moved off the green, sobbing with pain and revengeful rage. By the time school commenced he had been assisted to wash and bind up his bleeding mouth, when he started for home, giving Roger a look which was very seldom seen on his face, but which meant plainly enough: "I'll have the worth of this out of your skin some day, see if I don't!" That afternoon the boys received a sound lecture from the teacher on the evil of throwing stones, and a penalty was imposed upon the leaders in the reckless sport, Roger among them, who, however, in consideration of his penitence, was only charged with a message to his parents, making full confession and submitting his case entirely to their judgment. Days passed, and everything went on much as before at the school, save that Belcher Whitmarsh was missed, being at home healing his wound. Every day that his absence was noticed was to Roger's quick feelings like a new condemnation. No one was more pleased, then, than Roger Blake to see Belcher, after a little more than a week had passed, back at his place in school. He soon found, however, that bygones were not to be bygones between them. Belcher not only refused to respond to his hearty congratulations, but showed by his manner and words (hissed through his broken teeth) that so far from forgiving Roger's offense he meant to lay it up against him. Several times when thrown in close company with him Blake tried to disarm his dislike. "Come," he would say, "now, Belch, shake hands and say quits." But Whitmarsh would only answer with a surly half threat, or grin significantly, to expose the notch in his gums where the teeth were gone. The boys saw this unreasonable dislike, and gradually transferred their sympathy to Roger. At last the school closed, and though Belcher was not cordial the whole affair between the two lads seemed likely to be soon forgotten. One day during vacation, as Roger was picking whortleberries with two other boys in a lonely pasture, he was unexpectedly joined by Belcher, who had come thither on the same errand. It was not noticed that they greeted each other very differently from the usual manner of boys, and during the whole time they were together Belcher behaved himself in a way that made neither Blake nor his companions feel any the less at ease for his company. Least of all had they any reason to suspect that he still harbored his old revenge. A ruined house, many years deserted, stood in sight of the spot where the boys were picking, and growing tired of their work they agreed to go and examine the old building, and perhaps take a game of "hi spy" there. As they went over the house they found a trap-door opening into a small vault, which had evidently once been used for the family cellar--for the ancient dwelling was rather cramped in size and accommodations--and, boy-like, they all went down into the moldy hole. As the last boy was descending the rotten ladder tumbled to pieces under his weight, and the adventurous youngsters found themselves caught like the fox and goat in the well. Philip Granger, however, being a lad of quick resources, soon hit upon the fox's plan of getting out, which was that each should climb the shoulders of a comrade, and when all but one were safely above ground these should join in pulling out the last. The plan was varied a little in practice, as it was awkward business to decide who of them should be the "goat." Phil got up first, climbing over Frank Staples, and then aided his helper out. Belcher, who had made a ladder of Roger Blake, was performing the pulling of his generous companion toward the opening, when a sudden yell was heard outside, and crying out "There come Dirk Avery and Ben Trench!" Frank and Phil darted away, running as if for their lives. Seized with their panic, Belcher instantly dropped Roger, and regardless of his terrified calls rushed from the hut in a twinkling. The jar of the hurried departure of the boys over the rickety floor brought down the trap-door with a bang, and Roger was left a prisoner indeed. Dirk Avery and Ben Trench were two bad characters who lived a sort of half-vagabond life, rarely doing any honest work, and whose savage looks and cruel natures made them the terror of all the children of the neighborhood. Their appearance in any place was the signal for a general stampede of the young people who happened to be about. There was not one in our little whortleberry party who was not as much afraid of them as if they had actually worn horns and hoofs. On this occasion they were out on a fishing tramp, and the contents of a bottle of cheap rum that each of them carried had made them more wicked than usual. Accordingly, they were in just the mood to take all possible advantage of the fright they had caused, and when the boys fled so precipitately from the ruined house they pursued them with horrible threats and shouts of hoarse laughter. Frank and Phil ran toward the lot where they had hidden their baskets, the loud voice of Dirk crying, "Skin the rascals! Wring their necks!" Dirk, however, soon overdid himself, for the two boys were fleet of foot, and saved their breath. They finally got away, with their berries. Belcher struck a bee-line for home, forgetting his basket, and though Ben gave him a hot chase he succeeded in distancing him. Poor Roger! For some minutes after he found himself shut fast in the vault his mortal fear of being found by the two roughs left him no courage to cry out, and gave him no time to think whether he ought to blame Belcher or not. Judging his act by his own feelings then, he could not say but he should have done the same. But the immediate fright soon passed, and he began to feel the real misery of his situation. Nobody but Whitmarsh knew where he was. What if he _should_ leave him there, for the old grudge? And then it came to him how singular it was that the one on whom he depended to help him out should be just _he_--the boy who had threatened him. Wearily enough passed the time to Roger down there in the dismal hole. Neither shout nor scream would help him. No one lived within half a mile of the house; or if his cries should chance to be heard it might be Avery and Trench, and they would certainly bring him more hurt than good. Suddenly he heard footsteps. A hand seized the trap-door and lifted it. Belcher Whitmarsh's face looked into the vault. "Hollo," said Roger joyfully, "I thought you'd be back before long. Now let's get out of this--I've had enough of it, I'm sure." But Belcher only grinned, showing the vacancy in his front teeth, and replied coolly: "Want me to help you out?" "Of course. Don't be fooling now," pleaded Roger. "Well," said Belcher, "I've thought it over, and seeing you're in there so nicely _I've concluded I won't_. I've an old score against you. Perhaps you'd like to pay it now." With that he dropped the trap-door, and made off. He had come after his basket of berries. Would he be heartless enough to go home now and leave his schoolmate in that damp hole, pestilent with mildew and haunted, perhaps, by sliding adders and loathsome creatures? Meantime the parents of Roger, when the hour passed at which he was expected home, began to make inquiries for him. Frank Staples and Philip Granger, who both supposed he had climbed out of the vault and ran away with Belcher from the hut, were much surprised when asked where he was, and told that he had not returned. Their story of the encounter with Dirk Avery and Ben Trench made the parents still more anxious. Possibly their boy had come to some harm at the hands of those drunken ruffians. Would Philip mind going over to the pasture again and showing just where it all happened? Philip gladly consented, and getting leave from home accompanied Mr. Blake to the lot where they had gathered their berries. Roger's basket was found untouched, precisely where he had been seen to hide it. Mr. Blake looked pale and Phil began to feel frightened. "Let's go down to Mr. Whitmarsh's," said Mr. Blake, "and see Belcher." It was now about sundown, but as the old house lay not far out of the way it was decided to visit it. No sooner had they reached it and looked in than Phil exclaimed, "The trap-door is shut. I'm sure 'twas open when we left it." In a moment more they had uncovered the vault and found poor Roger. Overjoyed, they helped him out, a good deal the worse for the hunger and fear he had undergone. The story of Belcher's mean revenge was soon noised abroad. He excused himself by saying he meant to leave Roger only a little while for a joke, but his father made him go to Mr. Blake's and apologize for his wanton trick. We must do Belcher the justice to say that he performed the duty promptly and with apparent frankness and sincerity. There is no doubt, however, that he meant harm--not such serious harm as might have occurred--but sufficient injury to his playfellow to satisfy his malignant feelings and glut his revenge. The spirit he exhibited was the same in kind, although not in degree, as that which makes a man a murderer. A true man never allows anger to get the permanent control of his feelings. He knows its mean and dangerous tendencies, and remembers the words of Him who spake as never man spake: "If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses." THE BOY IN THE BUSH. "The impudent scoundrel! Just look at this, mamma. I should like to see him at it," exclaimed Sydney Lawson in great wrath, as he handed his mother a very dirty note which a shepherd had brought home. On coarse, crumpled grocer's paper these words were written in pencil: "Master Sidney i Want your Mare the chesnit with the white starr, soe You Send her to 3 Mile flat first thing Tomorrer Or i Shall Have to cum an Fetch Her. "WARRIGAL." "Sam says," Sydney went on to say, "that the fellow was coward enough to give it him just down by the slip-panels. He wouldn't have dared to talk about sticking us up if he hadn't known father was away. Send him my mare Venus! I seem to see myself doing it!" Sidney Lawson, who made this indignant speech, was a tall, slim lad of fourteen. He and his mother had been left in charge of the station while his father took some cattle to Port Philip. Sydney was very proud of his charge; he thought himself a man now, and was very angry that Warrigal, a well-known desperado, should think he could be frightened "like a baby." Warrigal was a bushranger who with one or two companions wandered about in that part of New South Wales, doing pretty much as he liked. They stopped the mail, and robbed draymen and horsemen on the road by the two and three dozen together. The police couldn't get hold of them. The note that Sydney had received caused a great deal of excitement in the little station. Miss Smith, who helped Mrs. Lawson in the house, and taught Sydney's sisters and his brother Harry, was in a great fright. "Oh! pray send him the horse, Master Sydney," she cried, "or we shall all be murdered. You've got so many horses one can't make any difference." Mrs. Lawson was as little disposed as Sydney to let Mr. Warrigal do as he liked. She knew that her husband would have run the risk of being "nabbed," if he had been at home, rather than have obeyed the bushranger's orders; and that he would be very pleased if they could manage to defy the rascal. Still it was a serious matter to provoke Messrs. Warrigal & Co. to pay the house a visit. She felt sure that Sydney would fight and she meant to fire at the robbers herself if they came; but would she and Sydney be able to stand against three armed men? Not a shepherd, or stockman, or horse-breaker about the place was to be depended on; and Ki Li, the Chinaman cook, though a very good kind of fellow, would certainly go to bed in his hut if the robbers came by day, and stay in bed if the robbers came by night. John Jones, the plowman, whose wife was Mrs. Lawson's servant, slept in the house, and he was too honest to band with the bushrangers in any way; "but then, he's such a _sheep_, you know, mamma," said Sydney. There was time to send word to the police in Jerry's Town; but who was to go? Ki Li would be afraid to go out in the dark, and John Jones would be afraid to ride anything but one of the plow horses, and that only at an amble. It wouldn't do for Sydney to leave the place, since he was the only male on it who was to be depended upon, so what was to be done? Little Harry had heard his mother and brother talking; and as soon as he made out their difficulty he looked up and said: "Why, mamma, _I_ can go. Syd, lend me your stock-whip and let me have Guardsman." Neither mother nor brother had any fear about Harry's horsemanship, but they scarcely liked to turn the little fellow out for a long ride by night. However, he knew the way well enough, and if he did not fall in with any of the Warrigal gang nobody would harm him. So Sydney put the saddle and bridle on Guardsman and brought him round to the garden-gate, where Harry stood flicking about Sydney's stock-whip very impatiently, while his mamma kissed him and tied a comforter round his neck. Harry shouted "Good-night," gave Guardsman his head, and was off like a wild boy. Sydney stabled Venus, his favorite mare, and--an unusual precaution--turned the key in the rusty padlock; and when he had given a look about the outbuildings it was time for him to go in to supper and family prayers. He read the chapter and Mrs. Lawson read the prayers. She was a brave woman, but with her little girls about her and her little boy away she couldn't keep her voice from trembling a little when she said, "Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night." Sydney went into his mother's bedroom and looked at the blunderbuss that stood by the bedhead (Mrs. Lawson had selected the blunderbuss as her weapon, because she thought she "must be sure to hit with that big thing") and he showed her once more how to pull the trigger. Then he bade her "good-night," and went along the veranda to his own little room at one end, where he locked himself in, and drew the charge of his rifle and loaded it again, and looked at the chambers of his revolver, and put the caps on, and laid it down on a chair, ready to his hand. When his preparations were completed he said his prayers and tumbled into bed with his clothes on. Harry wasn't expected home until the next day. He had been told to sleep at the tavern in Jerry's Town, when he had left his message at the barracks, and come home at his leisure in the morning. About four miles from Wonga-Wonga, the dreariest part of the road to Jerry's Town, begins a two-mile stretch of dismal scrub. Harry put his heels into Guardsman's sides to make him go even faster than he was going when they got into the scrub, and was pleased to hear a horse's hoofs coming toward him from the other end. He thought it was a neighbor riding home to the next station; but it was Warrigal. As soon as Harry pulled up Guardsman to chat a minute, Warrigal laid hold of the bridle and pulled Harry on to the saddle before him. "Let's see, you're one of the Wonga-Wonga" (that was the name of his father's station) "kids, ain't you?" said the robber. "And where are you off to this time of night? Oh, oh, to fetch the traps, I guess; but I'll put a stop to that little game." Just then Harry gave a _coo-ey_. He couldn't give a very loud one, for he was lying on a sack on the robber's horse; but it made Warrigal very savage. He put the cold muzzle of a pistol against Harry's face and said, "You screech again, youngster, and you won't do it no more." And then Warrigal took Harry and the horses into the scrub, and gagged Harry with a bit of iron he took out of his pocket, and tied him up to a crooked old honeysuckle-tree with a long piece of rope he carried in his saddle-bags. "Don't frighten yourself, I'll tell yer mar where you are, and you'll be back by breakfast," said Warrigal, as he got on Guardsman and rode off, driving his own tired horse before him. Next morning, just as the day was breaking, Warrigal and his two mates, with crape masks on, rode up to Wonga-Wonga. They made as little noise as they could; but the dogs began to bark and woke Sydney. When he woke, however, Warrigal had got his little window open, and was covering him with a pistol. Sydney put out his hand for his revolver, and though Warrigal shouted, "Throw up your hands, boy, or I'll shoot you through the head," he jumped out of bed and fired. He missed Warrigal, and Warrigal missed him; but Warrigal's bullet knocked Sydney's revolver out of his hand, and one of Warrigal's mates made a butt against the bedroom door and smashed it; and he and Warrigal rushed into the room, and threw Sydney down on the bed, and pinioned his arms with a sheet. The other bushranger was watching the horses. By this time the whole station was aroused. The men peeped out of their huts, half frightened, half amused; not one of them came near the house. John Jones and his wife piled their boxes against their room door, and then crept under the bed. Miss Smith went into hysterics; and Gertrude and her sisters couldn't help looking as white as their night-dresses. Mrs. Lawson had fired off her blunderbuss, but it had only broken two panes of the parlor window, and riddled the veranda posts; so Wonga-Wonga was at the bushrangers' mercy. They ransacked the house, and took possession of any little plate, and jewelry, and other portable property they could find. When the robbers had packed up what they called the "swag," and put it on one of their horses, they pulled Ki Li out of bed, and made him light a fire, and cook some chops and boil some tea. Then they marched Mrs. Lawson, and Miss Smith, and Sydney, and his sisters, and Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and Ki Li, into the keeping-room, and sat down to breakfast, with pistols in their belts, and pistols laid, like knives and forks, on the table. The bushrangers tried to be funny, and pressed Mrs. Lawson and the other ladies to make themselves at home, and take a good meal. One of the robbers was going to kiss Miss Smith; but Sydney, pinioned as he was, ran at him, and butted him like a ram. He was going to strike Sydney; but Gertrude ran between them, calling out, "Oh, you great coward!" and Warrigal felt ashamed, and told the man to sit down. "We call him Politeful Bill," Warrigal remarked, in apology; "but he ain't much used to ladies' serciety." When breakfast was over, Warrigal asked Sydney where the mare was. "Find her yourself," said Sydney. "Well, there won't be much trouble about that," answered Warrigal. "She's in the stable, I know; and you've locked her in, for I tried the door. I suppose you are too game to give up the key, my young fighting-cock? But since you're so sarcy, Master Sydney, you shall see me take your mare. You might as well ha' sent her instead of sending for the police, and then I shouldn't ha' got the bay horse too;" and he pointed to Guardsman, hung up on the veranda. There was no time to ask what had become of Harry. Warrigal hurried Sydney by the collar to the stable, while the other men mounted their horses, and unhooked Guardsman, to be ready for their captain. Warrigal blew off the padlock with his pistol; but Venus was fractious, and wouldn't let him put on her halter. While he was dodging about the stable with her, Sydney heard hoofs in the distance. Nearer and nearer came the _tan-ta-ta-tan-ta-ta-tan-ta-ta_. Four bluecoats galloped up to the slip-panels, three troopers and a sergeant; the sergeant with Harry on his saddlebow. In a second Harry was down, and in three seconds the slip-panels were down too. The waiting bushrangers saw the morning sun gleaming on their carbines, as the police dashed between the aloes and the prickly pears, and letting Guardsman go, were off like a shot. Sydney banged to the stable door; and, setting his back against it, shouted for help. His mother, Gertrude, and even John Jones, as the police were close at hand, ran to his aid; and up galloped the troopers. Warrigal fired a bullet or two through the door, and talked very big about not being taken alive; but he thought better of it, and in an hour's time he was jogging off to Jerry's Town with handcuffs on, and his legs tied under his horse's belly. If Warrigal had not taken up little Harry, most likely he would not have been caught; for when Harry had got to Jerry's Town, he would have found all the troopers away except one. In the scrub, however, Harry heard the sergeant and his men returning from a wild-goose chase they had been sent on by the bush telegraphs; and managing at last to spit the gag out of his mouth, he had given a great _co-oo-oo-oo-oo-ey_. After that night Miss Smith always called Sydney _Mr._ Sydney; and Sydney let Harry ride Venus as often as he liked. THE MIDNIGHT RIDE. It was half-a-dozen years before the war that Godfrey Brooks made a visit to his Cousin Sydney in Virginia. It was his first glimpse of plantation life, and he was not sparing of his questions or comments. Boys in a strange place find it hard to carry about with them the politeness or reticence which are such easy fitting garments at home. The two boys were standing on the piazza one sunny morning looking down to the distant swamp. "You mean to tell me," said Godfrey hotly, "that gentlemen hunted their runaway slaves out of the swamp with bloodhounds? Bloodhounds?" "No, I don't. Gentlemen, of course, do no such dirty work. In the first place, our people (we don't call them slaves) never run away. Why, bless you, old Uncle Peter there, was a boy with my grandfather, and I'm sure I like him a deal better. Of all the hundreds of men and women my father owns, there's not one that don't respect and love him. But there's a class of whites who are not so respected, and when their people escape they bring them back--that's all." "It's brutal," muttered Godfrey. "A man has a right to reclaim his property," said Syd coolly. Now neither of the boys knew much of the intrinsic merits of the question. They only echoed the words and arguments their elders threw back and forth unceasingly. When Syd began to give the details of the late hunt after a runaway horse-thief in the swamp, therefore, Godfrey's moral indignation cooled in the borrowed ardor of the chase. "You see," Syd said in conclusion, "Boosey was really a criminal of the worst sort, as well as a slave, and he belonged to old Johnson. Johnson's the man that owns the hounds. That's his place beyond the hill. He's a whiskey distiller, and raises slaves for the market. Oh, of course he's tabooed. Even a decent laborer looks down on a man that raises slaves for the market." The boys went out fishing presently, and Godfrey looked with a thrill of horror into the dark thicket of laurel and poisonous ivy as they passed where Boosey was still hidden. Down in his secret soul there was an idea of the fierce and terrible zest of hunting anything--even a man--with a bloodhound, through that tragic dusk and quagmire. It would be akin to the gladiatorial combats between man and beast of old Rome, or the bull-fights of the plaza, which his gentle Cousin Anne had learned to relish in Madrid. "What do you say to riding over to Col. Page's to-night?" said Syd at supper. "The girls want to practice some new music before the next party. It's only six now. We can ride over in an hour." "All right," said Godfrey. "Remember, boys," said Dr. Brooks, "you are to be at home and in bed by ten." For Syd's father, while he bestowed horses, guns, every accessory to pleasure upon his son with an unstinting hand, yet held a tight rein on him and never allowed him to fancy that he was a man and not in reality a child. "We'll be home by ten, sir," the boys said promptly. Now Godfrey was but a schoolboy, and at home only snubbed and kept in place by a half-dozen grown brothers and sisters. This riding out at night, therefore, on a pony, which for the time was his own; this calling on young ladies to whom he was known as Mr. Brooks, of New York, was an ecstatic taste of adult freedom which almost intoxicated the boy. When nine o'clock came, and Syd beckoned him from the sofa, where he was reading "Locksley Hall" to Miss Amelia Page, he rose so unwillingly as to cause Joe Page to look from his game of backgammon. "It's too bad in the doctor to put your cousin into strict prison regulations, Syd," he said. "I'll go, however, and see about your horses." He came back with a queer twinkle in his eye. "Sam declares he hitched them securely; but they're gone now. Sit down, boys, sit down. You may as well make the best of it. The fellows are after them. They'll be here by and by." Syd looked annoyed. "I believe Joe unhitched them, himself. I promised father I'd be back early." However he sat down quietly and waited. Godfrey had no annoyance to hide. It wanted but ten minutes to eleven o'clock that night when the ponies were brought to the door, and the boys, after many hand-shakings and cordial invitations, were allowed to depart for home. Then the glow of gallantry and manhood began to cool in Godfrey's bosom, and the unpleasant tremor to take its place which was wont to overcome him when he was late at school. "I say, Syd, I wish we were at home," he said, mounting. "I wish we were," gloomily. "Will your father be very angry?" "It isn't that. But I never broke my word to him before, never. I know what he thinks of a man that breaks his word. The road is heavy. It's a good ride for an hour and a half," shutting his watch with a snap. "Is there no short cut?" "Yes, there's one," looking at him dubiously; "but it's through Johnson's place." "The dogs--they're not loose, eh?" "That I don't know. He keeps them chained in daytime, of course, but whether the scoundrel looses them at night or not I never heard. It would be just like him." The boys rode on in silence. Suddenly Syd drew up with a jerk. "Here's the gate into Johnson's, and I tell you what it is I must go this way, dogs or no dogs. I'm in honor bound to try to keep my promise as nearly as I can, no matter what lies in the way. You can ride down the hill; I'll wait for you at the house." "No, sir; I'm with you," feeling himself every inch a man at the chance of an adventure. "Open the gate, Syd. Now come on!" and giving their horses the rein they struck into a gallop down the road leading close by Johnson's house and stables. It was so heavily covered with tan-bark that the sound of the hoofs was deadened, and the boys spoke in whispers, afraid to stir the midnight silence. Syd nodded toward a low kennel, back of the stables. "There!" he motioned with his lips. "There's where they were when they took them to hunt Boosey." But kennel and stables were silent and motionless in the cold moonlight. The tan-bark was replaced by pebbles near the house. The boys took their ponies up on the short velvet turf, on which their swift feet fell with a crisp, soft thud, a noise hardly sufficient to rouse the most watchful dog, but which drove the blood from Godfrey's cheeks. His short-lived courage had oozed out. "A man one could fight," he thought. "But to be throttled like a beast by a dog." The gladiatorial fights of Rome did not thrill him so much now as the thought of them had sometimes done. Thud--thud. Every beat of the hoofs upon the grass sounded through the boys' brains. They were up to the kennels--past them--safe. Two minutes passed and not a sound. Godfrey drew a long breath, when--hark! A long, deep bay, like thunder, sounded through the night. "God save us! They're loose and are after us," gasped Syd. Glancing back they saw two enormous black shapes darting from behind the shadow of the porch, and coming down the slope behind them. "Now, Pitch and Tar!" sang out Syd, "it all rests on you." He shouted as cheerily, Godfrey thought, as though he were chasing a hare. Chasing and being chased were different matters, both the boys thought; though there was a reckless, gay defiance about the Southern boy which his cousin lacked, courageous as he was. The ponies seemed to catch the meaning of Syd's call. They looked back. Their feet scarcely touched the sward, their nostrils were red, their eyes distended. After the first fierce howl the dogs followed in silence. They had no time to give tongue; they had work to do. A long stretch of pebbly road lay before the boys, then there was a thick patch of bushes, and beyond, the gate. There was no doubt of the horses keeping up their pace. Terror served them for muscle and blood. But the hounds were swifter of foot at any time. They gained with every minute. The distance was about fifty yards. "Can we do it?" Godfrey asked. His tongue was hot and parched. "Of course we'll do it, unless the gate is locked." After this new dread came they were silent. Godfrey thought of home, his mother, and poor little Nell; wished he had not snubbed her as he used to do. Syd felt desperately in his pockets, where he found only a penknife. Why would not his father let him carry firearms as the other boys? Suddenly turning to Godfrey he made a gesture, and turned his horse full on the hedge of privet. It leaped boldly--Godfrey's followed. But the hounds followed, relentless as fate, and dashed through the lower branches. They were closer than before. "The gate! the gate!" cried Syd. He had reached it and fumbled for the bolt. Godfrey, a dozen paces behind, fancied he felt the tramp of the powerful beasts shake the ground. He turned, saw them coming with open jaws, closer, closer. Would the gate never open? There was a creak and crash, and it rolled back on its rusty hinges. The horses darted through so violently as to throw Godfrey on the ground. When he looked up Syd was standing beside him, and from the other side of the iron bars came the baffled roar of the angry beasts. The boys rode home without a word. "What about reclaiming property by means of bloodhounds, Syd?" asked Godfrey. "It's brutal," cried Syd vehemently, and then he laughed. "I tell you, Godfrey, one must actually take another man's place before he can be quite just to him, eh?" A THOUSAND A YEAR. "I am afraid Daniel must give up his studies," Mrs. Brooks said, sadly. "I've been thinking how we are to meet the expenses of another year, and it seems quite impossible to get money enough to do so." "Oh, it would be such a pity, and brother so nearly through," Susan said, looking up in a distressed way. "He mustn't leave college now, when he is so near graduating! There _must_ be a way of helping him through." Mrs. Brooks stooped to kiss the pale, tender face upturned to hers. "You have a wise little head, Susan, but I am afraid there is a problem here you cannot solve," said the widow, mournfully. "How much will be needed?" "At least a hundred dollars besides what he will earn himself. You know there are always extra expenses for the graduating class." Susan's countenance fell. It was a great sum in her estimation, and it was already difficult for them to meet their weekly expenses. "Everything depends upon brother's success," Susan said, presently. "We must give up everything for him." "I cannot forget I have _two_ children," the mother said, kissing the girl again more tenderly than before. "Two children; but only one that will be a blessing to you," Susan said, brushing away a tear. "Don't say that, Susie. I am proud of Daniel, I do not deny that--but I love you, too, all the same." "But you never can be proud of me, weak and deformed as I am! Oh, mother, why are some flowers made so beautiful and fragrant, and some so dark and noisome? Why was my brother so fair, so talented, and I so repulsive?" "No, no, no, not repulsive; don't say that," the widow cried, putting her arms around the girl in a sheltering way. "Do you think Daniel will let me go to see him take his diploma, mother?" "You would not be able, dear." The girl laughed bitterly. "No; brother would say I was not able, too. But I should be glad, so very glad to see him graduate. I think I would be willing to die then." "Hush, my darling," the mother cried, with a sharp pain in her voice. "When you are gone I shall soon follow. Daniel will be satisfied with his laurels, but women--ah, my child--women must love something, and you are all that is left me to love." Susan nestled her head in her mother's bosom without speaking, and lay there so long that her mother thought she was sleeping. Suddenly she opened her eyes and said: "I have thought it all out, mother. Daniel can graduate, and we will go see him take his diploma. Mr. Green needs girls to braid straw hats. You know I am nimble with my fingers, and I could braid a thousand a year, and that would be how much?" "But it would be wicked for me to allow you to overtask yourself in that way, darling. I am not sure but it might ruin your health, feeble as you are. No, no, it is not to be thought of." "How many might I undertake, mother?" "Not half that amount; not a third, even." "Would Daniel be willing for me to braid, do you think?" "I don't know. We will ask him." "Mother," Susan said, looking into her eyes, "I believe this is my mission, to educate Daniel. You know we have given him everything--my portion of the property and yours. I think I could hold out to do this last, and you will consent when you come to reflect upon what it will be to brother, and to you, when I am gone. But he must not know it. It would wound his pride, and he would get some false notion in his head that he could not use money I had earned in that way. Now, promise me, that let what will come, you will never tell him that I braided straw hats that he might complete his education." "I cannot promise _never_ to tell him, darling, because I cannot foresee the future, but I should not like him to be humbled and wounded, more than yourself. I am too old to learn readily, but perhaps I, too, could earn something by braiding." The determination was now fully settled in the mind of each, that the young man must graduate, and that the bills must be met by them. The patronage of Mr. Green was solicited, and it was agreed the work should be taken home, and that a thousand hats should be braided for ten cents each, which he assured them was more than he would think of paying to any one else, and only to Susan in consideration of her infirmity. We ought, perhaps, to explain that Susan had been early afflicted with a curvature of the spine, which had sadly deformed her. She would never have been a beautiful girl, Daniel having inherited not only all the family talent, but its beauty as well. But her eyes were wondrously attractive, with their loving, yearning persuasiveness, and few could remember her deformity who had felt the warmth of her generous nature. In due time, the anticipated letter of inquiry came from Daniel, asking what the prospects were for the coming year. It was full of dismal forebodings and egotistical complaints of the hard fortune that made him dependent upon his mother, but there was no regret that she suffered too; no longing to be a man that he might take this lonely couple in his strong arms and bear them tenderly over the rough places of life; only vague, ambitious dreamings of what he was to be to the world, and the world to him. The widow laid down the letter with a sigh. Susan read the pages over and over again. So grounded was she in her love for this earthly idol that the selfishness was less apparent to her than to her mother. Its sadness seemed like tenderness, and he could not speak too often or too much of the genius which she believed he possessed, and which would some time break upon the world like the meteor to which he rather tritely compared himself. "Ah, we shall be so proud of him!" Susan said, folding the letter and laying it away near her heart, where it rested many and many a day, while she wove the strands of straw in and out, thinking how ten times ten made one dollar, and how the dollars would some time count up to a hundred, and that sum, which her fingers had wrought out, would save her brother from discouragement, if not from despair. The first twenty-five dollars was earned, and the money was sent the brother. "He was very glad of it," he said. "He had begun to fear lest they would fail him." There was no inquiry how it had been obtained; no solicitude lest those who loved him had deprived themselves of luxuries, perhaps necessities, to meet his demands. The next twenty-five dollars was earned, with greater difficulty. The widow was awkward at braiding, and her work unsatisfactory, and so some of it was returned to Susan. She sat up later nights, that her mother should not see how hard the work pressed upon her; but the twenty-five dollars came at last, and was sent to the student. Then there was another letter of thanks. "If you would but rest, darling," the mother would say, when some look more wan than another startled her into keener anxiety. "When it is done we will rest together," was all the reply the solicitude brought. It was too late to retract now, the mother thought; and Daniel so nearly through! So they pinched a little from their daily meals, a little from the store of candles, a little from the evening fire, and prayed that every penny might be multiplied like the widow's meal. One night Mrs. Brooks had gone to bed exhausted and hysterical with overlabor. Susan pressed the blankets tenderly around her mother's shoulders, and having given her the good-night kiss, and quieted her with many promises of soon following her, she went back to the kitchen fire and resumed the weary braiding. She had not completed her usual task that week, and the idea occurred to her that her mother having fallen asleep, she could braid another hat before retiring. So she set up new strands and the thin fingers wove them patiently in and out, until sharp pain clutched her with merciless teeth, and she leaned forward, her head falling upon the table, in a dead faint. It was long past midnight when Susan found herself in this position. Shivering with cold, she crept to her mother's side and lay the remainder of the night, racked by alternate fevers and chills. How could the poor child tell her mother of what she knew was creeping so steadily toward her? Would she make a final effort to save her own life and let Daniel struggle with his fortunes as he best could? Poor, brave little heart, with the chill of the grave stealing over it, but warmed back into life and renewed suffering by the wonderful strength of its undying love! Another twenty five dollars was forwarded to Daniel, and a few lines came flying back by the return post, for Daniel was a man of business habits, and punctual in all things. Susan looked it all over carefully for some loving message to her; some sign answering to what she felt in her own heart toward him, but there was nothing there but "_With love to Susan, I remain, etc., Daniel._" A dry sob escaped the poor child as she laid it by, and took up the weary, rustling braids. The sound rasped upon her nerves now. The very odor of the strands nauseated her. Every kink in the braids fretted her; and when one hat was finished and laid aside, it seemed such a mountainous task to commence another. Sometimes hours would pass by without a round being accomplished, then again the nimble fingers would be inspired, and the work would grow as of old. "If I could only go and see Daniel take his diploma," she would say, "I think it would make me strong again. I would wear my white muslin frock, with the blue sash, and he would not be ashamed of me." But it was not to be. The one thousand hats were braided, and Susan's task was done. Nothing remained for her but to lie down in her modest casket and sleep with folded hands until the blessed Saviour shall bid her approach to receive His welcome--"Well done, thou good and faithful servant." Daniel returned with his collegiate honors only to listen to the sad story of her labors and death. His mother told it as they stood by the coffin. There were the worn letters she had cherished, blistered all over with tears. He was conscience stricken when he looked them over, and saw how cold and egotistical they were, and how thoughtless he had always been of the treasure that death had taken. He took the thin hands in his--the hands that had braided and plaited while he slept, and wrought out the treasure-trove that molded the key to his success, and he made solemn resolutions for the future. Let us hope that, in her broken life, he learned how beautiful in the sight of God and angels is the self-sacrifice of the lowly in heart: and how much better it is to die in the struggle to bless others than it is to live to a selfish, unloving, unsanctified old age. THE END. A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS For Young People BY POPULAR WRITERS. 97-99-101 Reade Street, New York. +Bonnie Prince Charlie+: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in French service. The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scotland. "Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'Quentin Durward.' The lad's journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself."--_Spectator._ +With Clive in India+; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and of the greater part of Southern India. The author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. "He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--_Scotsman._ +The Lion of the North+: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCH�NBERG. 12 mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty gives the history of the first part of the Thirty Years' War. The issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in Germany. The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was largely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. "The tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."--_Times._ +The Dragon and the Raven+; or, The Days of King Alfred. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by _C. J. Staniland, R.I._ 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author gives an a count of the fierce struggle between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. He is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris. "Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader."--_Athenæum._ +The Young Carthaginian+: A Story of the Times of Hannibal. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of Carthage, that Hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannæ, and all but took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant description of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of exciting adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. "Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_Saturday Review._ +In Freedom's Cause+: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G. A. HENTY. With full page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal prowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. The researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man--and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure. "It is written in the author's best style. Full of the wildest and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--_The Schoolmaster._ +With Lee in Virginia+: A Story of the American Civil War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. "One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. The picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story."--_Standard._ +By England's Aid+; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585-1604). By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in the service of one of "the fighting Veres." After many adventures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in getting back to Spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz. "It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness."--_Boston Gazette._ +By Right of Conquest+; or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY, and Two Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.50. The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With, this as the ground work of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the adventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the Spaniards in the New World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec bride. "'By Right of Conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published."--_Academy._ +In the Reign of Terror+: The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by J. SCH�NBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a French marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach Nantes. There the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. "Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. Henry's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict.... The story is one of Mr. Henty's best."--_Saturday Review._ +With Wolfe in Canada+; or, The Winning of a Continent. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the struggle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North American continent. On the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World; that Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the nations of Europe; and that English and American commerce, the English language, and English literature, should spread right round the globe. "It is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_Illustrated London News._ +True to the Old Flag+: A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which American and British soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. The historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of Lake Huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. "Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of Hawkeye and Chingachgook."--_The Times._ +The Lion of St. Mark+: A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth Century. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the victories of the Venetians at Porto d'Anzo and Chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice. "Every boy should read 'The Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."--_Saturday Review._ +A Final Reckoning+: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia, By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00, The hero, a young English lad, after rather a stormy boyhood, emigrates to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter. "Mr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully constructed, or a better written story than this."--_Spectator._ +Under Drake's Flag+: A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the Pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages. "A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray."--_Harper's Monthly Magazine._ +By Sheer Pluck+: A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war but escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their march to Coomassie. "Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'By Sheer Pluck' will be eagerly read."--_Athenæum._ +By Pike and Dyke+: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN, and 4 Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--William the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea-captain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. He ultimately settles down as Sir Edward Martin. "Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be students in spite of themselves."--_St. James' Gazette._ +St. George for England+: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the destruction of the Spanish fleet; the plague of the Black Death; the Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "St. George for England." The hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince. "Mr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of Sir Walter Scott in the land of fiction."--_The Standard._ +Captain's Kidd's Gold+: The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor Boy. By JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy Portuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes--sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the Spanish Main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsuspecting trading craft. There were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than Capt. Kidd. Perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is Mr. Fitts' true story of an adventurous American boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. The document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a certain island in the Bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book, Paul Jones Garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water New England ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. +Captain Bayley's Heir+: A Tale of the Gold Fields of California By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. The former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves England for America. He works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader. "Mr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_Christian Leader._ +For Name and Fame+; or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. An interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the Afghan passes. He accompanies the force under General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is transferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of Ayoub Khan. "The best feature of the book--apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure--is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan people."--_Daily News._ +Captured by Apes+: The Wonderful Adventures of a Young Animal Trainer. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. The scene of this tale is laid on an island in the Malay Archipelago. Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of New York, sets sail for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo and young Garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island and captured by the apes that overrun the place. The lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as Goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. The brute recognizes him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself experienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonishing is monkey recollection. Very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill. +The Bravest of the Brave+; or, With Peterborough in Spain. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peterborough. This is largely due to the fact that they were overshadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed. "Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. Lads will read 'The Bravest of the Brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_Daily Telegraph._ +The Cat of Bubastes+: A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the Rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery. They become inmates of the house of Ameres, the Egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular fury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. "The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably illustrated."--_Saturday Review._ +With Washington at Monmouth+: A Story of Three Philadelphia Boys. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Three Philadelphia boys, Seth Graydon "whose mother conducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the British officers;" Enoch Ball, "son of that Mrs. Ball whose dancing school was situated on Letitia Street," and little Jacob, son of "Chris, the Baker," serve as the principal characters. The story is laid during the winter when Lord Howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the American spies who make regular and frequent visits from Valley Forge. One reads here of home-life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodigality shown by the British officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of Washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. +For the Temple+: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G. A. HENTY, With full-page Illustrations by S. J. SOLOMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1,00. Mr. Henty here weaves into the record of Josephus an admirable and attractive story. The troubles in the district of Tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of Jotapata, of Gamala, and of Jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to the service of Josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the Temple, and after a brief term of slavery at Alexandria, returns to his Galilean home with the favor of Titus. "Mr. Henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless Jewish resistance to Roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world."--_Graphic._ +Facing Death+; or, The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "Facing Death" is a story with a purpose. It is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. The hero of the story is a typical British boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. "The tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much eanty in the characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_Standard._ +Tom Temple's Career.+ By HORATIO ALGER. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Tom Temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his father becomes a boarder at the home of Nathan Middleton, a penurious insurance agent. Though well paid for keeping the boy, Nathan and his wife endeavor to bring Master Tom in line with their parsimonious habits. The lad ingeniously evades their efforts and revolutionizes the household. As Tom is heir to $40,000, he is regarded as a person of some importance until by an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks to a few hundreds. He leaves Plympton village to seek work in New York, whence he undertakes an important mission to California, around which center the most exciting incidents of his young career. Some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. The tale is written in Mr. Alger's most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. +Maori and Settler+: A Story of the New Zealand War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The Renshaws emigrate to New Zealand during the period of the war with the natives. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, courageous lad, is the mainstay of the household. He has for his friend Mr. Atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. In the adventures among the Maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant New Zealand valleys. "Brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life."--_Schoolmaster._ +Julian Mortimer+: A Brave Boy's Struggle for Home and Fortune. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. There is mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the highest pitch. The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi river, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. One of the startling features of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of Indians. Our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave young American in every sense of the word. He enlists and holds the reader's sympathy from the outset. Surrounded by an unknown and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. Harry Castlemon has written many entertaining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to say anything in his praise, for the youth of America regard him as a favorite author. +"Carrots:"+ Just a Little Boy. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."--_Examiner._ "A genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. Children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate Walter Crane's illustrations."--_Punch._ +Mopsa the Fairy.+ By JEAN INGELOW. With Eight page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "Miss Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, and 'Mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; but genius Miss Ingelow has and the story of 'Jack' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate, as a picture of childhood."--_Eclectic._ +A Jaunt Through Java+: The Story of a Journey to the Sacred Mountain. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The central interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of two cousins, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their trip across the island of Java, from Samarang to the Sacred Mountain. In a land where the Royal Bengal tiger runs at large; where the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with at unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a lively experience. Hermon not only distinguishes himself by killing a full grown tiger at short range, but meets with the most startling adventure of the journey. There is much in this narrative to instruct as well as entertain the reader, and so deftly has Mr. Ellis used his material that there is not a dull page in the book. The two heroes are brave, manly young fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. They cope with the many difficulties that arise during the trip in a fearless way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is so fortunate as to read their adventures. +Wrecked on Spider Island+; or, How Ned Rogers Found the Treasure. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A "down-east" plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from love of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by which he can gain a livelihood. While in his bunk, seasick, Ned Rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for the willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. Once it is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons him on Spider Island, explaining to the crew that the boy is afflicted with leprosy. While thus involuntarily playing the part of a Crusoe, Ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and overhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material with which to build a hut finds a considerable amount of treasure. Raising the wreck; a voyage to Havana under sail; shipping there a crew and running for Savannah; the attempt of the crew to seize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and, as a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire. +Geoff and Jim+: A Story of School Life. By ISMAY THORN. Illustrated by A. G. WALKER. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "This is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at a small preparatory school. Both Geoff and Jim are very lovable characters, only Jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."--_Church Times._ "This is a capital children's story, the characters well portrayed, and the book tastefully bound and well illustrated."--_Schoolmaster._ "The story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys."--_Standard._ +The Castaways+; or, On the Florida Reefs. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This tale smacks of the salt sea. It is just the kind of story that the majority of boys yearn for. From the moment that the Sea Queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower New York bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of Florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her sharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. Off Marquesas Keys she floats in a dead calm. Ben Clark, the hero of the story, and Jake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the water. They determine to capture him, and take a boat for that purpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog cuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles begin. They take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they are cast ashore upon a low sandy key. Their adventures from this point cannot fail to charm the reader. As a writer for young people Mr. Otis is a prime favorite. His style is captivating, and never for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. In "The Castaways" he is at his best. +Tom Thatcher's Fortune.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Like all of Mr. Alger's heroes, Tom Thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. He supports his mother and sister on meager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in John Simpson's factory. The story begins with Tom's discharge from the factory, because Mr. Simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too closely about his missing father. A few days afterward Tom learns that which induces him to start overland for California with the view of probing the family mystery. He meets with many adventures. Ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing consternation to the soul of John Simpson, who only escapes the consequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man whose friendship he had betrayed. The story is told in that entertaining way which has made Mr. Alger's name a household word in so many homes. +Birdie+: A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. CHILDE-PEMBERTON. Illustrated by H. W. RAINEY. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier years."--_New York Express._ +Popular Fairy Tales.+ By the BROTHERS GRIMM. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "From first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful."--_Athenæum._ +With Lafayette at Yorktown+: A Story of How Two Boys Joined the Continental Army. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The two boys are from Portsmouth, N. H., and are introduced in August, 1781, when on the point of leaving home to enlist in Col. Scammell's regiment, then stationed near New York City. Their method of traveling is on horseback, and the author has given an interesting account of what was expected from boys in the Colonial days. The lads, after no slight amount of adventure, are sent as messengers--not soldiers--into the south to find the troops under Lafayette. Once with that youthful general they are given employment as spies, and enter the British camp, bringing away valuable information. The pictures of camp-life are carefully drawn, and the portrayal of Lafayette's character is thoroughly well done. The story is wholesome in tone, as are all of Mr. Otis' works. There is no lack of exciting incident which the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following the adventures of Ben Jaffreys and Ned Allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long after that which he has memorized from text-books has been forgotten. +Lost in the Canon+: Sam Willett's Adventures on the Great Colorado. By ALFRED R. CALHOUN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This story hinges on a fortune left to Sam Willett, the hero, and the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad dies before he shall have reached his majority. The Vigilance Committee of Hurley's Gulch arrest Sam's father and an associate for the crime of murder. Their lives depend on the production of the receipt given for money paid. This is in Sam's possession at the camp on the other side of the cañon. A messenger is dispatched to get it. He reaches the lad in the midst of a fearful storm which floods the cañon. His father's peril urges Sam to action. A raft is built on which the boy and his friends essay to cross the torrent. They fail to do so, and a desperate trip down the stream ensues. How the party finally escape from the horrors of their situation and Sam reaches Hurley's Gulch in the very nick of time, is described in a graphic style that stamps Mr. Calhoun as a master of his art. +Jack+: A Topsy Turvy Story. By C. M. CRAWLEY-BOEVEY. With upward of Thirty Illustrations by H. J. A. MILES. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add largely to the interest of this amusing volume for children. Jack falls asleep with his mind full of the subject of the fishpond, and is very much surprised presently to find himself an inhabitant of Waterworld, where he goes though wonderful and edifying adventures. A handsome and pleasant book."--_Literary World._ +Search for the Silver City+: A Tale of Adventure in Yucatan. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Two American lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark on the steam yacht Day Dream for a short summer cruise to the tropics. Homeward bound the yacht is destroyed by fire. All hands take to the boats, but during the night the boat is cast upon the coast of Yucatan. They come across a young American named Cummings, who entertains them with the story of the wonderful Silver City, of the Chan Santa Cruz Indians. Cummings proposes with the aid of a faithful Indian ally to brave the perils of the swamp and carry off a number of the golden images from the temples. Pursued with relentless vigor for days their situation is desperate. At last their escape is effected in an astonishing manner. Mr. Otis has built his story on an historical foundation. It is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative. +Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Thrown upon his own resources Frank Fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster-sister Grace. Going to New York he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. He renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman named Wharton, who takes a fancy to the lad. Frank, after losing his place as cash boy, is enticed by an enemy to a lonesome part of New Jersey and held a prisoner. This move recoils upon the plotter, for it leads to a clue that enables the lad to establish his real identity. Mr. Alger's stories are not only unusually interesting, but they convey a useful lesson of pluck and manly independence. +Budd Boyd's Triumph+; or, the Boy Firm of Fox Island. By WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The scene of this story is laid on the upper part of Narragansett Bay, and the leading incidents have a strong salt water flavor. Owing to the conviction of his father for forgery and theft, Budd Boyd is compelled to leave his home and strike out for himself. Chance brings Budd in contact with Judd Floyd. The two boys, being ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch and sell fish. The scheme is successfully launched, but the unexpected appearance on the scene of Thomas Bagsley, the man whom Budd believes guilty of the crimes attributed to his father, leads to several disagreeable complications that nearly caused the lad's ruin. His pluck and good sense, however, carry him through his troubles. In following the career of the boys firm of Boyd & Floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson--that industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success. +The Errand Boy+; or, How Phil Brent Won Success. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12 mo, cloth, price $1.00. The career of "The Errand Boy" embraces the city adventures of a smart country lad who at an early age was abandoned by his father. Philip was brought up by a kind-hearted innkeeper named Brent. The death of Mrs. Brent paved the way for the hero's subsequent troubles. Accident introduces him to the notice of a retired merchant in New York, who not only secures him the situation of errand boy but thereafter stands as his friend. An unexpected turn of fortune's wheel, however, brings Philip and his father together. In "The Errand Boy" Philip Brent is possessed of the same sterling qualities so conspicuous in all of the previous creations of this delightful writer for our youth. +The Slate Picker+: The Story of a Boy's Life in the Coal Mines. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This is a story of a boy's life in the coal mines of Pennsylvania. There are many thrilling situations, notably that of Ben Burton's leap into the "lion's mouth"--the yawning shute in the breakers--to escape a beating at the hands of the savage Spilkins, the overseer. Gracie Gordon is a little angel in rags, Terence O'Dowd is a manly, sympathetic lad, and Enoch Evans, the miner-poet, is a big-hearted, honest fellow, a true friend to all whose burdens seem too heavy for them to bear. Ben Burton, the hero, had a hard road to travel, but by grit and energy he advanced step by step until he found himself called upon to fill the position of chief engineer of the Kohinoor Coal Company. +A Runaway Brig+; or, An Accidental Cruise. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "A Runaway Brig" is a sea tale, pure and simple, and that's where it strikes a boy's fancy. The reader can look out upon the wide shimmering sea as it flashes back the sunlight, and imagine himself afloat with Harry Vandyne, Walter Morse, Jim Libby and that old shell-back, Bob Brace, on the brig Bonita, which lands on one of the Bahama keys. Finally three strangers steal the craft, leaving the rightful owners to shift for themselves aboard a broken-down tug. The boys discover a mysterious document which enables them to find a buried treasure, then a storm comes on and the tug is stranded. At last a yacht comes in sight and the party with the treasure is taken off the lonely key. The most exacting youth is sure to be fascinated with this entertaining story. +Fairy Tales and Stories.+ By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "If I were asked to select a child's library I should name these three volumes 'English,' 'Celtic,' and 'Indian Fairy Tales,' with Grimm and Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales."--_Independent._ +The Island Treasure+; or, Harry Darrel's Fortune. By FRANK H. CONVERSE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Harry Darrel, an orphan, having received a nautical training on a school-ship, is bent on going to sea with a boyish acquaintance named Dan Plunket. A runaway horse changes his prospects. Harry saves Dr. Gregg from drowning and the doctor presents his preserver with a bit of property known as Gregg's Island, and makes the lad sailing-master of his sloop yacht. A piratical hoard is supposed to be hidden somewhere on the island. After much search and many thwarted plans, at last Dan discovers the treasure and is the means of finding Harry's father. Mr. Converse's stories possess a charm of their own which is appreciated by lads who delight in good healthy tales that smack of salt water. +The Boy Explorers+: The Adventures of Two Boys in Alaska. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Two boys, Raymond and Spencer Manning, travel from San Francisco to Alaska to join their father in search of their uncle, who, it is believed, was captured and detained by the inhabitants of a place called the "Heart of Alaska." On their arrival at Sitka the boys with an Indian guide set off across the mountains. The trip is fraught with perils that test the lads' courage to the utmost. Reaching the Yukon River they build a raft and float down the stream, entering the Mysterious River, from which they barely escape with their lives, only to be captured by natives of the Heart of Alaska. All through their exciting adventures the lads demonstrate what can be accomplished by pluck and resolution, and their experience makes one of the most interesting tales ever written. +The Treasure Finders+: A Boy's Adventures in Nicaragua. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Roy and Dean Coloney, with their guide Tongla, leave their father's indigo plantation to visit the wonderful ruins of an ancient city. The boys eagerly explore the dismantled temples of an extinct race and discover three golden images cunningly hidden away. They escape with the greatest difficulty; by taking advantage of a festive gathering they seize a canoe and fly down the river. Eventually they reach safety with their golden prizes. Mr. Otis is the prince of story tellers, for he handles his material with consummate skill. We doubt if he has ever written a more entertaining story than "The Treasure Finders." +Household Fairy Tales.+ By the BROTHERS GRIMM. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "As a collection of fairy tales to delight children of all ages this work ranks second to none."--_Daily Graphic._ +Dan the Newsboy.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The reader is introduced to Dan Mordaunt and his mother living in a poor tenement, and the lad is pluckily trying to make ends meet by selling papers in the streets of New York. A little heiress of six years is confided to the care of the Mordaunts. At the same time the lad obtains a position in a wholesale house. He soon demonstrates how valuable he is to the firm by detecting the bookkeeper in a bold attempt to rob his employers. The child is kidnaped and Dan tracks the child to the house where she is hidden, and rescues her. The wealthy aunt of the little heiress is so delighted with Dan's courage and many good qualities that she adopts him as her heir, and the conclusion of the book leaves the hero on the high road to every earthly desire. +Tony the Hero+: A Brave Boy's Adventure with a Tramp. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Tony, a sturdy bright-eyed boy of fourteen, is under the control of Rudolph Rugg, a thorough rascal, shiftless and lazy, spending his time tramping about the country. After much abuse Tony runs away and gets a job as stable boy in a country hotel. Tony is heir to a large estate in England, and certain persons find it necessary to produce proof of the lad's death. Rudolph for a consideration hunts up Tony and throws him down a deep well. Of course Tony escapes from the fate provided for him, and by a brave act makes a rich friend, with whom he goes to England, where he secures his rights and is prosperous. The fact that Mr. Alger is the author of this entertaining book will at once recommend it to all juvenile readers. +A Young Hero+; or, Fighting to Win. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This story tells how a valuable solid silver service was stolen from the Misses Perkinpine, two very old and simple minded ladies. Fred Sheldon, the hero of this story and a friend of the old ladies, undertakes to discover the thieves and have them arrested. After much time spent in detective work, he succeeds in discovering the silver plate and winning the reward for its restoration. During the narrative a circus comes to town and a thrilling account of the escape of the lion from its cage, with its recapture, is told in Mr. Ellis' most fascinating style. Every boy will be glad to read this delightful book. +The Days of Bruce+: A Story from Scottish History. By GRACE AGUILAR. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "There is a delightful freshness, sincerity and vivacity about all of Grace Aguilar's stories which cannot fail to win the interest and admiration of every lover of good reading."--_Boston Beacon._ +Tom the Bootblack+; or, The Road to Success. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A bright, enterprising lad was Tom the bootblack. He was not at all ashamed of his humble calling, though always on the lookout to better himself. His guardian, old Jacob Morton, died, leaving him a small sum of money and a written confession that Tom, instead of being of humble origin, was the son and heir of a deceased Western merchant, and had been defrauded out of his just rights by an unscrupulous uncle. The lad started for Cincinnati to look up his heritage. But three years passed away before he obtained his first clue. Mr. Grey, the uncle, did not hesitate to employ a ruffian to kill the lad. The plan failed, and Gilbert Grey, once Tom the bootblack, came into a comfortable fortune. This is one of Mr. Alger's best stories. +Captured by Zulus+: A story of Trapping in Africa. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This story details the adventures of two lads, Dick Elsworth and Bob Harvey, in the wilds of South Africa, for the purpose of obtaining a supply of zoological curiosities. By stratagem the Zulus capture Dick and Bob and take them to their principal kraal or village. The lads escape death by digging their way out of the prison hut by night. They are pursued, and after a rough experience the boys eventually rejoin the expedition and take part in several wild animal hunts. The Zulus finally give up pursuit and the expedition arrives at the coast without further trouble. Mr. Prentice has a delightful method of blending fact with fiction. He tells exactly how wild-beast collectors secure specimens on their native stamping grounds, and these descriptions make very entertaining reading. +Tom the Ready+; or, Up from the Lowest. By RANDOLPH HILL. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. This is a dramatic narrative of the unaided rise of a fearless, ambitious boy from the lowest round of fortune's ladder--the gate of the poorhouse--to wealth and the governorship of his native State. Thomas Seacomb begins life with a purpose. While yet a schoolboy he conceives and presents to the world the germ of the Overland Express Co. At the very outset of his career jealousy and craft seek to blast his promising future. Later he sets out to obtain a charter for a railroad line in connection with the express business. Now he realizes what it is to match himself against capital. Yet he wins and the railroad is built. Only an uncommon nature like Tom's could successfully oppose such a combine. How he manages to win the battle is told by Mr. Hill in a masterful way that thrills the reader and holds his attention and sympathy to the end. +Roy Gilbert's Search+: A Tale of the Great Lakes. By WM. P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A deep mystery hangs over the parentage of Roy Gilbert. He arranges with two schoolmates to make a tour of the Great Lakes on a steam launch. The three boys leave Erie on the launch and visit many points of interest on the lakes. Soon afterward the lad is conspicuous in the rescue of an elderly gentleman and a lady from a sinking yacht. Later on the cruise of the launch is brought to a disastrous termination and the boys narrowly escape with their lives. The hero is a manly, self-reliant boy, whose adventures will be followed with interest. +The Young Scout+; The Story of a West Point Lieutenant. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The crafty Apache chief Geronimo but a few years ago was the most terrible scourge of the southwest border. The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the incidents of Geronimo's last raid. The hero is Lieutenant James Decker, a recent graduate of West Point. Ambitious to distinguish himself so as to win well-deserved promotion, the young man takes many a desperate chance against the enemy and on more than one occasion narrowly escapes with his life. The story naturally abounds in thrilling situations, and being historically correct, it is reasonable to believe it will find great favor with the boys. In our opinion Mr. Ellis is the best writer of Indian stories now before the public. +Adrift in the Wilds+: The Adventures of Two Shipwrecked Boys. BY EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, price, $1.00. Elwood Brandon and Howard Lawrence, cousins and schoolmates, accompanied by a lively Irishman called O'Rooney, are enroute for San Francisco. Off the coast of California the steamer takes fire. The two boys and their companion reach the shore with several of the passengers. While O'Rooney and the lads are absent inspecting the neighborhood O'Rooney has an exciting experience and young Brandon becomes separated from his party. He is captured by hostile Indians, but is rescued by an Indian whom the lads had assisted. This is a very entertaining narrative of Southern California in the days immediately preceding the construction of the Pacific railroads. Mr. Ellis seems to be particularly happy in this line of fiction, and the present story is fully as entertaining as anything he has ever written. +The Red Fairy Book.+ Edited by ANDREW LANG. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "A gift-book that will charm any child, and all older folk who have been fortunate enough to retain their taste for the old nursery stories."--_Literary World._ +The Boy Cruisers+; or, Paddling in Florida. BY ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE. 12mo, cloth, price, $1.00. Boys who like an admixture of sport and adventure will find this book just to their taste. We promise them that they will not go to sleep over the rattling experiences of Andrew George and Roland Carter, who start on a canoe trip along the Gulf coast, from Key West to Tampa, Florida. Their first adventure is with a pair of rascals who steal their boats. Next they run into a gale in the Gulf and have a lively experience while it lasts. After that they have a lively time with alligators and divers varieties of the finny tribe. Andrew gets into trouble with a band of Seminole Indians and gets away without having his scalp raised. After this there is no lack of fun till they reach their destination. That Mr. Rathborne knows just how to interest the boys is apparent at a glance, and lads who are in search of a rare treat will do well to read this entertaining story. +Guy Harris+: The Runaway. BY HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Guy Harris lived in a small city on the shore of one of the Great Lakes. His head became filled with quixotic notions of going West to hunt grizzlies, in fact, Indians. He is persuaded to go to sea, and gets a glimpse of the rough side of life in a sailor's boarding house. He ships on a vessel and for five months leads a hard life. He deserts his ship at San Francisco and starts out to become a backwoodsman, but rough experiences soon cure him of all desire to be a hunter. At St. Louis he becomes a clerk and for a time he yields to the temptations of a great city. The book will not only interest boys generally on account of its graphic style, but will put many facts before their eyes in a new light. This is one of Castlemon's most attractive stories. +The Train Boy.+ BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Paul Palmer was a wide-awake boy of sixteen who supported his mother and sister by selling books and papers on one of the trains running between Chicago and Milwaukee. He detects a young man named Luke Denton in the act of picking the pockets of a young lady, and also incurs the enmity of his brother Stephen, a worthless follow. Luke and Stephen plot to ruin Paul, but their plans are frustrated. In a railway accident many passengers are killed, but Paul is fortunate enough to assist a Chicago merchant, who out of gratitude takes him into his employ. Paul is sent to manage a mine in Custer City and executes his commission with tact and judgment and is well started on the road to business prominence. This is one of Mr. Alger's most attractive stories and is sure to please all readers. +Joe's Luck+: A Boy's Adventures in California. BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Without a doubt Joe Mason was a lucky boy, but he deserved the golden chances that fell to his lot, for he had the pluck and ambition to push himself to the front. Joe had but one dollar in the world when he stood despondently on the California Mail Steamship Co.'s dock in New York watching the preparations incident to the departure of the steamer. The same dollar was still Joe's entire capital when he landed in the bustling town of tents and one-story cabins--the San Francisco of '51, and inside of the week the boy was proprietor of a small restaurant earning a comfortable profit. The story is chock full of stirring incidents, while the amusing situations are furnished by Joshua Bickford, from Pumpkin Hollow, and the fellow who modestly styles himself the "Rip-tail Roarer, from Pike Co., Missouri." Mr. Alger never writes a poor book, and "Joe's Luck" is certainly one of his best. +Three Bright Girls+: A Story of Chance and Mischance. By ANNIE E. ARMSTRONG. With full page Illustrations by W. PARKINSON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. By a sudden turn of fortune's wheel the three heroines of this story are brought down from a household of lavish comfort to meet the incessant cares and worries of those who have to eke out a very limited income. And the charm of the story lies in the cheery helpfulness of spirit developed in the girls by their changed circumstances; while the author finds a pleasant ending to all their happy makeshifts. "The story is charmingly told, and the book can be warmly recommended as a present for girls."--_Standard._ +Giannetta+: A Girl's Story of Herself. By ROSA MULHOLLAND. With full-page Illustrations by LOCKHART BOGLE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The daughter of a gentleman, who had married a poor Swiss girl, was stolen as an infant by some of her mother's relatives. The child having died, they afterward for the sake of gain substitute another child for it, and the changeling, after becoming a clever modeler of clay images, is suddenly transferred to the position of a rich heiress. She develops into a good and accomplished woman, and though the imposture of her early friends is finally discovered, she has gained too much love and devotion to be really a sufferer by the surrender of her estates. "Extremely well told and full of interest. Giannetta is a true heroine--warm-hearted, self-sacrificing, and, as all good women nowadays are, largely touched with enthusiasm of humanity. The illustrations are unusually good. One of the most attractive gift books of the season."--_The Academy._ +Margery Merton's Girlhood.+ By ALICE CORKRAN. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The experiences of an orphan girl who in infancy is left by her father--an officer in India--to the care of an elderly aunt residing near Paris. The accounts of the various persons who have an after influence on the story, the school companions of Margery, the sisters of the Conventual College of Art, the professor, and the peasantry of Fontainebleau, are singularly vivid. There is a subtle attraction about the book which will make it a great favorite with thoughtful girls. "Another book for girls we can warmly commend. There is a delightful piquancy in the experiences and trials of a young English girl who studies painting in Paris."--_Saturday Review._ +Under False Colors+: A Story from Two Girls' Lives. By SARAH DOUDNEY. With full-page Illustrations by G. G. KILBURNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story which has in it so strong a dramatic element that it will attract readers of all ages and of either sex. The incidents of the plot, arising from the thoughtless indulgence of a deceptive freak, are exceedingly natural, and the keen interest of the narrative is sustained from beginning to end. "Sarah Doudney has no superior as a writer of high-toned stories--pure in style, original in conception, and with skillfully wrought out plots; but we have seen nothing equal in dramatic energy to this book."--_Christian Leader._ +Down the Snow Stairs+; or, From Good-night to Good-morning. By ALICE CORKRAN. With Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. This is a remarkable story: full of vivid fancy and quaint originality. In its most fantastic imaginings it carries with it a sense of reality, and derives a singular attraction from that combination of simplicity, originality, and subtle humor, which is so much appreciated by lively and thoughtful children. Children of a larger growth will also be deeply interested in Kitty's strange journey, and her wonderful experiences. "Among all the Christmas volumes which the year has brought to our table this one stands out _facile princeps_--a gem of the first water, bearing upon every one of its pages the signet mark of genius.... All is told with such simplicity and perfect naturalness that the dream appears to be a solid reality. It is indeed a Little Pilgrims Progress."--_Christian Leader._ +The Tapestry Room+: A Child's Romance. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. Illustrated by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "Mrs. Molesworth is a charming painter of the nature and ways of children; and she has done good service in giving us this charming juvenile which will delight the young people."--_Athenæum_, London. +Little Miss Peggy+: Only a Nursery Story. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. Mrs. Molesworth's children are finished studies. She is never sentimental, but writes common sense in a straightforward manner. A joyous earnest spirit pervades her work, and her sympathy is unbounded. She loves them with her whole heart, while she lays bare their little minds, and expresses their foibles, their faults, their virtues, their inward struggles, their conception of duty, and their instinctive knowledge of the right and wrong of things. She knows their characters, she understands their wants, and she desires to help them. +Polly+: A New Fashioned Girl. By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Few authors have achieved a popularity equal to Mrs. Meade as a writer of stories for young girls. Her characters are living beings of flesh and blood, not lay figures of conventional type. Into the trials and crosses, and everyday experiences, the reader enters at once with zest and hearty sympathy. While Mrs. Meade always writes with a high moral purpose, her lessons of life, purity and nobility of character are rather inculcated by example than intruded as sermons. +Rosy.+ By MRS. MOLESWORTH. Illustrated by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. Mrs. Molesworth, considering the quality and quantity of her labors, is the best story-teller for children England has yet known. This is a bold statement and requires substantiation, Mrs. Molesworth, during the last six years, has never failed to occupy a prominent place among the juvenile writers of the season. "A very pretty story.... The writer knows children and their ways well.... The illustrations are exceedingly well drawn."--_Spectator._ +Little Sunshine's Holiday+: A Picture from Life. By MISS MULOCK. Illustrated by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "This is a pretty narrative of baby life, describing the simple doings and sayings of a very charming and rather precocious child nearly three years old."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ "Will be delightful to those who have nurseries peopled by 'Little Sunshines' of their own."--_Athenæum._ +Esther+: A Book for Girls. By ROSA N. CAREY. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "She inspires her readers simply by bringing them in contact with the characters, who are in themselves inspiring. Her simple stories are woven in order to give her an opportunity to describe her characters by their own conduct in seasons of trial."--_Chicago Times._ +Sweet Content.+ By MRS. MOLESWORTH. Illustrated by W. RAINEY. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "It seems to me not at all easier to draw a lifelike child than to draw a lifelike man or woman: Shakespeare and Webster were the only two men of their age who could do it with perfect delicacy and success. Our own age is more fortunate, on this single score at least, having a larger and far nobler proportion of female writers; among whom, since the death of George Eliot, there is none left whose touch is so exquisite and masterly, whose love is so thoroughly according to knowledge, whose bright and sweet invention is so fruitful, so truthful, or so delightful as Mrs. Molesworth."--A. C. SWINBURNE. +One of a Covey.+ By the Author of "Honor Bright," "Miss Toosey's Mission." With Numerous Illustrations by H. J. A. MILES. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "Full of spirit and life, so well sustained throughout that grown-up readers may enjoy it as much as children. This 'Covey' consists of the twelve children of a hard-pressed Dr. Partridge, out of which is chosen a little girl to be adopted by a spoilt, fine lady.... It is one of the best books of the season."--_Guardian._ "We have rarely read a story for boys and girls with greater pleasure. One of the chief characters would not have disgraced Dickens' pen."--_Literary World._ +The Little Princess of Tower Hill.+ By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "This is one of the prettiest books for children published, as pretty as a pond-lily, and quite as fragrant. Nothing could be imagined more attractive to young people than such a combination of fresh pages and fair pictures; and while children will rejoice over it--which is much better than crying for it--it is a book that can be read with pleasure even by older boys and girls."--_Boston Advertiser._ +Honor Bright+; or, The Four-Leaved Shamrock. By the Author of "One of a Covey," "Miss Toosey's Mission," etc., etc. With full-page Illustrations, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "It requires a special talent to describe the sayings and doings of children, and the author of 'Honor Bright,' 'One of a Covey,' possesses that talent in no small degree."--_Literary Churchman._ "A cheery, sensible, and healthy tale."--_The Times._ +The Cuckoo Clock.+ By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "A beautiful little story. It will be read with delight by every child into whose hands it is placed.... The author deserves all the praise that has been, is, and will be bestowed on 'The Cuckoo Clock.' Children's stories are plentiful, but one like this is not to be met with every day."--_Pall Mall Gazette._ +Girl Neighbors+; or, The Old Fashion and the New. By SARAH TYTLER. With full-page Illustrations by C. T. GARLAND. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "One of the most effective and quietly humorous of Miss Tytler's stories. 'Girl Neighbors' is a pleasant comedy, not so much of errors as of prejudices got rid of, very healthy, very agreeable, and very well written."--_Spectator._ +The Little Lame Prince.+ By MISS MULOCK. Illustrated, cloth, price 75 cents. "No sweeter--that is the proper word--Christmas story for the little folks could easily be found, and it is as delightful for older readers as well. There is a moral to it which the reader can find out for himself, if he chooses to think."--_Herald_, Cleveland. +The Adventures of a Brownie.+ As Told to my Child. By MISS MULOCK. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "The author of this delightful little book leaves it in doubt all through whether there actually is such a creature in existence as a Brownie, but she makes us hope that there might be."--_Standard, Chicago._ +Only a Girl+: A Story of a Quiet Life. A Tale of Brittany. Adapted from the French by C. A. JONES. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "We can thoroughly recommend this brightly written and homely narrative."--_Saturday Review._ +Little Rosebud+; or, Things Will Take a Turn. By BEATRICE HARRADEN. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "A most delightful little book.... Miss Harraden is so bright, so healthy, and so natural withal that the book ought, as a matter of duty, to be added to every girl's library in the land."--_Boston Transcript._ +Little Miss Joy.+ By EMMA MARSHALL. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "A very pleasant and instructive story, told by a very charming writer in such an attractive way as to win favor among its young readers. The illustrations add to the beauty of the book."--_Utica Herald._ +Little Lucy's Wonderful Globe.+ By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "This story is unique among tales intended for children, alike for pleasant instruction, quaintness of humor, gentle pathos, and the subtlety with which lessons moral and otherwise are conveyed to children, and perhaps to their seniors as well."--_The Spectator._ +Joan's Adventures at the North Pole and Elsewhere.+ By ALICE CORKRAN. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "Wonderful as the adventures of Joan are, it must be admitted that they are very naturally worked out and very plausibly presented. Altogether this is an excellent story for girls."--_Saturday Review._ +Count Up the Sunny Days+: A Story for Boys and Girls. By C. A. JONES. With full-page Illustrations, 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "An unusually good children's story."--_Glasgow Herald._ +Sue and I.+ By MRS. O'REILLY. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "A thoroughly delightful book, full of sound wisdom as well as fun."--_Athenæum._ +Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.+ By LEWIS CARROLL. With 42 Illustrations by JOHN TENNIEL. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. "From first to last, almost without exception, this story is delightfully droll, humorous and illustrated in harmony with the story."--_New York Express._ +Celtic Fairy Tales.+ Edited by JOSEPH JACOBS. Illustrated by J. D. BATTEN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "A stock of delightful little narratives gathered chiefly from the Celtic-speaking peasants of Ireland."--_Daily Telegraph._ "A perfectly lovely book. And oh! the wonderful pictures inside. Get this book if you can; it is capital, all through."--_Pall Mall Budget._ +English Fairy Tales.+ Edited by JOSEPH JACOBS. Illustrated by J. D. BATTEN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "The tales are simply delightful. No amount of description can do them justice. The only way is to read the book through from cover to cover."--_Magazine and Book Review._ "The book is intended to correspond to 'Grimm's Fairy Tales,' and it must be allowed that its pages fairly rival in interest those of the well-known repository of folk-lore."--_Sydney Morning Herald._ +Indian Fairy Tales.+ Edited by JOSEPH JACOBS. Illustrated by J. D. BATTEN. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "Mr. Jacobs brings home to us in a clear and intelligible manner the enormous influence which 'Indian Fairy Tales' have had upon European literature of the kind."--_Gloucester Journal._ "The present combination will be welcomed not alone by the little ones for whom it is specially combined, but also by children of larger growth and added years."--_Daily Telegraph._ +The Blue Fairy Book.+ Edited by ANDREW LANG. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "The tales are simply delightful. No amount of description can do them justice. The only way is to read the book through from cover to cover."--_Magazine and Book Review._ +The Green Fairy Book.+ Edited by ANDREW LANG. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "The most delightful book of fairy tales, taking form and contents together, ever presented to children."--E. S. HARTLAND, in _Folk-Lore_. +The Yellow Fairy Book.+ Edited by ANDREW LANG. Profusely Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "As a collection of fairy tales to delight children of all ages ranks second to none."--_Daily Graphic_ (with illustrations). +Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There.+ By LEWIS CARROLL. With 50 Illustrations by JOHN TENNIEL. "A delight alike to the young people and their elders, extremely funny both in text and illustrations."--_Boston Express._ +The Heir of Redclyffe.+ By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "A narrative full of interest from first, to last. It is told clearly and in a straightforward manner and arrests the attention of the reader at once, so that one feels afresh the unspeakable pathos of the story to the end."--_London Graphic._ +The Dove in the Eagle's Nest.+ By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "Among all the modern writers we believe Miss Yonge first, not in genius but in this, that she employs her great abilities for a high and noble purpose. We know of few modern writers whose works may be so safely commended as hers."--_Cleveland Times._ +A Sweet Girl Graduate.+ By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "One of this popular author's best. The characters are well imagined and drawn. The story moves with plenty of spirit and the interest does not flag until the end too quickly comes."--_Providence Journal._ +The Palace Beautiful+: A Story for Girls. By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated, cloth, 12mo, price $1.00. "A bright and interesting story. The many admirers of Mrs. L. T. Meade in this country will be delighted with the 'Palace Beautiful' for more reasons than one."--_New York Recorder._ +A World of Girls+: The Story of a School. By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "One of those wholesome stories which it does one good to read. It will afford pure delight to her numerous readers."--_Boston Home Journal._ +The Lady of the Forest+: A Story for Girls. By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "This story is written in the author's well-known, fresh and easy style. All girls fond of reading will be charmed by this well written story. It is told with the author's customary grace and spirit."--_Boston Times._ +At the Back of the North Wind.+ By GEORGE MACDONALD. Illustrated by GEORGE GROVES. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "A very pretty story, with much of the freshness and vigor of Mr. Macdonald's earlier work.... It is a sweet, earnest, and wholesome fairy story, and the quaint native humor is delightful. A most delightful volume for young readers."--_Philadelphia Times._ +The Water Babies+: A Fairy Tale for a Land Baby. By CHARLES KINGSLEY. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "The strength of his work, as well as its peculiar charms, consist in his description of the experiences of a youth with life under water in the luxuriant wealth of which he revels with all the ardor of a poetical nature."--_New York Tribune._ The "Little Men" Series. Uniform Cloth Binding. Profusely Illustrated. PRICE 75 CENTS PER COPY. This series of books has been selected from the writings of a large number of popular authors of juvenile stories, and are particularly adapted to interest and supply attractive reading for young boys. The books are profusely illustrated, and any one seeking to find a book to give a young boy cannot make a mistake by selecting from the following list of titles. [Illustration] +_Black Beauty._+ The Autobiography of a Horse. By ANNA SEWELL. Illustrated cloth, price 75 cents. +_Carrots_+: Just a Little Boy. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. Illustrated, cloth, price 75 cents. +_Chunk, Fusky and Snout._+ A Story of Wild Pigs for Little People. By GERALD YOUNG. Illus., cloth, price 75 cents. +_Daddy's Boy._+ By L. T. MEADE. Illus., cloth, price 75 cents. +_Geoff and Jim._+ A Story of School Life. By ISMAY THORN. Illustrated, cloth, price 75 cents. +_Jackanapes._+ By JULIANA HORATIA EWING. Illustrated, cloth, price 75 cents. +_Jack_+: A Topsy Turvy Story. By C. M. CRAWLEY-BOEVEY. Illustrated, cloth, price 75 cents. +_Larry's Luck._+ By the author of "Miss Toosey's Mission," "Tom's Opinion," "One of a Covey," etc. Illustrated, cloth, price 75 cents. +_Mopsa the Fairy._+ By JEAN INGELOW. Illustrated cloth, price 75 cents. +_Peter the Pilgrim._+ The Story of a Boy and His Pet Rabbit. By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE, cloth, price 75 cents. +_Tom's Opinion._+ By the author of "Miss Toosey's Mission," "One of a Covey," etc. Illustrated, cloth, price 75 cents. +_We and the World._+ A Story for Boys. By JULIANA HORATIA EWING. Illustrated, cloth, price 75 cents. For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publisher, +A. L. BURT, 97 Reade Street, New York+. THE "LITTLE WOMEN" SERIES. Uniform Cloth Binding. Profusely Illustrated. A series of most delightful stories for young girls. Selected from the best-known writers for children. These stories are narrated in a simple and lively fashion and cannot but prove irresistible with the little ones, while throughout the volumes there is a comprehension of and sympathy with child thought and feeling that is almost as rare out of books as in. These stories are sunny, interesting, and thoroughly winsome and wholesome. [Illustration] +Adventures of a Brownie+, As Told to My Child. By MISS MULOCK. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. +Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.+ By LEWIS CARROLL. With 42 Illustrations by John Tenniel. Price 75 cents. +Birdie.+ A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. CHILDE-PEMBERTON. Illustrated. Price 5 cents. +Count Up the Sunny Days.+ A Story for Girls. By C. A. JONES. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. +Cuckoo Clock, The.+ By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With 7 Illustrations by Walter Crane. Price 75 cents. +Down the Snow Stairs+; or, From Good Night to Good Morning. By ALICE CORKRAN. With 60 Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Price 75c. +Joan's Adventures.+ At the North Pole and Elsewhere. By ALICE CORKRAN. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. +Little Lame Prince+, and His Traveling Cloak. By MISS MULOCK. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. +Little Miss Joy.+ By EMMA MARSHALL. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. +Little Miss Peggy.+ Only a Nursery Story. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With 13 Illustrations by Walter Crane. Price 75 cents. +Little Princess of Tower Hill.+ By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. +Little Sunshine's Holiday.+ A Picture from Life. By MISS MULOCK. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. +Little Lucy's Wonderful Globe.+ By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. +Little Rosebud+; or, Things Will Take a Turn. By BEATRICE HARRADEN. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. +One of a Covey.+ By the author of "Honor Bright." With 19 Illustrations by H. J. A. MILES. Price 75 cents. +Rosy.+ By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With 8 Illustrations by Walter Crane. Price 75 cents. +Sweet Content.+ By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With 20 Illustrations by W. Rainey. Price 75 cents. +Sue and I.+ By MRS. ROBERT O'REILLY. Illustrated. Price 75 cents. +Tapestry Room, The.+ By MRS. MOLESWORTH. Illustrated. Price 75 cts. +Through the Looking-Glass+, and What Alice Found There. By LEWIS CARROLL. With 50 Illustrations by John Tenniel. Price 75 cents. _+For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publisher, A. L. BURT, 97 Reade Street, New York.+_ THE ALGER SERIES for BOYS Uniform with This Volume. This series affords wholesome reading for boys and girls, and all volumes are extremely interesting.--_Cincinnati Commercial-Gazette._ +JOE'S LUCK; or, A Brave Boy's Adventurer, in California.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. +JULIAN MORTIMER; or, A Brave Boy's Struggles for Home and Fortune.+ By HARRY CASTLEMON. +ADRIFT IN THE WILDS; or, The Adventures of Two Shipwrecked Boys.+ By EDWARD S. ELLIS. +FRANK FOWLER, THE CASH BOY.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. +GUY HARRIS, THE RUNAWAY.+ By HARRY CASTLEMON. +THE SLATE-PICKER; A Story of a Boy's Life in the Coal Mines.+ By HARRY PRENTICE. +TOM TEMPLE'S CAREER.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. +TOM, THE READY; or, Up from the Lowest.+ By RANDOLPH HILL. +THE CASTAWAYS; or, On the Florida Reefs.+ By JAMES OTIS. +CAPTAIN KIDD'S GOLD. The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor Boy.+ By JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS. +TOM THATCHER'S FORTUNE.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. +LOST IN THE CANON. The Story of Sam Willett's Adventures on the Great Colorado of the West.+ By ALFRED R. CALHOUN. +A YOUNG HERO; or, Fighting to Win.+ By EDWARD S. ELLIS. +THE ERRAND BOY; or, How Phil Brent Won Success.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. +THE ISLAND TREASURE; or, Harry Darrel's Fortune.+ By FRANK H. CONVERSE. +A RUNAWAY BRIG; or, An Accidental Cruise.+ By JAMES OTIS. +A JAUNT THROUGH JAVA. The Story of a Journey to the Sacred Mountain by Two American Boys.+ By E. S. ELLIS. +CAPTURED BY APES; or, How Philip Garland Became King of Apeland.+ By HARRY PRENTICE. +TOM THE BOOT-BLACK; or, The Road to Success.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. +ROY GILBERT'S SEARCH. A Tale of the Great Lakes.+ By WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. +THE TREASURE-FINDERS. A Boy's Adventures in Nicaragua.+ By JAMES OTIS. +BUDD BOYD'S TRIUMPH; or, The Boy Firm of Fox Island.+ By WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. +TONY, THE HERO; or, A Brave Boy's Adventures with a Tramp.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. +CAPTURED BY ZULUS. A Story of Trapping in Africa.+ By HARRY PRENTICE. +THE TRAIN BOY.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. +DAN THE NEWSBOY.+ By HORATIO ALGER, JR. +SEARCH FOR THE SILVER CITY. A Story of Adventure in Yucatan.+ By JAMES OTIS. +THE BOY CRUISERS; or, Paddling in Florida.+ By ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE. _+The above stories are printed on extra paper, and bound in Handsome Cloth Binding, in all respects uniform with this volume, at $1.00 per copy.+_ _For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent post-paid on receipt of price, by the publisher, A. L. BURT, 66 Reade St., New York._ +-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | |A Table of Contents has been added. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+