19592	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) FRANK AND FEARLESS OR THE FORTUNES OF JASPER KENT BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "BRAVE AND BOLD SERIES," ETC. THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PHILADELPHIA CHICAGO TORONTO Copyright, 1897 by HENRY T. COATES & CO. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Jasper's Victory, 1 II. Strange News, 10 III. Jasper Recognizes the Visitor, 19 IV. Thorn's Revenge, 29 V. Jasper's Return Home, 37 VI. The Step-Mother, 46 VII. New Relations, 54 VIII. Sudden Death, 63 IX. A Declaration of War, 72 X. Nicholas Appears upon the Scene, 81 XI. The Outbreak of Hostilities, 90 XII. A Scheme of Vengeance, 101 XIII. Mrs. Kent is Foiled, 108 XIV. Mediation, 117 XV. Good-Bye, 126 XVI. An Unpleasant Adventure, 135 XVII. The Deserted House, 144 XVIII. The Kidnapped Child, 153 XIX. A Brute in Human Shape, 158 XX. A Strange Commission, 169 XXI. Jasper is Intrusted with a Delicate Commission, 179 XXII. A Business Max's Suspicions, 188 XXIII. Where Jasper Found Dick, 197 XXIV. The Sleeping Potion, 207 XXV. Jasper Finds Himself a Prisoner, 213 XXVI. In Confinement, 217 XXVII. An Unexpected Friend, 225 XVIII. Escape, 230 XXIX. Jasper in a New Character, 236 XXX. Jasper Gets a Place, 245 XXXI. The Unwelcome Relative, 255 XXXII. A Cold Reception, 263 XXXIII. Dick Punishes Nicholas, 270 XXXIV. An Important Commission, 279 XXXV. An Indian Maiden, 283 XXXVI. In Difficulties, 290 XXXVII. A Startling Summons, 303 XXXVIII. Dick Comes Back, 308 XXXIX. How It All Ended, 318 FRANK AND FEARLESS; OR, THE FORTUNES OF JASPER KENT CHAPTER I. JASPER'S VICTORY. A dozen boys were playing ball in a field adjoining the boarding-school of Dr. Pericles Benton, in the town of Walltham, a hundred and twenty-five miles northeast of the city of New York. These boys varied in age from thirteen to seventeen. In another part of the field a few younger boys were amusing themselves. All these boys were boarding-scholars connected with the school. The ball had been knocked to a distance by the batter, and it was the duty of Nicholas Thorne, one of the oldest boys, to ran after it. But he thought of an easier way. "Cameron, run for that ball!" he cried, addressing one of the smaller boys outside the game. "I don't want to," said little Cameron. "Did you hear what I said?" demanded Thorne, imperiously. "Yes." "Then you'd better go if you know what's best for yourself," said the bully, frowning. "I ain't in the game," said Cameron. "Why should I get the ball?" "Because I say so!" retorted the tyrant. "Run after it yourself, Thorne," said a lad named Davies. "It's your business, not Cameron's." "It's his business, because I ordered him to do it," said Thorne, flushed and angry. "Do you think I will allow him to bully me?" "The boot's on the other leg," said Davies, dryly. "Run after the ball, and don't keep the game waiting." "That's so," said half a dozen voices. "Let Cameron alone." "I won't let him alone," said Thorne, who had by this time worked himself into a towering passion. "I'll give him the worst flogging he ever had, if he doesn't obey me!" So saying, he advanced toward Cameron in a menacing manner. Thorne was the acknowledged bully of the school. He was a big, hulking fellow, with a heavy figure and a repulsive face, and small ferret eyes, emitting a cold and baleful light. He was more than a match for any of his fellow-pupils, and availed himself of his superior physical strength to abuse and browbeat the smaller boys. Knowing his strength he was not afraid of interference, and usually carried his point. If Cameron had not been particularly occupied playing marbles with a boy of his own age he would not have ventured to object to obey the despot. When he saw Thorne advancing toward him with a cruel light in his eyes he became frightened, and said, hurriedly: "Don't pound me, Thorne, I'll go." "Yes," said Thorne, between his teeth, "you'll go; but you ought to have done so at first. I'll give you something to remind you to be more prompt next time." "Don't hit me, Thorne!" pleaded the little boy, with tears in his eyes. "I'm going." "Shame, Thorne!" exclaimed Davies. Thorne glared at Davies wrathfully. "Take care how you talk," he said, "or it'll be your turn next!" Davies was two inches shorter than Thorne, and by no means his equal. So, honestly indignant as he was, he didn't venture to say any more. Little Cameron turned to run, despairing of help, and Thorne started to pursue him. Of course there was no chance of the smaller boy's escape, or would not have been, but for an unexpected incident. "Stop!" was heard, in a clear, commanding voice. Thorne turned in surprise. What boy (for it was a boy's voice) had dared to command him to atop? He wasn't long in doubt. Jasper Kent, a new scholar, who had only arrived the day before, advanced intrepidly to the rescue of the little victim. He was an inch shorter than Thorne, of a slight, elegant build, with a clear complexion and a bright, attractive face that would have been pronounced handsome by anyone. Judging from outward appearances, no one would have thought him the equal of Thorne in strength. When Nicholas Thorne's eye lighted on his antagonist his lip turned in scorn and he paused. "You're the new boy, I believe?" he said. "Yes." "I thought so. If you had been here longer you would know better than to interfere with me." This was spoken with the utmost arrogance. "You appear to consider yourself master here," said Jasper, quietly. "I am master here," returned Nicholas, in the same tone. "And you claim the right of ordering around smaller boys?" "I do." "And of beating them if they dare to disobey your majesty's commands, I suppose?" continued Jasper, with sarcasm. "Yes, I do. Have you anything to say about it?" exclaimed the young despot, in a swaggering manner. "Yes, I have," was the quiet answer. "What have you got to say, I should like to know?" "That I won't allow it," said Jasper. "You won't allow it?" exclaimed Thorne, bursting into a brutal laugh. "And who are you, young poppinjay?" "My name is Jasper Kent, at your service." "Then, Mr. Jasper Kent, I beg leave to suggest that you mind your own business." "I generally do," said Jasper, coolly; "but that advice comes with a bad grace from you." "Why does it?" "Because you are not attending to your business." "What is my business?" demanded Thorne, angrily. "To go after that ball." "It's Cameron's business. I ordered him to go after it." "And I order him not to go for it," said Jasper, resolutely, but without excitement. Thorne answered with an oath. "I've a great mind to send you for it," he exclaimed, his small eyes glaring at his opponent. "It's one thing to order, and another to secure obedience," said Jasper. "Your turn will come," growled Thorne, "but just at present I've got Cameron's case to dispose of. Cameron, go for that ball!" The little boy started, but his purpose was interrupted. Jasper Kent hurried forward and placed his hand kindly on his shoulder. "Don't go, Cameron," he said. "I'll protect you." Cameron stopped, but looked apprehensively at Thorne. He evidently doubted the power of his young protector. Thorne was now thoroughly exasperated. His authority was openly defied. He rushed at Jasper, intending to overwhelm him by the suddenness and momentum of his attack. But Jasper was prepared for him. He turned swiftly aside and planted a blow on Thorne's right ear which sent him staggering to the earth. The bully was astonished, but rallied. Almost foaming at the mouth with rage, he sprang to his feet and renewed the attack. He attempted to throw his arms round the waist of Jasper and throw him. Had his tactics been successful, probably Jasper would have been borne to the earth by the superior weight of his opponent. But here, again, he was prepared. He stepped back and received Thorne with a blow on his breast, so firmly planted that he staggered again. By this time he had lost all control of himself and was thoroughly under the dominion of passion. He "pitched into" Jasper, trying to get in a blow wherever he could, and in so doing exposed himself to the skilful blows of his slighter foe, who had some knowledge of boxing, while Thorne had none whatever. Finally Thorne was stretched on his back, not immediately to rise. "Have you had enough?" asked Jasper, bending over him. "I'll kill you!" shrieked Thorne. "Wail till you are able," said Jasper. Thorne struggled to rise. Jasper held him down forcibly. "You will stay there till you promise to let Cameron alone," he said. "I won't promise!" "Then you'll stay where you are." But at that moment a small boy came across the field from the school. "Thorne is wanted," he said. "There's a lady to see him." "You can rise, then," said Jasper. Thorne rose sullenly, and without a word strode toward the large, square building, with an extended wing, which was used for the boarding-school. Little Cameron seized Jasper's hand and kissed it. "How brave you are!" he said. "How much I thank you!" "Oh, it's nothing," said Jasper, modestly. "You just send for me when you're in trouble, Cameron. I won't let him hurt you." CHAPTER II. STRANGE NEWS. Entering the house, Thorne reported at the doctor's study. His flushed appearance attracted the teacher's attention. "What's the matter, Thorne?" he asked. "The new boy pitched into me and I licked him," said Thorne. But his sullen manner was so unlike that of a victor that the doctor shrewdly suspected that his statement was not wholly correct. "What was the quarrel about?" he asked. "We were playing ball," said Thorne, evasively. "I will inquire into it. At present you are wanted in the parlor." So Thorne left the presence of the principal and entered the opposite room. A lady, seated on a sofa, arose quickly, and advanced to meet him. She kissed the boy's cheek, to which he submitted without manifesting any responsive feeling. "How long it is since I saw you, Nicholas, my dear boy!" she said. "It's only about six months," said Nicholas, stolidly. "And are not six months long for a mother to be separated from her only child?" said the lady, tenderly. "It doesn't seem so long," said Nicholas. The lady looked pained, but she proceeded: "How you have grown!" "Yes, I've grown," said Nicholas, showing a little pleasure now. "I think I shall be a large man." "Like your father. And how are you improving in your studies, Nicholas?" "Oh! I'm doing well enough," said the boy, indifferently, for Nicholas Thorne's taste for study was very moderate. "Did you bring me any money, mother?" "You have your regular allowance, Nicholas." "It isn't enough. What's a dollar a week?" "It is a good deal for me to pay," said his mother. "Remember, I have to pay your school bills, and my means are but small." "A dollar a week is very small for a boy of my age," grumbled Thorne. "Why, some of the little boys get more; and there's that new boy, Jasper Kent, gets five dollars, so they say." The lady betrayed strong interest at the sound of his name. "I forgot," she said. "So Jasper Kent has arrived, has he?" "What, mother, do you know him?" demanded Thorne, surprised in turn. "Yea, I know him. What do you think of him?" "Think of him? I hate him!" said Thorne, fiercely. "Why?" "He tries to bully me." "And you permit it? Why, you are larger than he." "Yes, but he knows how to fight." "How do you know?" "I had a fight with him this morning," said Nicholas. "Did he come off best?" asked the lady. "No," answered Nicholas, with hesitation. "That is, we were only half through the fight when a boy ran up and said you had come. So we had to stop." "Humph! That is strange," said the lady, in a low voice, more to herself than to her son, "this sudden antagonism." "What do you know about Kent?" demanded Nicholas, his curiosity aroused. "Perhaps I may as well tell you," said his mother, thoughtfully, "but I wish you to keep the matter secret from him." "You won't catch me telling him anything, except that he is a scoundrel!" muttered Nicholas. "Then sit down by me, and I will tell you much that you do not know, but ought now to hear. Is the door shut?" "Yes." "Go and see. It is important that no one should overhear us." Nicholas complied with her request. "It's shut fast enough," he said. "Now what have you got to tell me?" "To begin with, do you know where I get the money I pay for your schooling and clothes?" "My father left you some money, didn't he?" "He left me a small property which rents for two hundred dollars a year." "You pay three hundred a year for me, don't you?" "For your school bills, yes. Besides, I give you an allowance and buy your clothes." "How do you do it?" asked Nicholas, in surprise. "Have you sold the house?" "No. If I should do that, there would soon be nothing left. That was the problem I had to solve three years ago, when your father died." "What did you do?" "I felt that the property must not be touched, save the income. I saw that it was necessary for me to exert myself, or I should be unable to educate you as I desired. I had a good education, and I determined to avail myself of it. I therefore went to a teacher's agency in New York and set forth my desire to obtain the position of governess in some family in the country." "You a governess!" "Why not? It was the only way I could think of that would yield me an income. After waiting a few weeks I succeeded. A wealthy gentleman, living in a country town of moderate size, saw my testimonials, was pleased with them, and engaged me to superintend the education of an orphan niece resident in his family. He offered me a fair salary--enough, added to the rent which I received from the property left me by your father, to justify me in putting you at this boarding-school. That was three years ago." "Why didn't you tell me all this before, mother?" "It would have done no good. I preferred that you should think of me as possessing an independent property. I felt that it would enable you the better to hold up your head among your school-fellows, as they could know nothing of your antecedents." "Does Dr. Benton know this?" asked Nicholas, quickly. "No; he only knows that I am a widow, He supposes that I have sufficient means." "I am glad of that." "Would it make any difference with him?" "I don't know. Any way, I'd rather he wouldn't know it." Nicholas Thorne sat by his mother's side thoughtful. He was disappointed to think that his mother's means were so limited, since it curtailed his future expectations. The thought of that mother working patiently to defray his expenses at school made comparatively little impression. He was essentially selfish, and, so long as his wants were provided for, he cared little who labored for him. "You don't ask the name of the man who employs me," said his mother. Nicholas looked up. "I suppose it is nobody I ever heard of," he said. "No, you never heard of him, but you know some one connected with him." "What do you mean?" asked the boy, his curiosity aroused. "The gentleman who employs me is father of one of your schoolmates." "Father of one of my school-mates?" "Yes." "Who is it? Why don't you tell me, mother?" "You have spoken of him to me this morning. It is Jasper Kent." "You work for Jasper Kent's father!" exclaimed Nicholas in unbounded astonishment. "Does he know it?" "Yes, he knows that I am, or have been, governess in his father's family. But he knows nothing of my connection with you." "If he knew, he'd taunt me with my mother's being obliged to work for a living," said Thorne. "I don't think he would. At any rate, the time is coming very soon when he will have no advantage over you." "How do you make that out, mother?" "Listen, and keep secret what I tell you. Next week I become his father's wife." "You marry Jasper Kent's father!" "Yes; I shall be Jasper's step-mother." "Is old Kent rich?" asked Nicholas, eagerly. His mother nodded. "Yes, he is rich; that is, for the country. He is in poor health, too," she added, significantly. "Good!" said Nicholas, with satisfaction. "You know how to play your cards, mother." The mother smiled. "My days of dependence are drawing to an end," she said. "Some time I can do better for you than I am doing now." CHAPTER III. JASPER RECOGNIZES THE VISITOR. "Will the old man do anything for me after he marries you, mother?" asked Nicholas, who never failed to look out for his own interests. "He doesn't know you are in existence, Nicholas." "Did you never speak to him of me?" "No; I didn't dare to tell him." "Why not?" "It might prevent his marrying me." "It seems to me," grumbled Nicholas, "you only thought of yourself. You didn't care what became of me." "That is unjust, Nicholas. You must see that it is. Once we are married I shall have more control of money, and if Mr. Kent dies I shall be entitled to a third of his property." "I wish he'd leave you the whole, and cut off that upstart Jasper," said Nicholas, frowning. "There is not much chance of that. He thinks everything of Jasper. However, I don't think he'll live long, and I shall induce him, if possible, to name me as Jasper's guardian." "That would be a good job for you, mother--not so good for Jasper, I'm thinking." "You are right, Nicholas. Did you say you disliked him?" "Yes, I hate him." "So do I," said his mother in a low tone, but one of intense energy. "Why?" asked Thorne, in some curiosity. "I'll tell you. From my entrance into his father's family he has never treated me with any cordiality. Evidently he didn't like me. I think, indeed, he mistrusted me, though I never gave occasion for any suspicions. If he should learn now that I am to marry his father, he would move heaven and earth to prevent the marriage." "Has he been home much since you were in the house?" "No; he was at school elsewhere, and was only at home during his vacations." "How did he come to be sent here to this school? Did you advise it?" "No; I was opposed to it, but Mr. Kent was recommended by a friend to send his son here. I did not venture to say much, lest I should be asked how I came to know anything of the school. I was afraid you and he would meet, and he would learn the connections between us." "I suppose you'll own up after the wedding, won't you?" "I think not at once, Nicholas." "Why not?" "Remember what I told you, that Mr. Kent is in poor health. He may not live six months. We can keep the matter secret for that time, can't we, Nicholas?" "If you were only sure he would die in that time." "He has heart disease, and is liable to die at any time." "You want him to make his will first, and leave you guardian?" "Of course." "After that you wouldn't mourn very much for his loss?" "No; I don't pretend to care for him." "He thinks you do, eh, mother?" "Of course." "Oh, you're a deep one, you are," said Nicholas, winking in a way to indicate his shrewd insight into his mother's motives. "I have to be, Nicholas. There's no getting on in this world without it. But I think I shall have to leave you now." "Then you don't mean to invite me to the wedding, mother?" "It will be a private ceremony." "Will Jasper be invited?" "His father was anxious to have him at home. Indeed, I have had a great deal of trouble to prevent his sending for him, but at length I have succeeded. I know too well the danger. The boy has a great influence over his father, whose mind is weakened with his body, and I should be afraid that the match would be broken off even at the last moment if the boy got wind of our plan." "How mad Jasper will be when he hears of it!" said Thorne, laughing with malicious enjoyment. "I wish I could tell him." "Don't breathe a word of it, Nicholas," said his mother, in evident alarm. "Oh, I'll keep the secret. But it won't do any harm when it's all over, will it?" "Say nothing till I authorize it." "Well, I won't, then, if I can help it. But I say, mother, the old gentleman will come down handsomely when you're married. You ought to raise my allowance to two dollars a week." "I will if I can afford it," said his mother. "But I must leave you now, Nicholas. I shall have about time to go to the station and meet the next train." "Shan't I go with you?" "I should like your company, my dear boy, but we must be prudent. We might meet Jasper Kent." "That's so. Well, good-bye." "Good-bye, Nicholas," and his mother pressed her lips upon the cheek of her son. He tolerated the kiss, but did not return it. His heart was not very impressible, and he cared for no one except himself. "I won't stop to see Dr. Benton," she said, at parting. "You may tell him that I was in haste." "All right." Mrs. Thorne emerged from the parlor and from the house. She was tall and erect in figure, and walked rapidly. Her face was concealed by a thick veil, but, for the information of the reader it may be described as narrow and long, with small eyes, like those of Nicholas, and thin, tightly-compressed lips. She was not a woman to yield to misfortune or give way to sentimental sorrow. She looked rather like one who knew how to face fortune and defy it. It was not a pleasant face, but it was decidedly a strong one. The grounds of the school were extensive, and the house stood back two or three hundred yards from the street. A long avenue led from the house to the main thoroughfare. Mrs. Thorne looked hurriedly about her as she went out on her way. "I shouldn't like to meet Jasper Kent," she said to herself. "It might lead to unpleasant questions and suspicions on his part, and I don't want anything to happen before I am married." It seemed likely that she would escape the encounter which she dreaded. Had there been no interruption or delay she would have done so; but it was not so to be. She met Dr. Benton in front of the house, and was compelled to stop and speak to him. "You find Nicholas well?" he said, politely. "Oh, yes, doctor," she answered, softly. "I have no anxiety on that subject, as long as he is under your care. I know that he cannot fail to do well." We all like flattery, and the learned principal was not proof against it. "Ahem! Mrs. Thorne," he said, pompously, "we try to do our duty by the young people intrusted to our charge. We do not limit our endeavors to their mental culture, but strive to promote their physical well-being also." "And you succeed remarkably well, Dr. Benton. But you must excuse my leaving you abruptly. I wish to catch the next train." "I hope we shall see you again soon, madam," said the doctor, politely. "I shall endeavor to call again before many weeks, Dr. Benton. Good-morning." "Good-morning, madam." Mrs. Thorne adjusted her veil and swiftly resumed her course. Her heart gave a bound when, just outside the gate, she espied the well-known figure of Jasper Kent. "I hope he won't recognize me," she thought But she forgot her peculiar gait, and the quick, rapid step, which were likely to identify her in the eyes of anyone who had seen her often. Jasper Kent's attention was drawn to her, and he observed these peculiarities. "By Jove!" he said to himself, "she walks just like the governess." Still, having no reason to suspect the presence of Miss Thorne, as he called her, at the school, he would have thought the resemblance only accidental, but for a whiff of wind which blew the veil aside from her face. That face there was no mistaking. "Miss Thorne!" he exclaimed, in surprise, advancing to meet her. She was exceedingly vexed, but it would not do to betray it. "Jasper!" she said, with a smile. "You didn't expect to see me here?" "No; did you come to see me? Is my father unwell?" he asked, anxiously. "Your father is quite well." "Then--" "Why have I come? I see that is what you wish to ask. I have not come on your account at all. I came to see a nephew of my own." "At this school?" "Yes." "You must mean Nicholas Thorne." "Yes; do you know him?" "A little," said Jasper, with reserve. "Poor fellow! He has neither father nor mother to look after him, only myself. I am his only relative living." "I never heard you speak of him before." "No; I have not cared to intrude my private concerns upon your father or yourself. But I must hurry, or I shall be late at the station. Have you any message to send to your father?" "Give him my love, and tell him to take care of his health for my sake." "I hope he will do that for all our sakes," said the lady, with affected warmth. "Good-bye." "Good-bye." Jasper Kent looked after her as she walked rapidly away. "Why is it that I distrust her so much?" he thought to himself. "So she is Thorne's aunt. Well, he is not a relation to be proud of." "How vexatious that I should meet him," thought Mrs. Thorne. "I ought not to have run the risk of coming. If he tells Nicholas that I have admitted a relationship it may do harm. Once the wedding is over I shall feel more secure." CHAPTER IV. THORNE'S REVENGE. The unexpected communication which Thorne had received from his mother influenced his treatment of Jasper. Under ordinary circumstances he would have resented bitterly the humiliating defeat he had received at the hands of the "new boy." Now, however, he felt sure of ultimate revenge, and was willing to "bide his time." "Just wait till his father is dead, and mother is his guardian!" he said to himself. "Then, my young gentleman, your pride'll be taken down, see if it ain't!" His politic forbearance surprised the other boys, who did not understand the secret cause. "Ain't you goin' to lick that new boy?" asked Tower, a sycophantic follower of Thorne. "What for?" asked Nicholas. "Because he licked you the other day." "Who says he licked me?" demanded the young tyrant, with a frown. "Why, all the boys say so," stammered Tower. "Do you say so?" demanded Nicholas, savagely. "N-no," said Tower, timidly. "Lucky you don't," said Thorne, significantly. "I'll lick any boy that tells such a lie about me." Tower was silent. "The fact is," he continued, in a milder tone, "we were stopped in the middle of the fight. I was called to see a lady visitor. But for that I should have licked him in the end." "I guess you can lick him," said the young sycophant. "Of course I can," said Nicholas, loftily. "Are you going to try it?" "Why should I? I haven't anything against him. We came out even. What's the use of bearing malice?" Tower was astonished to hear such sentiments from Thorne. It did not sound at all like him. He was about the last boy who would be singled out for forbearance or forgiveness of injuries. So the younger boy concluded that his leader was afraid of Jasper. But here he did him wrong. Thorne had learned to respect his adversary's strength and skill, but he would have hazarded a second encounter but for the prudential reasons already suggested. For the present he thought it best to keep quiet. Jasper also had made a discovery, though, as we know, the information he had received was not correct. He supposed Thorne to be a nephew of his father's governess, whereas she was his mother. "Does Thorne know this?" he asked himself. He could not feel quite satisfied on this point, nor could he determine precisely how far his feelings were affected by this discovery. He felt a dislike toward Thorne on account of his tyrannical disposition and ill-treatment of younger boys. He cherished a dislike for the governess, the cause of which he could not as well define. Now, it appeared that these two were allied to each other. I beg to say that Jasper was too sensible and gentlemanly to dislike the governess simply because she was poor. That he knew very well had nothing to do with the substantial worth of a person. But he could not rid himself of the feeling that Miss Thorne's residence in his father's family portended misfortune to the parent whom he loved so well. So a week passed without any new disturbance or outbreak between the two boys. Jasper had been on the lookout, fearing that Thorne would take some opportunity to wreak vengeance on young Cameron when he was not present. But his fears were gradually allayed. Thorne seemed usually peaceable--so much so that his school-mates, who knew him well, thought he had turned over a new leaf, and speculated as to what had produced the change. But neither boys nor men change suddenly and completely, though policy and self-interest may for a time lead them to suppress the manifestation of their characteristic traits. Nine days after the fight recorded in my first chapter, as Jasper was walking in the school-yard, Davies came up hurriedly. "Kent," he said, "you're wanted." "Who wants me?" asked Jasper. "Is it Dr. Benton?" "No, the doctor's absent." "Who wants me, then?" "Little Cameron." "What! is Thorne at him again?" asked Jasper, stopping short and looking toward the house. "Yes, Thorne's at his old business, bullying him. He took the opportunity when he thought you were out of hearing." "I must stop it," said Jasper. "Where are they?" "In the back yard." "I suppose I shall have to fight him again," said Kent, regretfully. "You needn't be afraid to try it. You are a match for him." "I think I am. That is not my reason." "What then?" "I don't like fighting--it's brutal. Besides, I have another reason, which I don't care to mention." By this time they had reached the scene of the difficulty, Little Cameron was half-crying, and Thorne stood over him with upraised arm. "Do as I tell you, you little blackguard!" he was just saying, when a voice he well knew was heard, calm and resolute: "Thorne, are you bullying that boy again?" Nicholas turned and saw his old antagonist. He was sorry to see him, but he could not well withdraw now. "It's none of your business," he answered, sullenly. "I shall make it my business to protect the weak," said Jasper, quietly. "You may need to protect yourself," sneered Thorne. "If necessary, I feel competent to do so. Cameron, come here." "Don't you go!" said Thorne, menacingly. The little boy looked in terror from one to the other. Evidently he dreaded that the immediate result of his obeying Kent would be to precipitate a blow from the bully. Jasper saw the little boy's quandary, and he quickly advanced to the rescue. Throwing one arm protectingly round Cameron's waist, he regarded Nicholas firmly. "Well," he said, "what do you propose to do?" Thorne had had time to think. He hated Jasper worse than ever, but he knew that our hero did not care for blows. Moreover, he was likely to give back better than he received. There was another way of wounding him, which prudence would have led him to hold in reserve. But he was too angry to be prudent. Moreover, he had had a note two days before from his mother, from which he learned that the wedding was to be solemnized on that very day. Probably at that moment his mother was Mrs. Kent. "I won't fight," he said, with an unpleasant smile, "seeing we're relations." "Relations!" repeated Jasper, with a look of surprise and inquiry. "I don't know what you mean." "You'll know soon enough," said Thorne, mockingly. A suspicion of the truth entered Jasper's mind. He turned pale, and said: "Will you step aside with me, Thorne, and tell me what you mean!" "If you like," said Thorne, indifferently. "Now," said Jasper, when they had withdrawn a few rods from the other boys. "It appears you haven't heard the news," said Thorne, with malicious enjoyment. "Your father has married my mother. That makes us step-brothers, doesn't it?" "My father married again!" said Jasper, recoiling as if he had received a blow. "Yes. Strange you wasn't invited to the wedding, isn't it?" An hour later Jasper, having obtained special permission from Dr. Benton, was on his way home, sick with apprehension lest this threatened misfortune should prove real. CHAPTER V. JASPER'S RETURN HOME. His father married again, and he left in ignorance of his intention! Jasper felt hurt that his father, for whom he cherished so deep and warm an affection, should have taken such a step without apprising him of it in advance. If he was to marry, certainly his only son ought to have been present at the wedding. "But it isn't father's fault," he thought, bitterly. "It's the fault of Miss Thorne. She is more artful and designing even than I thought. She has married my father for his wealth and position, and she was afraid I would dissuade him from such a step." It was certainly a bitter thought that he must look upon this woman as his step-mother--that she was to take the place of the mother whom he tenderly remembered, though six years had passed since she left him. But, after all, was it true? Might it not be the case that Thorne, who evidently disliked him, had fabricated the story in order to annoy him? There was a gleam of comfort in this, and he felt that he would willingly run the risk of being laughed at for having started on a "wild-goose chase" if only his fears could be relieved. But, after all, there was the possibility--nay, the probability, considering what he knew of Miss Thorne--that Thorne's story was all true. The cars stopped for a brief minute at the depot in Morton, Jasper's destination, and he jumped out. He looked eagerly about him to see if there was anyone of whom he could ask information. To his joy he caught sight of John, a serving-man in his father's employ. "Halloo, John!" he cried, "give me a hand with my valise!" "Why, Master Jasper!" returned John, in evident surprise, "I didn't know you were coming home." "I am not expected," said Jasper. "I came at a moment's notice." "You're too late for the wedding, Master Jasper." "For the wedding!" repeated Jasper, his heart sinking at this confirmation of his worst fears. "Yes; didn't you know of it?" "I heard something, but not much. Tell me about it. When did it take place?" "At ten o'clock this morning." "At the house?" "No; your father and the governess walked over to the church, and were married private like. There was nobody invited, but we were all surprised that you didn't come to it." "I knew nothing about it," said Jasper, sadly. "It was Miss Thorne's doings, then--leastways, I must say Mrs. Kent's, now." "I know it, John. My father would not have treated me that way. How long has it been going on--the--" "The courtship? Well, that was all on the side of Miss Thorne, I'm thinkin'. She wheedled your father into marrying her." "I wish I had been here." "Poor man! he felt too weak to resist, and he did it only because she teased him. I can take my oath of that." "It is infamous!" said Jasper. "Have they gone away?" "No; they ain't goin', I've heard. Your father don't feel able to travel, and the governess--I mean your step-mother--she don't care much. They're at home now." "Then I will go up. I suppose they will be surprised to see me." "Yes, they will, but your father'll be glad. He sets the world by you, Master Jasper." "I believe he does, John," said Jasper. "I wish I could have saved him from this misfortune." "It's too late now entirely." "You are right. I don't know but it might be best for me to turn round and go back again to school without going to the house at all; but I must face this thing, and see for myself. If you've got nothing else to do, John, you may carry my valise." "I'll do it, Master Jasper, directly. You go up to the house, and I'll be there in a jiffy." So Jasper walked thoughtfully and sadly homeward. We must precede him. In a sunny sitting-room on the second-floor sat Jasper Kent's father in a luxurious arm-chair. He was barely fifty, but evidently a chronic invalid. His constitution had been undermined years before by a residence of several years in Central America, where he had acquired a fortune, but paid a costly price therefor in the loss of his health. For years he had done no business other than to take care of his property, which was amply sufficient to enable him to live luxuriously. Yet he did not find the time hanging heavily upon his hands. Of a studious taste, he had surrounded himself with books and pictures. He received regularly a New York daily paper, and the leading magazines and reviews, and barring his ill-health, and occasional seasons of pain, passed his time in a placid and agreeable manner. Circumstances, perhaps, had fostered a disposition to indolence, and made it more difficult to resist the artful schemes of Miss Thorne, whom he had admitted into the house as governess of his little niece, Florence Grantley, but who had from the first cherished the ambitious design of making herself mistress of the establishment. It is needless to recapitulate the steps she took in this direction. It is enough to chronicle her ultimate success. We introduce the newly-married pair, as they sit conversing in the pleasant sitting-room already referred to. "I think Jasper ought to be at once informed of our marriage," said Mr. Kent. "There is no need of haste, in my opinion, my dear," said Mrs. Kent. "Indeed, he ought to have been present at the ceremony. I am afraid the poor boy will feel hurt that I should have left him wholly in the dark." Mrs. Kent's lip curled. Evidently she had no particular feeling for the "poor boy." "Lay the whole blame upon me, Mr. Kent," she said. "It was I who advised it, and I am willing to take the responsibility." "I know you advised it, my dear," said Mr. Kent, to whom this phrase was yet new; "but I could not understand why." "I will explain, and I think you will consider my explanation a good one. It would have taken Jasper's attention from his studies, and it might have been some time before he would have been able to resume them to advantage." "That may be, but still on an occasion of this kind--" "If the ceremony had not been so private--wholly out of regard to your health--of course he should have been recalled. As it is, it is better on all accounts not to disturb him. Did I tell you that I saw him last week?" "Saw Jasper?" "Yes." "Was he here? Why did I not see him?" asked Mr. Kent, in surprise. "It was not here that I saw him--it was at his school." "At his school! How came you to go there?" inquired her husband in still greater surprise. "I will tell you, though I have hitherto kept it a secret, as a matter of my own. Now, since I am your wife, it is only proper that I should acquaint you with it. I have a nephew at the same school." "You have a nephew at Dr. Benton's boarding-school?" "Yes," answered Mrs. Kent, lowering her voice to a compassionate inflection. "Poor boy! he has neither father nor mother! He is entirely dependent upon me. Out of my salary I have paid his expenses ever since I entered your employ." "That was generous and kind of you," said her husband, approvingly. "What is the boy's name?" "Nicholas Thorne." "Your brother's son, I suppose?" said Mr. Kent. "Ye--es," she replied, hesitatingly. "What is his age?" "Sixteen. He is about the same age as Jasper. Do I venture too much in asking you to become his friend?" Mrs. Kent modulated her voice, as she well knew how to do, to counterfeit warm and tender feeling, as she proffered this request. Her nature was feline, and she knew how to conceal her claws. "You may rely upon my co-operation, my dear," said Mr. Kent, kindly, "in your noble task." There was a latent gleam of triumph in Mrs. Kent's eyes as she heard this promise, which transferred to her husband a burden which had long been a drain upon her own slender purse. She had dreaded the effect of this announcement upon her husband, and finally, as we have seen, thought it best to change the relationship and call Nicholas her nephew, and not her son. So that difficulty was well surmounted, and the effect had been to impress Mr. Kent with a sense of her generous and unselfish devotion. But her exultation was short-lived. A bustle was heard outside. An instant later the door was thrown open, and Jasper entered the room, flushed and excited. CHAPTER VI. THE STEP-MOTHER. "Jasper!" exclaimed his father, in surprise, but showing pleasure, nevertheless, at his son's unexpected presence. The boy went straight up to his father, passing within two feet of his father's wife, but without even looking at her. "Father!" he burst forth, impulsively, "is it true?" "Is what true?" asked his father, embarrassed, for he guessed what Jasper meant. "Are you married--to her?" pointing to Mrs. Kent, who looked indignant at the reference. "Yes, Jasper," answered his father, nervously. "Shake hands with your--with Mrs. Kent." He was about to say "your mother," but something in his memory, perhaps something in his son's face, led him to change the expression. Jasper did not apparently heed the suggestion. Instead, he said, reproachfully: "Why was it, father, that you left me in ignorance of your intention?" "She thought it best," said his father, in an apologetic tone. Mrs. Kent spoke for the first time. "Yes, Jasper, we thought it would only interrupt your studies." Jasper could not help a slight sneer, as he answered: "You were very considerate, madam; but it seems to me that such an important event in my father's life would justify an interruption." Mrs. Kent repressed her real feelings of anger and vexation, and answered mildly, and with an affectation of good humor: "I don't know but you are right, Jasper, and we were wrong. At any rate, since you have come it is a pity you were not here earlier, so that you could have been present at the ceremony. It was quite private, as your father can tell you." "Yes, Jasper, there were no invitations issued," said his father. "I wish that I had come earlier," said Jasper, slowly. "At any rate, now that you are here," said Mrs. Kent, with well-feigned cordiality, for it was politic to keep on good terms with Jasper, since he was his father's favorite, "you will stay a day or two." "You forget, madam, the interruption to my studies," said Jasper. "I should like to wring the boy's neck," thought Mrs. Kent, her eyes contracting slightly, but she answered, amiably: "I am afraid I have thought too much of that already. Let me make amends by welcoming you, and asking you to stay as long as you can." Mr. Kent nodded approvingly at these words of his wife. "I ought not to complain," said Jasper, "since you treated me no worse than you did your own son." "Nicholas has betrayed my secret!" thought Mrs. Kent, turning pale. "What are you talking about, Jasper?" demanded Mr. Kent, surprised. "My wife has no son." "Jasper means my nephew," explained Mrs. Kent, recovering her assurance. "He said you were his mother," said Jasper. "Yes," said Mrs. Kent, with admirable composure, "the poor boy has always looked upon me as a mother, though such is not our relationship. Indeed, I may say, orphan as he is, I have been a mother to him." "And it is very much to your credit, my dear," said Mr. Kent, kindly. "We must have him here on a visit. As Jasper's schoolmate, and your nephew, he shall be doubly welcome." "You are very kind, Mr. Kent," said his wife, in a tone which might well be mistaken for that of grateful emotion. "It will, indeed, be a treat to my poor Nicholas to come here, even for a day." "He must spend his next vacation here, eh, Jasper? It will be pleasant for you to have a boy of your own age here." "Do as you like, father," said Jasper, who didn't care to say how distasteful the proposition was to him, or to explain the nature of the relations between Nicholas and himself. Mrs. Kent looked at him sharply as he spoke, and understood better how he felt. But, as he did not openly object, she was satisfied. It was what she had wished to bring about, and she felt pleased that the proposal had come from Mr. Kent, and that Jasper had not spoken against it. "I will go and order your room to be made ready for you, Jasper," she said. "You had better write to Dr. Benton that you will stay with us a day or two." So saying, she left the room, and Jasper was left alone with his father. "Don't you like this marriage, Jasper?" asked his father, anxiously, seeing that his son looked sober. "No, father," answered Jasper, frankly. "I have not yet got over the shock of the first news." "You think I ought to have told you about it." "You are not accustomed to keep secrets from me, father." "I did it for the best, Jasper; I wanted to tell you, but she--Mrs. Kent--thought it best not." "I am afraid, father," said Jasper, sadly, "it will not be the only time that she is destined to come between us." "No, Jasper," answered his father, with more energy than was usual with him, "that shall not be. I am sure she would not wish it, and I know I wouldn't permit it. I hope, my dear boy, that you will become reconciled to the new state of things." "One thing would reconcile me to it," said Jasper. "What is it?" "To be assured that it would promote your happiness." "I feel sure that it will," said Mr. Kent, but he did not speak very confidently. "If it be so, it is all I ask. But tell me, father, did you marry for love?" Mr. Kent hesitated. "I am too old for that, Jasper," he answered, pleasantly. "The fact is, I need a nurse and Miss Thorne needed a home; and, in fact, without pretending to any sentimental reason, we concluded that it would be the best thing under the circumstances." "Was she very much surprised when you made the proposal, father?" asked Jasper, significantly. "No, I can't say she was," answered his father, embarrassed. "It is as I thought," Jasper said to himself; "she inveigled my father into the marriage." He said aloud: "Well, father, I heartily hope it will be for your happiness; and now let us talk about something else. Shall I tell you about the school?" "Yes, Jasper." So Jasper gossiped about school matters in a way that interested his father, and the two forgot for a time that a new tie had been formed that might possibly make a difference between them. Meanwhile Mrs. Kent, instead of giving directions about Jasper's room, opened her writing-desk and wrote a hurried note to Nicholas. In this she said: "Remember, Nicholas, you are to pass for my nephew. Why were you so imprudent as to tell Jasper I was your mother? I have explained that you regard me as a mother, though really my nephew. You must give the same explanation. Jasper is at home now, not very well pleased to find that he has a step-mother. But it is done, and he will find it can't be undone. Be prudent, follow my directions implicitly, and you will find it to your account. "Your devoted aunt, "Matilda Thorne Kent. "P.S.--I have told Mr. Kent about you, and he authorizes me to invite you here to spend the next vacation." CHAPTER VII. NEW RELATIONS. Jasper remained till the next afternoon. His father urged him to stay longer, and his step-mother, with apparent cordiality, seconded the invitation; but Jasper felt that the charm of home was gone. The new wife had stepped in between his father and himself. He felt sure that the marriage had not been of his father's seeking. To him it was no object. To the former governess it was a matter of importance, since it secured her a permanent home and position, and a share of Mr. Kent's property. There was an old servant in the family, a trusty maid, who had been in it before Jasper was born. With her he could speak confidentially. "Tell me, Margaret," he asked, "how came my father to marry Miss Thorne?" Margaret went to the door and looked out cautiously, then closed it. "I don't want her to hear what I say," she commenced, when convinced that they were in no danger of listeners, "but it's my belief she asked your father to marry her." "Do you really believe that, Margaret?" "Yes, I do, Master Jasper. She's that bold she wouldn't mind it, not a bit. Only she'd do it sly-like. I know just how she'd do it. She'd tell him how she hadn't got a home, and must go out into the wide world, and get him to pity her. Then, you know, he'd got used to seeing her round, and a sick man don't like changes." "Why couldn't she stay as governess to Florence?" "According to her father's will Florence is to pass the next four years in the family of his sister, and she--that's her aunt--has a governess for her own children that'll do for Florence, too. So there wasn't no need of Miss Thorne staying here any longer. Your father asked her to stay a while, till she could find another place. It's my belief she didn't try, being bent on staying here as the mistress. At any rate, she told your father she couldn't get a place, and he offered her the one she wanted, that of his wife." "How do you like her, Margaret?" asked Jasper, thoughtfully. "Me like her! That's what I never did. She's like a cat--soft-spoken enough when she has her own way, but she's got claws, and you may depend she'll show 'em. I hope she won't do anything to harm you, Master Jasper." "Me!" said Jasper, with the bold confidence of a boy, laughing at the thought. "What can Mrs. Kent--a woman--do to injure me? I'll risk that, Margaret. It's of my father I'm thinking. Will she treat him well?" "I think she will, for it's her object to, Master Jasper. She's married him for money, you know." "I don't mind her benefiting by my father's property, if she will make him comfortable during his life." "I think she will; she's too sly, and knows her own interest too well not to." "I'm glad you think that, Margaret. I shall feel better about it." * * * * * * * * * "Then you don't think you can stay, Jasper?" said Mrs. Kent, softly, when he announced his determination. "No, madam, I think I ought to be getting back to school." "Perhaps you are right. We shall miss you." "Yes, Jasper, we shall miss you," said his father. "I will write you often, father. If you are not feeling well at any time, write and let me know." "I will do so, Jasper," said his step-mother, promptly; "but I shall have better news to write. Your father shall have the best of care." "Thank you, madam. If you can contribute to his comfort, you will place me under obligations to you." "As a wife, it will be my duty as well as my pleasure to do so," said Mrs. Kent. Jasper bowed. The suggestion of the relationship always fell unpleasantly on his ears. The carriage came round to take Jasper to the depot. His father and step-mother looked out of the front windows, and saw him off. "He is a noble, warm-hearted boy," said his father, warmly. "Yes," said Mrs. Kent, assenting, because it was expected. "Manly and high-spirited, too!" added his father, in a tone full of affectionate admiration. "I'd like to break his spirit!" thought Mrs. Kent, spitefully. "Some time I may have the chance." Of course she didn't venture to say this. She only inquired, "Were you like him at his age, Mr. Kent?" Mr. Kent smiled. "I won't flatter myself so far," he answered. "Jasper is an improvement on the parent stock. I see in him more manliness and self-reliance than I possessed at his age." "May it not be parental partiality?" asked Mrs. Kent, who by no means enjoyed hearing Jasper's praises. "No, I don't think so." "You must let me believe that it is your modesty then. Jasper may be a fine boy, but he will do well if he grows up as good a man as you." "Now you flatter me, my dear," said Mr. Kent, smiling. "You have too good an opinion of me." "I don't know about that," said Mrs. Kent to herself. "I think you are an addle-headed old fool, but I won't say so." Aloud she said, with a smile: "My marrying you is a proof of my good opinion, Mr. Kent." "Thank you," said her husband, politely. He was not a suspicious man--far from it--but even he knew that his wife only married him for a home and an establishment. But he never let his mind dwell on such things, and he quietly permitted his wife's assertion to go uncontradicted. * * * * * * * * * Meanwhile Jasper Kent had returned to his boarding-school. There was one who awaited his return with mingled curiosity and exultation. This was Nicholas Thorne. He had received his mother's letter, from which he learned, first, that her plan had succeeded, and she was now the wife of a rich man, and, secondly, that his own relationship to her must be changed in the eyes of the world. "I suppose mother knows what is best," he said to himself. "So I'm to be her nephew, am I? Well, it's all one to me, as long as I fare the better for her good fortune." For the moment it occurred to him that his mother might intend to throw him off--in a measure--but he quickly laid it aside. Bad as his mother was, she was yet devoted to him, and in so far was superior to him, for he cared for himself first and for no one second. The thought originated in his own base selfishness, and was laid aside only because he had received too many proof's of his mother's affection to doubt her. When he heard that Jasper had got back he took pains to meet him. "Well, Kent," he said, with a show of intimacy which Jasper found very disagreeable, "what news from home?" Jasper was about to reply abruptly, when it occurred to him that, after all, Nicholas had an interest in the matter. "I suppose you mean to ask if your mother is well?" he said, eyeing Jasper keenly. But Nicholas was on his guard. His mother's letter had cautioned him. "No, I don't," he answered, impudently. "She is your mother, not mine." "My mother!" exclaimed Jasper, coloring. "Yes, she's your father's wife, isn't she?" said Thorne, with a leer. "Yes, but I acknowledge no such relationship as you suggest." "She's your step-mother, whatever you say." "I shall never call her so. You told me before I went that she was your mother." "I have always called her so, because I have known no other," said Thorne, composedly. "She is really my aunt." "It must be true, then," thought Jasper. "However, it is of little importance to me what the relationship may be." "I suppose this match makes us relations," said Thorne, smiling disagreeably. "I don't see that it does," said Jasper, coldly. "You'd rather it wouldn't, I suppose," sneered Thorne, provoked. "I don't know you well enough to desire so close a connection," said Jasper, in the same cold tone. "We shall know each other well enough some time," said Thorne, with something of menace in his tone. Jasper turned on his heel and walked away. CHAPTER VIII. SUDDEN DEATH. Two months later there was a vacation for a week. Nicholas expected to spend this with his mother, but for some reason Mrs. Kent gave him no invitation. Probably she thought that Nicholas, though a paragon in her eyes, was not likely to win favor in the eyes of Mr. Kent. His rough, brutal disposition would have repelled the sick man, who had become gentle in his enforced seclusion. Thorne was disappointed, but his disappointment was softened by a timely remittance of ten dollars from his mother, which he spent partly in surreptitious games of billiards, partly in overloading his stomach with pastry and nearly making himself sick. Jasper spent the week at home. His company was the source of great comfort and joy to his father, and this repaid him for the intrusion of his step-mother. She treated him with politeness and apparent cordiality, but once or twice, when he chanced to look up unexpectedly, he detected her eyes fixed upon him with a glance that seemed to express detestation. On these occasions her expression changed instantly, and she addressed him in a soft, friendly voice. All this puzzled him. "Does she hate me or not?" he asked himself. "I certainly don't like her. Still, I shall force myself to treat her politely as long as she treats my father well." His father seldom spoke of his wife to his son, but sometimes Jasper noticed that he breathed a sigh of relief when she left the room, as if her presence had been a restraint upon him. He didn't like to ask his father any question directly as to the relations between them. He hoped that at least they did not add to his father's discomfort. At the end of the week Jasper was about to return to school. "How long before you have another vacation, Jasper?" asked his father, wistfully. "Eleven weeks, father." "It seems a long time, Jasper." "I can come home during that time." "To my mind such interruptions of study are bad for a boy," said Mrs. Kent. "Perhaps they are," assented Mr. Kent, reluctantly. "I won't let them be an interruption, father," said Jasper. "If you want me to come home, I will." "I hope, Jasper, you will understand my motive for speaking," said Mrs. Kent, softly. "I should really be glad to see you, but sometimes we have to sacrifice our own inclinations--don't we, Mr. Kent?" "Yes, my dear," said Mr. Kent, listlessly. And he turned his eyes once more to Jasper, who had his overcoat on and was waiting for the carriage to convey him to the depot. "Do you feel as well as usual, father?" asked Jasper, anxiously. "Yes, I don't know but I do; perhaps a little more languid, but that is not unusual." "Well, good-bye, father. If you want to see me at any time, write a line, and I'll come at once." "Thank you, my dear boy. Don't overwork yourself at school." There was a slight smile on Mrs. Kent's thin lips. Jasper noticed and mentally resented it. But the time had come for leave-taking, and he hurried away. Six weeks passed. Jasper heard from home that his father was about the same, and this assurance relieved him of anxiety. Still, he made up his mind that he would spend the next Sunday at home. He would go on Saturday morning and come back on Monday morning, and he knew that his father would enjoy even this brief visit. But he was destined to go home quicker. On Thursday afternoon a boy came up to the main entrance of Dr. Benton's school. "It's the boy from the telegraph office," said Wilder to Jasper. "I wonder whether he's got a message for the doctor or one of us boys?" said Jasper, not suspecting that it was for himself. "I'll ask," said Wilder. "Here, you, boy! who's your telegram for?" "For Jasper Kent," said the boy. "Will you call him?" "I am he," said Jasper, hurrying forward, with pale face and beating heart, for a telegram always inspires fear. "Then here it is. Just sign the book," said the boy. Jasper scrawled his name hurriedly and tore open the envelope. These were the brief words of the dispatch: "Come home, for the Lord's sake, Master Jasper. Your father's dying. "Margaret Bower." The paper swam before Jasper's eyes. "What is it, Jasper--bad news?" asked Wilder; but Jasper did not wait to answer. He rushed to Dr. Benton's office, got his permission to go home, packed his valise, and in five minutes was on his way to the depot. He was just in time for the afternoon train. At seven o'clock in the evening he entered the avenue that led to his father's house. Throwing open the front door, he met Margaret in the hall. "I'm glad you're here, Master Jasper," said the faithful handmaiden, heartily. "Is it too late?" "I hope not; indeed, I hope not." Jasper waited for no more, but rushed up stairs and into his father's room. There were two persons there--the step-mother and a man of thirty, with black whiskers and sallow complexion, with whom she was talking earnestly. They, started when Jasper entered, and looked discouraged. Mrs. Kent looked displeased and annoyed. "How is my father?" exclaimed Jasper, excitedly. "Hush! He is very low," said Mrs. Kent "You shouldn't have dashed in here so abruptly." "Is there no hope for him?" asked the boy, sorrowfully. "No, my young friend," said the man, smoothly. "All has been done that human skill can do, but without avail." "Are you the doctor?" "I am." "Where is Dr. Graham, my father's old doctor?" "I dismissed him," said his step-mother, "He was not competent to attend so critical a case. This is Dr. Kenyon." "I never before heard Dr. Graham's skill doubted," said Jasper. "Is my father conscious?" "No; he is under the influence of morphine. Do not wake him up." "Was he, then, in great pain?" "Yes, in great pain." Quietly Jasper drew near the bedside. His father lay unconscious, his form rigid, his face thin and betraying marks of weariness and suffering. The tears rose to the eyes of Jasper as he realized that his father was passing away. As he looked on there was a slight convulsive movement; then repose. In that one moment his father had passed on to another world. The doctor had approached the bedside also, and he, too, saw the movement. "He is dead!" he announced. "Dead!" repeated Mrs. Kent, in a voice rather of surprise than of sorrow. "Yes." "Well," she said, coolly, "we must all die. We have the satisfaction of knowing that we have done all we could do to preserve his life." "Certainly, my dear madam; you may comfort yourself by that thought," said the physician. "Why did you not send for me before?" asked Jasper, turning with moist eyes to his step-mother, "that I might see my father before he died?" "We could not foresee his sudden death," said Mrs. Kent. "How do you happen to be here this afternoon?" "Didn't you direct Margaret to telegraph for me?" asked Jasper, surprised. "Did Margaret take upon herself to telegraph to you?" asked Mrs. Kent, in a tone of displeasure. "Yes," said Jasper, bitterly. "Did you mean to keep me wholly unacquainted with my father's illness?" "No; I wrote a line this afternoon, which I should have sent to the office at once." "When it was too late!" "Your reproaches are unseemly and uncalled for," said his step-mother, quite coldly. "I think differently," said Jasper, bitterly. "You should have sent for me as soon as my father got worse than usual." "In consideration of your grief I will overlook your impertinence," said Mrs. Kent, compressing her thin lips, as she left the room. The doctor followed her out, and Jasper was left alone with the dead. He did not realize it, but his father's death was to seriously affect his fortunes. CHAPTER IX. A DECLARATION OF WAR. Half an hour later Jasper left the room where his father lay dead. He did not seek the presence of his step-mother, who, he felt, had done him wrong in keeping from him his father's condition. He went instead to the kitchen, where he found Margaret. "This is a sad day for you, Master Jasper," said the sympathizing servant. "It is, indeed, Margaret. I have lost my best friend." "True for you." "But for your telegram, I should not have known even now that he was dangerously ill, I thought at first Mrs. Kent asked you to telegraph." "No, she didn't. I asked her would she send for you, and she told me it was none of my business." "It was lucky you didn't heed her," said Jasper. "She is a cold, unfeeling woman." "That she is, Master Jasper," assented Margaret, with emphasis. "How long has my father been so sick?" "For a week or more, but he took a sudden turn at the last. I think he got worse after the new doctor came." "I wanted to ask you about that. Why was Dr. Graham dismissed? He has attended my father for years." "Shall I tell you what I think, Master Jasper?" said Margaret, stopping short in her work, and looking mysterious. "Yes." "Let me whisper it, then. Come nearer, Master Jasper." Rather surprised at her manner, Jasper obeyed. "It's my belief," she whispered, "that your step-mother didn't want your father to get well." Jasper looked horror-struck. "Are you crazy, Margaret?" he ejaculated. She nodded her head positively. "I know what I'm saying," she answered. "But what can make you believe such a horrible thing?" he asked. She answered in the same low voice: "A month ago she got your father to make his will. What there is in it I don't know, but it is likely it suits her. After that she had nothing to gain by his living." "You don't think she'd--" Jasper hesitated to proceed. "Poison him? No, I don't. It wasn't needful; but your papa was that delicate, it would be enough if he was not rightly treated, and I don't believe this new doctor did the right thing by him. Dr. Graham and Mrs. Kent never could agree, but she and the new doctor have been as thick as can be. They understand one another, I'll be bound." Jasper looked shocked, and was silent for a moment. "I don't like Mrs. Kent," he said, "but, Margaret, I hope you're wrong in this. That any one could wish my dear, gentle father dead I find it hard to believe." "You haven't seen as much of your step-mother as I have, Master Jasper." "Heaven grant you are wrong, Margaret! If I thought it were true I should never want to look at the woman again." "Hush!" said Margaret, suddenly putting her hand on her lip. Jasper understood her caution, when he saw his step-mother enter the kitchen. She looked from one to the other with a suspicious glance. "This is a strange place for you, Jasper," said she, in slow, cold accents. "I don't see why, madam," he answered, in a voice equally cold. "I find you--a young gentleman--conferring with a servant." "With a trusted servant, who has been in our family for years. Nothing could be more natural." "I don't agree with you," said Mrs. Kent, in a chilly tone. "I am unfortunate in not winning your approbation," said Jasper, not caring to suppress the sarcasm. "It strikes me you are impertinent," said Mrs. Kent. She had thrown off the mask. During her husband's life she had taken special pains to be polite to Jasper, though in so doing she did violence to her feelings. There was no more to be gained by it, and she had changed suddenly. Jasper could not help alluding to it. "How happens it, madam," he said, "that your treatment of me has changed so entirely since my father's death? Brief as the interval is, you have lost no time." There was hatred in the glance she shot at him. "I was silent out of regard to your father, who was blind to your faults," she answered. "You must not expect me to be equally blind." "I don't, madam." "Do you intend to remain in the kitchen?" demanded Mrs. Kent "I was questioning Margaret about my father's last days." "I am the proper one to question." "Would you have afforded me the information I desired?" "If the questions you asked were of a proper character." "Mrs. Kent, I will take you at your word. How does it happen that you dismissed Dr. Graham, my father's old family physician?" His step-mother hesitated and looked angry, but she replied, after a brief pause: "He did not understand the case." "What makes you think so? He certainly ought to understand my father's constitution." "Perhaps he ought, but he didn't," said Mrs. Kent, sharply. "You haven't given any reason." "I have given all I choose. I don't mean to be catechised by a boy." "Who is this Dr. Kenyon whom you called in afterward?" "A very skilful physician." "He looks young." "He has a high reputation." "When did he assume charge of my father's case?" "A week ago." "And since then he has grown steadily worse." "Who told you that?" demanded Mrs. Kent, sharply. "Is it not true?" "Did Margaret tell you this?" "I did," said Margaret, quietly. "I shall remember this," said Mrs. Kent, spitefully. "I didn't need to ask Margaret," said Jasper, "when my father lies dead after a week's treatment by this skilful physician." Mrs. Kent was white with anger. "You ought to know that life and death are in the power of no doctor," she said, for, angry as she was, she saw that it was necessary to reply to what Jasper said. "In sending for Dr. Kenyon I did not much expect that he would cure your father, but I felt that it was my duty to give him this last chance. Unfortunately he was too far gone." "You thought that matters were as bad as that a week ago, and yet you didn't send for me?" exclaimed Jasper. "It would have done no good," said she, coldly. "But it would have been a satisfaction to me to see something of him in his last sickness. Mrs. Kent, you haven't treated me right in this matter." "Is that the way for a boy to talk to his--elder?" "Yes, if he says only what is strictly true." "I shall not continue this conversation," said Mrs. Kent, haughtily, "nor shall I submit to be talked to in this style. It is not for your interest to make me your enemy," she added, significantly. Jasper was frank and fearless by temperament, and anything in the shape of a menace roused his high spirit. "That consideration doesn't weigh with me a particle," he said, hastily. "We will see," she retorted, and with a look of anger she swept from the room. "Margaret," said Jasper, abruptly, "did you go into my father's sick-chamber at any time?" "Yes, Master Jasper." "Did you ever hear my father inquire after me?" "I heard him say more than once, with a sigh like, that he wished to see you." "And she wouldn't send for me!" exclaimed Jasper, bitterly. "She always opposed it, saying it wouldn't do no good, and would only take you off your studies." "Much she cared for my studies! Margaret, I will never forgive that woman, never!" "Well, I can't blame you, Master Jasper." Here Margaret heard her name called in a loud voice, and was forced to obey. "She wants to separate us," thought Jasper, as he slowly and sadly went up to his own chamber. CHAPTER X. NICHOLAS APPEARS UPON THE SCENE. The funeral was over. Mrs. Kent was considered by those present to display a great deal of fortitude. As she felt no real grief for the death of her husband, this was not remarkable. Jasper looked pale and sorrowful, but gave way to no violent demonstrations of sorrow, though he began to understand that he had not only lost his best friend, but become at the same time exposed to the machinations of a resolute and relentless enemy. In due time the will was read. It was very brief, and clear in its provisions. To Mrs. Kent was left one-third of the estate, real and personal, of which the deceased was possessed, and the balance was willed to his only child and dear son Jasper, of whom his step-mother was left guardian. When this clause was read Mrs. Kent directed a brief and triumphant glance at Jasper. He met the glance, and understood what it meant. He knew that it boded him no good. The company assembled gradually dispersed, and Jasper was left alone with his step-mother. "You see that I am left your guardian," she said. "Yes," answered Jasper, briefly. "Perhaps you would have chosen a different one if the choice had been left to you," she continued, with a sneer. "I should," said Jasper, promptly. "Well, that is plain language." "I suppose you expected a plain answer," said the boy, firmly. "I did not expect a polite one. You appear to forget that I am a lady." "You are mistaken, madam. I am ready to treat you as well as you treat me. I won't pretend that I like your guardianship, as I fear that we shall not agree." "If we don't, you will have to yield," said his step-mother. "I would rather not dispute till it is absolutely necessary," said Jasper. "May I ask whether you desire me to return to school?" "I have not made up my mind. I may be able to tell you to-morrow." "Until you make up your mind you expect me to remain at home, I suppose?" "Yes." Jasper bowed and turned away. He went down stairs into the hall just as the front door was opened, and the familiar voice of Nicholas Thorne was heard. Jasper stared in some surprise at the intruder, not knowing that he was expected. "Halloo, Jasper!" said Thorne, boisterously. "How are you?" "I am well," said Jasper, distantly. "Where's mother?" "Your mother? Your aunt, you mean." "No, I don't. That's all gammon. She's my mother." "She is!" exclaimed Jasper. "What made you deny it, then?" "Policy," said Thorne, laughing. "Your father might not have liked it. Now it's all right." "Did your mother send for you?" asked Jasper. "Yes, of course she did. This is to be my home now." Jasper made no comment. What could he say? If Thorne were his step-mother's son, it was only natural that he should live in the house of which she was mistress. But it seemed to him as if he were being pushed out of his own father's house, and these strangers were coming in to occupy it He felt that it would no longer seem like home to him. "Well, where's my mother?" asked Thorne. "She's up stairs. Shall I show you the way?" "If you're a mind to. I guess I'll know my own way round here pretty soon." "What a detestable fellow!" thought Jasper. "I am afraid we shall quarrel soon." He led the way up stairs, and ushered Nicholas into his mother's presence. This uncouth boy was the one object this selfish woman loved. She uttered an exclamation of delight. "Welcome home, my dear Nicholas!" she exclaimed, advancing hastily and throwing her arms round his neck. He received the embrace apathetically, but made no opposition, as at another time he might have done. He felt on good terms with his mother and the whole world, in the face of the brilliant improvement of his prospects. "Are you well, my dear boy?" asked Mrs. Kent. "Oh, I'm well enough, mother. This is a splendid old place, isn't it?" Mrs. Kent laughed at Jasper. "Yes, it is a fine country-place." Jasper left the two, and went down stairs. "Say, mother, how about the will?" asked Thorne. "Is it all right?" "A third of the estate is left to me." "Only a third! Does Jasper get the rest?" "Yes." "That's a shame. You ought to have had half." "I shall have control of the whole till Jasper is of age. I am left his guardian." "That's good, anyhow. You must make him toe the mark, mother." "I mean to." "He's always had his own way, and he may give you trouble. He feels high and mighty. I can tell you." "I shall know how to deal with him," said Mrs. Kent, closing her thin lips resolutely. "He will find me as firm as himself." "I guess that's so, mother. You'll prove a tough customer." Mrs. Kent smiled, as if she enjoyed the compliment. "I'll stand by you, mother. If you have any trouble, just call me in." "I don't expect to need any help, Nicholas; but I am glad to find I have a brave son, who will stand by his mother." Certainly no one believed in Nicholas so thoroughly as his mother. To the world generally he was a cowardly bully, rough, brutal, and selfish. In his mother's eyes he was manly and a paragon of youthful virtue. I have already said that Thorne's affection for his mother was far less disinterested, as is very apt to be the case with boys. His intention to benefit by the change of circumstances was shown at once. "What allowance are you going to give me, mother?" he asked. "I have not thought, yet, Nicholas." "Then I want you to think, mother." "How much do you want?" "I want as much as Jasper gets." "You shall receive as much," said his mother, promptly. "Do you know how much he has received?" "Yes--he has had five dollars a week." "That's too much." "It isn't too much for me." "I shall reduce his allowance to three dollars a week." "You don't expect me to get along on three dollars?" grumbled Thorne. "I will give you five." "And Jasper only three?" "Yes." "Won't he be mad!" exclaimed Nicholas, with malicious satisfaction. "What'll you say to him about it?" "I shall merely announce my decision," said Mrs. Kent, coolly. "I am not bound to assign any reasons." "Won't there be a precious row!" said Thorne. "I presume he will complain, but he has not conducted himself toward me in a manner to secure any favors." "I say, mother, can you give me my first week's allowance in advance? I'm awful hard up." "Here, my son," said Mrs. Kent, drawing out her pocket-book and placing a five-dollar bill in her son's hand. "Good for you, mother. When are you going to have supper?" "In an hour." "How much property did the old man leave?" "The estate is probably fully up to one hundred thousand dollars. This place is worth fifteen thousand. The rest is in good interest-paying stocks and bonds." "And a third belongs to you! I say, mother, you've feathered your nest well. I guess I'll go out and take a look round." In the rear of the house, in front of the stable, Nicholas caught sight of Jasper. He smiled maliciously. "I'll go and tell him about the reduction in his allowance," he said to himself. CHAPTER XI. THE OUTBREAK OF HOSTILITIES. Jasper was quietly thinking over his change of circumstances when he was roused by a rather violent slap on the shoulder. Turning hastily, he saw that it was Nicholas. "I say, this is a jolly place, Jasper," said Thorne. "Yes," said Jasper. "It has been my home as far back as I can remember." "That's where you have the advantage of me, but after all it doesn't make much difference, as long as it's going to be my home now." Jasper didn't reply. "I say, Kent, it seems odd that me and you are brothers," said Thorne, not very grammatically. "We are not," said Jasper, quickly. "It's all the same--we've got the same mother." "You are mistaken," said Jasper, coldly. "You know what I mean. She's my mother and your step-mother." "That's very different. Besides, the relationship is so very recent that I find it hard to think of your mother as any relation at all." "She is, though. I suppose me and you will be a good deal together now." "I don't know what my future plans will be," said Jasper, not very much elated by this prospect. "No, I suppose not. Mother'll arrange about them. How much allowance did your father use to give you?" Jasper thought at first of refusing to reply, but it occurred to him that under the new and strange circumstances it was not an improper question for Nicholas to ask. He therefore decided to reply. "Five dollars a week," he answered. "When was it paid?" "On Saturday." "See here," said Thorne, drawing from his vest pocket the five-dollar bill his mother had given him. "What of it?" said Jasper. "It's my allowance for this week," said Thorne, triumphantly. "I congratulate you," said Jasper, coldly. "That's kind in you," returned Thorne, with a sneer, "especially as you are cut down." "What do you mean?" asked Jasper, hastily. "Mother says five dollars a week is too much for you. She's going to cut you down to three." The indignant color came to Jasper's cheek. Was this interloper--this stranger--to be preferred to him in his own father's house? He was not excessively fond of money, and had there been need would not have objected to a reduction of his allowance. But to be deprived of his rights in favor of a fellow like Thorne was intolerable. If Nicholas wished to annoy and anger him, he had succeeded. "Who told you this?" demanded Jasper, sharply. "My mother," answered Nicholas, with a gratified smile. "When?" "About fifteen minutes ago," replied Thorne, with provoking coolness. "I don't think she would do anything so outrageous." "Don't you? You'll find mother's got plenty of grit." "So have I," said Jasper, his face hardening. "If your mother undertakes to wrong me she will repent it." "You had better not say that to her," said Thorne, insolently. "I shall when the proper time comes. My allowance is not due yet. I don't care for the money, but my father knew what it was proper for me to have." "There's going to be a row," thought Nicholas, with satisfaction. "I'll bet on mother. She'll put down this whipper-snapper." Jasper turned away, and walked out of the yard. "Where are you going?" asked Thorne. "To walk." "I guess I'll go along, too." "I would rather go alone." "You're not very polite." "Excuse me," said Jasper, with the instinct of a gentleman. "You would find me very poor company. Another time we will walk together." "Oh, just as you like; I don't want to intrude," said Thorne, sulkily. They did not meet again till supper. Mrs. Kent presided. On one side sat Nicholas, on the other Jasper. Our hero looked sad. The kind, worn face he was accustomed to see at the head of the table was gone forever. He felt that he was indeed desolate. His appetite was very small, while, on the other hand, Nicholas seemed to be famished. His mother kept plying him with dainties and tidbits, and he appeared to like the treatment amazingly. "Why don't you eat, Jasper?" asked Thorne with his mouth full. "I am not hungry." "I should think your walk might have given you an appetite." "It doesn't appear to." "You look awful glum. Is it what I said this afternoon?" "About what?" "Your allowance being cut down." "I wasn't thinking about that particularly. Besides, you are not the one from whom I expect to receive such communications." "It's all true, though, as you will find. Ain't it, mother?" persisted Nicholas, who was anxious to have the row come off as soon as possible. Jasper turned his glance upon Mrs. Kent. "You needn't have introduced the subject, Nicholas," she said, with slight reproof. "Why not, mother?" "It isn't a proper subject to introduce at the supper-table." "You see, Jasper didn't half believe what I told him." "He may rely upon your statement," said Mrs. Kent. "Am I to understand that my allowance is reduced to three dollars a week?" asked Jasper, who felt that he had been dragged into the discussion. "Yes. I consider that three dollars a week is a liberal allowance for a boy of your age." "My father gave me five." "Your father acted according to his judgment," said Mrs. Kent, coldly. "On some points I differ from him in judgment. I think that he indulged you too much, probably because you were his only child." "He was always kind to me," said Jasper. "It was his nature to be kind." "You will find me kind, too, if you deserve it," said his step-mother. But her tone belied her words. "Nicholas tells me that his allowance is to be five dollars," said Jasper. "I conceive that the amount of his allowance has nothing to do with yours," said Mrs. Kent. "Is it true?" persisted Jasper. "It is," said Mrs. Kent, with a defiant look, which Jasper interpreted to mean "What are you going to do about it?" "Why is he to receive five dollars, if I am only to get three?" "Because I choose." "You have answered rightly," said Jasper, scornfully. "Even you are unable to defend it on the score of fairness or justice." Mrs. Kent's thin lips compressed. "Audacious boy!" she exclaimed, "do you dare to speak to me in this style?" "I am not aware of any impropriety, madam. I am protesting against your unjust partiality for Nicholas." "He is my son." "I am aware of that; but the money out of which the allowance is paid came to you from my father." "Do you dare to continue your impertinent remarks?" exclaimed his step-mother, pale with rage. "Madam, I am only stating the truth," said Jasper, sturdily. "You cannot expect me to submit tamely to such an injustice. Had you reduced my allowance and given Nicholas no more I would have let it pass." "I won't submit to this impertinence!" exclaimed Mrs. Kent, furiously. "Nicholas, will you sit there and see your mother insulted?" "What do you want me to do, mother?" asked Thorne, not exactly liking the turn matters had taken. "Put that unmannerly boy out of the room." "Oh, there ain't any need of that," said Thorne, who knew by experience Jasper's strength. "Do as I say, or I will give you no allowance at all!" said Mrs. Kent, stamping her foot angrily. Nicholas unwillingly arose from his seat and approached Jasper. "You'd better not try it, Thorne," said Jasper, coolly. "Do you hear that, sir? He has insulted you, too," said Mrs. Kent, in a furious passion. It was these words, perhaps, that spurred Nicholas to his task. Jasper had now risen, and Thorne threw himself upon him. But Jasper was prepared. In less time than I have required to tell it, Thorne found himself prostrate on the floor. "Madam," said Jasper, turning to his step-mother, "I am ready to leave your presence now, but of my own accord." He left the room. Mrs. Kent was too astonished to speak. She had felt no doubt that Nicholas was more than a match for Jasper, as he certainly was bigger, and weighed twenty pounds more. "My poor boy!" she said, pitifully, bending over her son; "are you much hurt?" "Yes," said Nicholas; "and it's all on account of you!" "I thought you were stronger than he." "So I am, but he knows how to wrestle; besides, he's so quick." "I thought you could have put him out easily." "Well, don't set me to doing it again," said Thorne, sulkily. "I didn't want to fight. You made me." "Don't mind it, my dear boy. It was because I was angry with him." "Oh, how my head aches!" "I'll put on some cologne. I'll give you an extra five dollars, too, for standing by your mother." "All right, mother," said Thorne, in a more cheerful tone. "That's the way to talk. Give it to me now." Jasper did not see either of them again that evening. He called on a friend, and, entering the house at ten o'clock, went directly to his own room. CHAPTER XII. A SCHEME OF VENGEANCE. Mrs. Kent had never cared for Jasper. Since the marriage she had disliked him. Now that he had struck down Nicholas in her presence, she positively hated him. She did not stop to consider that he was provoked to it, and only acted in self-defense. She thirsted for revenge--more, indeed, than Nicholas, who, bully as he was, having been fairly worsted, was disposed to accept his defeat philosophically. If he could annoy or thwart Jasper he would have been glad to do it, but he did not desire to injure him physically. Not so Mrs. Kent. Her darling had been assaulted and defeated in her presence. She did not again wish to put him against Jasper lest he should be again defeated, but she wished Jasper, her detested step-son, to drink the same cup of humiliation which had been forced upon Nicholas. So she sat pondering how to accomplish the object she had in view. She could not herself beat Jasper, though, had he been younger and smaller, she would certainly have attempted it. She must do it by deputy. Under the circumstances she thought of Tom Forbes, a strong and stalwart hired man, who had been for some months working on the place. Probably he would not like the task, but she would threaten to discharge him if he refused to obey her commands, and this, she thought, would bring him around. "I wonder where Jasper is?" said Nicholas, about eight o'clock, as he sat opposite the little table where his mother was sewing. "Gone out, I suppose," said Mrs. Kent. "He found the house too hot to hold him," suggested Thorne. "He certainly will if he conducts himself in the future as he has already done. He makes a mistake if he thinks I will tolerate such conduct." "It's because you're a woman," said her son. "Boys of his age don't make much account of women." "Do you speak for yourself as well as for him?" asked Mrs. Kent, sharply. "Of course not," said Nicholas, whose interest it was to keep on good terms with his mother. "Of course not; besides, you are my mother." "You are much more of a gentleman than Jasper is," said his mother, appeased. "I hope so," said Nicholas. "As for him, I consider him a young ruffian." "So he is," said Thorne, who was ready to assent to anything that his mother might say. "And yet his father thought him a paragon!" continued Mrs. Kent, her lip curling. "It is strange how parents can be deceived!" Unconsciously she illustrated the truth of this remark in her own person. She considered Nicholas handsome, spirited, and amiable--indeed, as an unusually fascinating and attractive boy. To others he was big, overgrown, malicious, and stupid. But then mothers are apt to look through different spectacles from the rest of the world. "I guess Jasper'll want to change his guardian," said Thorne, laughing. "You and he won't hitch horses very well." "Don't use such a common expression, Nicholas. I want you to grow up a well-bred gentleman." "Oh, well, I mean to. But I say, if his father liked him so much, what made him appoint you to take care of him?" "He didn't know how I felt toward Jasper. I humored his fancies, and treated him better than I felt toward him." "Then you wanted to be his guardian?" "Yes, I wanted to pay off old scores," said Mrs. Kent, again compressing her lips with unpleasant firmness. "What made you dislike him?" asked her son, with curiosity. "He was opposed to my marriage. He would have stopped it if he could, but there I got the better of him. When he found that he was too late he treated me with coldness. He never liked me." "By Jove! I don't think he's had much reason," said Nicholas, laughing boisterously. "He'll regret not having treated me with more attention. I can thwart all his plans and make his life very uncomfortable." "I'll trust you to do that, mother. You've got spunk enough." "Don't say 'spunk,' Nicholas." "What shall I say, then?" "Resolution--firmness." "It's all the same." "There is a choice in words. Remember, my dear boy, I want you to be a refined and cultivated gentleman." "Well, I can be, now you're rich. But I say, mother, what are you going to do? You ain't going to stick down in this dull place all your life, are you?" "No, Nicholas. In the summer we'll go travelling." "Good!" exclaimed Nicholas, with satisfaction. "Where will we go?" "How would you like to go to Niagara Falls?" "Bully!" "Or to Saratoga?" "I don't know much about that." "It is a fashionable place." "Can a fellow have fun there?" "Of course he can." "Then I'd like to go. But I say, are you going to take Jasper, too?" "No," said Mrs. Kent, decidedly. "I certainly shall not give him so much pleasure." "I don't know. I might like it better if I had a fellow of my own age to go around with." "You will find plenty of companions more agreeable than Jasper." "All right, mother. I suppose you know best." "You can trust me to provide for your happiness, Nicholas. It is all I live for." The next morning Mrs. Kent arose early, and summoned the hired man, Tom Forbes. "Tom," said she, "have you a good whip?" "Yes, ma'am." "And a strong arm?" "Middlin', ma'am," answered the wondering hired man. "I want you to be in the kitchen, provided with your whip, when breakfast is over." "What for?" asked Tom, in surprise. "Never mind now. I shall inform you at the time." "All right, ma'am." Twenty minutes later, Jasper, unaware of his step-mother's benevolent intentions, took his seat at the breakfast-table. CHAPTER XIII. MRS. KENT IS FOILED. Breakfast was a quiet meal. Mrs. Kent preserved a frigid silence toward Jasper, interrupted only by necessary questions. Nicholas, who understood that there was a row in prospect, occasionally smiled as he looked across the table at Jasper, but he, too, was silent. When breakfast was over, and the three arose from the table, Mrs. Kent said, in a cold voice: "Jasper Kent, I have something to say to you." "Very well," said Jasper, taking a seat and looking expectant. "Yesterday you conducted yourself in a most improper manner." "Please explain," said Jasper, quietly. "You ought not to require any explanation. You made an assault upon Nicholas." "I beg pardon, Mrs. Kent, but he made an assault upon me." "You knocked him down." "Not until he attacked me." "He did so by my direction." "Did you expect me to make no resistance?" asked Jasper. "You had insulted me, and it was his duty, as my son, to resent it." "I don't think you have any right to say that I insulted you, and you would not have any reason to complain of me if you would treat me with ordinary justice and politeness." "You are insulting me now," said Mrs. Kent, angrily. "I am telling the truth. I am sorry that it is the truth. I would prefer to live on good terms with you." "And have your own way!" said his step-mother, sarcastically. "I understand you, but I will have you know that I am mistress in this house. Are you ready to apologize for having attacked Nicholas?" "I did not wish to do it, especially as he didn't attack me of his own accord, but if he should do so again I should act in the same manner." "Insolent!" exclaimed his step-mother, reddening. "You have peculiar ideas of insolence," said Jasper, quietly. "I believe in defending myself, but I shouldn't like to harm Nicholas." "You have undertaken to rebel against my authority," said Mrs. Kent, "but you don't understand me. I am not to be bullied or overcome by a boy." "You are in no danger of either from me, madam." "I shall take care not to give you the power. Nicholas, call Tom." Jasper looked at his step-mother in amazement. What had Tom Forbes to do with their colloquy. Nicholas opened the door of the adjoining room, the kitchen, and summoned the hired man. Ignorant of why he was wanted, for Mrs. Kent had not informed him, he came into the room, and looked about with a perplexed expression. He was a tall, strong-looking fellow, country-bred, of about twenty-five or six. "Where is your whip, Tom?" demanded Mrs. Kent. "My whip?" repeated Tom. "Yes; didn't I tell you I wanted you to have it?" "Yes, ma'am; it's in the kitchen." "Bring it." Tom went into the kitchen, and returned bringing the whip. "What am I to do with it?" he asked. "I will tell you in a moment. Jasper Kent," said his step-mother, turning to him, "you have rebelled against my just authority, you have insulted me in my own house, you have made a brutal attack upon my son in my presence, and now I am going to have you punished. Tom, I order you to give Jasper half a dozen lashes with your whip." It is hard to tell which looked the more surprised at this brutal command, Jasper or the hired man. They looked at each other in amazement, but Tom did not stir. "Did you hear me?" asked Mrs. Kent, sharply, impatient of the delay. "Yes, ma'am, I heard you," answered Tom, slowly. "Why don't you obey, then?" she continued, in the same tone. "Because," said Tom, with manly independence, "I didn't hire out to do anything of the kind." "Do you refuse?" "Yes, I do. You may do your own dirty work." "It seems you are not only disobedient, but insolent," said Mrs. Kent, angrily. "You must be crazy, ma'am!" said the hired man, bluntly. "No more of this. I discharge you from my employment." "What! for not flogging Master Jasper?" "For not obeying me." "I'll follow your directions, ma'am, so far as they are in the line of duty, but I won't do that." "I discharge you." "As to that, ma'am, if I go, I'll let everybody in the village know why you sent me away." For this Mrs. Kent was not altogether prepared. She knew that it was not prudent to defy public opinion. Perhaps she had already gone too far. She put a great constraint upon herself, and said: "Go back to your work. I will speak of this matter hereafter." Tom withdrew at once, glad of the opportunity. Thus far Mrs. Kent had been foiled, and she knew it. She could scarcely conceal her mortification. Jasper, who had been passive thus far, now spoke. He felt outraged and disgusted by his step-mother's brutal purpose, though it had failed. "Mrs. Kent," he said with quiet resolution, "after the scene of this morning I cannot remain in the same house with you. My father has not been dead a week, yet you have treated me in a manner which, though I never liked you, I could not have thought possible. You are left my guardian. I do not wish to remain another day in this house. Have I your permission to return to school?" "No," said his step-mother. "Why not?" "Because you wish it. I do not mean to let you have your own way." "I am willing to go to another school, if you insist upon it." "You will go to no school. You will stay here." "In this house?" "Yes." "With the opinion which you have of me, Mrs. Kent, I should hardly think this would be very agreeable to you." "It will not. I hate the sight of you!" said his step-mother, with energy. "I am sorry for that, but I am not surprised. From the way you have treated me, I should think so. Won't it be better for as both to be separated?" "It will gratify your wishes, and therefore I order you to remain here." "That we may have more such scenes as yesterday and to-day?" "No; I am determined to break your rebellious will, and teach you to obey me implicitly." "I have only to ask if you have fully made up your mind," said Jasper, quietly, but with suppressed excitement. "I mean precisely what I say." "Then, madam, I shall have to leave this house and go out into the world. I shall find more kindness among strangers than here." "I have heard boys talk like this before," said Mrs. Kent, with contemptuous incredulity. "Boys sometimes mean what they say," retorted Jasper. He took his hat and left the room without another word. "I say, mother," said Nicholas, "suppose he don't come back?" "There's no fear of that," said Mrs. Kent, coldly. "But I say, mother, he's pretty plucky, Jasper is." "He won't run away from me as long as I have charge of his property, you may be sure of that. He'll be coming back and apologizing pretty soon." "Suppose he doesn't?" "Then it'll be his own fault." "You may as well let him go back to school, mother. He'll be out of our way, and we can enjoy ourselves." "I am not going to gratify him so far. He has defied me and insulted me, and he must take the consequences," said Mrs. Kent, with a compression of her thin lips. On the whole, Jasper's prospects could not be said to be very flattering. CHAPTER XIV. MEDIATION. When Jasper left the house he bent his steps to the dwelling of a friend of his father, Otis Miller, a man of considerable property and good position. He found Mr. Miller at home. "I am glad to see you, Jasper," said he, cordially. "Thank you, sir." "You have met with a great loss," said Mr. Miller, attributing Jasper's serious expression to his father's death. "Yes, sir; I am only just beginning to understand how much." "A father's place cannot be supplied." "No, sir; but this is not the extent of my trouble." "Can I do anything to help you?" "Yes, sir. I am very much in need of advice." "I shall be glad to give you the best I can, Jasper. I was your father's friend, and I shall be glad to be yours also." "Thank you, sir. My troubles are connected with my step-mother, who treats me like an enemy." "Can this be so?" asked Mr. Miller, in surprise. "I will tell you all, and then ask your advice." "Do so." Jasper told the story briefly and without excitement. It was only in his step-mother's presence that he felt disturbed. "I have met your step-mother, but I know very little of her," said Mr. Miller. "She never impressed me very favorably, but I never dreamed that she would act in such an unreasonable manner. Perhaps even now matters are not as bad as you think. Sometimes people say things in anger which they repent of in their cooler moments." "I don't think it is the case with Mrs. Kent." "It is unfortunate, since she is your guardian." "I wish you were my guardian, Mr. Miller." "For your sake, Jasper, I wish I were. I don't think we should quarrel." "I know we should not." "You wish to know what to do?" "Yes." "You are quite sure you cannot stay at home?" "I should be subject to constant persecution from Mrs. Kent." "You think she would not allow you to go back to school?" "She has refused to do so." "There is one thing she cannot do, and that is, keep your portion of the estate from you when you become of age." "No, I suppose not." "You will then be rich." "But the money won't do me any good now, will it?" "In this way it will. Suppose I agree to pay your expenses at school--that is to say, advancing the money, to be repaid when you obtain yours?" "That would be very kind, Mr. Miller; but I shouldn't like to subject you to that risk." "You mean that a minor's promise would be invalid? Well, Jasper, I have too much confidence in you to have any doubt of your integrity." "Thank you, Mr. Miller; but suppose I should die before attaining my majority?" "Then I should probably lose the money." "That is what I thought of. I should not like to have you run the risk." "But I am willing to do so. However, it may be as well to ascertain definitely your step-mother's intentions first. I will call upon her in your interest and find out." "Thank you, sir. I should like to have you do so, as I don't want to act too hastily." "I will go at once. Will you remain here till I return?" "Yes, sir." When Mrs. Kent was told that Mr. Miller had called to see her she went down to meet him, not surmising his errand. "Mrs. Kent," said he, after the ordinary greetings were over, "I have called with reference to your relations to your late husband's son, Jasper." "Did he ask you to come?" demanded Mrs. Kent, frowning. "No; but he came to ask my advice as to what he ought to do. I am sorry to hear that you are unfriendly." "He has treated me with intolerable insolence," said Mrs. Kent, hotly. "That surprises me. It is wholly contrary to his reputation with those who have known him from his infancy," said Mr. Miller, quietly. "Then you don't know him as he is." "He tells me you have accorded your own son superior privileges." "My son treats me with respect." "Probably you treat him differently from Jasper." "I have reasons to." "You will admit that it is aggravating to see a stranger--an intruder, I may say--preferred to him in his own home?" "Who calls my son an intruder?" asked Mrs. Kent, hastily. "Let us call him a stranger, then. Was Mr. Kent aware that you had a son?" "I decline to answer your question," answered Mrs. Kent, with asperity. "To pass on, then. Have you refused Jasper permission to return to the school at which his father placed him?" "I have." "May I ask why?" "I don't know that I am responsible to you." "Mrs. Kent," said Mr. Miller, gravely, "I was the friend of your late husband. I am the friend of his son, Jasper. As the friend of both, I ask you your reason." "I will answer you, though I do not acknowledge your right to ask. I refuse to let Jasper go back to school, because I wish to punish him for his insolence and disobedience." "It cannot be any satisfaction to you to have him at home, I should think." "It is not. I have no reason to like his society." "Then it appears that you punish yourself in keeping him here." "Yes." "Do you think, Mrs. Kent, that you have any right to deprive him of the opportunity to obtain an education?" "He can attend school in this village," said Mrs. Kent. "You know as well as I that there is neither a classical nor a high school here. He would be compelled to give up the course of study upon which he has commenced." "That is his own fault," returned Mrs. Kent, doggedly. "This, then, is your unalterable determination?" "For the present, yes. If Jasper repents his ill-conduct, and makes up his mind to yield me that implicit obedience which is my due, I may hereafter consent to return him to school. But he must turn over a new leaf." "Madam," said Mr. Miller, disgusted at the woman's manner, "do you consider that you are carrying out his father's wishes in reference to his son?" "That is a question for me to decide," said Mrs. Kent, coldly. "I have undertaken the responsibility, and I have no fears about carrying out his wishes. I must trust my own judgment, not that of others." "Madam," said Mr. Miller, after a pause, "there is one other question which I should like to put to you." "Very well, sir." "This guardianship imposed upon you is a certain amount of care. Are you willing to relinquish it to another?" "To you, perhaps?" suggested Mrs. Kent, with a sneer. "I should be willing to undertake it for Jasper's sake." "I have no doubt you would, and I presume Jasper would be very glad to have you do so." "I think he would, though he didn't authorize me to speak to you about it," said Mr. Miller. "Then, sir, I refuse in the most emphatic terms. I shall not relinquish the power which his father's will gives me over him. He shall yet repent his insolence." "I regret your animosity, Mrs. Kent," said Mr. Miller, with dignity, rising as he spoke. "I was inclined to think that Jasper had exaggerated his account of the difficulties. I see now that he was correct. I have only, in wishing you good-morning, to predict that you will yet regret the manner in which you have treated your step-son." "I will take my chance of that," said Mrs. Kent. "You may report to Jasper that my only terms are unconditional submission." "I will do so, madam; but you know, as well as I, what his answer will be. His nature is too manly to submit to tyranny, even from his step-mother." "You are not over-polite, sir," said Mrs. Kent, angrily. "I am truthful, madam," was the grave reply. CHAPTER XV. GOOD-BYE. "Without exception, Jasper," said Mr. Miller, on his return, "I consider your step-mother the most disagreeble woman I ever met." Jasper could not help smiling at the look of disgust upon the features of his father's friend. "Then, sir, I infer that you did not succeed in your mission," he said. "Succeed? No. She will offer no terms except unconditional submission on your part." "That I won't agree to." said Jasper, promptly. "I don't blame you--not a particle," said Mr. Miller. "So much is settled, then," said Jasper. "Now the question comes up--what am I to do?" "How old are you?" "Nearly sixteen." "Then five years must elapse before you come into possession of your property?" "Yes, sir." "And for that length of time you are to be under the guardianship of Mrs. Kent?" "Yes, sir." "It is unfortunate," said the old gentleman, shrugging his shoulders. "I took the liberty to suggest to your step-mother that if the cares of a guardian should prove burdensome to her I would assume them." "What did she say?" "She replied in a sarcastic manner, and avowed her determination to remain your guardian." "What would you advise me to do, then, Mr. Miller?" "Before answering, Jasper, I will tell you a secret." Jasper looked curious. "Your father left in my hands a paper to be opened two years after his death. It undoubtedly relates to you." "What do you think it is?" "It may relate to the guardianship, but that is only conjecture." "Does my step-mother know of this?" "Neither she nor anyone else, save you and myself." "It will do us no good at present?" "No; but it influences my advice. Go to school for the next two years. I will advance the money to pay your bills. If at the end of that time the paper is what I hope it is, you will then be able to pay me, and for the balance of your minority I can become your guardian." "I wish you might, Mr. Miller; but I don't think, under the circumstances, I want to go back to school." "What do you wish to do, Jasper?" "I am young, and I would like to see something of the world. I would like to imagine myself a poor boy, as I really am just now, and see if I cannot make my own way." "I hardly know what to say to that, Jasper. I am afraid you do not appreciate the difficulties in your way." "To battle against them will make me strong." "Suppose you get in a tight place?" "Then I will write to you for help." "That's better. On this condition I will make no further opposition to your wishes. But have you any money?" "Ten dollars." "Rather a small sum to begin the world with." "Yes, sir. If you are willing to lend me fifty more I think I can get along till I can earn some." "Willingly. Where do you propose to go?" "To the West. My father has a cousin, a lady, married, and living in a small town on the banks of the Mississippi. I have never been to the West. I should like to go out there and see if I can't find some employment in that neighborhood." "I suppose I must not object, but your plan appears to me rather quixotic." "You might not have thought so at my age, Mr. Miller." "No; we look upon such things differently as we grow older. When do you want to start?" "To-morrow." "Stay at my house till then." "Thank you, sir. I will go home this afternoon and get my carpet-bag and a few underclothes, and then I shall be ready to start to-morrow morning." Jasper did as proposed. He would gladly have dispensed with this call at the house which had once been a home to him, but was so no longer; but it was necessary to make it. He caught sight of Tom Forbes near the house. "Tom," he called out, "do you know if Mrs. Kent is at home?" "No, Master Jasper, she went out riding, and her cub went with her." "I am afraid you're not respectful, Tom," said Jasper, laughing. "He don't deserve respect. He puts on as many airs as a prince. I warrant he was poor enough before his mother took him home. What do you think he said to me?" "What was it?" "'Look here, Tom, you harness the horse right up, do you hear? Don't stand dawdling there, for I and mother are going out to ride.'" "That sounds like Nicholas." "You may be sure he ain't used to prosperity, or he wouldn't put on so many airs!" "Well, Tom, I'm glad Mrs. Kent is out. I don't want to meet her, nor Nicholas, either." "You'll see 'em at supper, won't you?" "No; I shall not be here to supper." "When are you coming back?" "Not at all." "You don't mean that, Master Jasper?" "Yes, I do." "Are you going to school?" "No; I'm going out West." "Out West?" exclaimed Tom Forbes, stopping work in surprise. "Yes, Tom, I'm going out there to seek my fortune." "But there ain't any need of that, Master Jasper. Didn't your father leave you a fortune?" "I'm not to have it till I'm twenty-one, and till then my step-mother is my guardian. Now, I put it to you, Tom, can I stay at home to be treated as you saw me treated this morning?" "No, you can't, that's a fact. Master Jasper, I wish you'd take me with you as your servant." "As to that, Tom, I am in no position to have a servant; I've got to work for my own living." "And she here living on the fat of the land!" exclaimed Tom, indignantly. "It's an outrageous shame!" "Strong language, Tom," said Jasper, smiling. "Mind my amiable step-mother doesn't hear you." "I don't care if she does." "Thank you for your offer, Tom, but I must go alone. Perhaps I shall prosper out there. I hope so, at any rate." "Have you got any money, Master Jasper? I've got a few dollars laid by. If they'll do you any good you're welcome to take 'em. I shan't need 'em." "Thank you, Tom," said Jasper, cordially grasping his toil-embrowned hand, "but I am well provided for. Mr. Miller, my father's friend, is mine, too. He has lent me some money, and will lend me more if I need it." "I'm glad of that. You'll always find friends." Half an hour later, as Jasper was going up the street, with his carpet-bag in one hand, he saw the open carriage approaching in which Mrs. Kent and Nicholas were seated. He would liked to have escaped observation, but there was no chance. "Why, there's Jasper!" said Nicholas, "and he's got a carpet-bag in his hand." "Stop the carriage!" said Mrs. Kent, peremptorily. Nicholas, who was driving, obeyed. "Have you been to the house?" asked the step-mother. "Yes," said Jasper. "What does that carpet-bag mean?" "It means that I am going away." "Where? As your guardian, I demand to know!" "As my guardian, will you provide for my expenses?" "No." "Then I don't feel called upon to tell you." "You will repent this insubordination," said Mrs. Kent, angrily. "You will yet return home in rags." "Never!" answered Jasper, with emphasis. "Good-afternoon, Mrs. Kent." "Drive on, Nicholas!" said Mrs. Kent, angrily. "How I hate that boy!" she ejaculated. "It strikes me, mother, you've got the best of it," said Nicholas. "You've got his property, and as to his company, we can do without that." CHAPTER XVI. AN UNPLEASANT ADVENTURE. A week later Jasper was one of the passengers on a train bound for St. Louis, and already within sixty miles of that flourishing city. He had stopped over at Niagara and Cincinnati--a day or so at each place. He gratified his desire to see the great cataract, and felt repaid for doing so, though the two stops trenched formidably upon his small capital. Indeed, at the moment when he is introduced anew to the reader's notice he had but ten dollars remaining of the sum with which he started. He was, however, provided, besides, with a through ticket to St. Louis. He had been sitting alone, when a stranger entering the car seated himself in the vacant seat. Looking up, Jasper noticed that he was a tall man, shabbily dressed, with thin, sallow face and a swelling in the left cheek, probably produced by a quid of tobacco. "Good-mornin', colonel," said the stranger, sociably. "Good-morning, sir," said Jasper, smiling. "I haven't the honor of being a colonel." "Haven't you, cap'n? Well, that ain't of no account. It'll come in time. Where are you travelling?" "To St. Louis." "Ever been there afore?" "No; this will be my first visit." "You don't say! Where may you be from?" "From New York State," answered Jasper, amused. The stranger drew from his pocket a package of chewing tobacco and passed it politely to Jasper. "Help yourself, colonel," he said hospitably. "No, thank you; I don't chew." "Shoo, you don't say so! High time you began, then." "I don't think I shall ever form the habit of chewing." "Yes, you will, colonel; everybody does. Travellin' on business?" "Well, not exactly," said Jasper, hesitatingly. "That is, I am looking for a chance to go into business." "Got any capital?" interjected the stranger, carelessly, squirting a yellow stream upon the floor of the car. "Oh, I don't expect to go into business for myself at present," said Jasper, amused at the thought. "No?" said the other, reflectively. "If you had five thousand dollars I might take you into partnership." "What is your business?" asked Jasper, with curiosity. "Cotton," said the stranger. "I'm a cotton broker. I do a large business." "You don't look like it," thought Jasper, looking at his shabby costume. "You don't want a clerk, do you?" asked our hero. "Well, no, colonel. There ain't any vacancy now in my establishment. May be soon." Had Jasper felt favorably impressed with his companion he would have inquired where in the city his place of business might be, but it did not strike him that he should care to be in his employ. He accordingly pulled out a copy of a popular magazine which he had bought the day before, and began to read. The stranger bought a paper of the train-boy, and engaged in a similar way. Fifteen minutes passed in this way. At the end of that time the stranger rose leisurely, and with a brief "Mornin', colonel," passed out of the car. Whether he got into the next one or got out at the station which they were approaching Jasper could not distinguish, nor did he feel specially interested in the matter. The time soon came when he felt his interest increased. A few miles further on the conductor entered the car. It was one of his usual rounds to look at tickets. When he came up to Jasper, he said: "Be lively now. Let me see your ticket." "Isn't it in my hat?" asked Jasper, taking it off. "No; did you put it there?" "I thought I did," said our hero, surprised. "It was there when you last passed round." "Look in your pockets." Jasper felt in all of them, but the missing ticket could not be found. "It may have fallen on the floor," he said, and rising he looked under the seat. But in vain. "Did you have any ticket?" asked the conductor, suspiciously. "Certainly. You have looked at it yourself several times." "You are mistaken; I got on at the last station." "I have come all the way from Cincinnati," said Jasper, uncomfortably. "I couldn't have come so far without a ticket. What shall I do?" "You'll have to pay from the last station to St. Louis." This was not very agreeable in the state of Jasper's finances. "How much is it?" he asked. "Two dollars." Jasper felt for his pocket-book, when a new surprise awaited him. A look of consternation swept over his countenance. His pocket-book was gone. "Don't keep me waiting," said the conductor, impatiently. "My pocket-book is gone!" exclaimed our hero, gazing in blank dismay at the expectant official. "What?" "I can't find my pocket-book." "Look here, young man," said the conductor, roughly, "that's too thin." "It's true!" said Jasper. "It won't go down, young man. I've seen such customers as you before. You're a beat!" "A what?" "A beat--a dead-beat, if you prefer it. Off you go at the next station!" Jasper was greatly alarmed at the unexpected turn affairs had taken. "Let me go to St. Louis, and I'll get money to pay you." "It's no use," said the conductor, inexorably. "My orders are strict. If you can't pay, you can't ride." "But my pocket was picked," said Jasper, new light flashing upon him. "There was a stranger who sat beside me a while ago. He must have taken my ticket and money, too." "Of course there was," said the conductor, with sarcasm. "That's the way it usually happens. I'm used to such games, young man. It won't do you any good. Out you go!" "Let me go through the cars and see if I can't find the man that robbed me. I'd know him in a minute." "Well," said the conductor, relenting slightly, "be quick about it." Jasper waited for no more. He rose from his seat and, carpet-bag in hand, passed into the next car. It proved to be the smoking car. Groups of men were playing cards, and, as Jasper judged, were playing for money. Among them, to his great joy, he recognized his shabby companion, the cotton broker of St. Louis. The latter was playing with three other men, black-bearded, and loud both in their dress and speech. Without a moment's hesitation Jasper advanced and touched his late companion on the shoulder. The latter looked up, and without a sign of recognition said: "What's wanted, sir?" For the first time it struck Jasper that his errand was rather an awkward one. How could he ask this man if he had taken his property? "I beg your pardon, sir," said he, "but did you see anything of my ticket and money?" "What do you mean, stranger?" "You were sitting by me a little while ago, in the rear car." "I don't remember it." "And I thought you might have seen my pocket-book and ticket." "Well, I didn't," said the other, fiercely. "What made you think I did?" "I can't find them." "I don't know anything about them. General, it's your deal." He turned abruptly away from Jasper, and the boy slowly withdrew to a little distance, sorely puzzled. On the one hand, he felt convinced that this man had abstracted his ticket and money. On the other, he doubted whether it would be safe to charge him with it. While he was hesitating, the cars began to go more slowly. The conductor entered the car. "Have you found your ticket?" he asked. "No." "Then leave the train at this next stopping-place." Jasper had no chance to remonstrate. Obeying necessity, he stepped upon the platform, and the train swept on. CHAPTER XVII. THE DESERTED HOUSE. To be without money is far from pleasant under any circumstances, but to be penniless a thousand miles from home, in the midst of strangers, is far worse. Jasper found himself in this position so unexpectedly that as he stood beside the little depot with his carpet-bag in his hand he felt utterly bewildered. He looked around him. Not a house was in sight. Why the railroad company should have established a depot there he could not understand. Probably there must be some village not far away. No other passenger had got out with Jasper. There was no other person in sight but the station-master, a tall, sallow-faced man, in a slouched hat, who eyed our hero curiously. Jasper approached him. "What place is this?" he asked. "Don't you know?" questioned the man. "No." "What made you stop here, then?" Jasper hesitated. There seemed no use in taking this man into his confidence. "I am going to take a look at the village. I suppose there is a village?" "Well," drawled the man, "there's some houses back." "What's the name of the place?" "Croyden." "How far back is the village?" "A matter of two miles." "Is it easy to find the way?" "There's the road." The station-master pointed out a road leading through woods. "Thank you," said Jasper. "You don't happen to have any 'baccy with you?" asked the station-master. "No, I am sorry to say." "I thought maybe you might. I'm most out." Jasper took the road indicated by his informant and pressed on. When he had walked half a mile along the lonely road he stopped suddenly and asked himself: "What are my plans? What use is there in going to Croyden?" It was a hard question to answer. Still, he must go somewhere. He could not go to St. Louis without money, and there was a bare possibility that he might find something to do in Croyden. If he could earn a few dollars he could go on, and once in a large city there would be hope of permanent employment. How different would have been his situation if he had not lost his money, and how unfortunate it was that he should have been set down at this dismal place! He kept on, meeting no one. Finally he came to a place where the road divided into two forks or branches, one leading to the right, the other to the left. "Which shall I take?" he asked himself. There seemed no choice so far as he could see. Neither was very promising, nor was there any sign-post to inform him of what he wished to know. "I wish somebody would come along," thought Jasper. But nobody did. Forced to decide, he decided in favor of the left-hand road, and walked on. After a while he began to suspect that he had made a wrong decision. The road became little more than a lane, and seemed unfrequented. But just as he was going to turn back he espied at some distance from the road a rude dwelling, which, from its weather-beaten appearance, seemed never to have been painted. "I can find out something there, at any rate," thought Jasper, and he bent his steps toward it. Brief time brought him in front of the house. It was certainly a quiet-looking place. "It must be dismal to live here," thought Jasper. He knocked with his fist at the door. On account of the smallness of the house the knock certainly must have been heard, but there was no response. "The people must be deaf," thought Jasper. He knocked again, this time considerably louder, and waited for some one to answer his summons. He waited in vain. "It must be a deserted house," thought our hero. "I have a great mind to explore it--that is, if I can get in." He tried the door, and, a little to his surprise, it yielded to his touch. The door being in the centre of the house, there was a room on each side. The door to the left; opened into a room which was quite bare of furniture. On the other side, however, was a room containing a table and three chairs. On the table was a dirty clay-pipe and a box of tobacco, and there was a dead odor of tobacco-smoke lingering in the closely-shut room. "That looks as if there were somebody living here," thought Jasper. "Halloo!" he shouted, raising his voice. He felt that it would be better to make his presence known, as otherwise he might be suspected of entering the house with burglarious designs, though it would have puzzled a burglar to find anything worth purloining. "There can't be anybody in the house or I should have been heard," thought our hero. "However, I'll call again." This time there was a faint sound that came to his ears. It seemed like the voice of a child. "Where did that come from?" Jasper considered. And he waited to hear if it would be repeated. It was repeated, and now he could make out that it came from above. "I'll go up," he decided. He climbed the rude staircase, and pushed open the door of the room above the one in which he had been standing a moment before. He gazed in wonder at the spectacle before him. A boy, five years of age, who in spite of his frightened expression possessed great personal beauty, was lying on a bed in one corner of the room. He looked at Jasper in uncertainty at first, then with confidence, and said: "Did you come for me?" "Do you live here?" asked Jasper, in surprise, for this boy was not at all like the children usually to be found in such houses as this. His complexion was of dazzling whiteness, his hair was a bright chestnut, and his clothing was such as wealthy parents can afford to give to their children. "Do you live here?" repeated Jasper. "No," said the child. "How came you here, then?" "Big man--big, ugly man brought me." "When?" "I don't know," said the child. He was evidently too young to measure the lapse of time. "Was it yesterday?" "No; long ago." "I suppose it seems long to him," thought Jasper. "Is there nobody else in the house?" asked Jasper. "There's a woman," said the little boy. "Is she the wife of the man who took you away?" But this question the little boy did not seem to comprehend. "Have you got a mother?" asked Jasper. "Take me to mamma," said the little fellow, stretching out his arms, and beginning to cry. "I want to see my mamma." Jasper advanced to the bed. He began to understand that the boy had been kidnapped, and he felt great compassion for him. He tried to raise the boy from the bed and take him in his arms, when he made an unexpected discovery. The boy's ankles were firmly tied by a rope, which connected with the bedpost, so that it was impossible for him to leave the bed. "Who did this?" asked Jasper, indignantly. "Who tied you?" "It was the man--the big, ugly man," answered the child. "I will soon unfasten you," said Jasper, and he set to work untying the knot. "Will you take me home?" asked the little boy. "Yes," said Jasper, soothingly, "I'll take you home." But just as he had completed his task he heard steps upon the stairs. What if it were the man of whom the child spoke! Jasper threw one arm around the child, and with his teeth set hard fixed his eyes expectantly upon the door. CHAPTER XVIII. THE KIDNAPPED CHILD. The woman who entered was of middle size, dressed in a cheap print, dirty and faded, which corresponded very well with her general aspect. She looked weary and worn, and moved languidly as if she had little interest in life. She looked startled at the sight of Jasper, and pressed her hand to her heart. "Who are you?" she asked. "A stranger," answered our hero. "How came you here?" "I suppose I ought to apologize for being here, but I knocked twice and got no answer. That made me think the house was deserted. I entered, and hearing a low cry, came to this room." The woman sank into a chair near the door. "Is this your child?" asked Jasper, in his turn. The woman answered hesitatingly, after a pause: "No." "I knew he could not be. How did he come here?' "My husband brought him here," answered the woman, with some hesitation. "Is he any relation to you?" "N-no." "Is he boarding here?" "Yes." The woman's hesitation increased Jasper's suspicion. He said: "I found the boy tied to the bedpost. Did you tie him?" "Yes." "Why did you do that?" "I thought he might slip off while I was out I went out for some water. That is the reason I did not answer your knock." "Madam," said Jasper, coming to the point, "you may answer me or not; but if you do, tell the truth. Was not this child stolen?" The woman looked nervous and frightened, and moved restlessly in her chair. "Don't blame me," she said. "It wasn't my fault." "Whose was it, then?" "It was my husband's." "Then the child was stolen?" "Yes." "I suppose your husband kidnapped the child in order to get money from the parents for his return?" "Yes," the woman admitted. "How can you assist him in such wicked practices?" "What can I do?" said the woman, helplessly. "I have spoken to him, but it does no good. He won't heed anything that I say." Jasper began to pity the poor woman. It looked as if she were an unwilling helper in her husband's crimes. "Do you know where your husband got this boy from?" he asked. "No; he didn't tell me." "Is this the first child he has kidnapped?" "I ought not to speak against my husband," said the woman, uneasily, appearing to think that she had already told too much. "Yes, you ought. Otherwise you will be as bad as he." "He will beat me." "Does he ever do that?" asked Jasper, compassionately. "He is very rough sometimes," said the wife, shrinking. "I am sorry for you," said Jasper, gently. "Where is your husband now?" "He went out this morning. Perhaps he is hunting. He never tells me where he is going." "When do you expect him back?" "I can't tell. He may be here in five minutes; he may not be here before night." "In that case," thought Jasper, "I had better be off as soon as possible. I should be no match for this brute in human form. Judging from what I have heard of him, he would kill me without scruple if he thought I were interfering with his plans." "How long has this child been here?" he asked. "Three or four days." "I am going to take him away," proceeded Jasper, fixing his eyes earnestly upon the woman, to see how she took the proposal. "No, no!" she exclaimed, quickly. "My husband won't allow it." "He won't know it." "It won't do," she continued, rapidly. "He would kill you if he overtook you." This was a serious consideration, truly. Jasper had no weapons, and a boy of his age would have been a poor match for a strong man, as the kidnapper probably was. "After all, I had better not interfere," he thought. "It can do no good, and will only expose me to great danger." But just at this instant the little boy's soft hand slid into his, and he could not resist the touching appeal for his protection. "I shall take the risk," he said. "I can't leave the boy here. I will try to find his parents and restore him to them." He had scarcely said this when the woman, who had casually glanced out of the window, started up in alarm, exclaiming: "There is my husband coming! Oh, what shall we do?" CHAPTER XIX. A BRUTE IN HUMAN SHAPE. Jasper could not help feeling that he was in rather a critical position. A man whose business it was to kidnap young children in order to extort money from their friends was not likely to be very scrupulous, and the fear of having his secret divulged might lead him to extreme measures. "Is your husband likely to come up here?" he asked. "I don't know; he may," answered the woman, anxiously. "Can't you hide me?" suggested Jasper. "Yes, yes," she said, recovering something of her presence of mind. "There, get into that closet. I'll come and let you out when he is gone." She opened the door of a closet in one corner of the room. It was quite dark inside, and except a stool, it was entirely empty. "Sit down there," said the woman. "I must go down now." She buttoned the door, and our hero found himself a close prisoner in the dark. It certainly gave him a peculiar sensation. Only a week before he had been at his Eastern home. Now he was more than a thousand miles away, penniless, and a prisoner. But though he was peculiarly situated, he was not discouraged. In fact, with a brave boy's love of adventure, he felt a certain exhilaration and wondered what was coming next. His courage and enterprise rose with the occasion, and he began to consider what course he should take after he got out. While he is sitting in the closet in dark captivity, we will go below and make acquaintance with the man whose arrival had produced so great a sensation. Before going down, the woman said to the child: "Don't tell anybody about the boy in the closet." "No, I won't," said the child, obediently. The woman hurried down stairs, but her husband was already waiting for her. He was a black-browed ruffian, with a rough beard of a week's growth. He threw himself sullenly into a chair and growled: "Where were you? You're always out of the way when I come home." "I just went up stairs a minute, Dick," she answered. "To see the brat, I suppose." "Yes." "I've a great mind to knock him on the head." "Oh, Dick, you wouldn't injure the little innocent," she said, earnestly. "Wouldn't I? I would if I was paid enough, but there's nothing to be made by killing him." "Thank heaven!" uttered the woman, fervently. "You haven't got the heart of a chicken!" said the man, contemptuously. "Give me something to eat. I'm hungry." The woman began to bustle around in obedience to his command. "I haven't got much in the house, Dick," she said, apologetically. "What have you got?" he growled. "Some eggs and a little bacon. Shall I make you some tea?" "No; bring out the whisky." "There's none left, Dick." The man uttered an oath expressive of disappointment. "Well, give me some slops, then," he said. "I must have something to drink." "Didn't you shoot anything?" she ventured to ask. "I haven't been hunting." "I thought you took out your gun." "What if I did? I don't always hunt when I take my gun. I expected to hear from the friends of that brat this morning, but I didn't. They must hurry up with their money if they don't want me to strangle him." "Perhaps they didn't get your letter, Dick." "Yes, they did. I took care of that. I s'pose they're hatching up some plot to have me arrested. If they do, it'll be a bad day for the brat." He looked fierce and brutal enough to execute the dark threat at which he indirectly hinted. There was a cruel look in his eye which showed that he would have had small scruples about injuring an innocent child, if provoked by the desire for revenge. While his wife was cooking the eggs he filled his pipe and began to smoke. She made all the haste she could, knowing that her husband was far from patient. Soon the frugal repast was ready. She set it on the table, and said: "It's all ready, Dick. Better eat it while it's hot." "I'll eat it when I choose," he growled, in his usual spirit of contradiction. However, he was hungry, and laying aside his pipe, did as she requested. Soon he had dispatched all the food set before him. "There isn't enough to keep a kitten from starving," he said. "I'm sorry, Dick." "Much you are sorry," he growled. "A pretty wife you are." "I wish there were more. If you'll give me some money I'll go out and buy something." "Money!" he snarled. "You're always wanting money. Do you think I am made of money?" "No, Dick; but you know I have none. I wish I knew of any way to earn it." "You do?" "Yes, Dick." "Then I suppose you'd be leaving me," he said, suspiciously. "No, I wouldn't. You know I wouldn't, Dick." "So you say," he answered, brutally, "How's the brat? Has it been crying?" "No; it is a very good child." "I'll go up and take a look at it." He arose from his seat, and advanced toward the door. His wife followed him. "Where are you going?" he asked, turning upon her. "I'm going up, too," she answered, meekly. "What for? Can't you trust me with the brat?" "Yes, Dick, but it isn't much used to you. You might frighten it, and make it cry." "That's all right," he answered, smiling grimly. "I like to hear children cry." "How can you enjoy the sufferings of a child?" "Halloo! What's that?" he said, looking sharply at her. "You dare to find fault with me, do you?" "I didn't mean that, Dick," she said, submissively. "It's lucky you didn't," he said, warningly. "I don't allow none of that, wife or no wife." "May I go up?" "If you want to." So the two went up stairs together. The wife was nervous lest the child in some way might excite the suspicions of her husband and betray the presence of Jasper. She felt, therefore, very ill at ease. The child was sitting up in bed. "Halloo, young 'un, how yer gettin' along?" asked the man, roughly. The child did not answer, but looked frightened. "Why don't you answer?" demanded the man, frowning. The child looked toward the woman, and seemed on the point of crying. "Can't you say something to the gentleman?" said the woman, soothingly. Thus adjured, the little boy said: "Won't you take me to my mamma?" "Oh, yes, I'll take you as soon as your mamma sends me some money," said the man named Dick, "and she'd better do it pretty soon, too," he muttered. He threw himself into a chair, and ceased to notice the child. "Do you know, old woman," he said in a different tone, "I've heard news that'll rather take you by suprise?" "I hope it is good news," said his wife, anxiously. "Well, that's as may be," he answered. "It ought to be good news for us, but there's no saying. You know my sister?" "Mrs. Thorne?" "Yes. Well, she's had a stroke of luck." "How was that?" "Well, you see she went as governess into a family. The man was rich and an invalid--a widower, too. What does she do but get him to marry her?" "She has been fortunate." "That isn't all of it. She hadn't been married but two or three months when her husband died, leaving her a third of his property and guardian to his son, who inherits the rest. So she's a rich woman. I say she ought to do something for her brother Dick. Don't you say so?" "I think she would be willing," said the wife. "She ought to be, but she's selfish. She always was. If only I had the money I'd go East, and see what I could get out of her." "You'd take me with you, Dick?" "No, I wouldn't. It'll be all I can do to raise money enough to pay my own expenses, let alone yours. If I get anything I'll come back, and you'll get your share. That's why I want the parents of that brat to fork over the cash pretty quick." "How did you learn the news about your sister, Dick?" "An old pal of mine has just come from that way and told me all about it." Every word of this dialogue was beard by Jasper in his place of concealment. He was astonished beyond measure to learn that this ruffian was the brother of his step-mother. "No wonder I don't like her," he thought, "if they have any traits in common. What a fate, for my kind and gentle father to marry the sister of such a man!" "I'm glad of it," said his wife. "Well, so am I, if she'll do the right thing by me; but if she don't, then I'm sorry." "What shall I do when you're away, Dick?" "Get along as well as you can. Folks'll give you victuals, if you get hard up." "I don't like to beg." "Wish me good luck, then, and money enough to take care of you. What are you starin' at, young 'un?" This he said to the child, whose eyes, as if by a species of fascination, were fixed upon him. "Take me home to mamma!" pleaded the child, beginning to cry. "Shut up!" said the ruffian, harshly, striding to the bed and pinching the boy's arm till he cried with the pain. "Oh, don't, Dick," pleaded the woman, who was fond of children, though she had never been a mother. "I'll give the brat something to cry for," said her husband, and he pinched him again. "Oh, Dick, how can you torture the poor child?" said his wife, braver in the little boy's defence than in her own. "What business has it to cry, then? I'd like to choke it. If you don't hush I'll serve you the same way." Jasper had listened to this brutality as long as he could, but his indignation became too hot to be repressed. Thoughtless of consequences, he burst open the closet door and strode into the presence of the astonished ruffian, his fists involuntarily clenched, and his eyes kindling with indignation. CHAPTER XX. A STRANGE COMMISSION. The man whom we have called Dick stopped short and gazed in astonishment at the boy who had so fearlessly stepped upon the scene. "Where did you come from?" he demanded, frowning. "From that closet," answered Jasper. "How came you there? What business have you in my house, anyway?" demanded the ruffian. "I entered it supposing it to be deserted," said Jasper. "While I was below I heard that poor boy cry, and came up." "Did you know he was here?" asked the ruffian, turning to his wife, and speaking menacingly. "Yes, Dick." "Why did you let him in?" "He came in while I was out." "Why didn't you tell me he was here?" "Because I didn't want him injured in any way. I was afraid you would be angry with him." "That is where you are right," said Dick, adding an oath. "The young scoundrel shall pay for his impudence in entering my house like a thief." "You have no right to say that," said Jasper. "I have explained to you why I came here." "You hid in the closet, intending to come out and steal when we were out of the way." "What could I steal?" asked Jasper, looking around him. "Do you mean to taunt me with my poverty?" exclaimed the ruffian, enraged. "No; I am poorer than you." "You look like it." "It is true. I was robbed in the cars by a pickpocket, and because I was penniless and could not pay my fare I was put off at this station." "Is this true?" demanded Dick, with a searching look. "Yes; I wish it were not." "How came you near this house?" "I set out to walk to the village, and must have lost my way." "Why did you come out of that closet?" was the next demand. "Because I heard you abusing that little boy," said Jasper, fearlessly. "I have a right to do what I please to my own child." "It isn't your child." "What do you mean by that, you impudent young jackanapes?" Unobserved by her husband, the wife made a warning sign to Jasper not to provoke the man, whose evil passion she so well knew. Jasper comprehended the sign, but it did not influence him. Frank and fearless by temperament, he thought it his duty to stand between the little boy and this ruffian's brutality. Still he appreciated the woman's kindness, and resolved to bear it in mind. Indeed, he saw that she was rather to be pitied than blamed. Her natural instincts were good, but she was under the control of a bad man. "I heard what you were saying," said Jasper. "You heard?" "Yes, while I was in the closet." "What did you hear, you young scoundrel?" demanded the ruffian. "Enough to satisfy me that you have stolen this boy from his parents." "It's a lie!" "No; it is the truth. I felt sure of it before, and now I know it. You took him in order to extort money from his friends." "Well," said the ruffian, defiantly, "what if I did? Have you anything to say against it?" "Yes," said Jasper. "I shall have to wring your neck by and by," muttered Dick. "Well, go on. Spit out what you've got to say." "I say it's a cruel wrong to the parents," said Jasper, boldly, "and to the child also. But you make it worse when you try to abuse the boy." "Come, boy, if you care so much for the brat, suppose you take his place, and take the beating I was going to give him," suggested the ruffian, mockingly. "I would rather suffer than have him suffer," said Jasper, quietly; "but perhaps you will change your mind when you hear what I have to say." "Oh, you are going to beg off!" sneered the ruffian, with a look of satisfaction. "I thought you'd come to your senses." "You are mistaken as to my intention. I want to speak to you about your sister--formerly Mrs. Thorne." "What do you know about her?" asked the man, in extreme astonishment. "A good deal. She is my step-mother." "What! Are you the son of the man she married?" asked Dick, eagerly. "I am Jasper Kent." "That's the name. So she sent you out to me, did she? That's better than I thought She hasn't forgotten her brother, after all." "No; you are mistaken," said Jasper. "She never so much as told me she had a brother." Dick looked disappointed. Then, with sudden suspicion, he said, roughly: "I believe you are lying. This Jasper Kent is rich--the heir of two-thirds of his father's property. You say you are penniless." "That is true. Both stories are true. I am my father's principal heir, but your sister is my guardian. She has treated me in such a way that I left the house." "Ran away, eh?" "No, I gave her full notice of what I should do. I told her that if I were decently treated I would stay, but if she continued to insult me, and give the preference in all things to her own boy, Nicholas, I would go away." "You haven't been such a fool as to go off and leave all your property in her hands?" "I shall come in possession of it when I am twenty-one. Till then I will try to support myself." "Come, boy, you're plucky. I'm glad you came, after all. I want to hear more about my sister's affairs. Come down stairs, and we'll talk." Dick appeared suddenly to have forgotten his animosity. He became even friendly in his manner, as he gave our hero this invitation. "Old woman," said he, addressing his wife, "can't you rake up something for this boy to eat? I dare say he is hungry." "I don't think we've got anything more in the house." "I'll go out directly and get something. Come down, boy, I want to ask you a few more questions." They went down stairs, followed by the wife. She was happily relieved by the unexpected good understanding between her husband and Jasper. "Now tell me," said Dick, eagerly, when they were in the lower room, "how much property has my sister got?" "Probably between thirty and forty thousand dollars." "As much as that?" said Dick, complacently. "Well, she has feathered her nest well." "I don't like Mrs. Kent," said Jasper. "Though she is your sister, I am obliged to say that, but it is not at all on account of the property my father left her. If he had given her one-half his estate I would not have complained, as long as she treated me fairly." "Helen was always a hard customer. She's got a will of her own," chuckled Dick. "There was no hope of our getting on together," said Jasper. "She ought to do something for me--don't you think so? I'm her only brother." "As to that," said Jasper, "my opinion wouldn't have any weight with her. If you are poor and need help, it would be only natural for her to help you." "That's the way to talk! You won't say anything against me to her?" "Certainly not," said Jasper. "I shall not write to her at all; and even if I did, I wouldn't try to interfere with her disposing of her property in any way she thinks best." "Come, you're a trump, after all. I like you. You're plucky, too." "Thank you." "I'll say a good word for you to my sister when I see her." "You'd better not," said Jasper. "If she thinks you are friendly to me you'll stand a poor chance of any favors. Better abuse me." Dick roared with laughter. "I say, youngster, you're a smart 'un. I see you're friendly by your hint. I'll abuse you to her, never fear. You must take a drink on that. Say, old woman, where's the whisky?" "There's not a drop in the house, Dick." "I forgot. Curse the luck!" Just then a man entered the house only less brutal-looking than Dick himself. He held a letter in his hand. Dick seized it eagerly. "It's from the father of the boy," he said. The letter proved to contain fifty dollars. "I send this in advance," said the writer. "When the boy is safely delivered into my hands a hundred and fifty more will be paid to the one who brings him, and no questions asked. Herman Fitch." "Good!" said Dick, "as far as it goes. I'm ready to give up the brat, but will his father keep faith? Perhaps he'll have the police on hand ready to nab me." "Haven't you anybody to send--anybody you can trust?" Dick slapped his knee forcibly. An idea had come to him. "I'll send him in charge of the brat," he said, pointing to Jasper. CHAPTER XXI. JASPER IS INTRUSTED WITH A DELICATE COMMISSION. "Look here, boy," said Dick, "do you want a job?" "Yes," said Jasper, "if it's honest." "No fear of that. I want you to take that boy home to his father." "I'll do it," said Jasper, eagerly. "How much pay do you want?" "None at all, except money to pay my fare in the cars." "You're the right sort," said Dick, with satisfaction. "But there's another matter I've got to think about. How do I know but you will betray me?" "How?" "Put the police on my track." "If you hadn't given up the boy I might," said Jasper, frankly. Dick regarded him attentively. "You're bold," he said. "Then you won't betray me now." "No." "Promise it." "I promise--that is, if you send the boy home by me." "All right; that's understood. Now for another matter. Read that letter." Jasper read the letter of Herman Fitch, already quoted. "You see this man, the boy's father, agrees to pay one hundred and fifty dollars when he is given up." "I see that." "He will give you that money--that is, if he means fair--and you will bring it to me. Do you understand?" "I do." "Do you promise that?" "I promise that, too. Where am I to find you? Here?" "No; I'll give you an address in St. Louis." "Does the father live in St. Louis?" "He lives a little out of the city. His name is in the directory, so you won't have any trouble in finding it." "How glad he will be to see the little boy again!" "He ought to be. You don't think he'll back out from his agreement?" said Dick, suspiciously. "No; he'll be so glad to see the child, he will care nothing for the money." "That's what I hope. When I get that money I'm going East." "You'll take me with you, Dick?" asked his wife. "What good'll you be?" growled Dick. "It'll cost more." "What can I do alone, here?" "I'll leave money for your board." "But I'll be so lonely, Dick," she persisted. "Oh, I'll come back! It's business I'm going for, old woman. If I can't come back I'll send money to bring you." "Do let me go with you, Dick." "Oh, hush up! I can't have you always in my way. What, blubbering? Plague take all the women, I say!" "When do you want me to go?" said Jasper. "There's a train this afternoon; take that, for the sooner matters are arranged the better. Here's five dollars. It'll be more than enough to pay your fare, but you'd better have it in case anything happens." Jasper felt some repugnance in taking money acquired in such a way, but it seemed necessary, and he thrust the note into his vest-pocket. "You'll be able to carry the boy back to-night," said Dick. "To-morrow at twelve bring the money to this address." He handed him a greasy-looking card with the name "Mark Mortimer, No. 132 S---- Street," scrawled on it in pencil. "Am I to ask for Mark Mortimer?" asked Jasper. "Yes, that's me--that is, it's one of my names. Don't fail." "I won't." "If you should play me false, you'd better never have been born," said the kidnapper, menacingly. "I'll come, not on account of your threats, but because I have promised," said Jasper, quietly. "You're a plucky boy. You ain't one of the milk-and-water sort," said Dick, with respect for the boy's courage. "Thank you," said Jasper, laughing. "I am not often afraid." "By Jove! you've got more pluck than half the men. You'd make a fine lad for my business." "I don't think I'd like your business, so far as I know what it is," said Jasper. "Well, there's some I'd like better myself. If my sister does the right thing by me I'll become a model citizen--run for Congress, may be. Eh, old woman?" "I wish you would reform, Dick," said his wife. "Let the world give me a chance, then. Now, boy, you must be starting." "Harry," said Jasper to the little boy, whose name he had learned, "do you want to go with me?" The little boy confidingly put his arms round our hero's neck. "Will you take me to my mamma?" he asked. "Yes, I will take you to her." The little boy uttered a cry of delight. "Me all ready!" he said, eagerly. "Do you think he can walk to the depot?" asked Jasper. "Yes; it is only a mile or so." "Then I will start." Part of the way he carried the little boy in his arms. They could make but slow progress, but luckily there was plenty of time, and they reached the depot a quarter of an hour before the train started. The station-master looked at the two with curiosity. "Is that boy yours?" "He isn't my son, if that's what you mean," said Jasper, amused. "Brother, then?" "No; he's a friend of mine that I'm taking home to his father and mother." "Been makin' a visit around here?" asked the station-master. "Yes," replied Jasper, briefly. The arrival of two passengers, who wanted tickets, relieved him from the questions of the curious station-master. He might have asked questions which it would have been inconvenient to answer. "Did you ever ride in the cars, Harry?" asked Jasper. "I did ride in the cars when the ugly man took me from my mamma." "Was that the only time?" The little boy could remember no other. Jasper led him a little away, to avoid questioning, but was back in time to enter the cars when the train arrived. He found a vacant seat, and gave the little boy the place next the window. There were many admiring glances directed toward the little fellow, who was remarkably handsome. Jasper was apprehensive lest the boy should be recognized by some one who knew him. This would have brought suspicion upon him, and placed him in a very embarrassing position. Fortunately, though the child's appearance was much admired, no such recognition took place. Two hours later they rolled into the central depot at St. Louis. "Now," thought Jasper, "I must find out as soon as possible where Mr. Fitch lives." Jasper had not been much of a traveller, as we know. Finding himself now in a strange city, he felt at first a little bewildered--the more so, that he had a young child under his charge. He did not know in which direction the boy's father lived, but the natural thought occurred to him that he could find his name in the directory. He went into a lager-beer saloon near-by and asked: "Will you let me see your directory?" "I got no directory," answered the burly Dutchman, who presided over the saloon. "I can give you lager." "Not at present," said Jasper, laughing. "We don't drink." It occurred to him that it might be as well to get into the central part of the city. He accordingly hailed a passing car, and got aboard with Harry. After awhile he judged from the appearance of the buildings that he had reached one of the principal streets. He descended from the car, lifting Harry carefully down and carrying him in his arms to the sidewalk. There was a large and imposing store situated at the corner of the street. "They must have a directory in there," thought Jasper. He entered, holding the little boy by the hand. What was his surprise when a richly-dressed lady, turning and catching sight of the child, sprang to him, seized him in her arms, and began to cry and laugh alternately. But the mystery was explained when he heard Harry say: "Oh, mamma, I am so glad to see you!" CHAPTER XXII. A BUSINESS MAN'S SUSPICIONS. Jasper stood at a little distance, witnessing the happy meeting between the mother and child. He did not wish to interrupt their happiness. Soon, however, the mother looked up, and then Jasper advanced, raising his hat, politely. "Is this Mrs. Fitch?" he asked. "Yes," said the lady, surveying him with curiosity. "Then I have great pleasure in restoring to you your child." "What? Did he come with you?" "Yes, madam." "Did you know I was in here?" "No; I only came in to consult the directory to learn your residence." "How could you be so wicked as to steal my boy?" demanded Mrs. Fitch, with pardonable indignation, judging that Jasper was the kidnapper. "I wouldn't have done it for five thousand dollars!" said Jasper, impetuously. "He didn't 'teal me, mamma," said little Harry, coming opportunely to Jasper's defense. "Who did, then, my darling?" "It was big, ugly man. Jasper good boy--kind to Harry." Mrs. Fitch, prompt to remedy her injustice, held out her hand to Jasper, which he took respectfully. "Excuse me," she said; "but I thought, as Harry was with you, that you had been concerned in his kidnapping." "I never saw him till this morning," said Jasper. "Chance drew me to a lonely house where he was confined." "And you rescued him! How can I thank you?" "I would have done so if I could, but I can't take the credit of it. Your husband offered a reward, which the kidnapper thought best to accept. He did not dare to bring him back himself, and having no one else to employ, asked me to become his agent in restoring him. Of course, I was very glad to do it." "It was not chance that directed you to the haunt of these wicked men; it was a good and merciful Providence. Did they ill-treat my darling?" "I found him tied to the bed in which he was lying." "How could they treat you so my dear boy!" said the mother, piteously. "May I ask your name?" This was, of course, addressed to Jasper. "My name is Jasper Kent." "Can you come out and stop at our house over night? We live about two miles distant. I want my husband to see you and thank you for bringing back our darling boy." Jasper reflected that he must see Mr. Fitch, at any rate, in order to obtain the promised reward. Moreover, he had no means of his own to pay for a lodging, and he promptly accepted the offer. "I will return home at once," said Mrs. Fitch. "I came in to make some purchases, but I can't think of those now. Come, Mr. Kent." "Take hold of my hand," said little Harry to Jasper. Jasper smilingly took the proffered hand, and Harry, happy in the double companionship, went out of the store. There was a handsome carriage in waiting, with a coachman in livery perched on the box. "Edward," said Mrs. Fitch, her face fairly glowing with delight, "do you see? Little Harry has come back." "So he has, Heaven bless him!" said the coachman, heartily. "How do you do, Master Harry?" "I'm pooty well," answered the little boy. "Where did you find him, ma'am, if I may be so bold?" "This young gentleman brought him back, Edward. Now, drive right home." "Won't you go around to the office, ma'am, and tell master?" "No; he must have left the office by this time. We shall see him at supper to-night." Half an hour later the carriage drew up in front of a handsome residence, far enough from the centre of the city to have a side yard of considerable dimensions, in the rear of which stood a brick stable. It was clear that Mr. Fitch was a man of wealth, so Jasper decided. Of the sensation produced in the house by Harry's arrival I will not speak. Jasper found himself regarded in the light of the heroic deliverer of the little boy from captivity, though he laughingly disclaimed the credit attaching to such a character. They had been home but fifteen minutes when Mr. Fitch arrived. At the moment of his arrival Jasper was in a handsome chamber on the second floor, which had been assigned to his use, preparing himself for dinner. Mr. Fitch was overjoyed at the recovery of his little boy, but he listened with some incredulity to the praises lavished upon Jasper by his wife. "You don't seem to realize," he said, "that this young hero of yours is a companion and acknowledged agent of a kidnapper." "Wait till you see him," said Mrs. Fitch, confidently. Mr. Fitch shrugged his shoulders. "How the women are carried away by a specious appearance!" he thought. "I am a man of the world, and cooler in my judgment." Yet when Jasper entered the room he could not help acknowledging that his appearance was very much in his favor. Frank and manly in his looks, he met Mr. Fitch with gentlemanly ease. "You are the young gentleman who brought back my little boy, I believe," said the father. "Yes, sir," said Jasper. "I occupy, for the time being, the office of agent of the man who kidnapped him." "Who is this man?" "I should be willing to tell you if I had not promised secrecy." "Then," said Mr. Fitch, with slight suspicion, "you are in confidential relations with this villain." "Partly so, but it was forced upon me. I never met him till to-day, and he confided in me because there seemed to be no one else that he could trust." "Why did he not come himself?" "Because he thought it would be dangerous." "Shall you meet him again?" "Once only, to finish this business. He said you had promised a certain sum on the boy's return, and this I agreed to carry him." "How much commission are you to receive?" inquired Mr. Fitch. "Nothing at all," said Jasper. "He handed me five dollars to pay the railroad fare of little Harry and myself to St. Louis. What is left over I shall return to him." "Then Harry was not concealed in this city?" "No, sir; but he was at no great distance from it." "Are you living here?" "I never was in St. Louis until this afternoon. I have only just come on from the State of New York." "To find employment, I suppose?" "Yes, sir. It was by the merest chance that I fell over your little boy and his captor. I was contriving plans for getting him away, when fortunately the kidnapper received a communication from you which led to my being here." "Suppose you had got Harry away from this man, how could you have found me?" "That would have been the difficulty. I didn't know your name, or where you lived. But I meant to come here and get one of the daily papers to publish an account of the recovery, in the hope that the paragraph would find its way to your notice." "A very sensible plan," commented Mr. Fitch, approvingly. "When have you agreed to meet the kidnapper to carry him the money?" "To-morrow at twelve." "And then you will proceed to carry out your own plans?" "Yes, sir. After supper, if you can spare the time, I will tell you my situation, and the circumstances that led me here, and ask for advice." "Very well. I will gladly give you the best counsel I can." After supper Jasper told his story briefly, and confirmed the favorable impression he had already begun to make. Mr. Fitch cast aside his lingering remnant of suspicion, and promised his good offices in procuring him employment. "After you have seen this man and paid him the money," he said, "come to my counting-room, and we will talk over your affairs." The evening was spent socially, little Harry, of course, being the central object of interest. The little fellow appeared to have taken a great fancy to Jasper, and was unwilling to have him go the next day. He was not reconciled till Jasper promised to come back. CHAPTER XXIII. WHERE JASPER FOUND DICK. To find the address given by the kidnapper was not difficult. It was only necessary to look over a plan of the city, which Jasper did in Mr. Fitch's counting-room. "Come back when your business is over," said the merchant. "I will," said Jasper. He set out with one hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket for 132 S---- Street. We will precede him. It was a shabby house of two stories, with a wide front. It looked dilapidated and neglected, but except that it was in an unsavory neighborhood there was nothing to draw attention to it, or lead to the impression that it was the haunt of lawbreakers and desperate characters. In a back room sat three men, one of whom we recognize as the kidnapper, Dick, alias Mark Mortimer. Of the other two, one was under twenty-five, with a reckless, dare-devil look, as of one who would stop at little in his criminal schemes. He had more than once been engaged in burglary, but as yet had escaped detection. The third was a stout, square-built man, of middle age, with a heavy, brutal face, such as might belong to a prize-fighter. He, too, was a burglar, an accomplished counterfeiter, a gambler, who supplemented luck by various swindling devices, in which he was an adept. This man was known as Slippery Bill, while his young companion was Jack, with a choice of last names. The three men were playing a game of euchre, with a pack of greasy cards. The time was half-past eleven in the forenoon. "It's most time for the boy to come," said Dick, looking toward the clock. "How do you know but he'll give you the slip?" suggested Jack. "If he did I'd break his neck!" exclaimed Dick, hastily. "But he won't. Leastways he won't if he can help it." "It strikes me, Dick," said Bill, "that you ought never to have asked him to come here." "Why not?" "Who's to tell but he may bring company?" continued the stout man. "What kind of company?" "The police." "He won't," said Dick. "How do you know?" "I'll trust him. He's a good 'un." "How long have you known him, that you speak with so much confidence?" inquired the younger man. "Since yesterday morning," answered Dick, cornered. The two men burst into a boisterous laugh. "Why, Dick, you're as innocent as a baby. You haven't knowed this chap more'n twenty-four hours, and you'll stake your life on him." "Laugh as much as you like," said Dick, stubbornly. "I ought to speak up for my own nephew." "Your nephew!" exclaimed his two companions, in surprise. "What do you mean?" "What I say. He's my sister's son." "A minute ago you said you never saw him till yesterday," said the stout man, suspiciously. "No more I did. My sister lives at the East." "Has she sent him to you to be brought up in the way he should go?" asked Jack, with a sneer. "No; the boy's run away. He came across me by chance." "That's better," said Bill, partially reassured. "He won't be likely to betray you--not now--but he may inform against this place." "I'll answer for him." "Are you going to let him go as soon as he brings the money, or will he stay with you?" "Oh, he'll go. I can't take care of a lad like him. I've other fish to fry." "Suppose we keep him and train him up to our business?" "He ain't the right sort for that." "Shows the white feather, eh?" "No; he's as brave as any boy I ever saw." "What's the matter, then?" "He's too honest and virtuous." "What! your nephew, Dick?" and the two men laughed loudly. "That's too thin. Don't ask us to swallow that." "It's true." "Why did he run away from home, then?" "My sister's got a very rough temper--that's why." "We can believe that," said Jack, "better than the other." "Look here, Jack," said Dick, who was getting irritated, "you may find that I've got the same kind of temper if you keep on badgering me about the boy. I say he's to be trusted." "He can be trusted under our eye. Have you any objection to our detaining him?" "There's no need." "I say there is. You've let him into the knowledge of this place. He'll blow on us some day." "Do as you like," said Dick; "I don't care. I wash my hands of the responsibility." "That's all we want," said Bill. "We need a young one to help us in our plans. If this nephew of yours is as brave as you say, he'll do. What time was he to come here?" "Twelve." "Then it's a minute past the time. I don't think he'll come." "The clock may be wrong." said Dick, but he glanced uneasily at the clock, which now indicated a little past the hour. His suspense was not a long one. An old man, thin and shriveled, with a crafty eye, and a thin, squeaking voice, here put his head in at the door. "Is Mr. Mark Mortimer here?" he asked. "That's me!" exclaimed Dick, jumping up eagerly. "There's a boy wants to see you, Mr. Mark Mortimer," said the old man, repeating the name as if he enjoyed it. "It's my nephew," said Dick. "Is his name Mortimer, too?" asked the proprietor of the establishment, for such the old man was. "Never mind," said Dick, impatiently. "Bring the boy in." Almost directly Jasper was ushered into the room--fearlessly, but looking about him with some curiosity. The two men, who had not before seen him, surveyed him with equal curiosity. "He does you credit," said the stout man. "He's what I was at his age," said Dick. "Now, boy, have you got the money?" "Yes," said Jasper. "One hundred and fifty dollars?" "Yes." Dick's eyes glistened. "Give it here. You're a trump. Did old Fitch make any difficulties?" "No; he was glad to get the boy back." "Did he ask you about me?" "Yes." "How much did you tell him?" demanded the kidnapper, hastily. "Nothing. I told him that I had made a promise not to tell." Dick looked triumphantly at his two companions. "Didn't I tell you?" he said. "You have the boy's word for it," said Jack, with a quiet sneer. "How did you find your way here, boy?" "I looked at a map of the city," answered Jasper. "Where?" "In the office of Mr. Fitch." "Where did you pass last night?" "At the house of Mr. Fitch." "Where are you going when you leave here?" "I have promised to go to Mr. Fitch's counting-room." "You seem to be very intimate with this gentleman," said Jack. "There's nothing strange in that," said Jasper, quietly. "It was I who carried his boy home." "The boy is right," said Dick, who, having obtained his money, felt graciously disposed toward our hero, through whose agency he had obtained it. "What does he want of you?" asked Jack, continuing the cross-examination. "I hope he is going to help me to a place," answered Jasper. "No need of going to him," said the stout man. "We'll give you employment." "You!" repeated Jasper, with an attentive glance, which took in the man's disreputable appearance. "Yes, if you deserve it. What do you say?" "I feel obliged for your offer," said Jasper, "but having promised Mr. Fitch to return, I would prefer to do so." "Boys," interrupted Dick, at this point, "I'm sorry to leave this festive crowd, but I've got other business to attend to, and must be going." "I'll go with you," said Jasper, who was anxious to leave the place. "No, you don't, just yet," said Jack, rising, and striding between Jasper and the door. "We'll have a drink all around first." "Thank you," said Jasper, "I don't drink." "You must drink now. It's the law of this establishment." "All right, Jasper," said Dick. "I'll treat. You can drink what you like, though." Jasper felt that it would be politic to comply, and chose lemonade. "I'll order the drinks," said Jack, and he left the room for that purpose. CHAPTER XXIV. THE SLEEPING POTION. Presently the old man already referred to appeared with the drinks. It Is hardly necessary to say that Jasper was alone in his choice of lemonade. The rest selected stronger liquors. "Here's to you, Dick," said Jack, tossing off the contents of his glass, "and may you live to treat us many times more!" "Amen to that!" said Bill. "Haven't you got anything to say, youngster?" asked Dick, turning to Jasper. "I wish you a pleasant journey," said Jasper, politely. "As to that, it depends on my success with my sister." "When do you leave?" "To-night, if I can." "What's all that about, Dick? Are you going to leave us?" asked Bill. "I'm goin' East for the benefit of my health and my purse," said Dick, with a grin. "Do you wish me success, mates?" "To be sure. Is it anything we can help you in?" "No, no. It's my private venture." "Anything in my line?" "No; it's a strictly virtuous and honest undertaking. I don't mind giving you a hint of it. I've got a near relative that's come into a fortune. Now I think I ought to come in for a share." "To be sure!" "Have another game of euchre, Dick?" "I don't know--I ought to be going," said the kidnapper, hesitating. "We'll make it poker, and the boy may take a hand." "No," said Jasper, languidly. "I don't know how to play." "We'll teach you." "I don't care about it." "You look sleepy, lad," said Dick. "Yes, I feel so. It's strange. I didn't feel so when I came in." "Oh, don't mind the boy's looks," said Jack. "Lay down on that settee, if you want to, boy." Jasper felt so heavy and drowsy that he accepted the permission and stretched himself out, closing his eyes. "Why am I so sleepy?" he thought, languidly. "I never was before, in the middle of the day, except when I was sick." He listened at first to the conversation between the players, but gradually it sounded only like a confused hum, and at length he could not hear it at all. He was fast asleep. When this became clear through his heavy breathing, Dick turned to the younger man, and pointing to Jasper, asked: "What have you been doing to him?" "I put a sleeping potion into his drink," answered Jack. "What for?" "I mean to keep him for a while, and that saves a fuss." "What do you want to do with him?" "Prevent him from doing mischief." "There's no need. He can be trusted." "You can trust him, for you'll be a long way off. He might blow on us any time." Dick shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well, do as you please, but you're over careful. Don't hurt him." "He'll be all right as long as he behaves himself. It's your deal." The game was over at last, and Dick arose to go. Jasper was sleeping soundly, and was wholly unconscious of his departure. "Give me a hand, Bill, and we'll take the boy up stairs," said the younger man. "What's your plan, Jack?" "To make him one of us. He'll come to it in time." There was a windowless room on the second floor, in the centre of the house, wholly dark, except when lighted by gas. It was to this room that our hero was conveyed, and laid upon some bedding in the corner of the room. There was a slide in the partition to admit air, and with it a few faint rays of light. Jasper stirred a little while he was being moved, but the sleeping potion had too much potency to allow him to wake. "There," said Jack, in a tone of satisfaction, "he's safe now." "He'll make a fuss when he gets up." "Let him. He can't get out." As they went down stairs, Jack called aside Nathan Gibson, the old man who had charge of the house. "Nathan," said he, "did you see the boy that was with us just now?" "Yes." "We've put him in the prison" (for this was the name by which the small dark room was known). "He's not to be let out." "Good! I understand." "You may take him some supper at five or six o'clock. Look in before that time to see if he's awake." "All right!" said the old man, grinning. "What's your game?" "It's your game as well as mine. The boy ought never to have come here. He may blow on us." The mean-faced little man looked by turns frightened and fierce. "I'd slit his throat if he did!" he said. "No need of that. We'll make him join us." "That would be the best way; but can you?" "We can try. Don't forget what I told you." Nathan nodded. Still Jasper slept, little suspecting into what a trap he had walked. CHAPTER XXV. JASPER FINDS HIMSELF A PRISONER. It was after five o'clock when Jasper opened his eyes. As soon as consciousness returned he looked around him with astonishment and wonder. "Where am I?" A few rays of light entered at the sliding-door above, and to this his eyes were naturally drawn. Here was another puzzle. He explored his memory, and could recall no such place as this. He had never before been in such a room. At last he recalled the circumstances under which he fell asleep, and he jumped to the conclusion that he was in the same house still. "They must have put me to bed," he said to himself. "They were very kind; but this is a queer room." Thus far no thought that he was a prisoner had entered his mind. He arose and began to feel his way around by the walls. He judged that he was in a room not more than ten feet square. He could form no idea what was the time. It might be the middle of the night, so far as he knew. "This is awkward," he thought. "I don't fancy being shut up like this. Where's the door? There must be one somewhere." He found it at last, and tried the lock, but it did not yield to his efforts. Then came the startling thought: "Am I a prisoner?" He stopped short and thought over the situation. He recalled all he could of the men in whose company he had been at the time he went to sleep. The longer he thought the more it seemed probable that it was as he suspected. Though a little startled at this view of the situation, Jasper was by no means disposed to be despondent. His courage arose with the difficulties of his position. "I'll find out how matters stand," he said to himself. "I'll pound till somebody comes." He began to pound on the walls of the room with such effect that the old man below heard him. "The bird is beating against the walls of his cage," he thought. "I'll go up and see him." Presently Jasper heard steps ascending the stairs. Almost immediately another sliding-door about four feet from the floor was drawn open, and the old man's face was poked in. "Did you knock?" he asked, grinning. "Yes," said Jasper. "Open the door, and let me out." "Won't you have some supper first?" asked Nathan, with a leer. "No; I'd rather go out," said Jasper, in a tone of suspicion. "I couldn't allow that. Oh, no!" said Nathan. "What right have you to keep me here against my will?" exclaimed Jasper, furiously. "We like your company so much, my dear young man," said Nathan, nodding his head waggishly. "Who's 'we'?" demanded Jasper. "Jack, and Bill, and me." "Let me out, I say." "Don't be agitated, my dear boy. You'll be taken good care of." "I'd rather take care of myself. Will you open the door?" "I couldn't, but I'll bring you up some supper directly." The sliding-door was closed suddenly, and again Jasper found himself in the dark, fully understanding now that he was a prisoner, but why, he could not form a conjecture. CHAPTER XXVI. IN CONFINEMENT. Soon the old man reappeared and opened the sliding-door. He carried a small waiter containing a cup of tea, a plate of cold meat, and a slice of white bread without butter. "We don't want you to starve," he said. "Here's something to stay your stomach. You're hungry, ain't you?" Jasper admitted that he was. "I thought so. When I was your age I was always eating. Never could get enough." Jasper wondered, if this were the case, why the old man had not grown larger, but he did not say this. He took the waiter from Nathan and set it on his lap, there being no table. "I hope you don't mean to keep me long as a boarder," he said. "You won't find it profitable, boarding me for nothing." "That isn't for me to say," said Nathan. "Jack and Bill will see to that." "Did they tell you to confine me?" "Yes; I told you that already." "Will you ask them to come up and speak to me? I want to know why I am here." "They ain't at home now. I'll tell them when they come in." "Thank you. Do you think that will be to-night?" "Not likely. They'll come in so late you'll be abed and asleep." "Don't let them go out to-morrow morning without seeing me." "I'll tell them." The old man waited till Jasper had finished eating, and then took the waiter back through the window. "Won't you let me have a light?" asked Jasper. "I don't want to stay here in the dark." "You'll set the house on fire," said the old man, hesitating. "And get burned up myself? I should be fool to run such a risk as that." This consideration suggested itself to the old man's judgment, and he promised to bring up a lamp before long. This he really did. Jasper found it a great relief. He was now broad awake, the effect of the drug having passed off. There was nothing to do, indeed, but his thoughts were busy, and he tried hard to devise some method of escape, in case he should not be released. The next morning breakfast was brought to him about eight o'clock. It was not till ten that the sliding-door was opened and the face of Jack appeared at the opening. "Well, boy, how do you like your quarters?" he asked, with a disagreeable smile. "Not at all," answered Jasper. "Why do you keep me here?" "We had reasons for putting you here." "What were they?" "First and foremost, you knew too much." "Were you afraid I should betray you?" asked Jasper. "You might." "I promise not to, if you will let me go." "That's all very well, but when you get out you might break your promise." "Then it would be for the first time," said Jasper, proudly. "I never break my promises." "You talk well, boy, but it's easy to talk." "It's all I can do. There is no way of proving what I say." "That's so; and that's the reason I'm going to keep you." "At that rate, you will have to keep me all my life." "No; there's another way." "What is it?" asked Jasper, eagerly. "Join us, and when you're in the same box you won't go to blabbing." "What do you mean by joining you?" asked Jasper, though he was afraid he understood only too well. "You ought to be smart enough to know that." "I don't know what your business is," said our hero. "You don't!" said Jack, ironically. "Perhaps you think we're commission merchants, or bankers, or something of that kind, Bill and me?" "I don't think you are either of them," said Jasper, laughing. "Why not?" "You don't look like a commission merchant or a banker." "What do I look like, eh, boy?" "You may be angry if I answer that question." "No, I won't. Go ahead!" "You look as if you didn't get your living in any way so honest as that." "Well, suppose you are right?" "Then I am sorry. I wish you would reform and lead a different life." "No preaching! I didn't bargain for that." "Then all I have to say is, you are in no danger from me. I shall not betray you." "Perhaps you are to be trusted, but I can't run the risk. You must join us." "You may be wicked yourself. You have no right to make me so," said Jasper, firmly. "That's all nonsense. The world owes me a living, and you, too." "Not without work. I'm going to work for my living." "I mean you shall. You shall work for me." "That kind of work will do the world no good. I want to do something useful." "So you shall. You shall help us bleed some of these bloated aristocrats. They've got more money than is good for them--more than they have any business to keep." "I don't agree with you," said Jasper. "You'd better. It is for your interest," said Jack, frowning. "It can't be for my interest to become a law-breaker." "Then you can stay here till you rot!" retorted the burglar, roughly. "You won't come out of this chamber till you have agreed to become one of us." There was something in this threat which startled Jasper, bold and brave as he was. "Such an outrage won't be permitted," he said. "Won't it?" sneered Jack. "We'll see about that. I'll take the risk. You don't know me yet," he added, with an oath. "Is it wholly because you are afraid I will betray you that you treat me in this way?" asked Jasper. "No." "What other reason have you?" "I'll tell you. You're the sort of boy we want. You ain't any whining, milk-and-water sort of boy. You're brave and spirited. You would be worth a good deal to us." Burglar though Jack was, Jasper was not insensible to the compliment. Any boy likes to be considered spirited, even if he does not deserve it, and he felt flattered by this tribute, which he felt that he deserved, at least, in part. "I am glad you have a good opinion of my courage," he said, "but I think I can find a better use for it than in the career you open to me. If I accepted your proposal from fear of imprisonment it would show that I was not such a boy as you describe." "You are an obstinate fool!" said Jack, with a frown. "I am obstinate in this," said Jasper, composedly. "You want to spoil my life by making me a criminal." "Do you mean to call me a criminal!" exclaimed Jack, angrily. "I call you nothing--I only take you at your word." "You'll talk differently from this a week from now!" said Jack, prepariug to shut the sliding-door. "Do you mean to keep me in this dark hole a week?" asked Jasper, unable to repress a shudder. "Ha! that disturbs you, does it?" asked the other, smiling sardonically. "Yes, it does. You don't think I fancy it, do you?" "Well, you know the way to end your imprisonment." "Is there only one way?" "There's only one way. Tell the old man, Nathan, when you've made up your mind to accept my offer." Without waiting for a reply Jack pushed the sliding-door in its place, and once more Jasper found himself in the dark. CHAPTER XXVII. AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND. Three days and nights passed, and Jasper was still in confinement. Three times a day Nathan came to bring him his meals. Each time he asked our hero: "Are you ready to join our friends?" And each time Jasper answered: "No!" "You must like staying here," said the old man. "I am very tired of it," said Jasper, with a sigh. "You can come out any time," said Nathan. "Let me out now, then." "Oh, no, my dear young friend," said Nathan, shaking his head, "not until you accept Jack's offer." "Good heavens!" thought Jasper, "can it be possible that in the middle of a great city I can be imprisoned like this, with hundreds passing the house every hour? I wish I could be heard outside." But this was impossible, owing to the peculiar situation of the room. The prospects of our young hero were certainly gloomy enough. But there's an old saying that the darkest hour is just before the dawn, and deliverance was nearer than Jasper supposed. On the fourth day, at noon, Jasper heard steps ascending the stairs. He supposed it to be the old man, with his dinner, and he looked up listlessly as the sliding-door was opened. But instead of the wrinkled face of Nathan he beheld the fresh face of a young girl, apparently about sixteen years of age. She regarded the prisoner with curiosity and surprise. "Here's your dinner," she said. "Thank you," said Jasper. "Where is the old man that generally comes up?" "Uncle Nathan? Oh, he's gone out for a little while." "He's your uncle, then?" "Yes." "Do you live here?" "I've only just come. He sent for me. What do they keep you here for?" she asked, her face expressing curiosity. "Are you sick?" "I'm sick of being cooped up here." "Then why do you stay?" "Because I have to. Your uncle won't let me out." "Why not?" "Hasn't he told you?" "No. He only told me to bring up your dinner. I thought it was a man. I didn't know it was a boy." "You want to know why I am confined here?" "Yes, if you'll tell me." "It is because your uncle is afraid I'll inform the police against him and the men who come here." "I don't know much about them. Are they bad people, then?" "I am afraid they are. They do things that make them liable to be arrested." "What! my uncle, too?" asked the girl, who appeared to be startled. "I am not sure about him, but I feel sure about two men who come here. Their names are Jack and Bill." "I know. I have seen them both. One is a young man, the other must be near fifty. He's stout." "Yes." "How long do you think they will keep you here?" "Until I agree to join them in breaking the laws." "That's too bad," said the girl, compassionately. "Isn't it awful to be shut up there?" "Yes, it is. I've been here three or four days, and it seems as many weeks. Don't you think you could help me to escape?" asked Jasper, in a lower tone. The girl looked frightened. "I wouldn't dare to," she said. "Wouldn't you, if you were sure your uncle wouldn't find out?" "Yes, I would," she answered, heartily. "Don't you think you could manage it?" asked Jasper, eagerly. "I don't know. I wish I could," she answered, with evident sincerity. "Nancy!" called the old man's voice from below, sharply, "hasn't that boy got through yet?" "Coming, uncle," she answered. "I'll speak with you again when I bring up your supper," she said, as she hurried down stairs. She left Jasper eager and excited. At last he had made a friend in the camp of his enemies, and there was hope ahead. CHAPTER XXVIII. ESCAPE. Jasper waited impatiently for supper-time, not that he was hungry, for excitement had taken away his appetite, but because he was feverish with anxiety as to his prospects of release. "Suppose the old man should suspect her and come up with the supper himself," he thought, anxiously. But his anxiety proved groundless. A little after five the door was opened and disclosed the young girl, Nancy. His face lighted up joyfully. "I'm glad it's you, Nancy," he said. "I was afraid I should see your uncle. Does he suspect anything?" "No; he scolded me for allowing you so long to eat your dinner, that's all." "I'll take it off the plate and eat afterward. Now, I want to talk a little. Have you found out any way to help me?" "I don't know. Do you think you could get out of this window?" Jasper looked at the aperture critically. "Yes, I think I could," he said, after a pause, "with some one on the other side to pull me through." "I'll do that," said Nancy. "You will? You're a trump! What am I to do afterward? Can you help me to leave the house?" "That's what I've been thinking," said Nancy. "I'm afraid it wouldn't do to let you out at the front door. It's locked and bolted, and the bolt squeaks. I've tried it to see." "The windows?" suggested Jasper, anxiously. "No, I am afraid not." "Then if I can't leave the house, it's no use to get out of this room." "Yes, there's another way out, but it requires courage." "I'm not a coward," said Jasper. "No, you don't look like it," said Nancy, who was more favorably disposed toward Jasper on account of his good looks. "Thank you," said Jasper, gratified. "Now tell me, what is your plan?" "There's a scuttle through which you can get out on the roof. Would you dare to do it?" "Yes; I might get on to some other roof." "Yes, but you might slip off." "I am not afraid. You think of that because you are a girl." "Yes. I would rather stay here than trust myself on the roof." "Do you know if the next house is higher than this?" "Yes, it is." "That's very awkward," said Jasper, thoughtfully. "But there are some windows in the side of the house. You might get in at one of them." "And be taken for a house-breaker? Well, I must run the risk, any way. When do you think I had better try it?" "To-night. There'll be nobody in the house to-night but uncle and me." "That's good," said Jasper, reflecting that Nathan looked feeble, and being small in size would not be more than a match for his strength if the worst came to the worst. "When does your uncle go to bed?" he asked. "At eleven." "When will you come for me?" "At twelve, or a little after." "Are the nights dark now?" asked Jasper. "It would be rather ticklish being on the roof if it were pitch dark." "No, the moon will be up then." "That's all right. If you find out anything else that will help, let me know." "Yes, I will." "Nancy!" "Yes, uncle!" answered the girl. "To-night at twelve!" she said, in a low voice, and hurried down stairs. Jasper, in thinking over the plan he had in view, realized that it was one that would probably require all his courage and nerve. It would be a great relief to get through without accident. But he never thought of backing out. He felt that anything was better than to be confined longer in his present prison. It seemed a long time to wait, especially in the darkness, for the oil was burned out in his lamp, and there was no chance of asking for a further supply. He had forgotten it when Nancy came up with his supper. However, he felt that it was of no particular consequence, as he was so soon to be released. So the hours passed. He did not permit himself to fall asleep, lest he should not be awake when Nancy came. At last he heard a faint noise at the door, and saw Nancy standing outside with a candle. "Are you ready?" she whispered. "Yes, ready and waiting." "Now try to get through, and I will help you." She set down the candle, and Jasper set about his task. It was a tight squeeze, but at last he got out, and stood on his feet in the entry. "Now, follow me," said Nancy, in a whisper. He climbed a narrow, steep staircase, and then a ladder, and unfastening the scuttle, he laid it back. The moon shone softly down, bathing the city in its beautiful light. He got out lightly on the roof. "Good-bye!" he said, "and thank you, Nancy." "Good luck!" said Nancy. He lowered the scuttle, and sat astride the roof, considering what to do next. CHAPTER XXIX. JASPER IN A NEW CHARACTER. It was a relief to be out of his prison, but it must be admitted that Jasper's situation was not particularly desirable or agreeable. It was midnight, and he was seated astride the roof of the house which had served as his prison. There seemed to be no chance to reach the street, except to slide down the roof, and that would be certain death. Jasper looked about him in great perplexity. As his deliverer had told him, the next house was a story higher than the one on whose roof he was seated, and, still more important, there was a side-window looking out in that direction. When Jasper saw this, hope sprang up in his heart. "If that window is not fastened I can get in," he thought. He edged his way along to the window, and found that to reach it he would have to slide down a little way and catch hold of the blind to prevent sliding too far. "There's some risk about it," thought Jasper. "Shall I try it?" I don't know whether Jasper was justified in taking the risk he did, for there was great danger of sliding over into the street. I don't think I should have ventured to do it; but our hero was fearless and courageous, and he resolved that, as this was the only method of escape, he would avail himself of it. As a precaution against slipping, however, he took off his shoes, and catching the strings in his teeth commenced the perilous descent. He succeeded in grasping the blind and staying his progress. "Now, if the window should be fastened, what should I do?" he thought. But it was not. He succeeded in raising it, and with a feeling of intense relief made his way into the chamber. Then for the first time there flashed upon him the thought that he had placed himself in a very suspicious predicament. He had entered a house at midnight through the window. Why might he not be taken for a burglar? This was the way a burglar was likely to enter, and if he should be caught here his explanation would be considered very unsatisfactory. Jasper, brave as he was, was startled by this thought, while simultaneously the difficulty of escape was forced upon him. He looked about him in mental disturbance. It was a small attic chamber. There was a bed in the room, a wash-stand, a couple of chairs, and a clothes-press. This, being open, revealed a few clothes belonging, apparently, to a man. "Why isn't he here?" thought Jasper, "and what shall I do if he comes?" Though his story was true, he nevertheless felt that it was improbable, and before he could tell it he thought it likely that an alarm would be given, resulting in his being consigned to the care of the police. An idea came to him. He opened the bed, drew out one of the sheets and arrayed himself in it, after carefully folding back the quilt. "Now," he said to himself, "if it is necessary, I will see what sort of a ghost I can make." Hardly had he done this than he heard steps ascending the stairs. Jasper had little doubt that it was the occupant of the chamber which he had so unceremoniously entered. "I'll get into the wardrobe if I can," he thought. He managed to squeeze himself into the wardrobe, and waited with anxiety for the arrival of the new-comer. Through a crevice he saw the entrance of a stout, good-natured-looking young man, whistling a popular song. He was probably a clerk or young mechanic, who, after a hard day's work, had been to some cheap place of amusement. Wholly unconscious of Jasper's presence, the young man undressed himself, still continuing to whistle, and got into bed. It was so light outside that he had not lighted the gas. "I wonder how long it'll take for him to get to sleep?" thought Jasper. "I'm getting tired of being cooped up here." Unfortunately for him the young man seemed to be in no hurry. He whistled to himself, and occasionally sung in a low tone. At length Jasper decided to make a desperate move. Observing that the young man was lying with his face turned from the wardrobe, he seized his opportunity, stepped softly out, and gained the middle of the floor before he was seen. The effect upon the young man was startling. The whistle died away, and with blanched cheeks and staring eyes he sat bolt upright in bed. "Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed, tremulously. "What are you?" Not a word escaped from the white figure, but it solemnly waved its hand. "Are you a ghost?" asked the young man. Jasper made a guttural noise and waved his arm again. "Oh, Lord preserve me!" ejaculated the young man, shaking with terror. "Go away, do, good ghost! I haven't done anything!" As he spoke he covered up his head with the bedclothes, and Jasper could see by the convulsive movements that he was in a state of the greatest agitation. Our hero felt inclined to laugh, but forebore. He considered whether it would be safe, disguised as he was, to make his way down stairs and out at the front door. But another course suddenly suggested itself. The young man looked good-natured. Why shouldn't he reveal himself to him, and throw himself upon him for protection? Besides, he was sorry to frighten him so much. Acting upon his new resolution, he threw off the sheet and said in his natural voice: "Don't be frightened. I am not a ghost." The young man in bed took courage to uncover his head. "Ain't you a spirit?" he said, doubtfully. "No more than you," said Jasper, laughing. "What made you frighten me so? Who are you?" "I am a friend of yours." "I don't think I ever saw you before. How did you get in?" "Through the window." "You ain't a burglar, are you?" asked the young man, with fresh apprehension. "Of course not," said Jasper, laughing. "Do I look like a burglar?" "No; but I don't see what made you come in." "The fact is, I want you to help me," said Jasper. "Just light the gas, and I'll tell you all about it." He spoke so frankly and straightforwardly that the young man was reassured. He got out of bed and lighted the gas. "There! do I look like a burglar?" asked Jasper. "No, you don't; but I don't see how you got in." "Then I'll tell you. I've just escaped from the next house." "Escaped?" "Yes. I was locked up in a dark room for four days, and the only way I could get out was through the roof. Of course I couldn't slide off into the street and break my neck, so I got in here through the window." "You don't say!" ejaculated the young man. "What did they shut you up for? Was it your father?" "No. It's a long story. I knew something they were afraid I would tell." "What are you going to do?" "I am going to ask you to let me out into the street." "What! so late as this? You would have to stay out all night." "That would be better than to be locked up as I have been for the last four days." "Suppose you wait till morning. This bed is big enough for both of us." "Thank you. I should like that, and shall be much obliged to you." "You are sure you are not a burglar?" said the young man, with a brief return of his former suspicion. "Neither burglar nor ghost," said Jasper. "What made you put on the sheet?" "I was afraid you would take me for a burglar, so I meant to frighten you and escape, concluding that you would be afraid to pursue me." "That's so. I really thought you were a spirit." "If you think so now, just feel my muscle," said Jasper, smiling. "I don't think so now." "If I am to sleep with you, here is your sheet. We can make better use of it than in masquerading as ghosts." Jasper undressed himself and got into bed. He learned that his companion's name was Adam Diedrich, and that he kept a small cigar store near-by. CHAPTER XXX. JASPER GETS A PLACE. Jasper took breakfast the next morning with the friendly young German, whose acquaintance he had so singularly made. Not a word was said as to the manner in which he had entered the house. He was introduced by Adam as "my friend, Mr. Kent." After breakfast Jasper went around with his new friend to the place of business of the latter. He decided not to call upon Mr. Fitch till about ten o'clock. While on his way to the merchant's counting-room he met the girl, Nancy, with a tin pail in her hand. The girl's face lighted up when she saw him. "So you got off the roof," she said. "I was so afraid you would fall." "Thank you, Nancy," said Jasper. "Thanks to you I am out of prison." "But how did you get off the roof?" Jasper gave her an account of his midnight adventures. "And now tell me," he said, "how does your uncle take my flight?" "He's awful mad about it," said the girl, shaking her head. "What does he think? Does he suspect you?" asked Jasper, eagerly. "He did at first, but he doesn't now. He's puzzled to know how you got away. And Jack, he's mad, too." "Jack, does he know it?" "Yes; he came around to the house about eight o'clock. He was looking seedy, as if he'd been up all night. As near as I can find out, he failed in some job last night, and that made him cross." "Very likely." "'Have you carried up that boy's breakfast?' I heard him say. "'No,' said my uncle. "'Then give it to me, and I'll take it up; I want to talk to him.' "So Uncle Nathan made me get the breakfast ready. I gave it to him, and he went up. A minute after he roared down stairs: "'Where's the boy? What have you done with him?' "Uncle Nathan stared, and called out: "'Where's your eyes, Jack? Can't you see straight this morning?' "Jack answered, as mad as could be: "'Come up here, you old fool, and see if your eyes are any better than mine!' "Uncle went up the stairs, two at a time, and looked in the chamber, too. "'There, what do you say to that?' I heard Jack say. "'I'm dumfounded!' said Uncle Nathan; and then he called me." "Were you frightened?" asked Jasper. "A little," said the girl. "I was afraid I'd look guilty. "'Do you know anything about this?' asked my uncle, sternly. "'Good gracious! You don't mean to say he's gone?' I said, looking as much surprised as possible. 'How did he get out?' "'That's what I want to know,' said Jack, and he looked suspiciously at Uncle Nathan and me. "'I'm as innocent as a new-born babe,' said Uncle Nathan. "'Somebody must have let him out,' said Jack. "'I guess he squeezed through the opening,' said I. "'Maybe he did,' said Uncle Nathan. "'Suppose he did, you'd see him or hear him. He couldn't get out.' "'He might have got out through the door in the night,' said Uncle Nathan. "'Did you find the door unlocked?' asked Jack. "'Nancy was up first. How was it, Nancy?' asked my uncle. "'No; it was all right,' said I. "That puzzled them both. Then they thought of the roof, and went up. I was afraid they would find you there, but they didn't. They seemed to think you couldn't get away so, and they're dreadfully puzzled to know how you did escape. I was afraid you'd fallen off, so I went outside to see if I could find any blood on the sidewalk, but I couldn't, and I hoped you'd got into the next house." "Your uncle didn't think of that, did he?" "No, nor Jack, either." "Well, I've been lucky. I only hope they won't suspect you." "They will if they should see me talking to you in the street." "Then we'd better separate. Good-morning, Nancy. I won't forget the service you've done me." "Good-morning, Jasper. I'm so glad you got away." "I wish you were away, too, Nancy. It's not a good place for you." "I don't think I shall stay long," said the girl. "I didn't know uncle kept such company or I wouldn't have come to his house. Some day I shall leave him, and then I shall go out to service." "That would be better for you. I advise you to do it soon." The two parted company, and Jasper proceeded at once to Mr. Fitch's office. "I wonder what he'll think of me?" Jasper said to himself. "I promised to come back after carrying the money, and now it is four days late." "Is Mr. Fitch in the counting-room?" asked our hero of the clerk. "Yes, but he's busy." "I will wait, then." "Can't I attend to your business?" "I think not." "Your business must be very important," said the clerk, with a sneer. "I don't know about that," said Jasper, composedly, "but I think if you will tell Mr. Fitch that Jasper Kent is here he will receive me." "Is your name of such weight?" asked the clerk, with another sneer. "Suppose you put it to the test," said Jasper, smiling. The clerk had not seen Jasper when he called before and didn't recognize him as the restorer of little Harry; otherwise, he would have treated our hero with more attention. Influenced by curiosity he went into the counting-room and announced Jasper's name. "Bring him in," said the merchant. Jasper entered, but the manner of Mr. Fitch differed greatly from what it had been when they parted four days before. Then it was cordial and friendly, now it was cold and suspicious. "Good-morning, Mr. Fitch," said Jasper. "Good-morning," responded the merchant, coldly. "You have been a long time returning from your errand!" "That's true, sir; but I would have come sooner if I could." Mr. Fitch looked up in surprise. "Do you mean to say that you couldn't come?" demanded he. "Yes, sir." "What prevented you?" "I was in close confinement." "What! were you arrested?" and again the merchant's face was overspread by doubt and suspicion. "No, sir; I hope I shall never fall into the hands of the police." "How then could you be in confinement? This is a riddle." "The house to which I was requested to bring the money was a haunt of desperate men--burglars, I found out--and they were afraid I would betray their rendezvous. They mixed me some lemonade, which I now think must have been drugged, for I went to sleep in the middle of the day, soon after drinking it. When I awoke up I found myself in a dark room, in the centre of the house." "Is this true?" asked the merchant, amazed. "Can such things take place within earshot of the police?" "Yes, sir; there was no chance of my making myself heard; if there had been I would have called for help." "How did you get out, and when?" "Last night, at midnight." "How?" "I will tell you, sir. That, I think, is the most interesting part of it." "Proceed." When Mr. Fitch had heard Jasper's explanation he no longer doubted him. His friendly, cordial manner returned, and he congratulated our hero on his prompt rejection of Jack's offers, though that rejection exposed him to continued imprisonment. "Now," he asked, "what are your plans?" "To get something to do," said Jasper. "Of what kind?" "Any kind." "I will engage you, for the present, at ten dollars a week. Will that suit you?" "Yes, sir. Nothing could suit me better." "Do you think you can live on that?" "Easily." "Then that is settled. To-night you will go home with me. To-morrow will be soon enough to look for a boarding-place. Here are your first week's wages in advance." "Thank you, sir. You are very kind." "I have not forgotten that I am indebted to you for the recovery of my little Harry. Here, Leonard." The clerk already mentioned entered the counting-room. He looked inquiringly from Jasper to Mr. Fitch. "Leonard," said the latter, "this young man is to be your fellow-clerk. He takes the place of Victor, who left last week. Instruct him in his duties." "Yes, sir," said the clerk, in no little surprise. Jasper followed him out into the warehouse. CHAPTER XXXI. THE UNWELCOME RELATIVE. Now that Jasper has found a place we can venture to leave him for a time and go back to the home which he had felt compelled to leave. His step-mother felt relieved by his departure. It left her mistress of the situation, with no one to interfere with or question her authority. How Jasper fared she cared little, or not at all. How he was likely to get along without money she never inquired, nor did she feel a twinge of remorse for her treatment of one who had been her late husband's sole care and hope. It was enough for her that she had Nicholas with her. Stern as she generally was toward him, she was weakly indulgent. Whatever he wanted she gave him, if it were not utterly unreasonable. She was afraid he would tire of the country and want to go away, and this led her to gratify him in his wishes, in order that she might retain him at her side. Nicholas was not slow in finding out his power and in using it. He asked and obtained a horse for his own use, and later an elegant little carriage was ordered from the city, in which he used to drive around the neighborhood with the airs of a young prince. To others he might seem arrogant and conceited--to his mother he was only possessed of the proper spirit of a gentleman. In her eyes he was handsome, though in the eyes of no one else. But perfect happiness is short-lived. In her new prosperity Mrs. Kent forgot that she had a brother who was not likely to reflect credit upon the family. She had not heard from him for years, and supposed he did not know where she was. But in this, as we know, she was mistaken. One day Nicholas was standing on the lawn in front of the house, waiting for his carriage to be brought around from the stable, when his attention was drawn to a common-looking man who was standing by the fence and looking at him in what he considered an impudently familiar way. Since Nicholas had become a young aristocrat he was easily made angry by such familiarity on the part of anyone of the lower orders, and he resented it at once. "Why are you standing there, fellow?" he demanded, frowning. The man neither seemed overawed nor angry. He only looked amused. "Because I am tired of walking," he said. "Then go somewhere else." "Thank you, this suits me very well," said the man, smiling provokingly. "It doesn't suit me, though," said Nicholas, bristling up. "Who are you?" inquired Dick, for it was he, with provoking nonchalance. "Who am I? I'll let you know!" retorted Nicholas, now very angry. "I wish you would. That's what I just asked you." "I'm the owner of this place, and I warn you off." "Oh, you're the owner of this place!" said the stranger, laughing. "Do you own the road, too?" "Yes," said Nicholas, "I own the road in front of my place." Dick laughed again. "You're a young man, ain't you, to be a landed proprietor. How about your mother? Doesn't she own anything?" "What do you know about my mother?" demanded Nicholas, a little nonplussed. "More than you think for, young man," said Dick. "She used to go to school with me." "Did she? Well, I suppose she couldn't help it if there were low persons in the school with her." "That's good!" said the stranger, laughing heartily. "So I am a low person, am I?" "You look like it," said Nicholas, insolently. He expected the man would be angry, but instead he laughed more heartily than before. Nicholas began to think he was crazy. "Well, boy," he said, after a pause, "just remember that appearances are sometimes deceitful." "I don't think they are so in this case," said Nicholas, "but I can't waste anymore time with you. There's my horse coming around. I'm going to ride." "Is that your team? It's very neat, 'pon my word." "That's nothing to you." "Won't you give me a seat? I've never been in this town before, and I should like to take a drive." "Look here, fellow, you've got cheek!" exclaimed Nicholas. "Have I?" "Do you think I would be seen in such low company?" "Why not? I'm a gentleman. If you are a gentleman, then I am, too." "What do you mean? What have I to do with you?" "A good deal," said the stranger. "I am your uncle!" Nicholas gasped for breath. What! this low, common person his uncle? He would not credit it. "That's a lie!" he said. "You are trying to humbug me." "Not so fast, nephew Nicholas," said Dick. "You can't alter facts. I'm your mother's brother. Didn't she ever tell you of your Uncle Dick?" Uncle Dick! Nicholas did remember that his mother had named such a person, and the uncomfortable apprehension dawned upon him that the stranger's claim was well founded, after all. He kept silent, but flared at the stranger in a state of mental disturbance. "I see you've heard of me," said Dick, with a short laugh. "Is your mother at home?" "I believe so," said Nicholas, sullenly. "I've come a long way to see her. Will you go in and tell her I am here?" Nicholas was not overwilling to obey the person whom he had just called low, but he felt considerable curiosity as to whether the man was really his uncle, and this decided him to comply with his request. "I will speak to my mother," he said. "She will know whether you are what you claim to be." "Yes, she will know. I don't believe she has forgotten brother Dick." Nicholas sought and found his mother. "What, Nicholas, back so soon?" she said, looking up from her sewing. "No, mother, I haven't started yet. There's a person down stairs who says he is my Uncle Dick, and he wants to see you." "Good heavens! is he here?" exclaimed Mrs. Kent, in a tone of vexation. "How in the world did he find me out?" "Then it is he? He is a very common-looking person." "He's kept low associates. Where is he?" "Down on the lawn." "Tell him to come in. I suppose I shall have to see him." "It may not be your brother after all," said Nicholas. "I am afraid it is. I can tell soon as I see him." Nicholas went down stairs in no very pleasant mood. "You're to come in," he said, ungraciously. "My mother will see you." "I thought so," said Dick, smiling complacently. CHAPTER XXXII. A COLD RECEPTION. Richard Varley followed Nicholas into the presence of Mrs. Kent. The latter looked scrutinizingly at him as he approached, hoping that it might be an impostor. But, no! there was no mistaking his appearance. It was, indeed, her brother. "How d'ye do, Helen," said Dick, with ostentatious cordiality. "Very well, Richard," she answered coldly, slipping her hand out of his grasp as quickly as she could. "The old girl ain't very glad to see me," thought Dick. "Just as I thought." "How did you find me out?" asked Mrs. Kent. "There was a man from this way told me of your good luck." "Where were you, then?" "In Missouri, near St. Louis." "Indeed? Have you just come from there?" "Yes." "Did you have any business this way? I suppose you must, or you wouldn't have come so far." "I came on purpose to see you, Helen," said Dick, trying to look like an affectionate brother, and signally failing. "You are certainly very kind," said Mrs. Kent in a cold tone, evincing not the slightest pleasure at his devotion. "I am afraid you must have put yourself to a good deal of inconvenience on my account." "Why, yes, I have," answered her brother, perceiving at once that he might urge this as a claim upon her; "but what of that? Ain't you my only sister, and hasn't it been years since we met?" "Really, Richard," said Mrs. Kent, with a little quiet sarcasm, "I was hardly prepared to expect from you so great an interest in me. I wonder you didn't come before. It's a good many years since we met." "Well, Helen, you see I couldn't afford it before. I wanted to see you, but I couldn't raise the money to come East." "You've raised it now, it seems." "Yes; I had a little stroke of luck." "You're doing well, then?" asked his sister, with a slight show of interest. If this were so, she was ready to welcome him. "I said a little show of luck. I got together money enough to come East." "Oh, indeed!" returned Mrs. Kent, her manner becoming chilly again. Dick got nettled. He didn't relish his reception. "It seems to me you ain't very glad to see me," said he, bluntly. "I never was very demonstrative," said his sister. "Did you expect me to fall on your neck and embrace you?" "No; but--well, you know what I mean. You are as cold as an icicle." "It's my way, I suppose. Is your wife living?" "Yes." "Is she with you?" asked Mrs. Kent, rather apprehensively. "No; it was too expensive for me to bring two. I hear you are rich, Helen." "Is that what brought you on?" "Don't be so suspicious. It's only natural I should congratulate you." Before this Nicholas had left the room to go out on his proposed drive. "I've got enough to live on economically," she answered, with reserve. "I am not rich." "Your son, Nicholas, acts as if you were." "How is that?" Dick laughed. "He puts on as many heirs as a prince." "He has considerable spirit," said Mrs. Kent, proudly. "There's no doubt of that. He ordered me off with the air of a young lord." "That was before he knew who you were." "Yes, he didn't know I was his uncle. By the way, you've got a step-son, haven't you?" "Yes; two-thirds of this property belongs to him." "Where is he?" "He is absent just now," answered Mrs. Kent, in a tone of reserve. Dick laughed. "Oh, you're good at keeping secrets, Helen," he said; "but you can't deceive me." "What do you mean?" inquired his sister, with some indignation. "I know all about his going away, Helen." "Who told you--the neighbors? Have you been questioning them about my affairs?" "No, no. You're on the wrong scent this time. He told me himself." "What! has he got back again?" demanded Mrs. Kent, in surprise and dismay. "No; I met him in Missouri. He told me there." "How did he know you were related to me?" "He heard me and my wife talking about you, and then he told me." "What did he tell you?" "That you and he couldn't agree, and so he left home." "He was insubordinate. He disobeyed me, and I wouldn't stand it." "Oh, well, you two can settle your own affairs. I don't care to interfere, only I thought you would like to hear from him." "What's he doing?" asked Mrs. Kent. "He was in St. Louis when I left, looking out for a situation." "I wash my hands of him. He might live easily enough if he would submit to me. If not, he will probably have to submit to a great many privations." "He is a pretty smart boy; he'll get along." "I consider my Nicholas smarter," said Mrs. Kent, coldly. "Perhaps so," answered her brother, dubiously. "I don't know much about Nicholas." "Where are you staying?" asked his sister. "Why," said Dick, rather taken aback, "I calculated you would invite me to stay here awhile, seeing I've come so far to see you." Mrs. Kent bit her lips in vexation. "You can stay a day or two, if you like," she said, "but we live very quietly, Nicholas and I. I don't think it will suit one so active as you are." "I'll take the risk, sister Helen. It seems good to be in my own sister's house after so many years. Besides, I should like to ride out with my nephew behind that gay horse of his." "You can speak to him about it," said Mrs. Kent. "I believe he prefers to be alone." "Oh, he'll be willing to treat his uncle to a ride. I'll give him a few hints about driving." Mrs. Kent winced. She was proud, and she did not fancy exhibiting Dick to the village people as her brother. But there seemed no way of avoiding it. She privately determined to get rid of him as soon as possible. "I must leave you now," she said, gathering up her work. "I will ask the servant to show you your room." "All right, Helen. Don't trouble yourself about me. I'll make myself at home." "I'm afraid you will," thought his sister. CHAPTER XXXIII. DICK PUNISHES NICHOLAS. "Is that man going to stay here?" asked Nicholas, in a tone of dissatisfaction. "Yes." "What made you invite him?" "I couldn't help it, Nicholas. He is my brother." "I'm ashamed of the relationship." "I am not proud of it myself, but I can't help paying him a little attention." "How long is he going to stay?" "A day or two." "He'll stay a week or two if you let him." "I can prevent that." "How?" "You'll see." The manner of Nicholas toward his uncle was far from agreeable. In fact, it was almost insolent. Dick retained his temper out of policy, but he said to himself: "Some time or other, my fine nephew, I'll pay off old scores. See if I don't." "Are you going to ride this morning?" he asked the next day. "I may," answered Nicholas. "I should like to ride with you." "I prefer riding by myself." "Oh, come, nephew. I shan't stay here long. Don't refuse such a small favor." In consequence probably of the first part of this answer, Mrs. Kent said: "Nicholas, you'd better take your uncle out this morning and show him a little of the village." Nicholas grumblingly assented. So about ten o'clock they started out. "You've got a good horse here," said Dick. "He ought to be. Mother paid four hundred dollars for him." "Did she, though? You ought to have got me to send you one from the West. For half the money I'd have sent you a better one." "I don't believe it." "Because you don't know. I do." "It takes a good driver to drive this horse," said Nicholas. "Does it? I could drive this horse blindfolded." He spoke contemptuously, and Nicholas was nettled. He prided himself upon his driving ability, and now his uncle underestimated it. "The horse is not as easy to drive as you think," he said. "If you don't believe it, take the reins and see." "All right." This was what Dick wanted, for he had a plan for revenging himself on his upstart nephew. He drove on till he got to a place where there was a muddy and miry puddle beside the road. Then by a dexterous manoeuver, for he understood driving thoroughly, he managed to overturn the wagon, and Nicholas was thrown headlong into the puddle. Dick leaped out just at the right time, retaining his hold on the reins. Bespattered with mud and drenched with mire, Nicholas arose from the puddle a sorry figure. "What did you do that for?" he demanded, wrathfully, surveying himself with disgust. "I'm afraid I can't manage your horse," said Dick, with hypocritical meekness. "He was too much for me." "Didn't I tell you so?" said Nicholas, triumphing in spite of his woful condition. "I'm sorry you fell into the puddle. Why didn't you jump, as I did?" "I didn't have time," said Nicholas, ruefully. "What a figure I am!" "I suppose we may as well go home." "Yes," said Nicholas, sullenly. "That comes of giving you the reins." "You are right," said Dick. "You'd better drive home yourself." Nicholas took the reins, but it mortified him not a little to see the looks of wonder and amusement which he attracted as he passed through the village. Dick laughed to himself. "I rather think, my proud nephew, we're about even," he said to himself. In the course of the next day Dick ventured to suggest to his sister that a temporary loan would be very acceptable. "A loan!" she repeated, curling her lip. "Why not say 'gift' at once?" "I'm willing to put it on that ground," said Dick, unabashed. "Still, I'll give you my note for the amount, if you say so." "What good would that do?" "Why, I've got some plans in view which, if successful, will enable me to repay you the money, with interest." "I have small faith in the success of your plans, Richard." "I haven't been as lucky as you, sister Helen, I admit; but where would you have been but for your lucky marriage?" "As to that, I have always taken care of myself," said his sister, coldly. "May be so. There are some born to good luck." "How much money do you expect me to give you?" asked Mrs. Kent. Dick looked at his sister's face attentively. He wished to judge how much there was a chance of getting out of her. His survey was not particularly encouraging. She didn't appear to be a woman easily wheedled out of her money. Still, he spoke up boldly, and said: "A loan of five hundred dollars, Helen, would be a great lift to me." "I have no doubt it would," said Mrs. Kent, quietly; "but if you have any expectation of getting that sum from me you know very little of me. I should be a fool to throw away such a sum of money." "You would be generous." "I have no ambition to be considered generous," she answered, coldly. "A fool and his money are soon parted. You appear to take me for a fool, but I beg to assure you that you are entirely mistaken." "How much will you lend me, then?" asked Dick, rather sullenly. "Don't use that ridiculous word 'lend,' when you know there's no probability of your ever repaying it, even if you should be able." "Have your own way, Helen." "I will give you fifty dollars, though in justice to my boy I ought not to do so." "Fifty dollars!" repeated Dick, chagrined. "Why, that don't pay me for coming East." "You are right. You would have done better to stay where you were." "You don't seem to consider, Helen, that we hadn't met for years, and I wanted to see my only sister." "Suppose I had had no money, would you have come then?" asked Mrs. Kent, with contemptuous incredulity. "No; I couldn't have afforded it. But, Helen, fifty dollars is nothing at all. You might say a hundred." "I might say a hundred, but there is no chance that I shall. Are you not ashamed--a great, strong man, as you are--not to be able to support yourself and wife without help from me?" "Luck's been agin me," said Dick, sullenly. "I could have got ahead but for that." "How has it been against you?" "I owned a mining claim in California--it didn't pay anything--and I sold it for ten dollars. The man I sold it to kept working till he struck a vein. He cleared ten thousand dollars." "As you might have done if you hadn't despaired too quickly." "Oh, well, it's easy enough to criticise, Helen. You've struck a vein, and you're in luck. No more hard work for you." "There would be if I gave away my money, five hundred dollars at a time. You needn't complain of my good fortune. I have had my share of work to do. Now I am comfortable, and I mean to keep so." "No matter what becomes of your poor brother?" whined Dick. "My poor brother must work as I have done, and he won't starve. Do you think, if I were a man," she said, disdainfully, "that I would stoop to ask help of a woman!" "Well, let me have the money, then," said Dick, gloomily. Mrs. Kent drew from her pocket-book five ten-dollar bills and placed them in his hand. "Don't expect any further help," she said. "In justice to my son I must refuse it." Dick left the house with an execration. "Was there ever a more selfish, cold-hearted woman?" he muttered. "It's all for her son, is it? I'd like to choke the whelp!" With this sentiment the affectionate uncle left his sister's house. CHAPTER XXXIV. AN IMPORTANT COMMISSION. It was nearly a year later, and Jasper Kent still remained in St. Louis, and in the employ of Herman Fitch. He had won his way to the favor of his employer, not alone on account of his personal good qualities, but because in the way of business he manifested an unusual aptitude. For this reason he had already had his pay raised to fifteen dollars a week and was thoroughly trusted, even in matters of importance. Of this he was about to receive an additional proof. "Jasper," said Mr. Fitch one day, as our hero entered his counting-room, "how would you like a little journey?" Jasper's eyes brightened. "I would like nothing better," he answered, promptly. "So I supposed. Young men of your age generally like to travel." "To what place do you wish me to go, may I ask, sir?" "To Kansas--a small town named Plattville." "Very well, sir, I will go." "The business is this: A firm in that town, Watts & Duncan, are considerably indebted to me, and I have doubts as their solvency. In the event of their failure I want to realize as much as possible of my claim. I don't want the other creditors to forestall me." "Yes, sir; I see." "It is rather a delicate commission, you perceive. You are to go there and quietly find out what you can of their affairs, and report to me by mail. Then I shall send you instructions how to proceed." "Very well, sir." "Some might blame me for sending so young a messenger, but I have two objects in view. A boy of your age will not excite suspicion, and again, I repose great confidence in you." Jasper was not a little gratified by this assurance. "I will try not to disappoint your expectations," he said, earnestly. "I don't think you will." "When do you want me to start?" "To-morrow." "I'll be ready," said Jasper, briskly. "You can go a part of the way by rail, but only a part. It is a frontier town, and you may have to ride horseback a part of the way. That I must leave to your judgment." "All the better," said Jasper. "I see you don't mind roughing it," said Mr. Fitch. "No; that's the best part of it." "Well, you may go home now and make preparations. To-morrow morning come to the office for instructions and money. One thing only I suggest now--take as little baggage as possible. It would only be in your way." "All right, sir. I've got a small knapsack that will hold all I want to carry." "Good! Be here to-morrow at nine o'clock." At the appointed hour Jasper received his instructions and a certain sum of money. He had provided himself with a belt, into which he put the money to guard against possible robbery, carrying only a few dollars in a pocket-book for outward show. In explanation of these precautions it must be stated that the events which I am describing took place some years since, when Kansas was more sparsely settled and life less secure than at present. He received his instructions, and set out on his journey, secretly envied by other clerks who had been longer in the office than himself, but who had not been complimented by having a similar trust reposed in them. We will follow him and see how he fares. CHAPTER XXXV. AN INDIAN MAIDEN. From the information afforded by his employer Jasper was led to expect a somewhat adventurous journey. He was not to be disappointed. As long as he was in the well-settled part of the country he encountered no difficulties nor adventures worth recording. Plattville, as already stated, was a frontier town, and there was a large tract of almost uninhabited country between it and the nearest settlement. Late in the afternoon of the fourth day Jasper found himself standing on the bank of a river which must be crossed. There was no boat in sight, and he was puzzled what to do. While he was considering, a young Indian girl glided by in a canoe. She handled the paddle dexterously and as one who had been long accustomed to the exercise, though she did not look more than twelve years of age. "I wonder if she understands English?" thought Jasper. "Perhaps I could get her to ferry me across." Acting upon this thought he called out: "Halloo, there!" The young girl turned quickly, and discovered Jasper, whom she had not before seen. She stopped paddling, and asked, in a musical voice: "White boy speak?" "Yes," said Jasper. "Do you speak English?" "A little." "I want to go across the river. Will you take me in your canoe?" The girl hesitated a moment, perhaps from uncertainty as to whether she could trust our hero, for she surveyed him attentively. It appeared that her impressions were favorable, for she turned her canoe to the shore and said, simply: "Yes." "Thank you," said Jasper, and he promptly took his place in the frail craft. The Indian girl pushed off and began to paddle rapidly. "It seems odd to be ferried by a girl," thought Jasper. "I think I ought to offer to take her place." "Shall I paddle instead of you?" he asked. The girl laughed and shook her head. "White boy not know how to paddle a canoe--tip it over," and she laughed again. "I don't know but I should," thought Jasper, as he noticed how light and frail the little canoe was, and how a slight motion would agitate it. "Do you live around here?" he asked, in some curiosity. "Up the river," said the girl, indicating with her head, for her hands were occupied. "Have you a father?" "Monima's father great chief," said the girl, proudly. "Monima! Is that your name?" "Yes." "It is a pretty name." The girl laughed and appeared to be pleased with the compliment, though it was only to her name. She seemed in turn to be possessed by curiosity, for she asked: "What white boy's name?" "Jasper." "Jasper," she repeated, with difficulty. "Isn't it a pretty name?" "No," said Monima, laughing. "I am sorry you don't like it, Monima." "I like white boy. He will be big warrior some day." "I don't know about that, Monima. So your father is a chief?" "Yes," said Monima, proudly. "Great chief." "Did he give you this canoe?" "Yes." "Have you any brothers and sisters?" "One brother, young man; no sister." By this time they had reached the other side. Monima skilfully drew up the canoe alongside, and Jasper jumped out. He stood on the bank, and drew from his vest-pocket a silver half-dollar, which he handed to Monima. "Monima no want money," said the girl, proudly. "Keep it to remember white boy," said Jasper. "Monima will remember white boy without money." Jasper reluctantly put the money in his pocket, but he did not like to accept the favor from Monima without rendering her some return. He was in doubt at first, but finally an idea occurred to him. He had half a dozen photographs of himself, which he had recently had taken in St. Louis. He drew out one of these and extended it to Monima. "Take that, Monima," he said. "Keep that and remember me." Monima's face lighted up with wonder and admiration when she saw the photograph, for she had never seen one before. She looked from the picture to Jasper, and from Jasper back again to the picture, and laughed softly. "White boy's picture?" she said. "Yes, Monima. Do you think it looks like me?" She nodded emphatically. "Two white boy--here and there," she said, pointing first to the picture, then to Jasper. "Good-bye, Monima," he said. But the Indian girl was evidently tired of the river, for she fastened the canoe and walked by his side. He kept up a conversation for some time, till she turned aside and entered a path which led into the woods. "Does your father live there?" he asked. "Yes," said Monima. "Good-bye," he said. She didn't say good-bye, but uttered a word which was probably the Indian equivalent for it, and was soon lost to his sight. "Well, that's romantic, to begin with," thought Jasper. "The daughter of a great chief has ferried me across the river, and I have given her my photograph. The next romantic thing that happens to me may be my losing my way, but I hope not." He had a general idea of the way he wanted to go, but after awhile he became perplexed, and was led to doubt whether he had not gone astray. "I wish I could find somebody to guide me," he thought. He had his wish. A few rods farther on he came upon a man stretched upon the grass under a tree. "I have lost my way," he began, but before he could finish the sentence the man sprang to his feet, and, to his dismay, he recognized Jack, the man who had had him locked up in St. Louis. CHAPTER XXXVI. IN DIFFICULTIES. Jack looked at first surprised, then smiled with malicious joy as he recognized the boy who accosted him. "Ha! my chicken, it's you, is it?" he said. "You remember me, don't you?" "Yes, I remember you," said Jasper. "I thought I'd get hold of you again some time," said Jack, "but hang me if I expected to find you out here. What brings you here?" "I came here on business," said Jasper. "So you are a man of business, are you?" sneered the burglar. "I am in the employ of Herman Fitch, of St. Louis." "The father of the boy that Dick kidnapped?" "Yes." "Did he send you out here?" "Yes." "What for?" "On a little matter of business," said Jasper, with reserve. "Oh, that's it. Well, you didn't expect the pleasure of seeing me, did you?" "I don't consider it a pleasure," said Jasper, boldly. "Ha! you are a bold boy." "I speak the truth." "Well, it isn't always best to speak the truth," said Jack, frowning. "Shall I lie to you, then?" "Don't be impudent." "I shan't say I am glad to see you when I am not." "Perhaps you are right, boy. You will have no reason to be glad to see me. Follow me." "I would rather not." "Follow me, or I will drive this knife into you!" said Jack, savagely, displaying a murderous-looking weapon which he carried in his girdle. Resistance would have been unavailing and dangerous, and Jasper obeyed, resolved, however, to escape at the first opportunity. Jack led the way into the woods, not far, however, and finally paused under a large tree. "Sit down," he said, imperiously. He threw himself down on the green sward, and Jasper, not very comfortable in mind, sat down near him. "Now, young fellow," said Jack, "I've got some questions to ask you." "I suppose he is going to ask me about my escape," thought Jasper, and he was right. "How did you get away from that room where you were locked up?" "I got out of the sliding-door," said Jasper. "How did you get out of the house? Did the old man help you?" "No," said Jasper. "Did you go out through the front door?" "No." "Don't keep me asking questions," said Jack, harshly. "How did you get out, then?" "Through the door in the roof. From there I got in through the window into a room in the next house." "Ha!" said Jack. "I never thought of that. Did you have any trouble with the people there?" "No; I got into the room of a German, who let me spend the night with him and take breakfast." "So, that's the way you managed it?" "Yes." Jasper felt relieved that no question had been asked him as to Nancy's agency in effecting his release. He would not have betrayed her, at any rate, but his refusal to speak might have incensed Jack. "Well," he said, "so much for that. Now, how much money have you got with you?" This was a question which Jasper had expected and dreaded to hear, for nearly all the money in his possession belonged to his employer, and not to himself. "Well, boy, I want an answer," said Jack, impatiently. Jasper reluctantly drew out his pocket-book, containing, as we know, but a small portion of his money. Jack took it, and, opening it, counted the money. "Only twelve dollars!" he exclaimed, in disgust and disappointment. "Don't take it," said Jasper, affecting to be very much disturbed. "What business have you out here with such a paltry sum as twelve dollars?" demanded Jack, angrily. "That's my business!" said Jasper. "What do you mean, boy?" "It certainly isn't your business how much money my employer gave me for expenses." "Did he expect you to make the whole journey on this contemptible sum?" "No." "Where's the rest, then?" "I am to collect some money before I return," answered Jasper, with a lucky thought. Jack felt disappointed. The money Jasper was about to collect would do him no good, as, doubtless, the boy would take good care, if once released, not to be caught again. "That's a miserable way of doing business," said Jack. "Suppose you shouldn't collect it?" "Then I must write to the firm to send some money." This gave Jack an idea, on which he afterward acted. "But," continued Jasper, desirous of getting back some of the money in the pocket-book, "if you take away all my money I can't get to Plattville to make collections." "Is that where you are to collect money?" "Yes." "Will you promise me the money after you have collected it?" "No," answered Jasper. "You won't, eh?" "No; I have no right to. The money won't belong to me." "That makes no difference." "It makes a great deal of difference to me." "Look here, boy," said Jack, frowning, "you evidently don't know the man you're talking to. You ain't going to bluff me off in that way," and he reinforced this declaration with an oath. "I am trying to be faithful to my employer," said Jasper. "You've got to be faithful to me." "What claim have you on me?" asked Jasper. "You're in my power--that's the claim I have. Do you understand that?" "I understand what you mean," said Jasper. "Then I've only to say that it'll be best for you to remember it." "Tell me again what you want." "What I did want was, that you should collect this money and bring it to me." "I refuse." "You needn't, for I don't intend to let you go out of my sight. I can't trust you. No; I have another plan in view." Jasper did not ask what it was. He felt sure that it was nothing that he would be willing to do. "What is the name of your employer?" "Herman Fitch." "Very good." Jack drew from his pocket a small pocket-inkstand, a pen, and some paper. "Now," said he, "I want you to write a letter." "Write a letter! To whom?" inquired Jasper, in surprise. "To this man Fitch, telling him that you have had your pocket picked and need some money. Tell him you will need at least seventy-five dollars, as you haven't been able to collect anything." "I can't do it," said Jasper. "Can't do it! What do you mean?" "I mean that by such a letter I should deceive my employer and be obtaining money from him by false pretenses. I can't do it." "Look here, boy," said Jack, sternly, "you don't know the man you are trifling with. I am a desperate man, and will stick at nothing. I have taken life before, and I am ready to do so again. Write this letter or I will kill you!" Jasper listened with horror to this terrible confession and his equally terrible threat. "Would you take my life for seventy-five dollars?" he said. "Yes; your life is nothing to me, and I need the money. Quick, your answer!" As he spoke he drew out a long, murderous-looking knife, and approached Jasper menacingly. It was a terrible moment. Jack looked as if he fully intended to carry out his threat At any rate, there was danger of it. On the one side was death, on the other breach of trust. Finally he decided. "You may kill me if you will," he said at length, "but I won't write the letter." Jack uttered an execration and raised the knife, but suddenly he uttered a stifled cry and fell to the ground, with blood spurting from a wound in his breast. Jasper bounded to his feet in astonishment. He had shut his eyes, expecting death. His first glance was at the prostrate brigand. He saw that the wound was made by an arrow, which had penetrated the region of the heart. But who had sped the shaft? And was he also in danger? The question was soon answered. Out from the underbrush emerged three figures. The foremost was the Indian maiden, Monima. Following her were two men of the same tribe. It was one of these who had shot at Jack. "Is white boy hurt?" asked Monima, running to Jasper and surveying him anxiously. "No," said Jasper. "Thank you, Monima." "Monima is glad," said the Indian girl, joyfully. Jack groaned, and Jasper came to his side and addressed him compassionately, though but a minute before Jack had been about to take his life. He saw that the blood was gushing forth from his wound. "Is he badly wounded?" asked Jasper, turning to Monima. She said something in her native language to the two men. They spoke briefly, shaking their heads. "White man will die," she said, interpreting to Jasper. Our hero was shocked. It was the first time he had ever witnessed a violent death, and it struck him with horror. He kneeled by Jack's side. Just then the wounded man opened his eyes. "Who shot me?" he asked, with difficulty. "The Indians." Jack's glance fell upon the two men, and he tried to lift himself up, but the effort caused his wound to bleed more copiously. He burst into a volley of oaths, which in his state shocked Jasper. "Don't swear," he said. "Would you go into the presence of God with an oath in your mouth?" Jack's face grew livid with terror. "Who says I am going to die?" he asked, wildly. "The Indians say you cannot live," said Jasper, gravely. "It's a lie!" exclaimed Jack, violently. "I'll live to kill you all!" As he spoke he plucked the arrow from his breast; but this only hastened his death. He fell back exhausted, and in five minutes breathed his last. Jasper looked so shocked that the Indian girl said, in a tone of surprise: "Is white boy sorry?" "Yes," said Jasper. "What for? He try to kill white boy." "Yes; but it seems awful to see him killed so suddenly. I wish he could have lived long enough to repent." Monima could not understand this. "He bad man!" she said, emphatically. "He try to kill white boy. Monima white boy's friend." Jasper took the hand of Monima gratefully and said: "You have saved me, Monima. But for you he would have killed me." The Indian girl's eyes lighted up, but she only said: "Monima is glad." "How fortunate that I fell in with her," thought Jasper, "and that I made a friend of her!" "Where white boy go to-night?" asked Monima. "I don't know," said Jasper, doubtfully. "Come to my father's lodge. In the morning Monima will show the way." "Thank you, Monima," said our hero. "I will go." He felt that he could not refuse such an offer from one who had rendered him such a service. Moreover, it relieved him from embarrassment, as he would not have known otherwise where to pass the night, which was now close at hand. CHAPTER XXXVII. A STARTLING SUMMONS. The Indian encampment was only half a mile away. There were assembled about fifty persons, men, women, and children, lying on the grass about the tents. Monima's favor was sufficient to insure a cordial reception to Jasper, who was pressed to partake of supper, an offer he was glad to accept, for it was now seven hours since he had eaten food. After the repast a pipe was offered him, but this he declined, explaining that he never had learned to smoke. On the whole, he enjoyed the adventure, except that he could not help thinking from time to time of his late companion, cut off so suddenly. He learned from Monima that her two attendants had remained behind and buried Jack under the tree where he had been killed. At night he slept on skins in one of the tents, and in the morning he was guided on his way by Monima as far as the road. The Indian maiden looked sad when they were about to part. "When will white boy come back?" she said. "I don't know, Monima. I hope to see you again, some time, but perhaps you won't remember me." "Monima never forgets," she answered. "And I shall not forget." Attached to his watch was a silver chain which he had bought in St. Louis three months before. He had noticed Momma's look of admiration directed toward it, and he determined to give it to her. Detaching his watch from it, he held it out to the Indian girl. "Take it, Monima," he said. "It is a gift of friendship." She uttered a cry of pleasure. "You give it to Monima?" she said, half incredulous. "Yes," he said. "And I have nothing to give white boy," she said, sadly. "You have given me my life. Is that nothing, Monima? Keep the chain, and whenever you look at it remember Jasper." So they parted, and Jasper pursued his journey to Plattville. He reached the town without further adventure, and conducted satisfactorily the business with which he was intrusted. He succeeded in obtaining half the money due his employer, and in making arrangements for the speedy payment of the rest. So it was with a mind well satisfied that he returned to St. Louis. When he told Mr. Fitch the particulars of his encounter with Jack, and his escape, the latter said, earnestly: "Jasper, you are the bravest boy I know." "I am afraid you overrate my services," said Jasper, modestly. "And you really refused to write the letter, though you knew your life was in danger?" "I was not willing to betray my trust." "I honor your courage and fidelity, but you carried them too far. We would far rather have lost ten times seventy-five dollars than risked your life." "I didn't think of that, I only thought it would be wrong to defraud you." "We shall not forget your fidelity. You may consider your wages raised to twenty dollars a week." "Thank you, sir," said Jasper, gratified. "It is not merely on account of your courage and fidelity, but partly because of the business ability you have shown in carrying on this affair." Again Jasper thanked his employer, and went about his duties with fresh courage, feeling that his services were appreciated. "I am glad I came to St. Louis," he thought. "How much better I am situated than I should have been at home, tyrannized over by a step-mother by whom I was disliked." Three months more passed, when one day a boy entered the store. "Is Jasper Kent here?" he asked. "Yes," said Jasper, coming forward, "that is my name." "I have a telegram for you," said the boy. Jasper tore it open, and read these words: "Come home at once. Your step-mother is dying. "Otis Miller." Shocked at this startling intelligence, Jasper at once sought his employer, obtained leave of absence, and took the next train bound east. We must precede him and explain what had happened, and what occasioned Mrs. Kent's critical condition. CHAPTER XXXVIII. DICK COMES BACK. When Mrs. Kent's brother left her house with fifty dollars in his pocket she warned him that it was the last money he could expect to receive from her. He did not reply, but he had no intention of remaining satisfied with so little. "What is fifty dollars?" he thought, "to my sister's fortune? She needn't think she has got rid of me so easily." At that time he expected to make her another visit in the course of a month or two, but circumstances prevented. The fact is, he was imprudent enough to commit theft and incautious enough to be detected, not long afterward, and the consequence was a term of imprisonment. When he was released from confinement he at once made his way to his sister's house. As before, Nicholas was standing on the lawn. His countenance changed when he recognized his uncle, though he didn't know that he had just come from a prison. "How are you, Nicholas?" said his uncle. "I'm well," said his nephew, coldly. "Really, you have grown a good deal since I saw you." Even this compliment did not soften Nicholas, who turned his back and did not invite his uncle into the house. Dick scowled in an ugly manner but controlled his voice. "How is your mother?" "She's got the headache." "I am sorry. I have been sick, too." Nicholas did not exhibit the slightest curiosity on the subject. "I have just come from the hospital," a slight fiction, as we know. This aroused Nicholas, who retreated a little as he asked: "Did you have anything catching?" "No; besides, I'm well now. I should like to see your mother." "I don't think she feels well enough to see you." "Will you go up and see? I want to see her on important business." Nicholas went up stairs grumbling. "Well, mother," he said, "that disreputable brother of yours has come again." Mrs. Kent's brow contracted. "Where is he?" she asked. "Down stairs. He wants to see you, he says." "How does he look?" "Worse than ever. He says he has just come from a hospital." "From a hospital? He has a good deal of assurance to come here," said Mrs. Kent, with a hard look. "So he has." "I will tell you why," said his mother, in a lower tone. "He has not told you the truth. He has not come from a hospital, as he represents." "Why should he say so, then?" asked Nicholas, surprised. "Because he didn't like to say prison." "Has he been in prison? How do you know?" "I saw an account in the papers of his arrest and conviction. I suppose he has just come out of prison." "Why didn't you tell me of this before, mother?" "I wanted to keep the disgrace secret, on account of the relationship. When he finds I know it, I shall soon be rid of him." "Will you see him, then?" "Yes; I will go down stairs, and you may tell him to come in." Two minutes later the ex-convict entered his sister's presence. He read no welcome in her face. "Hang it!" he said, "you don't seem very glad to see your only brother." "You are right," she said; "I do not seem glad, and I do not feel glad." His face darkened as he sank heavily into an arm-chair. "I suppose I'm a poor relation," he said, bitterly. "That's the reason, isn't it?" "No." "You'd treat me better if I came here rich and prosperous." "Probably I would." "Didn't I say so? You haven't any feelings for the poor." "I haven't any feeling for criminals," said Mrs. Kent, in a sharp voice. He uttered a stifled oath and his face flushed. "What do you mean?" he asked. "I mean that you came here straight from a prison; deny it if you can," she said, sternly. He hesitated. Then he said: "I'm not the only innocent man that's been locked up." "You can't deceive me," she answered, "though you protest your innocence all day. I shall not believe you. I feel sure that you were guilty of the crime for which you were punished." "It's rather hard that my own flesh and blood should turn against me." "You have disgraced the family," said Mrs. Kent. "I discard you. I no longer look upon you as my brother." "If you had not turned me off with such a pittance it wouldn't have happened," he said, sullenly. "Out of your abundance you only gave me fifty dollars." "And you a stout, broad-shouldered man, must accept charity or steal!" she said, sarcastically. "Luck has always been against me." "Your own bad habits have always been against you." "Look here," said he, doggedly, "I won't stand any more of that, even from my own sister." "Very well. What have you come here for?" "I'm out of money." "And you expect me to supply you?" "I think you might give me a little, just to get along." "I shall not give you a cent. You have no claim upon me. I have already said that I no longer look upon you as a brother." "Is that all you've got to say?" demanded Dick, his face growing dark with anger. "It is my final determination." "Then all I've got to say is, you'll repent it to the last day of your life!" he burst out, furiously. "I'll go away"--here he arose--"but I'll never forget your cruelty and harshness." He strode out of the room, and she looked after him coldly. "It is as well," she said to herself. "Now he understands that there is no more to be got out of me, I hope I shall never lay eyes upon him again." "Well," said Nicholas, entering directly afterward, "what have you said to him? He dashed out of the yard, looking as black as a thunder-cloud." "I told him that he had disgraced the family and I should never more acknowledge him as a brother." "I'm glad you sent him off with a flea in his ear. I don't want to see him around here again." "I don't think we shall." There was one thing Mrs. Kent forgot--her brother's brutal temper and appetite for revenge. Had she thought of this she would, perhaps, have been more cautious about provoking him. * * * * * * * * * In the middle of the night Mrs. Kent awoke with a strange sense of oppression, the cause of which she did not immediately understand. As soon as she recovered her senses she comprehended the occasion--the crackling flames--and the fearful thought burst upon her: "The house is on fire!" She threw on her dress and dashed hastily from the room. She was about to seek the quickest mode of exit when she thought of Nicholas. He might be asleep, unconscious of his peril. She was a cold and selfish woman, but her one redeeming trait was her affection for her son. She rushed frantically to his chamber, screaming: "Nicholas! Wake up! The house is on fire!" She entered his chamber, but he was not in it. He had already escaped, and, full of selfish thoughts of his own safety, had fled without giving heed to his mother, though there would have been time for him to save her. "He is safe!" thought Mrs. Kent, and, relieved of this anxiety, she sought to escape. But the flames had gained too much headway. Her dress caught fire, and she ran frantically about, ignorant that in so doing she increased the peril. She was barely conscious of being seized and borne out by friendly hands. But though the flames were extinguished, she had already received fatal injuries. She lingered till the afternoon of the following day, and then died. Meanwhile Mr. Miller sent Jasper the telegram already referred to. Nicholas looked serious when he was informed of his mother's death, but his was not a temperament to be seriously affected by the misfortune of another. His own interests were uppermost in his mind. "Will I get mother's property?" he asked Mr. Miller, while that mother lay dead and disfigured in his presence. "This is no time to speak of property," said Mr. Miller, coldly. "You ought to think of your poor mother's fate." "Of course I do," said Nicholas, trying to look sorrowful; "but I want to know how I'm going to be situated." "Wait till after the funeral, at any rate," said the other, disgusted. CHAPTER XXXIX. HOW IT ALL ENDED. Jasper did not reach home till after the funeral had taken place and his step-mother was buried. Though he had little reason to like her, he was shocked and distressed by her sad and untimely fate. "How could the house catch fire, Mr. Miller?" he asked. "It is supposed to have been set on fire." "Who would do it?" "From what Nicholas tells me I suspect that the fire was the work of Mrs. Kent's brother." "Her brother!" exclaimed Jasper. "I met him in the West." "Then you probably know that he was not a very respectable character." "I know that he was concerned in kidnapping a child." "Nicholas tells me that he had just got out of prison, and applied to Mrs. Kent for help, which she refused. Incensed at this, he probably set the house on fire." "I think he would be capable of doing it. Has he been arrested?" "Not yet, but the police are on his track. I don't think he can escape." "Nicholas doesn't seem to take his mother's death very hard." "No. I am disgusted with his selfishness. He seems to be principally concerned about property which she leaves." "I suppose he will inherit it." "Yes. I don't know in what state it is, but it ought to amount to thirty thousand dollars. It is a large slice of your father's fortune." "I do not begrudge it to him. I shall have enough." "That reminds me that it is time to open the instrument which your father left with me." The paper was opened then and there, and proved to contain the following direction: That in case Jasper and his step-mother did not get along harmoniously, his old friend, Mr. Miller, was empowered and requested to assume the guardianship of Jasper. "That arrangement suits me precisely," said Jasper, warmly. "Will you accept the trust?" "Cheerfully," said his friend. "I don't think there is any danger of our disagreeing." Jasper shook his head. "If there should be any disagreement it would be my fault," he said. "But won't Nicholas need a guardian?" "Yes; one will have to be appointed." "I suppose his uncle would be willing to take the post." "His uncle, if found, will hardly be in a position to act in that capacity." Dick was not found. He disappeared, and from that day was not seen in the neighborhood. It is supposed that he went West and found a secure concealment in some of the distant territories, where probably he is engaged in the same discreditable courses for which he was already notorious. As was anticipated, Nicholas inherited about thirty thousand dollars. He selected as his guardian the young physician whom his mother had employed in her husband's last sickness. But the man proved faithless to his trust, and ran away with the entire fortune of his ward, leaving him absolutely penniless. In this emergency Nicholas, humbled and mortified, appealed to Jasper to help him. With his guardian's permission, Jasper agreed, during his good behavior, to pay for his use an annual sum of five hundred dollars, urging him to continue at school. But this did not suit Nicholas. He obtained a place in New York, where he soon developed fast tendencies, and ended by running away with a considerable sum of money belonging to his employer. It was believed that he went to California. His employer took no steps to apprehend him, Jasper having agreed to make up to him the sum--nine hundred dollars--which Nicholas had appropriated. For him it was a saving, since by his conduct Nicholas had forfeited the annual provision he had agreed to make for him. And what became of Jasper? By his guardian's advice he went to school for two years more. Then he returned to St. Louis, and again entered the employment of Mr. Fitch. At twenty-one, with a portion of his property, he bought an interest in the business and became junior partner, and is now one of the most respected and enterprising young business men in that flourishing city. He was recently united in marriage to a charming young lady, the daughter of a prosperous Western merchant, and so his prospects seem as bright as could well be hoped for. The trials of his early life are safely passed. By his honesty, courage and generosity he has fairly earned the happiness which he enjoys. Nor has he forgotten Nancy and the Indian maiden who rendered him so essential a service at a critical point in his fortunes. Every year he sends them a handsome present, choosing the articles which are best suited to gratify their tastes. Monima cherishes a romantic attachment for her benefactor, and will not soon forget the "white boy," whose picture she carries with her in all her wanderings. THE RENOWNED STANDARD JUVENILES BY EDWARD S. ELLIS Edward S. Ellis is regarded as the latter day Cooper. His books will always be read for the accurate pen pictures of pioneer life they portray. LIST OF TITLES Deerfoot Series Hunters of the Ozark. The Last War Trail. Camp in the Mountains. Log Cabin Series Lost Trail. Footprints in the Forest. Camp Fire and Wigwam. Boy Pioneer Series Ned in the Block-House. Ned on the River. Ned in the Woods. The Northwest Series Two Boys in Wyoming. Cowmen and Rustlers. A Strange Craft and its Wonderful Voyage. Boone and Kenton Series Shod with Silence. In the Days of the Pioneers. Phantom of the River. War Chief Series Red Eagle. Blazing Arrow. Iron Heart, War Chief of the Iroquois. The New Deerfoot Series Deerfoot in the Forest. Deerfoot on the Prairie. Deerfoot in the Mountains. Overland Series Alden the Pony Express Rider. Alden Among the Indians. True Grit Series Jim and Joe. Dorsey, the Young Inventor. Secret of Coffin Island. Great American Series Teddy and Towser; or, Early Days in California. Up the Forked River. Colonial Series An American King. The Cromwell of Virginia. The Last Emperor of the Old Dominion. Foreign Adventure Series Lost in the Forbidden Land. River and Jungle. The Hunt of the White Elephant. Paddle Your Own Canoe Series The Forest Messengers. The Mountain Star. Queen of the Clouds. Arizona Series Off the Reservation; or, Caught in an Apache Raid. Trailing Geronimo; or, Campaigning with Cook. The Round-Up; or, Geronimo's Last Raid. The Catamount Camp Series Captain of the Camp. Catamount Camp. PRICE $1.00 PER VOLUME Sold Separately and in set Complete Catalogue of Famous Alger Books, Celebrated Castlemon Books and Renowned Ellis Books mailed on application. THE JOHN C WINSTON CO. PHILADELPHIA, PA. 
10101	----	[Illustration: ] A LITTLE BOY LOST By W. H. Hudson Illustrated by A. D. M'Cormick CONTENTS _CHAPTER_ I THE HOME ON THE GREAT PLAIN, II THE SPOONBILL AND THE CLOUD, III CHASING A FLYING FIGURE, IV MARTIN IS FOUND BY A DEAF OLD MAN, V THE PEOPLE OF THE MIRAGE, VI MARTIN MEETS WITH SAVAGES, VII ALONE IN THE GREAT FOREST, VIII THE FLOWER AND THE SERPENT, IX THE BLACK PEOPLE OF THE SKY, X A TROOP OF WILD HORSES, XI THE LADY OF THE HILLS, XII THE LITTLE PEOPLE UNDERGROUND, XIII THE GREAT BLUE WATER, XIV THE WONDERS OF THE HILLS, XV MARTIN'S EYES ARE OPENED, XVI THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST, XVII THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA, XVIII MARTIN PLAYS WITH THE WAVES, CHAPTER I THE HOME ON THE GREAT PLAIN Some like to be one thing, some another. There is so much to be done, so many different things to do, so many trades! Shepherds, soldiers, sailors, ploughmen, carters--one could go on all day naming without getting to the end of them. For myself, boy and man, I have been many things, working for a living, and sometimes doing things just for pleasure; but somehow, whatever I did, it never seemed quite the right and proper thing to do--it never quite satisfied me. I always wanted to do something else--I wanted to be a carpenter. It seemed to me that to stand among wood-shavings and sawdust, making things at a bench with bright beautiful tools out of nice-smelling wood, was the cleanest, healthiest, prettiest work that any man can do. Now all this has nothing, or very little, to do with my story: I only spoke of it because I had to begin somehow, and it struck me that I would make a start that way. And for another reason, too. _His father was a carpenter_. I mean Martin's father--Martin, the Little Boy Lost. His father's name was John, and he was a very good man and a good carpenter, and he loved to do his carpentering better than anything else; in fact as much as I should have loved it if I had been taught that trade. He lived in a seaside town, named Southampton, where there is a great harbour, where he saw great ships coming and going to and from all parts of the world. Now, no strong, brave man can live in a place like that, seeing the ships and often talking to the people who voyaged in them about the distant lands where they had been, without wishing to go and see those distant countries for himself. When it is winter in England, and it rains and rains, and the east wind blows, and it is grey and cold and the trees are bare, who does not think how nice it would be to fly away like the summer birds to some distant country where the sky is always blue and the sun shines bright and warm every day? And so it came to pass that John, at last, when he was an old man, sold his shop, and went abroad. They went to a country many thousands of miles away--for you must know that Mrs. John went too; and when the sea voyage ended, they travelled many days and weeks in a wagon until they came to the place where they wanted to live; and there, in that lonely country, they built a house, and made a garden, and planted an orchard. It was a desert, and they had no neighbours, but they were happy enough because they had as much land as they wanted, and the weather was always bright and beautiful; John, too, had his carpenter's tools to work with when he felt inclined; and, best of all, they had little Martin to love and think about. But how about Martin himself? You might think that with no other child to prattle to and play with or even to see, it was too lonely a home for him. Not a bit of it! No child could have been happier. He did not want for company; his playfellows were the dogs and cats and chickens, and any creature in and about the house. But most of all he loved the little shy creatures that lived in the sunshine among the flowers--the small birds and butterflies, and little beasties and creeping things he was accustomed to see outside the gate among the tall, wild sunflowers. There were acres of these plants, and they were taller than Martin, and covered with flowers no bigger than marigolds, and here among the sunflowers he used to spend most of the day, as happy as possible. He had other amusements too. Whenever John went to his carpenter's shop--for the old man still dearly loved his carpentering--Martin would run in to keep him company. One thing he liked to do was to pick up the longest wood-shavings, to wind them round his neck and arms and legs, and then he would laugh and dance with delight, happy as a young Indian in his ornaments. A wood-shaving may seem a poor plaything to a child with all the toyshops in London to pick and choose from, but it is really very curious and pretty. Bright and smooth to the touch, pencilled with delicate wavy lines, while in its spiral shape it reminds one of winding plants, and tendrils by means of which vines and creepers support themselves, and flowers with curling petals, and curled leaves and sea-shells and many other pretty natural objects. One day Martin ran into the house looking very flushed and joyous, holding up his pinafore with something heavy in it. "What have you got now?" cried his father and mother in a breath, getting up to peep at his treasure, for Martin was always fetching in the most curious out-of-the-way things to show them. "My pretty shaving," said Martin proudly. [Illustration: ] When they looked they were amazed and horrified to see a spotted green snake coiled comfortably up in the pinafore. It didn't appear to like being looked at by them, for it raised its curious heart-shaped head and flicked its little red, forked tongue at them. His mother gave a great scream, and dropped the jug she had in her hand upon the floor, while John rushed off to get a big stick. "Drop it, Martin--drop the wicked snake before it stings you, and I'll soon kill it." Martin stared, surprised at the fuss they were making; then, still tightly holding the ends of his pinafore, he turned and ran out of the room and away as fast as he could go. Away went his father after him, stick in hand, and out of the gate into the thicket of tall wild sunflowers where Martin had vanished from sight. After hunting about for some time, he found the little run-away sitting on the ground among the weeds. "Where's the snake?" he cried. "Gone!" said Martin, waving his little hand around. "I let it go and you mustn't look for it." John picked the child up in his arms and marched back to the room and popped him down on the floor, then gave him a good scolding. "It's a mercy the poisonous thing didn't sting you," he said. "You're a naughty little boy to play with snakes, because they're dangerous bad things, and you die if they bite you. And now you must go straight to bed; that's the only punishment that has any effect on such a harebrained little butterfly." Martin, puckering up his face for a cry, crept away to his little room. It was very hard to have to go to bed in the daytime when he was not sleepy, and when the birds and butterflies were out in the sunshine having such a good time. "It's not a bit of use scolding him--I found that out long ago," said Mrs. John, shaking her head. "Do you know, John, I can't help thinking sometimes that he's not our child at all." "Whose child do you think he is, then?" said John, who had a cup of water in his hand, for the chase after Martin had made him hot, and he wanted cooling. "I don't know--but I once had a very curious dream." "People often do have curious dreams," said wise old John. "But this was a very curious one, and I remember saying to myself, if this doesn't mean something that is going to happen, then dreams don't count for much." "No more they do," said John. "It was in England, just when we were getting ready for the voyage, and it was autumn, when the birds were leaving us. I dreamed that I went out alone and walked by the sea, and stood watching a great number of swallows flying by and out over the sea--flying away to some distant land. By-and-by I noticed one bird coming down lower and lower as if he wanted to alight, and I watched it, and it came down straight to me, and at last flew right into my bosom. I put my hand on it, and looking close saw that it was a martin, all pure white on its throat and breast, and with a white patch on its back. Then I woke up, and it was because of that dream that I named our child Martin instead of John as you wished to do. Now, when I watch swallows flying about, coming and going round the house, I sometimes think that Martin came to us like that one in the dream, and that some day he will fly away from us. When he gets bigger, I mean." "When he gets littler," you mean, said John with a laugh. "No, no, he's too big for a swallow--a Michaelmas goose would be nothing to him for size. But here I am listening to your silly dreams instead of watering the melons and cucumbers!" And out he went to his garden, but in a minute he put his head in at the door and said, "You may go and tell him to get up if you like. Poor little fellow! Only make him promise not to go chumming with spotted snakes any more, and not to bring them into the house, because somehow they disagree with me." [Illustration: ] CHAPTER II THE SPOONBILL AND THE CLOUD As Martin grew in years and strength, his age being now about seven, his rambles began to extend beyond the waste grounds outside of the fenced orchard and gate. These waste grounds were a wilderness of weeds: here were the sunflowers that Martin liked best; the wild cock's-comb, flaunting great crimson tufts; the yellow flowering mustard, taller than the tallest man; giant thistle, and wild pumpkin with spotted leaves; the huge hairy fox-gloves with yellow bells; feathery fennel, and the big grey-green thorn-apples, with prickly burs full of bright red seed, and long white wax-like flowers, that bloomed only in the evening. He could never get high enough on anything to see over the tops of these plants; but at last he found his way through them, and discovered on their further side a wide grassy plain with scarcely a tree on it, stretching away into the blue distance. On this vast plain he gazed with wonderment and delight. Behind the orchard and weedy waste the ground sloped down to a stream of running water, full of tall rushes with dark green polished stems, and yellow water-lilies. All along the moist banks grew other flowers that were never seen in the dry ground above--the blue star, and scarlet and white verbenas; and sweet-peas of all colours; and the delicate red vinegar flower, and angel's hair, and the small fragrant lilies called Mary's-tears, and tall scattered flags, flaunting their yellow blossoms high above the meadow grass. Every day Martin ran down to the stream to gather flowers and shells; for many curious water-snails were found there with brown purple-striped shells; and he also liked to watch the small birds that build their nests in the rushes. There were three of these small birds that did not appear to know that Martin loved them; for no sooner would he present himself at the stream than forth they would flutter in a great state of mind. One, the prettiest, was a tiny, green-backed little creature, with a crimson crest and a velvet-black band across a bright yellow breast: this one had a soft, low, complaining voice, clear as a silver bell. The second was a brisk little grey and black fellow, with a loud, indignant chuck, and a broad tail which he incessantly opened and shut, like a Spanish lady playing with her fan. The third was a shy, mysterious little brown bird, peering out of the clustering leaves, and making a sound like the soft ticking of a clock. They were like three little men, an Italian, a Dutchman, and a Hindoo, talking together, each in his own language, and yet well able to understand each other. Martin could not make out what they said, but suspected that they were talking about him; and he feared that their remarks were not always of a friendly nature. At length he made the discovery that the water of the stream was perpetually running away. If he dropped a leaf on the surface it would hasten down stream, and toss about and fret impatiently against anything that stood in its way, until, making its escape, it would quickly hurry out of sight. Whither did this rippling, running water go? He was anxious to find out. At length, losing all fear and fired with the sight of many new and pretty things he found while following it, he ran along the banks until, miles from home, he came to a great lake he could hardly see across, it was so broad. It was a wonderful place, full of birds; not small, fretful creatures flitting in and out of the rushes, but great majestic birds that took very little notice of him. Far out on the blue surface of the water floated numbers of wild fowl, and chief among them for grace and beauty was the swan, pure white with black head and neck and crimson bill. There also were stately flamingoes, stalking along knee-deep in the water, which was shallow; and nearer to the shore were flocks of rose-coloured spoonbills and solitary big grey herons standing motionless; also groups of white egrets, and a great multitude of glossy ibises, with dark green and purple plumage and long sickle-like beaks. The sight of this water with its beds of rushes and tall flowering reeds, and its great company of birds, filled Martin with delight; and other joys were soon to follow. Throwing off his shoes, he dashed with a shout into the water, frightening a number of ibises; up they flew, each bird uttering a cry repeated many times, that sounded just like his old father's laugh when he laughed loud and heartily. Then what was Martin's amazement to hear his own shout and this chorus of bird ha, ha, ha's, repeated by hundreds of voices all over the lake. At first he thought that the other birds were mocking the ibises; but presently he shouted again, and again his shouts were repeated by dozens of voices. This delighted him so much that he spent the whole day shouting himself hoarse at the waterside. When he related his wonderful experience at home, and heard from his father that the sounds he had heard were only echoes from the beds of rushes, he was not a bit wiser than before, so that the echoes remained to him a continual wonder and source of never-failing pleasure. Every day he would take some noisy instrument to the lake to startle the echoes; a whistle his father made him served for a time; after that he marched up and down the banks, rattling a tin canister with pebbles in it; then he got a large frying-pan from the kitchen, and beat on it with a stick every day for about a fortnight. When he grew tired of all these sounds, and began casting about for some new thing to wake the echoes with, he all at once remembered his father's gun--just what he wanted, for it was the noisiest thing in the world. Watching his opportunity, he got secretly into the room where it was kept loaded, and succeeded in carrying it out of the house without being seen; then, full of joyful anticipations, he ran as fast as the heavy gun would let him to his favourite haunt. When he arrived at the lake three or four spoonbills--those beautiful, tall, rose-coloured birds--were standing on the bank, quietly dozing in the hot sunshine. They did not fly away at his approach, for the birds were now so accustomed to Martin and his harmless noises that they took very little notice of him. He knelt on one knee and pointed the gun at them. [Illustration: ] "Now, birdies, you don't know what a fright I'm going to give you--off you go!" he cried, and pulled the trigger. The roar of the loud report travelled all over the wide lake, creating a great commotion among the feathered people, and they rose up with a general scream into the air. All this was of no benefit to Martin, the recoil of the gun having sent him flying over, his heels in the air; and before he recovered himself the echoes were silent, and all the frightened birds were settling on the water again. But there, just before him, lay one of the spoonbills, beating its great rose-coloured wings against the ground. Martin ran to it, full of keen distress, but was powerless to help; its life's blood was fast running away from the shot wounds it had received in its side, staining the grass with crimson. Presently it closed its beautiful ruby-coloured eyes and the quivering wings grew still. Then Martin sat down on the grass by its side and began to cry, Oh, that great bird, half as tall as himself, and so many times more lovely and strong and beautiful in its life--he had killed it, and it would never fly again! He raised it up very tenderly in his arms and kissed it--kissed its pale green head and rosy wings; then out of his arms it tumbled back again on to the grass. "Oh, poor bird," he cried suddenly, "open your wings and fly away!" But it was dead. Then Martin got up and stared all round him at the wide landscape, and everything looked strange and dim and sorrowful. A shadow passed over the lake, and a murmur came up out of the rushes that was like a voice saying something that he could not understand. A great cry of pain rose from his heart and died to a whisper on his lips; he was awed into silence. Sinking down upon the grass again, he hid his face against the rosy-breasted bird and began to sob. How warm the dead bird felt against his cheek--oh, so warm--and it could not live and fly about with the others. At length he sat up and knew the reason of that change that had come over the earth. A dark cloud had sprung up in the south-west, far off as yet, and near the horizon; but its fringe already touched and obscured the low-hanging sun, and a shadow flew far and vast before it. Over the lake flew that great shadow: the waters looked cold and still, reflecting as in a polished glass the motionless rushes, the glassy bank, and Martin, sitting on it, still clasping in his arms the dead rose-coloured bird. Swifter and vaster, following close upon the flying shadow, came the mighty cloud, changing from black to slaty grey; and then, as the sun broke forth again under its lower edge, it was all flushed with a brilliant rose colour. But what a marvellous thing it was, when the cloud covered a third of the wide heavens, almost touching the horizon on either side with its wing-like extremities; Martin, gazing steadily at it, saw that in its form it was like an immense spoonbill flying through the air! He would gladly have run away then to hide himself from its sight, but he dared not stir, for it was now directly above him; so, lying down on the grass and hiding his face against the dead bird, he waited in fear and trembling. [Illustration: ] He heard the rushing sound of the mighty wings: the wind they created smote on the waters in a hurricane, so that the reeds were beaten flat on the surface, and a great cry of terror went up from all the wild birds. It passed, and when Martin raised his bowed head and looked again, the sun, just about to touch the horizon with its great red globe, shone out, shedding a rich radiance over the earth and water; while far off, on the opposite side of the heavens, the great cloud-bird was rapidly fading out of sight. CHAPTER III CHASING A FLYING FIGURE After what had happened Martin could never visit the waterside and look at the great birds wading and swimming there without a feeling that was like a sudden coldness in the blood of his veins. The rosy spoonbill he had killed and cried over and the great bird-cloud that had frightened him were never forgotten. He grew tired of shouting to the echoes: he discovered that there were even more wonderful things than the marsh echoes in the world, and that the world was bigger than he had thought it. When spring with its moist verdure and frail, sweet-smelling flowers had gone; when the great plain began to turn to a rusty-brown colour, and the dry hard earth was full of cracks, and the days grew longer and the heat greater, there came an appearance of water that quivered and glittered and danced before his wondering sight, and would lead him miles from home every day in his vain efforts to find out what it was. He could talk of nothing else, and asked endless questions about it, and they told him that this strange thing was nothing but the Mirage, but of course that was not telling him enough, so that he was left to puzzle his little boy-brains over this new mystery, just as they had puzzled before over the mystery of the echoes. Now this Mirage was a glittering whiteness that looked just like water, always shining and dancing before him and all round him, on the dry level plain where there was no water. It was never quiet, but perpetually quivering and running into wavelets that threw up crests and jets of sprays as from a fountain, and showers of brilliant drops that flashed like molten silver in the sunlight before they broke and vanished, only to be renewed again. It appeared every day when the sun was high and the air hot, and it was often called _The False Water_. And false it was, since it always flew before him as he ran, so that although he often seemed to be getting nearer to it he could never quite overtake it. But Martin had a very determined spirit for a small boy, and although this appearance of water mocked his efforts a hundred times every day with its vanishing brightness and beauty, he would not give up the pursuit. Now one day when there was not a cloud on the great hot whitey-blue sky, nor a breath of air stirring, when it was all silent, for not even a grass-hopper creaked in the dead, yellow, motionless grass, the whole level earth began to shine and sparkle like a lake of silvery water, as Martin had never seen it shine before. He had wandered far away from home--never had he been so far--and still he ran and ran and ran, and still that whiteness quivered and glittered and flew on before him; and ever it looked more temptingly near, urging him to fresh exertions. At length, tired out and overcome with heat, he sat down to rest, and feeling very much hurt at the way he had been deceived and led on, he shed one little tear. There was no mistake about that tear; he felt it running like a small spider down his cheek, and finally he saw it fall. It fell on to a blade of yellow grass and ran down the blade, then stopped so as to gather itself into a little round drop before touching the ground. Just then, out of the roots of the grass beneath it, crept a tiny dusty black beetle and began drinking the drop, waving its little horns up and down like donkey's ears, apparently very much pleased at its good fortune in finding water and having a good drink in such a dry, thirsty place. Probably it took the tear for a drop of rain just fallen out of the sky. "You _are_ a funny little thing!" exclaimed Martin, feeling now less like crying than laughing. The wee beetle, satisfied and refreshed, climbed up the grass-blade, and when it reached the tip lifted its dusty black wing-cases just enough to throw out a pair of fine gauzy wings that had been neatly folded up beneath them, and flew away. [Illustration: ] Martin, following its flight, had his eyes quite dazzled by the intense glitter of the False Water, which now seemed to be only a few yards from him: but the strangest thing was that in it there appeared a form--a bright beautiful form that vanished when he gazed steadily at it. Again he got up and began running harder than ever after the flying mocking Mirage, and every time he stopped he fancied that he could see the figure again, sometimes like a pale blue shadow on the brightness; sometimes shining with its own excessive light, and sometimes only seen in outline, like a figure graved on glass, and always vanishing when looked at steadily. Perhaps that white water-like glitter of the Mirage was like a looking-glass, and he was only chasing his own reflection. I cannot say, but there it was, always before him, a face as of a beautiful boy, with tumbled hair and laughing lips, its figure clothed in a fluttering dress of lights and shadows. It also seemed to beckon to him with its hand, and encourage him to run on after it with its bright merry glances. [Illustration: ] At length when it was past the hour of noon, Martin sat down under a small bush that gave just shade enough to cover him and none to spare. It was only a little spot of shade like an island in a sea of heat and brightness. He was too hot and tired to run more, too tired even to keep his eyes open, and so, propping his back against the stem of the small bush, he closed his tired hot eyes. CHAPTER IV MARTIN IS FOUND BY A DEAF OLD MAN Martin kept his eyes shut for only about a minute, as he thought; but he must have been asleep some time, for when he opened them the False Water had vanished, and the sun, looking very large and crimson, was just about to set. He started up, feeling very thirsty and hungry and bewildered; for he was far, far from home, and lost on the great plain. Presently he spied a man coming towards him on horseback. A very funny-looking old man he proved to be, with a face wrinkled and tanned by sun and wind, until it resembled a piece of ancient shoe-leather left lying for years on some neglected spot of ground. A Brazil nut is not darker nor more wrinkled than was the old man's face. His long matted beard and hair had once been white, but the sun out of doors and the smoke in his smoky hut had given them a yellowish tinge, so that they looked like dry dead grass. He wore big jack-boots, patched all over, and full of cracks and holes; and a great pea-jacket, rusty and ragged, fastened with horn buttons big as saucers. His old brimless hat looked like a dilapidated tea-cosy on his head, and to prevent it from being carried off by the wind it was kept on with an old flannel shirtsleeve tied under his chin. His saddle, too, like his clothes, was old and full of rents, with wisps of hair and straw-stuffing sticking out in various places, and his feet were thrust into a pair of big stirrups made of pieces of wood and rusty iron tied together with string and wire. [Illustration: ] "Boy, what may you being a doing of here?" bawled this old man at the top of his voice: for he was as deaf as a post, and like a good many deaf people thought it necessary to speak very loud to make himself heard. "Playing," answered Martin innocently. But he could not make the old man hear until he stood up on tip-toe and shouted out his answer as loud as he could. "Playing," exclaimed the old man. "Well, I never in all my life! When there ain't a house 'cepting my own for leagues and leagues, and he says he's playing! What may you be now?" he shouted again. "A little boy," screamed Martin. "I knowed that afore I axed," said the other. Then he slapped his legs and held up his hands with astonishment, and at last began to chuckle. "Will you come home along o' me?" he shouted. "Will you give me something to eat?" asked Martin in return. "Haw, haw, haw," guffawed the old fellow. It was a tremendous laugh, so loud and hollow, it astonished and almost frightened Martin to hear it. "Well I never!" he said. "He ain't no fool, neither. Now, old Jacob, just you take your time and think a bit afore you makes your answer to that." This curious old man, whose name was Jacob, had lived so long by himself that he always thought out loud--louder than other people talk: for, being deaf, he could not hear himself, and never had a suspicion that he could be heard by others. "He's lost, that's what he is," continued old Jacob aloud to himself. "And what's more, he's been and gone and forgot all about his own home, and all he wants is summat to eat. I'll take him and keep him, that's what I'll do: for he's a stray lamb, and belongs to him that finds him, like any other lamb I finds. I'll make him believe I'm his old dad; for he's little and will believe most anything you tells him. I'll learn him to do things about the house--to boil the kettle, and cook the wittels, and gather the firewood, and mend the clothes, and do the washing, and draw the water, and milk the cow, and dig the potatoes, and mind the sheep and--and--and that's what I'll learn him. Then, Jacob, you can sit down and smoke your pipe, 'cos you'll have some one to do your work for you." Martin stood quietly listening to all this, not quite understanding the old man's kind intentions. Then old Jacob, promising to give him something to eat, pulled him up on to his horse, and started home at a gallop. Soon they arrived at a mud hovel, thatched with rushes, the roof sloping down so low that one could almost step on to it; it was surrounded with a ditch, and had a potato patch and a sheep enclosure; for old Jacob was a shepherd, and had a flock of sheep. There were several big dogs, and when Martin got down from the horse, they began jumping round him, barking with delight, as if they knew him, half-smothering him with their rough caresses. Jacob led him into the hut, which looked extremely dirty and neglected, and had only one room. In the corners against the walls were piles of sheep-skins that had a strong and rather unpleasant smell: the thatch above was covered with dusty cobwebs, hanging like old rags, and the clay floor was littered with bones, sticks, and other rubbish. The only nice thing to see was a teakettle singing and steaming away merrily on the fire in the grate. Old Jacob set about preparing the evening meal; and soon they sat down at a small deal table to a supper of cold mutton and potatoes, and tea which did not taste very nice, as it was sweetened with moist black sugar. Martin was too hungry to turn up his nose at anything, and while he ate and drank the old man chuckled and talked aloud to himself about his good fortune in finding the little boy to do his work for him. After supper he cleared the table, and put two mugs of tea on it, and then got out his clay pipe and tobacco. "Now, little boy," he cried, "let's have a jolly evening together. Your very good health, little boy," and here he jingled his mug against Martin's, and took a sip of tea. "Would you like to hear a song, little boy?" he said, after finishing his pipe. "No," said Martin, who was getting sleepy; but Jacob took no to mean yes, and so he stood up on his legs and sang this song:-- "My name is Jacob, that's my name; And tho' I'm old, the old man's game-- The air it is so good, d'ye see: And on the plain my flock I keep, And sing all day to please my sheep, And never lose them like Bo-Peep, Becos the ways of them are known to me." "When winter comes and winds do blow, Unto my sheep so good I go-- I'm always good to them, d'ye see-- Ho, sheep, say I, both ram, both ewe, I've sung you songs all summer through, Now lend to me a skin or two, To keep the cold and wet from out o' me." This song, accompanied with loud raps on the table, was bellowed forth in a dreadfully discordant voice; and very soon all the dogs rushed into the room and began to bark and howl most dismally, which seemed to please the old man greatly, for to him it was a kind of applause. But the noise was too much for Martin; so he stopped up his ears, and only removed his fingers from them when the performance was over. After the song the old man offered to dance, for he had not yet had amusement enough. "Boy, can you play on this?" he shouted, holding up a frying-pan and a big stick to beat it with. Of course Martin could play on _that_ instrument: he had often enough played on one like it to startle the echoes on the lake, in other days. And so, when he had been lifted on to the table, he took the frying-pan by the handle, and began vigorously beating on it with the stick. He did not mind the noise now since he was helping to make it. Meanwhile old Jacob began flinging his arms and legs about in all directions, looking like a scarecrow made to tumble about by means of springs and wires. He pounded the clay floor with his ponderous old boots until the room was filled with a cloud of dust; then in his excitement he kicked over chairs, pots, kettles, and whatever came in his way, while he kept on revolving round the table in a kind of crazy fandango. Martin thought it fine fun, and screamed with laughter, and beat his gong louder than ever; then to make matters worse old Jacob at intervals uttered whoops and yells, which the dogs answered with long howls from the door, until the din was something tremendous. [Illustration: ] At length they both grew tired, and then after resting and sipping some more cold tea, prepared to go to bed. Some sheep-skins were piled up in a corner for Martin to sleep on, and old Jacob covered him with a horse-rug, and tucked him in very carefully. Then the kind old man withdrew to his own bed on the opposite side of the room. About midnight Martin was wakened by loud horrible noises in the room, and started up on bed trembling with fear. The sounds came from the old man's nose, and resembled a succession of blasts on a ram's horn, which, on account of its roughness and twisted shape, makes a very bad trumpet. As soon as Martin discovered the cause of the noise he crept out of bed and tried to waken the old snorer by shouting at him, tugging at his arms and legs, and finally pulling his beard. He refused to wake. Then Martin had a bright idea, and groping his way to the bucket of cold water standing beside the fire-place, he managed to raise it up in his arms, and poured it over the sleeper. The snoring changed to a series of loud choking snorts, then ceased. Martin, well pleased at the success of his experiment, was about to return to his bed when old Jacob struggled up to a sitting posture. "Hullo, wake up, little boy!" he shouted. "My bed's all full o' water--goodness knows where it comes from." "I poured it over you to wake you up. Don't you know you were making a noise with your nose?" cried Martin at the top of his voice. "You--you--you throwed it over me! You--O you most wicked little villain you! You throwed it over me, did you!" and here he poured out such a torrent of abusive words that Martin was horrified and cried out, "O what a naughty, wicked, bad old man you are!" It was too dark for old Jacob to see him, but he knew his way about the room, and taking up the wet rug that served him for covering he groped his way to Martin's bed and began pounding it with the rug, thinking the naughty little boy was there. "You little rascal you--I hope you like that!--and that!--and that!" he shouted, pounding away. "I'll learn you to throw water over your poor old dad! And such a--a affectionate father as I've been too, giving him sich nice wittels--and--and singing and dancing to him to teach him music. Perhaps you'd like a little more, you takes it so quietly? Well, then, take that!--and that!--and that! Why, how's this--the young warmint ain't here arter all! Well, I'm blowed if that don't beat everythink! What did he go and chuck that water over me for? What a walloping I'll give him in the morning when it's light! and now, boy, you may go and sleep on my bed, 'cos it's wet, d'ye see; and I'll sleep on yourn, 'cos it's dry." Then he got into Martin's bed, and muttered and grumbled himself to sleep. Martin came out from under the table, and after dressing himself with great secrecy crept to the door to make his escape. It was locked and the key taken away. But he was determined to make his escape somehow, and not wait to be whipped; so, by and by, he drew the little deal table close against the wall, and getting on to it began picking the rushes one by one out of the lower part of the thatch. After working for half-an-hour, like a mouse eating his way out of a soft wooden box, he began to see the light coming through the hole, and in another half hour it was large enough for him to creep through. When he had got out, he slipped down to the ground, where the dogs were lying. They seemed very glad to see him, and began pressing round to lick his face; but he pushed them off, and ran away over the plain as fast as he could. The stars were shining, but it was very dark and silent; only in moist places, where the grass grew tall, he heard the crickets strumming sadly on their little harps. At length, tired with running, he coiled himself in a large tussock of dry grass and went to sleep, just as if he had been accustomed to sleep out of doors all his life. CHAPTER V THE PEOPLE OF THE MIRAGE In that remote land where Martin was born, with its bright warm climate and rich soil, no person need go very long hungry--not even a small boy alone and lost on the great grassy plain. For there is a little useful plant in that place, with small leaves like clover leaves and a pretty yellow flower, which bears a wholesome sweet root, about as big as a pigeon's egg and of a pearly white colour. It is so well known to the settlers' children in that desert country that they are always wandering off to the plain to look for it, just as the children in a town are always running off with their halfpence to the sweet-stuff shop. This pretty white root is watery, so that it satisfies both hunger and thirst at the same time. Now when Martin woke next morning, he found a great many of the little three-leaved plants growing close to the spot where he had slept, and they supplied him with a nice sweet breakfast. After he had eaten enough and had amused himself by rolling over and over several times on the grass, he started once more on his travels, going towards the sunrise as fast as he could run. He could run well for a small boy, but he got tired at last and sat down to rest. Then he jumped up and went on again at a trot: this pace he kept up very steadily, only pausing from time to time to watch a flock of small white birds that followed him all the morning out of curiosity. At length he began to feel so hot and tired that he could only walk. Still he kept on; he could see no flowers nor anything pretty in that place--why should he stay in it? He would go on, and on, and on, in spite of the heat, until he came to something. But it grew hotter as the day advanced, and the ground about him more dry and barren and desolate, until at last he came to ground where there was scarcely a blade of grass: it was a great, barren, level plain, covered with a slight crust of salt crystals that glittered in the sun so brightly that it dazzled and pained his eyesight. Here were no sweet watery roots for refreshment, and no berries; nor could Martin find a bush to give him a little shade and protection from the burning noonday sun. He saw one large dark object in the distance, and mistaking it for a bush covered with thick foliage he ran towards it; but suddenly it started up, when he was near, and waving its great grey and white wings like sails, fled across the plain. It was an ostrich! Now this hot, shadeless plain seemed to be the very home and dwelling-place of the False Water. It sparkled and danced all round him so close that there only appeared to be a small space of dry ground for him to walk on; only he was always exactly in the centre of the dry spot; for as he advanced, the glittering whiteness, that looked so like shiny water, flew mockingly before his steps. But he hoped to get to it at last, as every time he flagged in the chase the mysterious figure of the day before appeared again to lure him still further on. At length, unable to move another step, Martin sat right down on the bare ground: it was like sitting on the floor of a heated oven, but there was no help for it, he was so tired. The air was so thick and heavy that he could hardly breathe, even with his mouth wide open like a little gasping bird; and the sky looked like metal, heated to a white heat, and so low down as to make him fancy that if he were to throw up his hands he would touch it and burn his fingers. And the Mirage--oh, how it glistened and quivered here where he had sat down, half blinding him with its brightness! Now that he could no longer run after it, nor even walk, it came to him, breaking round and over him in a thousand fantastic shapes, filling the air with a million white flakes that whirled about as if driven by a furious wind, although not a breath was stirring. They looked like whitest snow-flakes, yet stung his cheeks like sparks of fire. Not only did he see and feel, he could even _hear_ it now: his ears were filled with a humming sound, growing louder and louder every minute, like the noise made by a large colony of bumble-bees when a person carelessly treads on their nest, and they are angered and thrown into a great commotion and swarm out to defend their home. Very soon out of this confused murmur louder, clearer sounds began to rise; and these could be distinguished as the notes of numberless musical instruments, and voices of people singing, talking, and laughing. Then, all at once, there appeared running and skipping over the ground towards him a great company of girls--scores and hundreds of them scattered over the plain, exceeding in loveliness all lovely things that he had ever beheld. Their faces were whiter than lilies, and their loose, fluttering hair looked like a mist of pale shining gold; and their skirts, that rustled as they ran, were also shining like the wings of dragon-flies, and were touched with brown reflections and changing, beautiful tints, such as are seen on soap-bubbles. Each of them carried a silver pitcher, and as they ran and skipped along they dipped their fingers in and sprinkled the desert with water. The bright drops they scattered fell all around in a grateful shower, and flew up again from the heated earth in the form of a white mist touched with rainbow colours, filling the air with a refreshing coolness. At Martin's side there grew a small plant, its grey-green leaves lying wilted on the ground, and one of the girls paused to water it, and as she sprinkled the drops on it she sang:-- "Little weed, little weed, In such need, Must you pain, ask in vain, Die for rain, Never bloom, never seed, Little weed? O, no, no, you shall not die, From the sky With my pitcher down I fly. Drink the rain, grow again, Bloom and seed, Little weed." Martin held up his hot little hands to catch some of the falling drops; then the girl, raising her pitcher, poured a stream of cool water right into his face, and laughing at what she had done, went away with a hop, skip, and jump after her companions. The girls with pitchers had all gone, and were succeeded by troops of boys, just as beautiful, many of them singing and some playing on wind and stringed instruments; and some were running, others quietly walking, and still others riding on various animals--ostriches, sheep, goats, fawns, and small donkeys, all pure white. One boy was riding on a ram, and as he came by, strum-strumming on a little silver-stringed banjo, he sang a very curious song, which made Martin prick up his ears to listen. It was about a speckled snake that lived far away on a piece of waste ground; how day after day he sought for his lost playmate--the little boy that had left him; how he glided this way and that on his smooth, bright belly, winding in and out among the tall wild sunflowers; how he listened for the dear footsteps--listened with his green leaf-shaped, little head raised high among the leaves. But his playmate was far away and came no more to feed him from his basin of bread and milk, and caress his cold, smooth coils with his warm, soft, little hand. Close after the boy on the ram marched four other little boys on foot, holding up long silver trumpets in readiness to blow. One of them stopped, and putting his trumpet down close to Martin's ear, puffed out his little, round cheeks, and blew a blast that made him jump. Laughing at the joke, they passed on, and were succeeded by others and still others, singing, shouting, twanging their instruments, and some of them stopping for a few moments to look at Martin or play some pretty little trick on him. But now all at once Martin ceased to listen or even look at them, for something new and different was coming, something strange which made him curious and afraid at the same time. It was a sound, very deep and solemn, of men's voices singing together a song that was like a dirge and coming nearer and nearer, and it was like the coming of a storm with wind and rain and thunder. Soon he could see them marching through the great crowd of people--old men moving in a slow procession, and they had pale dark faces and their hair and long beards were whiter than snow, and their long flowing robes were of the silvery dark colour of a rain-cloud. Then he saw that the leaders of the procession were followed by others who carried a couch of mother-o'-pearl resting on their shoulders, that on the couch reposed a pale sweet-looking youth dressed in silk clothes of a delicate rose-colour. He also wore crimson shoes, and a tight-fitting apple-green skull cap, which made his head look very small. His eyes were ruby-red, and he had a long slender nose like a snipe's bill, only broad and flattened at the tip. And then Martin saw that he was wounded, for he had one white hand pressed to his side and it was stained with blood, and drops of blood were trickling through his fingers. He was troubled at the sight, and he gazed at him, and listened to the words of that solemn song the old men were singing but could not understand them. Not because he was a child, for no person, however aged and wise and filled with all learning he might be, could have understood that strange song about Wonderful Life and Wonderful Death. Yet there was something in it too which any one who heard it, man or child, could understand; and he understood it, and it went into his heart to make it so heavy and sad that he could have put his little face down on the ground and cried as he had never cried before. But he did not put his face down and cry, for just then the wounded youth looked down on him as they carried him past and smiled a very sweet smile: then Martin felt that he loved him above all the bright and beautiful beings that had passed before him. Then, when he was gone from sight; when the solemn sound of the voices began to grow fainter in the distance like the sound of a storm when it passes away, his heaviness of heart and sorrow left him, and he began to listen to the shouts and cries and clanging of noisy instruments of music swiftly coming nearer and nearer; and then all round and past him came a vast company of youths and maidens singing and playing and shouting and dancing as they moved onwards. They were the most beautiful beings he had ever seen in their shining dresses, some all in white, others in amber-colour, others in sky-blue, and some in still other lovely colours. "The Queen! the Queen!" they were shouting. "Stand up, little boy, and bow to the Queen." "The Queen! Kneel to the Queen, little boy," cried others. Then many others in the company began crying out together, "The Queen! lie down flat on the ground, little boy." "The Queen! Shut your eyes and open your mouth, little boy." "The Queen! Run away as fast as you can, little boy." "Stand on your head to the Queen, little boy!" "Crow like a cock and bark like a dog, little boy!" Trying to obey all these conflicting commands at one and the same time, poor Martin made strange noises and tumbled about this way and that and set them all laughing at him. "The Queen wishes to speak to you--stand up, little boy," said one of the brightest beings, touching Martin on the cheek. There before him, surrounded by all that beautiful company, stood the horses that drew her--great milk-white horses impatiently pawing the dusty ground with their hoofs and proudly champing their gold bridles, tossing the white froth from their mouths. But when he lifted his eyes timidly to the majestic being seated in her chariot before him he was dazzled and overcome with the sight. Her face had a brightness that was like that of the Mirage at noon, and the eyes that gazed on him were like two great opals; she appeared clothed in a white shining mist, and her hair spread wide on her shoulders looked white--whiter than a lamb's fleece, and powdered with fine gold that sparkled and quivered and ran through it like sparks of yellow fire: and on her head she wore a crown that was like a diamond seen by candle-light, or like a dewdrop in the sun, and every moment it changed its colour, and by turns was a red flame, then a green, then a yellow, then a violet. [Illustration: ] "Child, you have followed me far," said the Queen, "and now you are rewarded, for you have looked on my face and I have refreshed you; and the Sun, my father, will never more hurt you for my sake." "He is a naughty boy and unworthy of your goodness," spoke one of the bright beings standing near. "He killed the spoonbill." "He cried for the poor slain bird," replied the Queen. "He will never remember it without grief, and I forgive him." "He went away from his home and thinks no more of his poor old father and mother, who cry for him and are seeking for him on the great plain," continued the voice. "I forgive him," returned the Queen. "He is such a little wanderer--he could not always rest at home." "He emptied a bucketful of water over good old Jacob, who found him and took him in and fed him, and sang to him, and danced to him, and was a second father to him." At that there was great laughter; even the Queen laughed when she said that she forgave him that too. And Martin when he remembered old Jacob, and saw that they only made a joke of it, laughed with them. But the accusing voice still went on: "And when the good old shepherd went to sleep a second time, then the naughty little boy climbed on the table and picked a hole in the thatch and got out and ran away." Another burst of laughter followed; then a youth in a shining, violet-coloured dress suddenly began twanging on his instrument and wildly capering about in imitation of old Jacob's dancing, and while he played and danced he sang-- "Ho, sheep whose ways are known to me, Both ewe and lamb And horned ram Wherever can that Martin be? All day for him I ride Over the plains so wide, And on my horn I blow, Just to let him know That Jacob's on his track, And soon will have him back, I look and look all day, And when I'm home I say: He isn't like a mole To dig himself a hole; Them little legs he's got They can't go far, trot, trot, They can't go far, run run, Oh no, it is his fun; I'm sure he's near, He must be here A-skulking round the house Just like a little mouse. I'll get a mouse-trap in a minute, And bait with cheese that's smelly To bring him helter-skelly-- That little empty belly, And then I'll have him in it. Where have he hid, That little kid, That good old Jacob was so kind to? And when a rest I am inclined to Who'll boil the cow and dig the kittles And milk the stockings, darn the wittles? Who mugs of tea Will drink with me? When round and round I pound the ground With boots of cowhide, boots of thunder, Who'll help to make the noise, I wonder? Who'll join the row Of loud bow-wow With din of tin and copper clatter With bang and whang of pan and platter? O when I find Him fast I'll bind And upside down I'll hold him; And when a-home I gallop late-o I'll give him no more cold potato, But cuff him, box him, bang him, scold him, And drench him with a pail of water, And fill his mouth with wool and mortar, Because he don't do things he oughter, But does the things he ought not to, Then tell me true, Both ram and ewe, Wherever have that Martin got to? For Jacob's old and deaf and dim And never knowed the ways of him." "I forgive him everything," said the Queen very graciously, when the song ended, at which they all laughed. "And now let two of you speak and each bestow a gift on him. He deserves to be rewarded for running so far after us." Then one of those bright beautiful beings came forward and cried out: "He loves wandering; let him have his will and be a wanderer all his days on the face of the earth." "Well spoken!" cried the Queen. "A wanderer he is to be," said another: "let the sea do him no harm--that is my gift." "So be it," said the Queen; "and to your two gifts I shall add a third. Let all men love him. Go now, Martin, you are well equipped, and satisfy your heart with the sight of all the strange and beautiful things the world contains." "Kneel and thank the Queen for her gifts," said a voice to Martin. He dropped on to his knees, but could speak no word; when he raised his eyes again the whole glorious company had vanished. [Illustration: ] The air was cool and fragrant, the earth moist as if a shower had just fallen. He got up and slowly walked onward until near sunset, thinking of nothing but the beautiful people of the Mirage. He had left the barren salt plain behind by now; the earth was covered with yellow grass, and he found and ate some sweet roots and berries. Then feeling very tired, he stretched himself out on his back and began to wonder if what he had seen was nothing but a dream. Yes, it was surely a dream, but then--in his life dreams and realities were so mixed--how was he always to know one from the other? Which was most strange, the Mirage that glittered and quivered round him and flew mockingly before him, or the people of the Mirage he had seen? If you are lying quite still with your eyes shut and some one comes softly up and stands over you, somehow you know it, and open your eyes to see who it is. Just in that way Martin knew that some one had come and was standing over him. Still he kept his eyes shut, feeling sure that it was one of those bright and beautiful beings he had lately seen, perhaps the Queen herself, and that the sight of her shining countenance would dazzle his eyes. Then all at once he thought that it might be old Jacob, who would punish him for running away. He opened his eyes very quickly then. What do you think he saw? An ostrich--that same big ostrich he had seen and startled early in the day! It was standing over him, staring down with its great vacant eyes. Gradually its head came lower and lower down, until at last it made a sudden peck at a metal button on his jacket, and gave such a vigorous tug at it that Martin was almost lifted off the ground. He screamed and gave a jump; but it was nothing to the jump the ostrich gave when he discovered that the button belonged to a living boy. He jumped six feet high into the air and came down with a great flop; then feeling rather ashamed of himself for being frightened at such an insignificant thing as Martin, he stalked majestically away, glancing back, first over one shoulder then the other, and kicking up his heels behind him in a somewhat disdainful manner. Martin laughed, and in the middle of his laugh he fell asleep. CHAPTER VI MARTIN MEETS WITH SAVAGES When, on waking next morning, Martin took his first peep over the grass, there, directly before him, loomed the great blue hills, or Sierras as they are called in that country. He had often seen them, long ago in his distant home on clear mornings, when they had appeared like a blue cloud on the horizon. He had even wished to get to them, to tread their beautiful blue summits that looked as if they would be soft to his feet--softer than the moist springy turf on the plain; but he wished it only as one wishes to get to some far-off impossible place--a white cloud, for instance, or the blue sky itself. Now all at once he unexpectedly found himself near them, and the sight fired him with a new desire. The level plain had nothing half so enchanting as the cloud-like blue airy hills, and very soon he was up on his feet and hurrying towards them. In spite of hurrying he did not seem to get any nearer; still it was pleasant to be always going on and on, knowing that he would get to them at last. He had now left the drier plains behind; the earth was clothed with green and yellow grass easy to the feet, and during the day he found many sweet roots to refresh him. He also found quantities of cam-berries, a round fruit a little less than a cherry in size, bright yellow in colour, and each berry inside a green case or sheath shaped like a heart. They were very sweet. At night he slept once more in the long grass, and when daylight returned he travelled on, feeling very happy there alone--happy to think that he would get to the beautiful hills at last. But only in the early morning would they look distinct and near; later in the day, when the sun grew hot, they would seem further off, like a cloud resting on the earth, which made him think sometimes that they moved on as he went towards them. On the third day he came to a high piece of ground; and when he got to the top and looked over to the other side he saw a broad green valley with a stream of water running in it: on one hand the valley with its gleaming water stretched away as far as he could see, or until it lost itself in the distant haze; but on the other hand, on looking up the valley, there appeared a great forest, looking blue in the distance; and this was the first forest Martin had ever seen. Close by, down in the green valley before him, there was something else to attract his attention, and this was a large group of men and horses. No sooner had he caught sight of them than he set off at a run towards them, greatly excited; and as he drew near they all rose up from the grass where they had been sitting or lying to stare at him, filled with wonder at the sight of that small boy alone in the desert. There were about twenty men and women, and several children; the men were very big and tall, and were dressed only in robes made of the skins of some wild animal; they had broad, flat faces, and dark copper-coloured skins, and their long black hair hung down loose on their backs. These strange, rude-looking people were savages, and are supposed to be cruel and wicked, and to take pleasure in torturing and killing any lost or stray person that falls into their hands; but indeed it is not so, as you shall shortly find. Poor ignorant little Martin, who had never read a book in his life, having always refused to learn his letters, knew nothing about savages, and feared them no more than he had feared old Jacob, or the small spotted snake, the very sight of which had made grown-up people scream and run away. So he marched boldly up and stared at them, and they in turn stared at him out of their great, dark, savage eyes. [Illustration: ] They had just been eating their supper of deer's flesh, roasted on the coals, and after a time one of the savages, as an experiment, took up a bone of meat and offered it to him. Being very hungry he gladly took it, and began gnawing the meat off the bone. When he had satisfied his hunger, he began to look round him, still stared at by the others. Then one of the women, who had a good-humoured face, caught him up, and seating him on her knees, tried to talk to him. "Melu-melumia quiltahou papa shani cha silmata," she spoke, gazing very earnestly into his face. They had all been talking among themselves while he was eating; but he did not know that savages had a language of their own different from ours, and so thought that they had only been amusing themselves with a kind of nonsense talk, which meant nothing. Now when the woman addressed this funny kind of talk to him, he answered her in her own way, as he imagined, readily enough: "Hey diddle-diddle, the cat's in the fiddle, fe fo fi fum, chumpty-chumpty-chum, with bings on her ringers, and tells on her boes." They all listened with grave attention, as if he had said something very important. Then the woman continued: "Huanatopa ana ana quiltahou." To which Martin answered, "Theophilus Thistle, the thistle-sifter, sifted a sieve of unsifted thistles; and if Theophilus--oh, I won't say any more!" Then she said, "Quira-holata silhoa mari changa changa." "Cock-a-doodle-do!" cried Martin, getting tired and impatient. "Baa, baa, black sheep, bow, wow, wow; goosey, goosey gander; see-saw, Mary Daw; chick-a-dee-dee, will you listen to me. And now let me go!" But she held him fast and kept on talking her nonsense language to him, until becoming vexed he caught hold of her hair and pulled it. She only laughed and tossed him up into the air and caught him again, just as he might have tossed and caught a small kitten. At length she released him, for now they were all beginning to lie down by the fire to sleep, as it was getting dark; Martin being very tired settled himself down among them, and as one of the women threw a skin over him he slept very comfortably. Next morning the hills looked nearer than ever just across the river; but little he cared for hills now, and when the little savage children went out to hunt for berries and sweet roots he followed and spent the day agreeably enough in their company. On the afternoon of the second day his new playfellows all threw off their little skin cloaks and plunged into the stream to bathe; and Martin, seeing how much they seemed to enjoy being in the water, undressed himself and went in after them. The water was not too deep in that place, and as it was rare fun splashing about and trying to keep his legs in the swift current and clambering over slippery rocks, he went out some distance from the bank. All at once he discovered that the others had left him, and looking back he saw that they were all scrambling out on to the bank and fighting over his clothes. Back he dashed in haste to rescue his property, but by the time he reached the spot they had finished dividing the spoil, and jumping up they ran away and scattered in all directions, one wearing his jacket, another his knickerbockers, another his shirt and one sock, another his cap and shoes, and the last the one remaining sock only. In vain he pursued and called after them; and at last he was compelled to follow them unclothed to the camping ground, where he presented himself crying piteously; but the women who had been so kind to him would not help him now, and only laughed to see how white his skin looked by contrast with the dark copper-coloured skins of the other children. At length one of them compassionately gave him a small soft-furred skin of some wild animal, and fastened it on him like a cloak; and this he was compelled to wear with shame and grief, feeling very strange and uncomfortable in it. But the feeling of discomfort in that new savage dress was nothing to the sense of injury that stung him, and in his secret heart he was determined not to lose his own clothes. When the children went out next day he followed them, watching and waiting for a chance to recover anything that belonged to him; and at last, seeing the little boy who wore his cap off his guard, he made a sudden rush, and snatching it off the young savage's head, put it firmly upon his own. But the little savage now regarded that cap as his very own: he had taken it by force or stratagem, and had worn it on his head since the day before, and that made it his property; and so at Martin he went, and they fought stoutly together, and being nearly of a size, he could not conquer the little white boy. Then he cried out to the others to help him, and they came and overthrew Martin, and deprived him not only of his cap, but of his little skin cloak as well, and then punished him until he screamed aloud with pain. Leaving him crying on the ground, they ran back to the camp. He followed shortly afterwards, but got no sympathy, for, as a rule, grown-up savages do not trouble themselves very much about these little matters: they leave their children to settle their own disputes. During the rest of that day Martin sulked by himself behind a great tussock of grass, refusing to eat with the others, and when one of the women went to him and offered him a piece of meat he struck it vindictively out of her hand. She only laughed a little and left him. Now when the sun was setting, and he was beginning to feel very cold and miserable in his nakedness, the men were seen returning from the hunt; but instead of riding slowly to the camp as on other days, they came riding furiously and shouting. The moment they were seen and their shouts heard the women jumped up and began hastily packing the skins and all their belongings into bundles; and in less than ten minutes the whole company was mounted on horseback and ready for flight. One of the men picked Martin up and placed him on the horse's back before him, and then they all started at a swift canter up the valley towards that great blue forest in the distance. In about an hour they came to it: it was then quite dark, the sky powdered with numberless stars; but when they got among the trees the blue, dusky sky and brilliant stars disappeared from sight, as if a black cloud had come over them, so dark was it in the forest. For the trees were very tall and mingled their branches overhead; but they had got into a narrow path known to them, and moving slowly in single file, they kept on for about two hours longer, then stopped and dismounted under the great trees, and lying down all close together, went to sleep. Martin, lying among them, crept under the edge of one of the large skin robes and, feeling warm, he soon fell fast asleep and did not wake till daylight. [Illustration: ] CHAPTER VII ALONE IN THE GREAT FOREST Imagine to yourself one accustomed to live in the great treeless plain, accustomed to open his eyes each morning to the wide blue sky and the brilliant sunlight, now for the first time opening them in that vast gloomy forest, where neither wind nor sunlight came, and no sound was heard, and twilight lasted all day long! All round him were trees with straight, tall grey trunks, and behind and beyond them yet other trees--trees everywhere that stood motionless like pillars of stone supporting the dim green roof of foliage far above. It was like a vast gloomy prison in which he had been shut, and he longed to make his escape to where he could see the rising sun and feel the fanning wind on his cheeks. He looked round at the others: they were all stretched on the ground still in a deep sleep, and it frightened him a little to look at their great, broad, dark faces framed in masses of black hair. He felt that he hated them, for they had treated him badly: the children had taken his clothes, compelling him to go naked, and had beaten and bruised him, and he had not been pitied and helped by their elders. By and by, very quietly and cautiously he crept away from among them, and made his escape into the gloomy wood. On one side the forest shadows looked less dark than the other, and on that side he went, for it was the side on which the sun rose, and the direction he had been travelling when he first met with the savages. On and on he went, over the thick bed of dark decaying leaves, which made no rustling sound, looking like a little white ghost of a boy in that great gloomy wood. But he came to no open place, nor did he find anything to eat when hunger pressed him; for there were no sweet roots and berries there, nor any plant that he had ever seen before. It was all strange and gloomy, and very silent. Not a leaf trembled; for if one had trembled near him he would have heard it whisper in that profound stillness that made him hold his breath to listen. But sometimes at long intervals the silence would be broken by a sound that made him start and stand still and wonder what had caused it. For the rare sounds in the forest were unlike any sounds he had heard before. Three or four times during the day a burst of loud, hollow, confused laughter sounded high up among the trees; but he saw nothing, although most likely the creature that had laughed saw him plainly enough from its hiding-place in the deep shadows as it ran up the trunks of the trees. [Illustration: ] At length he came to a river about thirty or forty yards wide; and this was the same river that he had bathed in many leagues further down in the open valley. It is called by the savages Co-viota-co-chamanga, which means that it runs partly in the dark and partly in the light. Here it was in the dark. The trees grew thick and tall on its banks, and their wide branches met and intermingled above its waters that flowed on without a ripple, black to the eye as a river of ink. How strange it seemed when, holding on to a twig, he bent over and saw himself reflected--a white, naked child with a scared face--in that black mirror! Overcome by thirst, he ventured to creep down and dip his hand in the stream, and was astonished to see that the black water looked as clear as crystal in his hollow hand. After quenching his thirst he went on, following the river now, for it had made him turn aside; but after walking for an hour or more he came to a great tree that had fallen across the stream, and climbing on to the slippery trunk, he crept cautiously over and then went gladly on in the old direction. Now, after he had crossed the river and walked a long distance, he came to a more open part; but though it was nice to feel the sunshine on him again, the underwood and grass and creepers trailing over the ground made it difficult and tiring to walk, and in this place a curious thing happened. Picking his way through the tangled herbage, an animal his footsteps had startled scuttled away in great fear, and as it went he caught a glimpse of it. It was a kind of weasel, but very large--larger than a big tom-cat, and all over as black as the blackest cat. Looking down he discovered that this strange animal had been feasting on eggs. The eggs were nearly as large as fowls', of a deep green colour, with polished shells. There had been about a dozen in the nest, which was only a small hollow in the ground lined with dry grass, but most of them had been broken, and the contents devoured by the weasel. Only two remained entire, and these he took, and tempted by his hunger, soon broke the shells at the small end and sucked them clean. They were raw, but never had eggs, boiled, fried, or poached, tasted so nice before! He had just finished his meal, and was wishing that a third egg had remained in the ruined nest, when a slight sound like the buzzing of an insect made him look round, and there, within a few feet of him, was the big black weasel once more, looking strangely bold and savage-tempered. It kept staring fixedly at Martin out of its small, wicked, beady black eyes, and snarling so as to show its white sharp teeth; and very white they looked by contrast with the black lips, and nose, and hair. Martin stared back at it, but it kept moving and coming nearer, now sitting straight up, then dropping its fore-feet and gathering its legs in a bunch as if about to spring, and finally stretching itself straight out towards him again, its round flat head and long smooth body making it look like a great black snake crawling towards him. And all the time it kept on snarling and clicking its sharp teeth and uttering its low, buzzing growl. Martin grew more and more afraid, it looked so strong and angry, so unspeakably fierce. The creature looked as if he was speaking to Martin, saying something very easy to understand, and very dreadful to hear. This is what it seemed to be saying:-- "Ha, you came on me unawares, and startled me away from the nest I found! You have eaten the last two eggs; and I found them, and they were mine! Must I go hungry for you--starveling, robber! A miserable little boy alone and lost in the forest, naked, all scratched and bleeding with thorns, with no courage in his heart, no strength in his hands! Look at me! I am not weak, but strong and black and fierce; I live here--this is my home; I fear nothing; I am like a serpent, and like brass and tempered steel--nothing can bruise or break me: my teeth are like fine daggers; when I strike them into the flesh of any creature I never loose my hold till I have sucked out all the blood in his heart. But you, weak little wretch, I hate you! I thirst for your blood for stealing my food from me! What can you do to save yourself? Down, down on the ground, chicken-heart, where I can get hold of you! You shall pay me for the eggs with your life! I shall hold you fast by the throat, and drink and drink until I see your glassy eyes close, and your cheeks turn whiter than ashes, and I feel your heart flutter like a leaf in your bosom! Down, down!" It was terrible to watch him and seem to hear such words. He was nearer now--scarcely a yard away, still with his beady glaring eyes fixed on Martin's face: and Martin was powerless to fly from him--powerless even to stir a step or to lift a hand. His heart jumped so that it choked him, his hair stood up on his head, and he trembled so that he was ready to fall. And at last, when about to fall to the ground, in the extremity of his terror, he uttered a great scream of despair; and the sudden scream so startled the weasel, that he jumped up and scuttled away as fast as he could through the creepers and bushes, making a great rustling over the dead leaves and twigs; and Martin, recovering his strength, listened to that retreating sound as it passed away into the deep shadows, until it ceased altogether. CHAPTER VIII THE FLOWER AND THE SERPENT His escape from the horrible black animal made Martin quite happy, in spite of hunger and fatigue, and he pushed on as bravely as ever. But it was slow going and very difficult, even painful in places, on account of the rough thorny undergrowth, where he had to push and crawl through the close bushes, and tread on ground littered with old dead prickly leaves and dead thorny twigs. After going on for about an hour in this way, he came to a stream, a branch of the river he had left, and much shallower, so that he could easily cross from side to side, and he could also see the bright pebbles under the clear swift current. The stream appeared to run from the east, the way he wished to travel towards the hills, so that he could keep by it, which he wras glad enough to do, as it was nice to get a drink of water whenever he felt thirsty, and to refresh his tired and sore little feet in the stream. Following this water he came before very long to a place in the forest where there was little or no underwood, but only low trees and bushes scattered about, and all the ground moist and very green and fresh like a water-meadow. It was indeed pleasant to feel his feet on the soft carpet of grass, and stooping, he put his hands down on it, and finally lying down he rolled on it so as to have the nice sensation of the warm soft grass all over his body. So agreeable was it lying and rolling about in that open green place with the sweet sunshine on him, that he felt no inclination to get up and travel on. It was so sweet to rest after all his strivings and sufferings in that great dark forest! So sweet was it that he pretty soon fell asleep, and no doubt slept a long time, for when he woke, the sun, which had been over his head, was now far down in the west. It was very still, and the air warm and fragrant at that hour, with the sun shining through the higher branches of the trees on the green turf where he was lying. How green it was--the grass, the trees, every tiny blade and every leaf was like a piece of emerald green glass with the sun shining through it! So wonderful did it seem to him--the intense greenness, the brilliant sunbeams that shone into his eyes, and seemed to fill him with brightness, and the stillness of the forest, that he sat up and stared about him. What did it mean--that brightness and stillness? Then, at a little distance away, he caught sight of something on a tree of a shining golden yellow colour. Jumping up he ran to the tree, and found that it was half overgrown with a very beautiful climbing plant, with leaves divided like the fingers of a hand, and large flowers and fruit, both green and ripe. The ripe fruit was as big as a duck's egg, and the same shape, and of a shining yellow colour. Reaching up his hand he began to feel the smooth lovely fruit, when, being very ripe, it came off its stem into his hand. It smelt very nice, and then, in his hunger, he bit through the smooth rind with his teeth, and it tasted as nice as it looked. He quickly ate it, and then pulled another and ate that, and then another, and still others, until he could eat no more. He had not had so delicious a meal for many a long day. Not until he had eaten his fill did Martin begin to look closely at the flowers on the plant. It was the passion-flower, and he had never seen it before, and now that he looked well at it he thought it the loveliest and strangest flower he had ever beheld; not brilliant and shining, jewel-like, in the sun, like the scarlet verbena of the plains, or some yellow flower, but pale and misty, the petals being of a dim greenish cream-colour, with a large blue circle in the centre; and the blue, too, was misty like the blue haze in the distance on a summer day. To see and admire it better he reached out his hand and tried to pluck one of the flowers; then in an instant he dropped his hand, as if he had been pricked by a thorn. But there was no thorn and nothing to hurt him; he dropped his hand only because he felt that he had hurt the flower. Moving a step back he stared at it, and the flower seemed like a thing alive that looked back at him, and asked him why he had hurt it. "O, poor flower!" said Martin, and, coming closer he touched it gently with his finger-tips; and then, standing on tiptoe, he touched its petals with his lips, just as his mother had often and often kissed his little hand when he had bruised it or pricked it with a thorn. Then, while still standing by the plant, on bringing his eyes down to the ground he spied a great snake lying coiled up on a bed of moss on the sunny side of the same tree where the plant was growing. He remembered the dear little snake he had once made a friend of, and he did not feel afraid, for he thought that all snakes must be friendly towards him, although this was a very big one, thicker than his arm and of a different colour. It was a pale olive-green, like the half-dry moss it was lying on, with a pattern of black and brown mottling along its back. It was lying coiled round and round, with its flat arrow-shaped head resting on its coils, and its round bright eyes fixed on Martin's face. The sun shining on its eyes made them glint like polished jewels or pieces of glass, and when Martin moved nearer and stood still, or when he drew back and went to this side or that, those brilliant glinting eyes were still on his face, and it began to trouble him, until at last he covered his face with his hands. Then he opened his fingers enough to peep through them, and still those glittering eyes were fixed on him. [Illustration: ] Martin wondered if the snake was vexed with him for coming there, and why it watched him so steadily with those shining eyes. "Will you please look some other way?" he said at last, but the snake would not, and so he turned from it, and then it seemed to him that everything was alive and watching him in the same intent way--the passion-flowers, the green leaves, the grass, the trees, the wide sky, the great shining sun. He listened, and there was no sound in the wood, not even the hum of a fly or wild bee, and it was so still that not a leaf moved. Finally he moved away from that spot, but treading very softly, and holding his breath to listen, for it seemed to him that the forest had something to tell him, and that if he listened he would hear the leaves speaking to him. And by-and-by he did hear a sound: it came from a spot about a hundred yards away, and was like the sound of a person crying. Then came low sobs which rose and fell and then ceased, and after a silent interval began again. Perhaps it was a child, lost there in the forest like himself. Going softly to the spot he discovered that the sobbing sounds came from the other side of a low tree with widespread branches, a kind of acacia with thin loose foliage, but he could not see through it, and so he went round the tree to look, and startled a dove which flew off with a loud clatter of its wings. When the dove had flown away it was again very silent. What was he to do? He was too tired now to walk much farther, and the sun was getting low, so that all the ground was in shadow. He went on a little way looking for some nice shelter where he could pass the night, but could not find one. At length, when the sun had set and the dark was coming, he came upon an old half-dead tree, where there was a hollow at the roots, lined with half dry moss, very soft to his foot, and it seemed a nice place to sleep in. But he had no choice, for he was afraid of going further in the dark among the trees; and so, creeping into the hollow among the old roots, he curled himself up as comfortably as he could, and soon began to get very drowsy, in spite of having no covering to keep him warm. But although very tired and sleepy, he did not go quite to sleep, for he had never been all alone in a wood by night before, and it was different from the open plain where he could see all round, even at night, and where he had feared nothing. Here the trees looked strange and made strange black shadows, and he thought that the strange people of the wood were perhaps now roaming about and would find him there. He did not want them to find him fast asleep; it was better to be awake, so that when they came he could jump up and run away and hide himself from them. Once or twice a slight rustling sound made him start and think that at last some one was coming to him, stealing softly so as to catch him unawares, but he could see nothing moving, and when he held his breath to listen there was no sound. [Illustration: ] Then all at once, just when he had almost dropped off, a great cry sounded at a distance, and made him start up wide awake again. "O look! look! look!" cried the voice in a tone so deep and strange and powerful that no one could have heard it without terror, for it seemed to be uttered by some forest monster twenty times bigger than an ordinary man. In a moment an answer came from another part of the wood. "What's that?" cried the answering voice; and then another voice cried, and then others far and near, all shouting "What's that?" and for only answer the first voice shouted once more, "O look! look! look!" Poor Martin, trembling with fright, crouched lower down in his mossy bed, thinking that the awful people of the forest must have seen him, and would be upon him in a few moments. But though he stared with wide-open eyes into the gloom he could see nothing but the trees, standing silent and motionless, and no sound of approaching footsteps could he hear. After that it was silent again for a while, and he began to hope that they had given up looking for him; when suddenly, close by, sounded a loud startling "Who's that?" and he gave himself up for lost. For he was too terrified to jump up and run away, as he had thought to do: he could only lie still, his teeth chattering, his hair standing up on his head. "Who's that?" exclaimed the terrible voice once more, and then he saw a big black shape drop down from the tree above and settle on a dead branch a few feet above his hiding-place. It was a bird--a great owl, for now he could see it, sharply outlined against the clear starry sky; and the bird had seen and was peering curiously at him. And now all his fear was gone, for he could not be afraid of an owl; he had been accustomed to see owls all his life, only they were small, and this owl of the forest was as big as an eagle, and had a round head and ears like a cat, and great cat-like eyes that shone in the dark. The owl kept staring at Martin for some time, swaying his body this way and that, and lowering then raising his head so as to get a better view. And Martin, on his side, stared back at the owl, and at last he exclaimed, "O what a great big owl you are! Please say _Who's that_? again." But before the owl said anything Martin was fast asleep in his mossy bed. CHAPTER IX THE BLACK PEOPLE OF THE SKY Whether or not the great owl went on shouting _O look! look! look_! and asking _What's that_? and _Who's that_? all night, Martin did not know. He was fast asleep until the morning sun shone on his face and woke him, and as he had no clothes and shoes to put on he was soon up and out. First he took a drink of water, then, feeling very hungry he went back to the place where he had found the ripe fruit and made a very good breakfast. After that he set out once more through the wood towards sunrise, still following the stream. Before long the wood became still more open, and at last to his great joy he found that he had got clear of it, and was once more on the great open plain. And now the hills were once more in sight--those great blue hills where he wished to be, looking nearer and larger than before, but they still looked blue like great banks of cloud and were a long distance away. But he was determined to get to them, to climb up their steep sides, and by and by when he found the stream bent away to the south, he left it so as to go on straight as he could to the hills. Away from the water-side the ground was higher, and very flat and covered with dry yellow grass. Over this yellow plain he walked for hours, resting at times, but finding no water and no sweet roots to quench his thirst, until he was too tired to walk any further, and so he sat down on the dry grass under that wide blue sky. There was not a cloud on it--nothing but the great globe of the sun above him; and there was no wind and no motion in the yellow grass blades, and no sight or sound of any living creature. Martin lying on his back gazed up at the blue sky, keeping his eyes from the sun, which was too bright for them, and after a time he did see something moving--a small black spot no bigger than a fly moving in a circle. But he knew it was something big, but at so great a height from the earth as to look like a fly. And then he caught sight of a second black speck, then another and another, until he could make out a dozen or twenty, or more, all moving in wide circles at that vast height. Martin thought they must be the black people of the sky; he wondered why they were black and not white, like white birds, or blue, and of other brilliant colours like the people of the Mirage. Now it was impossible for Martin to lie like that, following those small black spots on the hot blue sky as they wheeled round and round continuously, without giving his eyes a little rest by shutting them at intervals. By-and-by he kept them shut a little too long; he fell asleep, and when he woke he didn't wake fully in a moment; he remained lying motionless just as before, with eyes still closed, but the lids just raised enough to enable him to see about him. And the sight that met his eyes was very curious. He was no longer alone in that solitary place. There were people all round him, dozens and scores of little black men about two feet in height, of a very singular appearance. They had bald heads and thin hatchet faces, wrinkled and warty, and long noses; and they all wore black silk clothes--coat, waistcoat and knickerbockers, but without shoes and stockings; their thin black legs and feet were bare; nor did they have anything on their bald heads. They were gathered round Martin in a circle, but a very wide circle quite twenty to thirty feet away from him, and some were walking about, others standing alone or in groups, talking together, and all looking at Martin. Only one who appeared to be the most important person of the company kept inside the circle, and whenever one or more of the others came forward a few steps he held up his hand and begged them to go back a little. "We must not be in a hurry," he said. "We must wait." "Wait for what?" asked one. "For what may happen," said the important one. "I must ask you again to leave it to me to decide when it is time to begin." Then he strutted up and down in the open space, turning now towards his fellows and again to Martin, moving his head about to get a better sight of his face. Then, putting his hand down between his coat and waistcoat he drew out a knife with a long shining blade, and holding it from him looked attentively at it. By and by he breathed gently on the bright blade, then pulling out a black silk pocket handkerchief wiped off the stain of his breath, and turning the blade about made it glitter in the sun. Then he put it back under his coat and resumed his walk up and down. "We are getting very hungry," said one of the others at length. "Very hungry indeed!" cried another. "Some of us have not tasted food these three days." "It certainly does seem hard," said yet another, "to see our dinner before us and not be allowed to touch it." "Not so fast, my friends, I beg," exclaimed the man with the knife. "I have already explained the case, and I do think you are a little unfair in pressing me as you do." Thus rebuked they consulted together, then one of them spoke. "If, sir, you consider us unfair, or that we have not full confidence in you, would it not be as well to get some other person to take your place?" "Yes, I am ready to do that," returned the important one promptly; and here, drawing forth the knife once more, he held it out towards them. But instead of coming forward to take it they all recoiled some steps, showing considerable alarm. And then they all began protesting that they were not complaining of him, that they were satisfied with their choice, and could not have put the matter in abler hands. "I am pleased at your good opinion," said the important one. "I may tell you that I am no chicken. I first saw the light in September, 1739, and, as you know, we are now within seven months and thirteen days of the end of the first decade of the second half of the nineteenth century. You may infer from this that I have had a pretty extensive experience, and I promise you that when I come to cut the body up you will not be able to say that I have made an unfair distribution, or that any one has been left without his portion." [Illustration: ] All murmured approval, and then one of the company asked if he would be allowed to bespeak the liver for his share. "No, sir, certainly not," replied the other. "Such matters must be left to my discretion entirely, and I must also remind you that there is such a thing as the _carver's privilege_, and it is possible that in this instance he may think fit to retain the liver for his own consumption." After thus asserting himself he began to examine the blade of his knife which he still held in his hand, and to breathe gently on it, and wipe it with his handkerchief to make it shine brighter in the sun. Finally, raising his arm, he flourished it and then made two or three stabs and lunges in the air, then walking on tiptoe he adyanced to Martin lying so still on the yellow grass in the midst of that black-robed company, the hot sun shining on his naked white body. The others all immediately pressed forward, craning their necks and looking highly excited: they were expecting great things; but when the man with a knife had got quite close to Martin he was seized with fear and made two or three long jumps back to where the others were; and then, recovering from his alarm, he quietly put back the knife under his coat. "We really thought you were going to begin," said one of the crowd. "Oh no; no indeed; not just yet," said the other. "It is very disappointing," remarked one. The man with the knife turned on him and replied with dignity, "I am really surprised at such a remark after all I have said on the subject. I do wish you would consider the circumstances of the case. They are peculiar, for this person--this Martin--is not an ordinary person. We have been keeping our eyes on him for some time past, and have witnessed some remarkable actions on his part, to put it mildly. Let us keep in mind the boldness, the resource, the dangerous violence he has displayed on so many occasions since he took to his present vagabond way of life." "It appears to me," said one of the others, "that if Martin is dead we need not concern ourselves about his character and desperate deeds in the past." "_If_ he is dead!" exclaimed the other sharply. "That is the very point,--_is_ he dead? Can you confidently say that he is not in a sound sleep, or in a dead faint, or shamming and ready at the first touch of the knife to leap up and seize his assailant--I mean his carver--by the throat and perhaps murder him as he once murdered a spoonbill?" "That would be very dreadful," said one. "But surely," said another, "there are means of telling whether a person is dead or not? One simple and effectual method, which I have heard, is to place a hand over the heart to feel if it still beats." "Yes, I know, I have also heard of that plan. Very simple, as you say; but who is to try it? I invite the person who makes the suggestion to put it in practice." "With pleasure," said the other, coming forward with a tripping gait and an air of not being in the least afraid. But on coming near the supposed corpse he paused to look round at the others, then pulling out his black silk handkerchief he wiped his black wrinkled forehead and bald head. "Whew!" he exclaimed, "it's very hot to-day." "I don't find it so," said the man with the knife. "It is sometimes a matter of nerves." It was not a very nice remark, but it had the effect of bracing the other up, and moving forward a little more he began anxiously scrutinizing Martin's face. The others now began to press forward, but were warned by the man with a knife not to come too near. Then the bold person who had undertaken to feel Martin's heart doubled back the silk sleeve of his coat, and after some further preparation extended his arm and made two or three preliminary passes with his trembling hand at a distance of a foot or so from the breast of the corpse. Then he approached it a little nearer, but before it came to the touching point a sudden fear made him start back. "What is it? What did you see?" cried the others. "I'm not sure there wasn't a twitch of the eyelid," he replied. "Never mind the eyelid--feel his heart," said one. "That's all very well," he returned, "but how would you like it yourself? Will _you_ come and do it?" "No, no!" they all cried. "You have undertaken this, and must go through with it." Thus encouraged, he once more turned to the corpse, and again anxiously began to examine the face. Now Martin had been watching them through the slits of his not quite closed eyes all the time, and listening to their talk. Being hungry himself he could not help feeling for them, and not thinking that it would hurt him to be cut up in pieces and devoured, he had begun to wish that they would really begin on him. He was both amused and annoyed at their nervousness, and at last opening wide his eyes very suddenly he cried, "Feel my heart!" It was as if a gun had been fired among them; for a moment they were struck still with terror, and then all together turned and fled, going away with three very long hops, and then opening wide their great wings they launched themselves on the air. For they were not little black men in black silk clothes as it had seemed, but vultures--those great, high-soaring, black-plumaged birds which he had watched circling in the sky, looking no bigger than bees or flies at that vast distance above the earth. And when he was watching them they were watching him, and after he had fallen asleep they continued moving round and round in the sky for hours, and seeing him lying so still on the plain they at last imagined that he was dead, and one by one they closed or half-closed their wings and dropped, gliding downwards, growing larger in appearance as they neared the ground, until the small black spots no bigger than flies were seen to be great black birds as big as turkeys. But you see Martin was not dead after all, and so they had to go away without their dinner. CHAPTER X A TROOP OF WILD HORSES It seemed so lonely to Martin when the vultures had gone up out of sight in the sky, so silent and solitary on that immense level plain, that he could not help wishing them back for the sake of company. They were an amusing people when they were walking round him, conversing together, and trying without coming too near to discover whether he was dead or only sleeping. All that day it was just as lonely, for though he went on as far as he could before night, he was still on that great level plain of dry yellow grass which appeared to have no end, and the blue hills looked no nearer than when he had started in the morning. He was hungry and thirsty that evening, and very cold too when he nestled down on the ground with nothing to cover him but the little heap of dry grass he had gathered for his bed. It was better next day, for after walking two or three hours he came to the end of that yellow plain to higher ground, where the earth was sandy and barren, with a few scattered bushes growing on it--dark, prickly bushes like butcher's broom. When he got to the highest part of this barren ground he saw a green valley beyond, stretching away as far as he could see on either hand. But it was nice to see a green place again, and going down into the valley he managed to find some sweet roots to stay his hunger and thirst; then, after a rest, he went on again, and when he got to the top of the high ground beyond the valley, he saw another valley before him, just like the one he had left behind. Again he rested in that green place, and then slowly went up the high land beyond, where it was barren and sandy with the dark stiff prickly bushes growing here and there, and when he got to the top he looked down, and behold! there was yet another green valley stretching away to the right and left as far as he could see. Would they never end--these high barren ridges and the long green valleys between! When he toiled slowly up out of this last green resting-place it was growing late in the day, and he was very tired. Then he came to the top of another ridge like the others, only higher and more barren, and when he could see the country beyond, lo! another valley, greener and broader than those he had left behind, and a river flowing in it, looking like a band of silver lying along the green earth--a river too broad for him to cross, stretching away north and south as far as he could see. How then should he ever be able to get to the hills, still far, far away beyond that water? Martin stared at the scene before him for some time; then, feeling very tired and weak, he sat down on the sandy ground beside a scanty dark bush. Tears came to his eyes: he felt them running down his cheeks; and all at once he remembered how long before when his wandering began, he had dropped a tear, and a small dusty beetle had refreshed himself by drinking it. He bent down and let a tear drop, and watched it as it sank into the ground, but no small beetle came out to drink it, and he felt more lonely and miserable than ever. He began to think of all the queer creatures and people he had met in the desert, and to wish for them. Some of them had not been very kind to him, but he did not remember that now, it was so sad to be quite alone in the world without even a small beetle to visit him. He remembered the beautiful people of the Mirage and the black people of the sky; and the ostrich, and old Jacob, and the savages, and the serpent, and the black weasel in the forest. He stood up and stared all round to see if anything was coming, but he could see nothing and hear nothing. By-and-by, in that deep silence, there was a sound; it seemed to come from a great distance, it was so faint. Then it grew louder and nearer; and far away he saw a little cloud of dust, and then, even through the dust, dark forms coming swiftly towards him. The sound he heard was like a long halloo, a cry like the cry of a man, but wild and shrill, like a bird's cry; and whenever that cry was uttered, it was followed by a strange confused noise as of the neighing of many horses. They were, in truth, horses that were coming swiftly towards him--a herd of sixty or seventy wild horses. He could see and hear them only too plainly now, looking very terrible in their strength and speed, and the flowing black manes that covered them like a black cloud, as they came thundering on, intending perhaps to sweep over him and trample him to death with their iron-hard hoofs. All at once, when they were within fifty yards of Martin, the long, shrill, wild cry went up again, and the horses swerved to one side, and went sweeping round him in a wide circle. Then, as they galloped by, he caught sight of the strangest-looking being he had ever seen, a man, on the back of one of the horses; naked and hairy, he looked like a baboon as he crouched, doubled up, gripping the shoulders and neck of the horse with his knees, clinging with his hands to the mane, and craning his neck like a flying bird. It was this strange rider who had uttered the long piercing man-and-bird-like cries; and now changing his voice to a whinnying sound the horses came to a stop, and gathering together in a crowd they stood tossing their manes and staring at Martin with their wild, startled eyes. In another moment the wild rider came bounding out from among them, and moving now erect, now on all fours, came sideling up to Martin, flinging his arms and legs about, wagging his head, grimacing and uttering whinnying and other curious noises. Never had Martin looked upon so strange a man! He was long and lean so that you could have counted his ribs, and he was stark naked, except for the hair of his head and face, which half covered him. His skin was of a yellowish brown colour, and the hair the colour of old dead grass; and it was coarse and tangled, falling over his shoulders and back and covering his forehead like a thatch, his big brown nose standing out beneath it like a beak. The face was covered with the beard which was tangled too, and grew down to his waist, After staring at Martin for some time with his big, yellow, goat-like eyes, he pranced up to him and began to sniff round him, then touched him with his nose on his face, arms, and shoulders. [Illustration: ] "Who are you?" said Martin in astonishment. For only answer the other squealed and whinnied, grimacing and kicking his legs up at the same time. Then the horses advanced to them, and gathering round in a close crowd began touching Martin with their noses. He liked it--the softness of their sensitive skins, which were like velvet, and putting up his hands he began to stroke their noses. Then one by one, after smelling him, and being touched by his hand, they turned away, and going down into the valley were soon scattered about, most of them grazing, some rolling, others lying stretched out on the grass as if to sleep; while the young foals in the troop, leaving their dams, began playing about and challenging one another to run a race. Martin, following and watching them, almost wished that he too could go on four legs to join them in their games. He trusted those wild horses, but he was still puzzled by that strange man, who had also left him now and was going quietly round on all fours, smelling at the grass. By-and-by he found something to his liking in a small patch of tender green clover, which he began nosing and tearing it up with his teeth, then turning his head round he stared back at Martin, his jaws working vigorously all the time, the stems and leaves of the clover he was eating sticking out from his mouth and hanging about his beard. All at once he jumped up, and flying back at Martin, snatched him up from the ground, carried him to the clover patch, and set him upon it, face down, on all fours; then when Martin sat up he grasped him by the head and forced it down until his nose was on the grass so as to make him smell it and know that it was good. But smell it he would not, and finally the other seized him roughly again and, opening his mouth, forced a bunch of grass into it. [Illustration: ] "It's grass, and I sha'n't eat it!" screamed Martin, crying with anger at being so treated, and spewing the green stuff out of his mouth. Then the man released him, and, withdrawing a space of two or three yards, sat down on his haunches, and, planting his bony elbows on his knees, thrust his great brown fingers in his tangled hair, and stared at Martin with his big yellow goat's eyes for a long time. Suddenly a wild excited look came into his eyes, and, leaping up with a shrill cry, which caused all the horses to look round at him, he once more snatched Martin up, and holding him firmly gripped to his ribby side by his arm, bounded off to where a mare was standing giving suck to her young foal. With a vigorous kick he sent the foal away, and forced Martin to take his place, and, to make it easier for him, pressed the teat into his mouth. Martin was not accustomed to feed in that way, and he not only refused to suck, but continued to cry with indignation at such treatment, and to struggle with all his little might to free himself. His striving was all in vain; and by-and-by the man, seeing that he would not suck, had a fresh idea, and, gripping Martin more firmly than ever, with one hand forced and held his mouth open, and with the other drew a stream of milk into it. After choking and spluttering and crying more than ever for a while, Martin began to grow quiet, and to swallow the milk with some satisfaction, for he was very hungry and thirsty, and it tasted very good. By-and-by, when no more milk could be drawn from the teats, he was taken to a second mare, from which the foal was kicked away with as little ceremony as the first one, and then he had as much more milk as he wanted, and began to like being fed in this amusing way. Of what happened after that Martin did not know much, except that the man seemed very happy after feeding him. He set Martin on the back of a horse, then jumped and danced round him, making funny chuckling noises, after which he rolled horse-like on the grass, his arms and legs up in the air, and finally, pulling Martin down, he made him roll too. But the little fellow was too tired to keep his eyes any longer open, and when he next opened them it was morning, and he found himself lying wedged in between a mare and her young foal lying side by side close together. There too was the wild man, coiled up like a sleeping dog, his head pillowed on the foal's neck, and the hair of his great shaggy beard thrown like a blanket over Martin. He very soon grew accustomed to the new strange manner of life, and even liked it. Those big, noble-looking wild horses, with their shining coats, brown and bay and black and sorrel and chestnut, and their black manes and tails that swept the grass when they moved, were so friendly to him that he could not help loving them. As he went about among them when they grazed, every horse he approached would raise his head and touch his face and arms with his nose. "O you dear horse!" Martin would exclaim, rubbing the warm, velvet-soft, sensitive nose with his hand. He soon discovered that they were just as fond of play as he was, and that he too was to take part in their games. Having fed as long as they wanted that morning, they all at once began to gather together, coming at a gallop, neighing shrilly; then the wild man, catching Martin up, leaped upon the back of one of the horses, and away went the whole troop at a furious pace to the great open dry plain, where Martin had met with them on the previous day. Now it was very terrifying for him at first to be in the midst of that flying crowd, as the animals went tearing over the plain, which seemed to shake beneath their thundering hoofs, while their human leader cheered them on with his shrill, repeated cries. But in a little while he too caught the excitement, and, losing all his fear, was as wildly happy as the others, crying out at the top of his voice in imitation of the wild man. After an hour's run they returned to the valley, and then Martin, without being compelled to do so, rolled about on the grass, and went after the young foals when they came out to challenge one another to a game. He tried to do as they did, prancing and throwing up his heels and snorting, but when they ran from him they soon left him hopelessly behind. Meanwhile the wild man kept watch over him, feeding him with mare's milk, and inviting him from time to time to smell and taste the tender grass. Best of all was, when they went for another run in the evening, and when Martin was no longer held with a tight grip against the man's side, but was taught or allowed to hold on, clinging with his legs to the man's body and clasping him round the neck with his arms, his fingers tightly holding on to the great shaggy beard. Three days passed in this way, and if his time had been much longer with the wild horses he would have become one of the troop, and would perhaps have eaten grass too, and forgotten his human speech, or that he was a little boy born to a very different kind of life. But it was not to be, and in the end he was separated from the troop by accident. At the end of the third day, when the sun was setting, and all the horses were scattered about in the valley, quietly grazing, something disturbed them. It might have been a sight or sound of some feared object, or perhaps the wind had brought the smell of their enemies and hunters from a great distance to their nostrils. Suddenly they were all in a wild commotion, galloping from all sides toward their leader, and he, picking Martin up, was quickly on a horse, and off they went full speed, but not towards the plain where they were accustomed to go for their runs. Now they fled in the opposite direction down to the river: into it they went, into that wide, deep, dangerous current, leaping from the bank, each horse, as he fell into the water with a tremendous splash, disappearing from sight; but in another moment the head and upper part of the neck was seen to rise above the surface, until the whole lot were in, and appeared to Martin like a troop of horses' heads swimming without bodies over the river. He, clinging to the neck and beard of the wild man, had the upper half of his body out of the cold, rushing water, and in this way they all got safely across and up the opposite bank. No sooner were they out, than, without even pausing to shake the water from their skins, they set off at full speed across the valley towards the distant hills. Now on this side, at a distance of a mile or so from the river, there were vast reed-beds standing on low land, dried to a hard crust by the summer heat, and right into the reeds the horses rushed and struggled to force their way through. The reeds were dead and dry, so tall that they rose high above the horses' heads, and growing so close together that it was hard to struggle through them. Then when they were in the midst of this difficult place, the dry crust that covered the low ground began to yield to the heavy hoofs, and the horses, sinking to their knees, were thrown down and plunged about in the most desperate way, and in the midst of this confusion Martin was struck and thrown from his place, falling amongst the reeds. Luckily he was not trampled upon, but he was left behind, and then what a dreadful situation was his, when the whole troop had at last succeeded in fighting their way through, and had gone away leaving him in that dark, solitary place! He listened until the sound of heavy hoofs and the long cries of the man had died away in the distance; then the silence and darkness terrified him, and he struggled to get out, but the reeds grew so close together that before he had pushed a dozen yards through them he sank down, unable to do more. The air was hot and close and still down there on the ground, but by leaning his head back, and staring straight up he could see the pale night sky sprinkled with stars in the openings between the dry leaves and spikes of the reeds. Poor Martin could do nothing but gaze up at the little he could see of the sky in that close, black place, until his neck ached with the strain; but at last, to make him hope, he heard a sound--the now familiar long shrill cry of the wild man. Then, as it came nearer, the sound of tramping hoofs and neighing of the horses was heard, and the cries and hoof-beats grew louder and then fainter in turns, and sounded now on this side, now on that, and he knew that they were looking for him. "I'm here, I'm here," he cried; "oh, dear horses, come and take me away!" But they could not hear him, and at last the sound of their neighing and the wild long cries died away altogether, and Martin was left alone in that black silent place. CHAPTER XI THE LADY OF THE HILLS No escape was possible for poor little Martin so long as it was dark, and there he had to stay all night, but morning brought him comfort; for now he could see the reed-stems that hemmed him in all round, and by using his hands to bend them from him on either side he could push through them. By-and-by the sunlight touched the tops of the tall plants, and working his way towards the side from which the light came he soon made his escape from that prison, and came into a place where he could walk without trouble, and could see the earth and sky again. Further on, in a grassy part of the valley, he found some sweet roots wrhich greatly refreshed him, and at last, leaving the valley, he came out on a high grassy plain, and saw the hills before him looking very much nearer than he had ever seen them look before. Up till now they had appeared like masses of dark blue banked up cloud resting on the earth, now he could see that they were indeed stone--blue stone piled up in huge cliffs and crags high above the green world; he could see the roughness of the heaped up rocks, the fissures and crevices in the sides of the hills, and here and there the patches of green colour where trees and bushes had taken root. How wonderful it seemed to Martin that evening standing there in the wide green plain, the level sun at his back shining on his naked body, making him look like a statue of a small boy carved in whitest marble or alabaster. Then, to make the sight he gazed on still more enchanting, just as the sun went down the colour of the hills changed from stone blue to a purple that was like the purple of ripe plums and grapes, only more beautiful and bright. In a few minutes the purple colour faded away and the hills grew shadowy and dark. It was too late in the day, and he was too tired to walk further. He was very hungry and thirsty too, and so when he had found a few small white partridge-berries and had made a poor supper on them, he gathered some dry grass into a little heap, and lying down in it, was soon in a sound sleep. It was not until the late afternoon next day that Martin at last got to the foot of the hill, or mountain, and looking up he saw it like a great wall of stone above him, with trees and bushes and trailing vines growing out of the crevices and on the narrow ledges of the rock. Going some distance he came to a place where he could ascend, and here he began slowly walking upwards. At first he could hardly contain his delight where everything looked new and strange, and here he found some very beautiful flowers; but as he toiled on he grew more tired and hungry at every step, and then, to make matters worse, his legs began to pain so that he could hardly lift them. It was a curious pain which he had never felt in his sturdy little legs before in all his wanderings. Then a cloud came over the sun, and a sharp wind sprang up that made him shiver with cold: then followed a shower of rain; and now Martin, feeling sore and miserable, crept into a cavity beneath a pile of overhanging rocks for shelter. He was out of the rain there, but the wind blew in on him until it made his teeth chatter with cold. He began to think of his mother, and of all the comforts of his lost home--the bread and milk when he was hungry, the warm clothing, and the soft little bed with its snowy white coverlid in which he had slept so sweetly every night. "O mother, mother!" he cried, but his mother was too far off to hear his piteous cry. When the shower was over he crept out of his shelter again, and with his little feet already bleeding from the sharp rocks, tried to climb on. In one spot he found some small, creeping, myrtle plants covered with ripe white berries, and although they had a very pungent taste he ate his fill of them, he was so very hungry. Then feeling that he could climb no higher, he began to look round for a dry, sheltered spot to pass the night in. In a little while he came to a great, smooth, flat stone that looked like a floor in a room, and was about forty yards wide: nothing grew on it except some small tufts of grey lichen; but on the further side, at the foot of a steep, rocky precipice, there was a thick bed of tall green and yellow ferns, and among the ferns he hoped to find a place to lie down in. Very slowly he limped across the open space, crying with the pain he felt at every step; but when he reached the bed of ferns he all at once saw, sitting among the tall fronds on a stone, a strange-looking woman in a green dress, who was gazing very steadily at him with eyes full of love and compassion. At her side there crouched a big yellow beast, covered all over with black, eye-like spots, with a big round head, and looking just like a cat, but a hundred times larger than the biggest cat he had ever seen. The animal rose up with a low sound like a growl, and glared at Martin with its wide, yellow, fiery eyes, which so terrified him that he dared not move another step until the womaan, speaking very gently to him, told him not to fear. She caressed the great beast, making him lie down again; then coming forward and taking Martin by the hand, she drew him up to her knees. [Illustration: ] "What is your name, poor little suffering child?" she asked, bending down to him, and speaking softly. "Martin--what's yours?" he returned, still half sobbing, and rubbing his eyes with his little fists. "I am called the Lady of the Hills, and I live here alone in the mountain. Tell me, why do you cry, Martin?" "Because I'm so cold, and--and my legs hurt so, and--and because I want to go back to my mother. She's over there," said he, with another sob, pointing vaguely to the great plain beneath their feet, extending far, far away into the blue distance, where the crimson sun was now setting. "I will be your mother, and you shall live with me here on the mountain," she said, caressing his little cold hands with hers. "Will you call me mother?" "You are _not_ my mother," he returned warmly. "I don't want to call you mother." "When I love you so much, dear child?" she pleaded, bending down until her lips were close to his averted face. "How that great spotted cat stares at me!" he suddenly said. "Do you think it will kill me?" "No, no, he only wants to play with you. Will you not even look at me, Martin?" He still resisted her, but her hand felt very warm and comforting--it was such a large, warm, protecting hand. So pleasant did it feel that after a little while he began to move his hand up her beautiful, soft, white arm until it touched her hair. For her hair was unbound and loose; it was dark, and finer than the finest spun silk, and fell all over her shoulders and down her back to the stone she sat on. He let his fingers stray in and out among it; and it felt like the soft, warm down that lines a little bird's nest to his skin. Finally, he touched her neck and allowed his hand to rest there, it was such a soft, warm neck. At length, but reluctantly, for his little rebellious heart was not yet wholly subdued, he raised his eyes to her face. Oh, how beautiful she was! Her love and eager desire to win him had flushed her clear olive skin with rich red colour; out of her sweet red lips, half parted, came her warm breath on his cheek, more fragrant than wild flowers; and her large dark eyes were gazing down into his with such a tenderness in them that Martin, seeing it, felt a strange little shudder pass through him, and scarcely knew whether to think it pleasant or painful. "Dear child, I love you so much," she spoke, "will you not call me mother?" Dropping his eyes and with trembling lips, feeling a little ashamed at being conquered at last, he whispered "Mother." She raised him in her arms and pressed him to her bosom, wrapping her hair like a warm mantle round him; and in less than one minute, overcome by fatigue, he fell fast asleep in her arms. CHAPTER XII THE LITTLE PEOPLE UNDERGROUND When he awoke Martin found himself lying on a soft downy bed in a dim stone chamber, and feeling silky hair over his cheek and neck and arms, he knew that he was still with his new strange mother, the beautiful Lady of the Mountain. She, seeing him awake, took him up in her arms, and holding him against her bosom, carried him through a long winding stone passage, and out into the bright morning sunlight. There by a small spring of clearest water that gushed from the rock she washed his scratched and bruised skin, and rubbed it with sweet-smelling unguents, and gave him food and drink. The great spotted beast sat by them all the time, purring like a cat, and at intervals he tried to entice Martin to leave the woman's lap and play with him. But she would not let him out of her arms: all day she nursed and fondled him as if he had been a helpless babe instead of the sturdy little run-away and adventurer he had proved himself to be. She also made him tell her the story of how he had got lost and of all the wonderful things that had happened to him in his wanderings in the wilderness--the people of the Mirage, and old Jacob and the savages, the great forest, the serpent, the owl, the wild horses and wild man, and the black people of the sky. But it was of the Mirage and the procession of lovely beings about which he spoke most and questioned her. "Do you think it was all a dream?" he kept asking her, "the Queen and all those people?" She was vexed at the question, and turning her face away, refused to answer him. For though at all other times, and when he spoke of other things, she was gentle and loving in her manner, the moment he spoke of the Queen of the Mirage and the gifts she had bestowed on him, she became impatient, and rebuked him for saying such foolish things. At length she spoke and told him that it was a dream, a very very idle dream, a dream that was not worth dreaming; that he must never speak of it again, never think of it, but forget it, just as he had forgotten all the other vain silly dreams he had ever had. And having said this much a little sharply, she smiled again and fondled him, and promised that when he next slept he should have a good dream, one worth the dreaming, and worth remembering and talking about. She held him away from her, seating him on her knees, to look at his face, and said, "For oh, dear little Martin, you are lovely and sweet to look at, and you are mine, my own sweet child, and so long as you live with me on the hills, and love me and eall me mother, you shall be happy, and everything you see, sleeping and waking, shall seem strange and beautiful." It was quite true that he was sweet to look at, very pretty with his rosy-white skin deepening to red on his cheeks; and his hair curling all over his head was of a bright golden chestnut colour; and his eyes were a very bright blue, and looked keen and straight at you just like a bird's eyes, that seem to be thinking of nothing, and yet seeing everything. After this Martin was eager to go to sleep at once and have the promised dream, but his very eagerness kept him wide awake all day, and even after going to bed in that dim chamber in the heart of the hill, it was a long time before he dropped off. But he did not know that he had fallen asleep: it seemed to him that he was very wide awake, and that he heard a voice speaking in the chamber, and that he started up to listen to it. "Do you not know that there are things just as strange underground as above it?" said the voice. Martin could not see the speaker, but he answered quite boldly: "No--there's nothing underground except earth and worms and roots. I've seen it when they've been digging." "Oh, but there is!" said the voice. "You can see for yourself. All you've got to do is to find a path leading down, and to follow it. There's a path over there just in front of you; you can see the opening from where you are lying." He looked, and sure enough there _was_ an opening, and a dim passage running down through the solid rock. Up he jumped, fired at the prospect of seeing new and wonderful things, and without looking any more to see who had spoken to him, he ran over to it. The passage had a smooth floor of stone, and sloped downward into the earth, and went round and round in an immense spiral; but the circles were so wide that Martin scarcely knew that he was not travelling in a straight line. Have you by chance ever seen a buzzard, or stork, or vulture, or some other great bird, soaring upwards into the sky in wide circles, each circle taking it higher above the earth, until it looked like a mere black speck in the vast blue heavens, and at length disappeared altogether? Just in that way, going round and round in just such wide circles, lightly running all the time, with never a pause to rest, and without feeling in the least tired, Martin went on, only down and down and further down, instead of up and up like the soaring bird, until he was as far under the mountain as ever any buzzard or crane or eagle soared above it. Thus running he came at last out of the passage to an open room or space so wide that, look which way he would, he could see no end to it. The stone roof of this place was held up by huge stone pillars standing scattered about like groups of great rough-barked trees, many times bigger round than hogsheads. Here and there in the roof, or the stone overhead, were immense black caverns which almost frightened him to gaze up at them, they were so vast and black. And no light or sun or moon came down into that deep part of the earth: the light was from big fires, and they were fires of smithies burning all about him, sending up great flames and clouds of black smoke, which rose and floated upwards through those big black caverns in the roof. Crowds of people were gathered around the smithies, all very busy heating metal and hammering on anvils like blacksmiths. Never had he seen so many people, nor ever had he seen such busy men as these, rushing about here and there shouting and colliding with one another, bringing and carrying huge loads in baskets on their backs, and altogether the sight of them, and the racket and the smoke and dust, and the blazing fires, was almost too much for Martin; and for a moment or two he was tempted to turn and run back into the passage through which he had come. But the strangeness of it all kept him there, and then he began to look more closely at the people, for these were the little men that live under the earth, and they were unlike anything he had seen on its surface. They were very stout, strong-looking little men, dressed in coarse dark clothes, covered with dust and grime, and they had dark faces, and long hair, and rough, unkempt beards; they had very long arms and big hands, like baboons, and there was not one among them who looked taller than Martin himself. After looking at them he did not feel at all afraid of them; he only wanted very much to know who they were, and what they were doing, and why they were so excited and noisy over their work. So he thrust himself among them, going to the smithies where they were in crowds, and peering curiously at them. Then he began to notice that his coming among them created a great commotion, for no sooner would he appear than all work would be instantly suspended; down would go their baskets and loads of wood, their hammers and implements of all kinds, and they would stare and point at him, all jabbering together, so that the noise was as if a thousand cockatoos and parrots and paroquets were all screaming at once. What it was all about he could not tell, as he could not make out what they said; he could only see, and plainly enough, that his presence astonished and upset them, for as he went about among them they fell back before him, crowding together, and all staring and pointing at him. But at length he began to make out what they were saying; they were all exclaiming and talking about him. "Look at him! look at him!" they cried. "Who is he? What, Martin--this Martin? Never. No, no, no! Yes, yes, yes! Martin himself--Martin with nothing on! Not a shred--not a thread! Impossible--it cannot be! Nothing so strange has ever happened! _Naked_--do you say that Martin is naked? Oh, dreadful--from the crown of his head to his toes, naked as he was born! No clothes--no clothes--oh no, it can't be Martin. It is, it is!" And so on and on, until Martin could not endure it longer, for he had been naked for days and days, and had ceased to think about it, and in fact did not know that he was naked. And now hearing their remarks, and seeing how they were disturbed, he looked down at himself and saw that it was indeed so--that he had nothing on, and he grew ashamed and frightened, and thought he would run and hide himself from them in some hole in the ground. But there was no place to hide in, for now they had gathered all round him in a vast crowd, so that whichever way he turned there before him they appeared--hundreds and hundreds of dark, excited faces, hundreds of grimy hands all pointing at him. Then, all at once, he caught sight of an old rag of a garment lying on the ground among the ashes and cinders, and he thought he would cover himself with it, and picking it hastily up was just going to put it round him when a great roar of "No!" burst out from the crowd; he was almost deafened with the sound, so that he stood trembling with the old dirty rag of cloth in his hand. Then one of the little men came up to him, and snatching the rag from his hand, flung it angrily down upon the floor; then as if afraid of remaining so near Martin, he backed away into the crowd again. Just then Martin heard a very low voice close to his ear speaking to him, but when he looked round he could see no person near him. He knew it was the same voice which had spoken to him in the cave where he slept, and had told him to go down into that place underground. [Illustration: ] "Do not fear," said the gentle voice to Martin. "Say to the little men that you have lost your clothes, and ask them for something to put on." Then Martin, who had covered his face with his hands to shut out the sight of the angry crowd, took courage, and looking at them, said, half sobbing, "O, Little Men, I've lost my clothes--won't you give me something to put on?" This speech had a wonderful effect: instantly there was a mighty rush, all the Little Men hurrying away in all directions, shouting and tumbling over each other in their haste to get away, and by-and-by it looked to Martin as if they were having a great struggle or contest over something. They were all struggling to get possession of a small closed basket, and it was like a game of football with hundreds of persons all playing, all fighting for possession of the ball. At length one of them succeeded in getting hold of the basket and escaping from all the others who opposed him, and running to Martin he threw it down at his feet, and lifting the lid displayed to his sight a bundle of the most beautiful clothes ever seen by child or man. With a glad cry Martin pulled them out, but the next moment a very important-looking Little Man, with a great white beard, sprang forward and snatched them out of his hand. "No, no," he shouted. "These are not fit for Martin to wear! They will soil!" Saying which, he flung them down on that dusty floor with its litter of cinders and dirt, and began to trample on them as if in a great passion. Then he snatched them up again and shook them, and all could see that they were unsoiled and just as bright and beautiful as before. Then Martin tried to take them from him, but the other would not let him. "Never shall Martin wear such poor clothes," shouted the old man. "They will not even keep out the wet," and with that he thrust them into a great tub of water, and jumping in began treading them down with his feet. But when he pulled them out again and shook them before their faces, all saw that they were as dry and bright as before. "Give them to me!" cried Martin, thinking that it was all right now. "Never shall Martin wear such poor clothes--they will not resist fire," cried the old man, and into the flames he flung them. Martin now gave up all hopes of possessing them, and was ready to burst into tears at their loss, when out of the fire they were pulled again, and it was seen that the flames had not injured or tarnished them in the least. Once more Martin put out his arms and this time he was allowed to take those beautiful clothes, and then just as he clasped them to him with a cry of delight he woke! His head was lying on his new mother's arm, and she was awake watching him. "O, mother, what a nice dream I had! O such pretty clothes--why did I wake so soon?" She laughed and touched his arms, showing him that they were still clasping that beautiful suit of clothes to his breast--the very clothes of his wonderful dream! CHAPTER XIII THE GREAT BLUE WATER There was not in all that land, nor perhaps in all the wide world, a happier little boy than Martin, when after waking from his sleep and dream he dressed himself for the first time in that new suit, and went out from the cave into the morning sunlight. He then felt the comfort of such clothes, for they were softer than the finest, softest down or silk to his skin, and kept him warm when it was cold, and cool when it was hot, and dry when it rained on him, and the earth could not soil them, nor the thorns tear them; and above everything they were the most beautiful clothes ever seen. Their colour was a deep moss green, or so it looked at a little distance, or when seen in the shade, but in the sunshine it sparkled as if small, shining, many-coloured beads had been sewn in the cloth; only there were no beads; it was only the shining threads that made it sparkle so, like clean sand in the sun. When you looked closely at the cloth, you could see the lovely pattern woven in it--small leaf and flower, the leaves like moss leaves, and the flowers like the pimpernel, but not half so big, and they were yellow and red and blue and violet in colour. But there were many, many things besides the lovely clothes to make him contented and happy. First, the beautiful woman of the hills who loved and cherished him and made him call her by the sweet name of "mother" so many times every day that he well nigh forgot she was not his real mother. Then there was the great stony hill-side on which he now lived for a playground, where he could wander all day among the rocks, overgrown with creepers and strange sweet-smelling flowers he had never seen on the plain below. The birds and butterflies he saw there were different from those he had always seen; so were the snakes which he often found sleepily coiled up on the rocks, and the little swift lizards. Even the water looked strange and more beautiful than the water in the plain, for here it gushed out of the living rock, sparkling like crystal in the sun, and was always cold when he dipped his hands in it even on the hottest days. Perhaps the most wonderful thing was the immense distance he could see, when he looked away from the hillside across the plain and saw the great dark forest where he had been, and the earth stretching far, far away beyond. Then there was his playmate, the great yellow-spotted cat, who followed him about and was always ready for a frolic, playing in a very curious way. Whenever Martin would prepare to take a running leap, or a swift run down a slope, the animal, stealing quietly up behind, would put out a claw from his big soft foot--a great white claw as big as an owl's beak--and pull him suddenly back. At last Martin would lose his temper, and picking up a stick would turn on his playmate; and away the animal would fly, pretending to be afraid, and going over bushes and big stones with tremendous leaps to disappear from sight on the mountain side. But very soon he would steal secretly back by some other way to spring upon Martin unawares and roll him over and over on the ground, growling as if angry, and making believe to worry him with his great white teeth, although never really hurting him in the least. He played with Martin just as a cat plays with its kitten when it pretends to punish it. Whenever Martin began to show the least sign of weariness the Lady of the Hills would call him to her. Then, lying back among the ferns, she would unbind her long silky tresses to let him play with them, for this was always a delight to him. Then she would gather her hair up again and dress it with yellow flowers and glossy dark green leaves to make herself look more lovely than ever. At other times, taking him on her shoulders, she would bound nimbly as a wild goat up the steepest places, springing from crag to crag, and dancing gaily along the narrow ledges of rock, where it made him dizzy to look down. Then when the sun was near setting, when long shadows from rocks and trees began to creep over the mountain, and he had eaten the fruits and honey and other wild delicacies she provided, she would make him lie on her bosom. Playing with her loose hair and listening to her singing as she rocked herself on a stone, he would presently fall asleep. In the morning on waking he would always find himself lying still clasped to her breast in that great dim cavern; and almost always when he woke he would find her crying. Sometimes on opening his eyes he would find her asleep, but with traces of tears on her face, showing that she had been awake and crying. One afternoon, seeing him tired of play and hard to amuse, she took him in her arms and carried him right up the side of the mountain, where it grew so steep that even the big cat could not follow them. Finally she brought him out on the extreme summit, and looking round he seemed to see the whole world spread out beneath him. Below, half-way down, there were some wild cattle feeding on the mountain side, and they looked at that distance no bigger than mice. Looking eastwards he beheld just beyond the plain a vast expanse of blue water extending leagues and leagues away until it faded into the blue sky. He shouted with joy when he saw it, and could not take his eyes from this wonderful world of water. "Take me there--take me there!" he cried. She only shook her head and tried to laugh him out of such a wish; but by-and-by when she attempted to carry him back down the mountain he refused to move from the spot; nor would he speak to her nor look up into her pleading face, but kept his eyes fixed on that distant blue ocean which had so enchanted him. For it seemed to Martin the most wonderful thing he had ever beheld. At length it began to grow cold on the summit; then with gentle caressing words she made him turn and look to the opposite side of the heavens, where the sun was just setting behind a great mass of clouds--dark purple and crimson, rising into peaks that were like hills of rose-coloured pearl, and all the heavens beyond them a pale primrose-coloured flame. Filled with wonder at all this rich and varied colour he forgot the ocean for a moment, and uttered an exclamation of delight. "Do you know, dear Martin," said she, "what we should find there, where it all looks so bright and beautiful, if I had wings and could fly with you, clinging to my bosom like a little bat clinging to its mother when she flies abroad in the twilight?" "What?" asked Martin. "Only dark dark clouds full of rain and cutting hail and thunder and lightning. That is how it is with the sea, Martin: it makes you love it when you see it at a distance; but oh, it is cruel and treacherous, and when it has once got you in its power then it is more terrible than the thunder and lightning in the cloud. Do you remember, when you first came to me, naked, shivering with cold, with your little bare feet blistered and bleeding from the sharp stones, how I comforted you with my love, and you found it warm and pleasant lying on my breast? The sea will not comfort you in that way; it will clasp you to a cold, cold breast, and kiss you with bitter salt lips, and carry you down where it is always dark, where you will never never see the blue sky and sunshine and flowers again." Martin shivered and nestled closer to her; and then while the shadows of evening were gathering round them, she sat rocking herself to and fro on a stone, murmuring many tender, sweet words to him, until the music of her voice and the warmth of her bosom made him sleep. CHAPTER XIV THE WONDERS OF THE HILLS Now, although Martin had gone very comfortably to sleep in her arms and found it sweet to be watched over so tenderly, he was not the happy little boy he had been before the sight of the distant ocean. And she knew it, and was troubled in her mind, and anxious to do something to make him forget that great blue water. She could do many things, and above all she could show him new and wonderful things in the hills where she wished to keep him always with her. To caress him, to feed and watch over him by day, and hold him in her arms when he slept at night--all that was less to him than the sight of something new and strange; she knew this well, and therefore determined to satisfy his desire and make his life so full that he would always be more than contented with it. In the morning he went out on the hillside, wandering listlessly among the rocks, and when the big cat found him there and tried to tempt him to a game he refused to play, for he had not yet got over his disappointment, and could think of nothing but the sea. But the cat did not know that anything was the matter with him, and was more determined to play than ever; crouching now here, now there among the stones and bushes, he would spring out upon Martin and pull him down with its big paws, and this so enraged him that picking up a stick he struck furiously at his tormentor. But the cat was too quick for him; he dodged the blows, then knocked the stick out of his hand, and finally Martin, to escape from him, crept into a crevice in a rock where the cat could not reach him, and refused to come out even when the Lady of the Hills came to look for him and begged him to come to her. When at last, compelled by hunger, he returned to her, he was silent and sullen and would not be caressed. He saw no more of the cat, and when next day he asked her where it was, she said that it had gone from them and would return no more--that she had sent it away because it had vexed him. This made Martin sulk, and he would have gone away and hidden himself from her had she not caught him up in her arms. He struggled to free himself, but could not, and she then carried him away a long distance down the mountain-side until they came to a small dell, green with creepers and bushes, with a deep carpet of dry moss on the ground, and here she sat down and began to talk to him. "The cat was a very beautiful beast with his spotted hide," she said; "and you liked to play with him sometimes, but in a little while you will be glad that he has gone from you." He asked her why. "Because though he was fond of you and liked to follow you about and play with you, he is very fierce and powerful, and all the other beasts are afraid of him. So long as he was with us they would not come, but now he has gone they will come to you and let you go to them." "Where are they?" said Martin, his curiosity greatly excited. "Let us wait here," she said, "and perhaps we shall see one by-and-by." So they waited and were silent, and as nothing came and nothing happened, Martin sitting on the mossy ground began to feel a strange drowsiness stealing over him. He rubbed his eyes and looked round; he wanted to keep very wide awake and alert, so as not to miss the sight of anything that might come. He was vexed with himself for feeling drowsy, and wondered why it was; then listening to the low continuous hum of the bees, he concluded that it was that low, soft, humming sound that made him sleepy. He began to look at the bees, and saw that they were unlike other wild bees he knew, that they were like humble-bees in shape but much smaller, and were all of a golden brown colour: they were in scores and hundreds coming and going, and had their home or nest in the rock a few feet above his head. He got up, and climbing from his mother's knee to her shoulder, and standing on it, he looked into the crevice into which the bees were streaming, and saw their nest full of clusters of small round objects that looked like white berries. Then he came down and told her what he had seen, and wanted to know all about it, and when she answered that the little round fruit-like objects he had seen were cells full of purple honey that tasted sweet and salt, he wanted her to get him some. "Not now--not to-day," she replied, "for now you love me and are contented to be with me, and you are my own darling child. When you are naughty, and try to grieve me all you can, and would like to go away and never see me more, you shall taste the purple honey." He looked up into her face wondering and troubled at her words, and she smiled down so sweetly on his upturned face, looking very beautiful and tender, that it almost made him cry to think how wilful and passionate he had been, and climbing on to her knees he put his little face against her cheek. [Illustration: ] Then, while he was still caressing her, light tripping steps were heard over the stony path, and through the bushes came two beautiful wild animals--a doe with her fawn! Martin had often seen the wild deer on the plains, but always at a great distance and running; now that he had them standing before him he could see just what they were like, and of all the four-footed creatures he had ever looked on they were undoubtedly the most lovely. They were of a slim shape, and of a very bright reddish fawn-colour, the young one with dappled sides; and both had large trumpet-like ears, which they held up as if listening, while they gazed fixedly at Martin's face with their large, dark, soft eyes. Enchanted with the sight of them, he slipped down from his mother's lap, and stretched out his arms towards them, and the doe, coming a little nearer, timidly smelt at his hand, then licked it with her long, pink tongue. In a few minutes the doe and fawn went away and they saw them no more; but they left Martin with a heart filled with happy excitement; and they were but the first of many strange and beautiful wild animals he was now made acquainted with, so that for days he could think of nothing else and wished for nothing better. But one day when she had taken him a good way up on the hillside, Martin suddenly recognized a huge rocky precipice before him as the one up which she had taken him, and from the top of which he had seen the great blue water. Instantly he demanded to be taken up again, and when she refused he rebelled against her, and was first passionate and then sullen. Finding that he would not listen to anything she could say, she sat down on a rock and left him to himself. He could not climb up that precipice, and so he rambled away to some distance, thinking to hide himself from her, because he thought her unreasonable and unkind not to allow him to see the blue water once more. But presently he caught sight of a snake lying motionless on a bed of moss at the foot of a rock, with the sun on it, lighting up its polished scales so that they shone like gems or coloured glass. Resting his elbows on the stone and holding his face between his hands he fell to watching the snake, for though it seemed fast asleep in the sun its gem-like eyes were wide open. All at once he felt his mother's hand on his head: "Martin," she said, "would you like to know what the snake feels when it lies with eyes open in the bright hot sun? Shall I make you feel just how he feels?" "Yes," said Martin eagerly, forgetting his quarrel with her; then taking him up in her strong arms she walked rapidly away, and brought him to that very spot where he had seen the doe and fawn. She sat him down, and instantly his ears were filled with the murmur of the bees; and in a moment she put her hand in the crevice and pulled out a cluster of white cells, and gave them to Martin. Breaking one of the cells he saw that it was full of thick honey, of a violet colour, and tasting it he found it was like very sweet honey in which a little salt had been mixed. He liked it and he didn't like it; still, it was not the same in all the cells; in some it was scarcely salt at all; and he began to suck the honey of cell after cell, trying to find one that was not salt; and by and by he dropped the cluster of cells from his hand, and stooping to pick it up forgot to do so, and laying his head down and stretching himself out on the mossy ground looked up into his mother's face with drowsy, happy eyes. How sweet it seemed, lying there in the sun, with the sun shining right into his eyes, and filling his whole being with its delicious heat! He wished for nothing now--not even for the sight of new wonderful things; he forgot the blue water, the strange, beautiful wild animals, and his only thought, if he had a thought, was that it was very nice to lie there, not sleeping, but feeling the sun in him, and seeing it above him; and seeing all things--the blue sky, the grey rocks and green bushes and moss, and the woman in her green dress and her loose black hair--and hearing, too, the soft, low, continuous murmur of the yellow bees. For hours he lay there in that drowsy condition, his mother keeping watch over him, and when it passed off, and he got up again, his temper appeared changed: he was more gentle and affectionate with his mother, and obeyed her every wish. And when in his rambles on the hill he found a snake lying in the sun he would steal softly near it and watch it steadily for a long time, half wishing to taste that strange purple honey again, so that he might lie again in the sun, feeling what the snake feels. But there were more wonderful things yet for Martin to see and know in the hills, so that in a little while he ceased to have that desire. CHAPTER XV MARTIN'S EYES ARE OPENED [Illustration: ] One morning when they went up into a wild rocky place very high up on the hillside a number of big birds were seen coming over the mountain at a great height in the air, travelling in a northerly direction. They were big hawks almost as big as eagles, with very broad rounded wings, and instead of travelling straight like other birds they moved in wide circles, so that they progressed very slowly. They sat down on a stone to watch the birds, and whenever one flying lower than the others came pretty near them Martin gazed delightedly at it, and wished it would come still nearer so that he might see it better. Then the woman stood up on the stone, and, gazing skywards and throwing up her arms, she uttered a long call, and the birds began to come lower and lower down, still sweeping round in wide circles, and by and by one came quite down and pitched on a stone a few yards from them. Then another came and lighted on another stone, then another, and others followed, until they were all round him in scores, sitting on the rocks, great brown birds with black bars on their wings and tails, and buff-coloured breasts with rust-red spots and stripes. It was a wonderful sight, those eagle-like hawks, with their blue hooked beaks and deep-set dark piercing eyes, sitting in numbers on the rocks, and others and still others dropping down from the sky to increase the gathering. Then the woman sat down by Martin's side, and after a while one of the hawks spread his great wings and rose up into the air to resume his flight. After an interval of a minute or so another rose, then another, but it was an hour before they were all gone. "O the dear birds--they are all gone!" cried Martin. "Mother, where are they going?" She told him of a far-away land in the south, from which, when autumn comes, the birds migrate north to a warmer country hundreds of leagues away, and that birds of all kinds were now travelling north, and would be travelling through the sky above them for many days to come. Martin looked up at the sky, and said he could see no birds now that the buzzards were all gone. "I can see them," she returned, looking up and glancing about the sky. "O mother, I wish I could see them!" he cried. "Why can't I see them when you can?" "Because your eyes are not like mine. Look, can you see this?" and she held up a small stone phial which she took from her bosom. He took it in his hand and unstopped and smelt at it. "Is it honey? Can I taste it?" he asked. She laughed. "It is better than honey, but you can't eat it!" she said. "Do you remember how the honey made you feel like a snake? This would make you see what I see if I put some of it on your eyes." He begged her to do so, and she consenting poured a little into the palm of her hand. It was thick and white as milk; then taking some on her finger tip, she made him hold his eyes wide open while she rubbed it on the eye-balls. It made his eyes smart, and everything at first looked like a blue mist when he tried to see; then slowly the mist faded away and the air had a new marvellous clearness, and when he looked away over the plain beneath them he shouted for joy, so far could he see and so distinct did distant objects appear. At one point where nothing but the grey haze that obscured the distance had been visible, a herd of wild cattle now appeared, scattered about, some grazing, others lying down ruminating, and in the midst of the herd a very noble-looking, tawny-coloured bull was standing. "O mother, do you see that bull?" cried Martin in delight. "Yes, I see him," she returned. "Sometimes he brings his herd to feed on the hillside, and when I see him here another time I shall take you to him, and put you on his back. But look now at the sky, Martin." He looked up, and was astonished to see numbers of great birds flying north, where no birds had appeared before. They were miles high, and invisible to ordinary sight, but he could see them so distinctly, their shape and colours, that all the birds he knew were easily recognized. There were swans, shining white, with black heads and necks, flying in wedge-shaped flocks, and rose-coloured spoonbills, and flamingoes with scarlet wings tipped with black, and ibises, and ducks of different colours, and many other birds, both water and land, appeared, flock after flock, all flying as fast as their wings could bear them towards the north. He continued watching them until it was past noon, and then he saw fewer and fewer, only very big birds, appearing; and then these were seen less and less until there were none. Then he turned his eyes on the plain and tried to find the herd of wild cattle, but they were no longer visible; it was as he had seen it in the morning with the pale blue haze over all the distant earth. He was told that the power to see all distant things with a vision equal to his mother's was now exhausted, and when he grieved at the loss she comforted him with the promise that it would be renewed at some other time. [Illustration: ] Now one day when they were out together Martin was greatly surprised and disturbed at a change in his mother. When he spoke to her she was silent; and byand-by, drawing a little away, he looked at her with a fear which increased to a kind of terror, so strangely altered did she seem, standing motionless, gazing fixedly with wide-open eyes at the plain beneath them, her whole face white and drawn with a look of rage. He had an impulse to fly from her and hide himself in some hole in the rocks from the sight of that pale, wrathful face, but when he looked round him he was afraid to move from her, for the hill itself seemed changed, and now looked black and angry even as she did. The ground he stood on, the grey old stones covered with silvery-white and yellow lichen and pretty flowery, creeping plants, so beautiful to look at in the bright sunlight a few moments ago, now were covered with a dull mist which appeared to be rising from them, making the air around them dark and strange. And the air, too, had become sultry and close, and the sky was growing dark above them. Then suddenly remembering all her love and kindness he flew to her, and clinging to her dress sobbed out, "O mother, mother, what is it?" She put her hand on him, then drew him up to her side, with his feet on the stone she was standing by. "Would you like to see what I see, Martin?" she asked, and taking the phial from her bosom she rubbed the white thick liquid on his eye-balls, and in a little while, when the mistiness passed off, she pointed with her hand and told him to look there. He looked, and as on the former occasion, all distant things were clearly visible, for although that mist and blackness given off by the hill had wrapped them round so that they seemed to be standing in the midst of a black cloud, yet away on the plain beneath the sun was shining brightly, and all that was there could be seen by him. Where he had once seen a herd of wild cattle he now saw mounted men, to the number of about a dozen, slowly riding towards the hill, and though they were miles away he could see them very distinctly. They were dark, black-bearded men, strangely dressed, some with fawn-coloured cloaks with broad stripes, others in a scarlet uniform, and they wore cone-shaped scarlet caps. Some carried lances, others carbines; and they all wore swords--he could see the steel scabbards shining in the sun. As he watched them they drew rein and some of them got off their horses, and they stood for some time as if talking excitedly, pointing towards the hill and using emphatic gestures. What were they talking about so excitedly? thought Martin. He wanted to know, and he would have asked her, but when he looked up at her she was still gazing fixedly at them with the same pale face and terrible stern expression, and he could but dimly see her face in that black cloud which had closed around them. He trembled with fear and could only murmur, "Mother! mother!" Then her arm was put round him, and she drew him close against her side, and at that moment--O how terrible it was!--the black cloud and the whole universe was lit up with a sudden flash that seemed to blind and scorch him, and the hill and the world was shaken and seemed to be shattered by an awful thunder crash. It was more than he could endure: he ceased to feel or know anything, and was like one dead, and when he came to himself and opened his eyes he was lying in her lap with her face smiling very tenderly, bending over him. "O, poor little Martin," she said, "what a poor, weak little boy you are to lose your senses at the lightning and thunder! I was angry when I saw them coming to the hill, for they are wicked, cruel men, stained with blood, and I made the storm to drive them away. They are gone, and the storm is over now, and it is late--come, let us go to our cave;" and she took him up and carried him in her arms. CHAPTER XVI THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST When Martin first came to the hills it was at the end of the long, hot, dry summer of that distant land: it was autumn now, and the autumn was like a second summer, only not so hot and dry as the first. But sometimes at this season a wet mist came up from the sea by night and spread over all the country, covering it like a cloud; to a soaring bird looking down from the sky it must have appeared like another sea of a pale or pearly grey colour, with the hills rising like islands from it. When the sun rose in the morning, if the sky was clear so that it could shine, then the sea-fog would drift and break up and melt away or float up in the form of thin white clouds. Now, whenever this sea-mist was out over the world the Lady of the Hills, without coming out of her chamber, knew of it, and she would prevent Martin from leaving the bed and going out. He loved to be out on the hill-side, to watch the sun come up, and she would say to him, "You cannot see the sun because of the mist; and it is cold and wet on the hill; wait until the mist has gone and then you shall go out." But now a new idea came into her mind. She had succeeded in making him happy during the last few days; but she wished to do more--she wished to make him fear and hate the sea so that he would never grow discontented with his life on the hills nor wish to leave her. So now, one morning, when the mist was out over the land, she said to Martin when he woke, "Get up and go out on to the hill and see the mist; and when you feel its coldness and taste its salt on your lips, and see how it dims and saddens the earth, you will know better than to wish for that great water it comes from." So Martin got up and went out on the hill, and it was as she had said: there was no blue sky above, no wide green earth before him: the mist had blotted all out; he could hardly see the rocks and bushes a dozen yards from him; the leaves and flowers were heavy laden with the grey wet; and it felt clammy and cold on his face, and he tasted its salt on his lips. It seemed thickest and darkest when he looked down and lightest when he looked up, and the lightness led him to climb up among the dripping, slippery rocks; and slipping and stumbling he went on and on, the light increasing as he went, until at last to his delight he got above the mist. There was an immense crag there which stood boldly up on the hillside, and on to this he managed to climb, and standing on it he looked down upon that vast moving sea of grey mist that covered the earth, and saw the sun, a large crimson disc, rising from it. It was a great thing to see, and made him cry out aloud for joy: and then as the sun rose higher into the pure, blue sky the grey mist changed to silvery white, and the white changed in places to shining gold: and it drifted faster and faster away before the sun, and began to break up, and when a cloud of mist swept by the rock on which he stood it beat like a fine rain upon his face, and covered his bright clothes with a grey beady moisture. Now, looking abroad over the earth, it appeared to Martin that the thousands and tens and hundreds of thousands of fragments of mist, had the shapes of men, and were like an innumerable multitude of gigantic men with shining white faces and shining golden hair and long cloud-like robes of a pearly grey colour, that trailed on the earth as they moved. They were like a vast army covering the whole earth, all with their faces set towards the west, all moving swiftly and smoothly on towards the west. And he saw that every one held his robes to his breast with his left hand, and that in his right hand, raised to the level of his head, he carried a strange object. This object was a shell--a big sea-shell of a golden yellow colour with curved pink lips; and very soon one of the mist people came near him, and as he passed by the rock he held the shell to Martin's ear, and it sounded in his ear--a low, deep murmur as of waves breaking on a long shingled beach, and Martin knew, though no word was spoken to him, that it was the sound of the sea, and tears of delight came to his eyes, and at the same time his heart was sick and sad with longing for the sea. [Illustration: ] Again and again, until the whole vast multitude of the mist people had gone by, a shell was held to his ear; and when they were all gone, when he had watched them fade like a white cloud over the plain, and float away and disappear in the blue sky, he sat down on the rock and cried with the desire that was in him. When his mother found him with traces of tears on his cheeks; and he was silent when she spoke to him, and had a strange look in his eyes as if they were gazing at some distant object, she was angrier than ever with the sea, for she knew that the thought of it had returned to him and that it would be harder than ever to keep him. One morning on waking he found her still asleep, although the traces of tears on her cheeks showed that she had been awake and crying during the night. "Ah, now I know why she cries every morning," thought Martin; "it is because I must go away and leave her here alone on the hills." He was out of her arms and dressed in a very few moments, moving very softly lest she should wake; but though he knew that if she awoke she would not let him go, he could not leave her without saying goodbye. And so coming near he stooped over her and very gently kissed her soft cheek and sweet mouth and murmured, "Good-bye, sweet mother." Then, very cautiously, like a shy, little wild animal he stole out of the cavern. Once outside, in the early morning light, he started running as fast as he could, jumping from stone to stone in the rough places, and scrambling through the dew-laden bushes and creepers, until, hot and panting, he arrived down at the very foot of the hill. Then it was easier walking, and he went on a little until he heard a voice crying, "Martin! Martin!" and, looking back, he saw the Lady of the Hills standing on a great stone near the foot of the mountain, gazing sadly after him. "Martin, oh, my child, come back to me," she called, stretching out her arms towards him. "Oh, Martin, I cannot leave the hills to follow you and shield you from harm and save you from death, Where will you go? Oh me, what shall I do without you?" For a little while he stood still, listening with tears in his eyes to her words, and wavering in his mind; but very soon he thought of the great blue water once more and could not go back, but began to run again, and went on and on for a long distance before stopping to rest. Then he looked back, but he could no longer see her form standing there on the stone. All that day he journeyed on towards the ocean over a great plain. There was no trees and no rocks nor hills, only grass on the level earth, in some places so tall that the spikes, looking like great white ostrich plumes, waved high above his head. But it was easy walking, as the grass grew in tussocks or bunches, and underneath the ground was bare and smooth so that he could walk easily between the bunches. He wondered that he did not get to the sea, but it was still far off, and so the long summer day wore to an end, and he was so tired that he could scarcely lift his legs to walk. Then, as he went slowly on in the fading light, where the grass was short and the evening primroses were opening and filling the desert air with their sweet perfume, he all at once saw a little grey old man not above six inches in height standing on the ground right before him, and staring fixedly at him with great, round, yellow eyes. [Illustration: ] "You bad boy!" exclaimed this curious, little, old man; whereupon Martin stopped in his walk and stood still, gazing in the greatest surprise at him. "You bad boy!" repeated the strange little man. The more Martin stared at him the harder he stared back at Martin, always with the same unbending severity in his small, round, grey face. He began to feel a little afraid, and was almost inclined to run away; then he thought it would be funny to run from such a very small man as this, so he stared bravely back once more and cried out, "Go away!" "You bad boy!" answered the little grey man without moving. "Perhaps he's deaf, just like that other old man," said Martin to himself, and throwing out his arms he shouted at the top of his voice, "Go away!" And away with a scream he went, for it was only a little grey burrowing owl after all! Martin laughed a little at his own foolishness in mistaking that common bird he was accustomed to see every day for a little old man. By-and-by, feeling very tired, he sat down to rest, and just where he sat grew a plant with long white flowers like tall thin goblets in shape. Sitting on the grass he could see right into one of the flower-tubes, and presently he noticed a little, old, grey, shrivelled woman in it, very, very small, for she was not longer than the nail of his little finger. She wore a grey shawl that dragged behind her, and kept getting under her feet and tripping her up. She was most active, whisking about this way and that inside the flower; and at intervals she turned to stare at Martin, who kept getting nearer and nearer to watch her until his face nearly touched the flower; and whenever she looked at him she wore an exceedingly severe expression on her small dried-up countenance. It seemed to Martin that she was very angry with him for some reason. Then she would turn her back on him, and tumble about in the tube of the flower, and gathering up the ends of her shawl in her arms begin dusting with great energy; then hurrying out once more she would shake the dust from her big, funny shawl in his eyes. At last he carefully raised a hand and was just going to take hold of the queer, little, old dame with his forefinger and thumb when up she flew. It was only a small, grey, twilight moth! Very much puzzled and confused, and perhaps a little frightened at these curious deceptions, he laid himself down on the grass and shut his eyes so as to go to sleep; but no sooner had he shut his eyes than he heard a soft, soft little voice calling, "Martin! Martin!" He started up and listened. It was only a field cricket singing in the grass. But often as he lay down and closed his eyes the small voice called again, plainly as possible, and oh so sadly, "Martin! Martin!" It made him remember his beautiful mother, now perhaps crying alone in the cave on the mountain, no little Martin resting on her bosom, and he cried to think of it. And still the small voice went on, calling, "Martin! Martin!" sadder than ever, until, unable to endure it longer, he jumped up and ran away a good distance, and at last, too tired to go any further, he crept into a tussock of tall grass and went to sleep. CHAPTER XVII THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA Next day Martin journeyed on in the old way, jumping up and taking a good long run, then dropping into a trot, then a walk, and finally sitting down to rest. Then up again and another run, and so on. But although feeling hungry and thirsty, he was so full of the thought of the great blue water he was going to see, so eager to look upon it at last after wishing for it so long, that he hardly gave himself any time to hunt for food. Nor did he think of his mother of the hills, alone to-day, and grieving at his loss, so excited was he at the prospect of what lay before him. A little past noon he began to hear a low murmuring sound that seemed in the earth beneath him, and all about him, and in the air above him; but he did not know that it was the sound of the sea. At length he came to a place where the earth rose up in long ridges of yellow sand, on which nothing grew but scattered tufts of stiff, yellow grass. As he toiled over the loose sand, sometimes sinking ankle-deep in it, the curious deep murmuring sound he had heard for so long grew louder and louder, until it was like the sound of a mighty wind in a wood, but deeper and hoarser, rising and falling, and at intervals broken by great throbs, as of thunder echoed and re-echoed among the distant hills. At length he had toiled over the last ridge of sand; and then all at once the world--his world of solid earth at all events--came to an abrupt end; for no more ground on which to set a foot was before him, but only the ocean--that ocean which he had wanted so badly, and had loved at a distance more than the plains and hills, and all they contained to delight him! How wide, how vast it was, stretching away to where it melted into the low sky, its immense grey-blue surface broken into ten thousand thousand waves, lit with white crests that came in sight and vanished like lightning flashes! How tremendous, how terrible it was in its agitation--O the world had nothing to compare with it, nothing to hold his heart after it; and it was well that the earth was silent, that it only gazed upon it with the sun and moon and stars, listening day and night for ever to the great voice of the sea! Only by lying flat on his chest could Martin look down over the edge of the awful cliff, which is one of the highest in the world; and then the sight of the sea swirling and beating at the foot of that stupendous black precipice, sending up great clouds of spray in its fury, made him shudder, it was so awful to look upon. But he could not stir from that spot; there he stayed lying flat on his chest, gazing and gazing, feeling neither hunger nor thirst, forgetful of the beautiful woman he had called mother, and of everything besides. And as he gazed, little by little, that great tumult of the waves grew less; they no longer lifted themselves up, wave following wave, to beat upon the cliff, and make it tremble; but sank lower and lower; and at last drew off from the precipice, leaving at its foot a long narrow strip of sand and shingle exposed to sight. A solemn calm fell upon the waste of waters; only near the shore it continued to move a little, rising and falling like the chest of a sleeping giant, while along the margin small waves continued to form and break in white foam on the shingle with a perpetual low, moaning sound. Further out it was quite calm, its surface everywhere flushed with changing violet, green, and rosy tints: in a little while these lovely colours faded as from a sunset cloud, and it was all deep dark blue: for the sun had gone, and the shadows of evening were over land and sea. Then Martin, his little heart filled with a great awe and a great joy, crept away a few yards from the edge of the cliff and coiled himself up to sleep in a hollow in the soft warm sand. On the following morning, after satisfying his hunger and thirst with some roots which he had not to go very far to find, he returned to watch the sea once more, and there he remained, never removing his eyes from the wonderful scene until the sun was directly over his head; then, when the sea was calm once more, he got up and started to walk along the cliff. Keeping close to the edge, occasionally stopping to lie down on his chest and peer over, he went on and on for hours, until the afternoon tide once more covered the strip of shingled beach, and the waves rising high began to beat with a sound like thunder against the tremendous cliff, making the earth tremble under him. At length he came to a spot where there was a great gap in the line of the cliff, where in past times a portion of it had tumbled down, and the stupendous masses of rock had rolled far out into the sea, and now formed islands of black jagged rock, standing high above the water. Here among the rocks the sea boiled and roared its loudest, churning its waters into masses of white froth. Here a fresh wonder met his sight: a number of big animals unlike any creature he had ever seen before were lying prone on the rocks just out of the reach of the waves that beat round them. At first they looked like cows, then he saw that they had neither horns nor legs, that their heads were like dog's but without ears, and that they had two great flapper-shaped feet on their chests with which they walked or crawled upon the rocks whenever a wave broke on them, causing them to move a little higher. [Illustration: ] They were sea-lions, a very big sort of seal, but Martin had never heard of such a creature, and being anxious to look more closely at them he went into the gap, and began cautiously climbing down over the broken masses of rock and clay until he got quite near the sea. Lying there on a flat rock he became absorbed in watching these strange dog-headed legless cattle of the sea; for he now had them near, and they could see him, and occasionally one would lift its head and gaze earnestly at him out of large dark eyes that were soft and beautiful like the eyes of the doe that came to him on the hills. O how glad he was to know that the sea, the mighty waters roaring so loud as if in wrath, had its big beasts too for him to love, like the hills and plains with their cattle and deer and horses! But the tide was still rising, and very soon the biggest waves began to come quite over the rocks, rolling the big beasts over and even washing them off, and it angered them when the waves struck them, and they roared aloud, and by and by they began to go away, some disappearing beneath the water, others with heads above the surface swimming away out into the open sea, until all were gone. Martin was sorry to lose them, but the sight of the sea tumbling and foaming on the rocks still held him there, until all the rocks but one had been covered by the waters, and this one was a great black jagged rock close to the shore, not above twenty or thirty yards from him. Against this mass of rock the waves continued to dash themselves with a mighty noise, sending up a cloud of white foam and spray at every blow. The sight and sound fascinated him. The sea appeared to be talking, whispering, and murmuring, and crying out aloud to him in such a manner that he actually began trying to make out what it was saying. Then up would come a great green wave rushing and moaning, to dash itself to pieces right before his face; and each time it broke against the rock, and rose high up it took a fantastic shape that began to look more and more the shape of a man. Yes, it was unmistakably like a monstrous grey old man, with a vast snow-white beard, and a world of disordered white hair floating over and around its head. At all events it was white for a moment, then it looked green--a great green beard which the old man took with his two hands and twisted just as a washerwoman twists a blanket or counterpane, so as to wring the water out of it. Martin stared at this strange uncouth visitor from the sea; while he in turn, leaning over the rock, stared back into Martin's face with his immense fishy eyes. Every time a fresh wave broke over him, lifting up his hair and garments, which were of brown seaweed and all rags and tatters, it seemed to annoy him somewhat; but he never stirred; and when the wave retired he would wring the water out once more and blow a cloud of sea-spray from his beard. At length, holding out his mighty arms towards Martin, he opened his great, cod-fish mouth, and burst into a hoarse laugh, which sounded like the deep laughter-like cries of the big, black-backed gulls. Still, Martin did not feel at all afraid of him, for he looked good-natured and friendly. "Who are you?" shouted Martin at last. "Who be I?" returned the man-shaped monster in a hoarse, sea-like voice. "Ho, ho, ho,--now I calls that a good un! Why, little Martin, that I've knowed all along, I be Bill. Leastways, that's what they called me afore: but I got promotion, and in consekence I'm called the Old Man of the Sea." "And how did you know I was Martin?" "How did I know as you was Martin? Why, bless your innocent heart, I knowed it all along of course. How d'ye think I wouldn't know that? Why, I no sooner saw you there among them rocks than I says to myself, 'Hullo,' says I, bless my eyes if that ain't Martin looking at my cows, as I calls 'em. Of course I knowed as you was Martin." "And what made you go and live in the sea, Old--Bill?" questioned Martin, "and why did you grow so big?" [Illustration: ] "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the giant, blowing a great cloud of spray from his lips. "I don't mind telling you that. You see, Martin, I ain't pressed for time. Them blessed bells is nothing to me now, not being in the foc'sle trying to git a bit of a snooze. Well, to begin, I were born longer ago than I can tell in a old town by the sea, and my father he were a sailor man, and was drowned when I were very small; then my mother she died just becoz every man that belonged to her was drowned. For those as lives by the sea, Martin, mostly dies in the sea. Being a orphan I were brought up by Granny. I were very small then, and used to go and play all day in the marshes, and I loved the cows and water-rats and all the little beasties, same as you, Martin. When I were a bit growed Granny says to me one day, 'Bill, you go to sea and be a sailor-boy,' she says, 'becoz I've had a dream,' she says, 'and it's wrote that you'll never git drowned.' For you see, Martin, my Granny were a wise woman. So to the sea I goes, and boy and man, I was on a many voyages to Turkey and Injy and the Cape and the West Coast and Ameriky, and all round the world forty times over. Many and many's the time I was shipwrecked and overboard, but I never got drowned. At last, when I were gitting a old man, and not much use by reason of the rheumatiz and stiffness in the jints, there was a mutiny in our ship when we was off the Cape; and the captain and mate they was killed. Then comes my turn, becoz I went again the men, d'ye see, and they wasn't a-going for to pardon me that. So out they had me on deck and began to talk about how they'd finish me--rope, knife, or bullet. 'Mates,' says I 'shoot me if you like and I'll dies comforbly; or run a knife into me, which is better still; or string me up to the yard-arm, which is the most comforble thing I know. But don't you go and put me into the sea,' says I, 'becoz it's wrote that I ain't never going to git drowned, and you'll have all your trouble for nothing,' says I. That made 'em larf a most tremenjous larf. 'Old Bill,' says they, 'will have his little joke.' Then they brings up some iron stowed in the hold, and with ropes and chains they ties well-nigh half a ton of it to my legs and arms, then lowers me over the side. Down I wrent, in course, which made 'em larf louder than afore; and I were fathoms and fathoms under water afore I stopped hearing them larf. At last I comes down to the bottom of the sea, and glad I were to git there, becoz now I couldn't go no further. There I lies doubled up like a old sea-sarpint along of the rocks, but warm and comforble like. Last of all, the ropes and chains they got busted off becoz of my growing so big and strong down there, and up I comes to blow like a grampus, for I were full of water by reason that it had soaked into me. So that's how I got to be the Old Man of the Sea, hundreds and hundreds of years ago." "And do you like to be always in the sea, Old Bill?" asked Martin. "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the monster. "That's a good un, little Martin! Do I like it? Well, it's better than being a sailor man in a ship, I can tell 'ee. That were a hard life, with nothing good except perhaps the baccy. I were very fond of baccy once before the sea put out my pipe. Likewise of rum. Many's the time I've been picked up on shore that drunk, Martin, you wouldn't believe it, I were that fond of rum. Sometimes, down here, when I remember how good it tasted, I open my mouth wide and takes down a big gulp of sea water, enough to fill a hogshead; then I comes up and blows it all out again just like a old grampus." And having said this, he opened his vast cavernous mouth and roared out his hoarse ho, ho, ho! louder than before, and at the same time he rose up higher above the water and the black rock he had been leaning on, until he stood like a stupendous tower above Martin--a man-shaped tower of water and spray, and white froth and brown seaweed. Then he slowly fell backwards out upon the sea, and falling upon the sea caused so mighty a wave that it went high over the black rock and washed the face of the cliff, sweeping Martin back among the rocks. When the great wave retired, and Martin, half-choked with water and half-dazed, struggled on to his feet, he saw that it was night, and a cloudy, black sky was above, and the black sea beneath him. He had not seen the light fade, and had perhaps fallen asleep and seen and talked with that old sea monster in a dream. But now he could not escape from his position down in the gap, just above the roaring waves. There he had to stay, sheltered in a cavity in the rock, and lying there, half sleeping and half waking, he had that great voice of the sea in his ears all night. CHAPTER XVIII MARTIN PLAYS WITH THE WAVES After a night spent in the roar of the sea, a drenched and bruised prisoner among the rocks, it was nice to see the dawn again. No sooner was it light than Martin set about trying to make his escape. He had been washed by that big wave into a deep cleft among the rocks and masses of hard clay, and shut in there he could not see the water nor anything excepting a patch of sky above him. Now he began climbing over the stones and crawling and forcing himself through crevices and other small openings, making a little progress, for he was sore from his bruises and very weak from his long fast, and at intervals, tired and beaten, he would drop down crying with pain and misery. But Martin was by nature a very resolute little boy, and after two or three minutes' rest his tears would cease, and he would be up struggling on determinedly as before. He was like some little wild animal when it finds itself captive in a cage or box or room, who tries without ceasing to find a way out. There may be no way, but it will not give up trying to find one. And at last, after so much trying, Martin's efforts were rewarded: he succeeded in getting into the steep passage by which he had come down to the sea on the previous day, and in the end got to the top of the cliff once more. It was a great relief, and after resting a little while he began to feel glad and happy at the sight before him: there was the glorious sea again, not as he had seen it before, its wide surface roughened by the wind and flecked with foam; for now the water was smooth, but not still; it rose and fell in vast rollers, or long waves that were like ridges, wave following wave in a very grand and ordered manner. And as he gazed, the clouds broke and floated away, and the sky grew clear and bright, and then all at once the great red sun came up out of the waters! But it was impossible for him to stay there longer when there was nothing to eat; his extreme hunger compelled him to get up and leave the cliff and the sandy hills behind it; and then for an hour or two he walked feebly about searching for sweet roots, but finding none. It would have gone hard with him then if he had not seen some low, dark-looking bushes at a distance on the dry, yellow plain, and gone to them. They looked like yew-bushes, and when he got to them he found that they were thickly covered with small berries; on some bushes they were purple-black, on others crimson, but all were ripe, and many small birds were there feasting on them. The berries were pleasant to the taste, and he feasted with the little birds on them until his hunger was satisfied; and then, with his mouth and fingers stained purple with the juice, he went to sleep in the shade of one of the bushes. There, too, he spent the whole of that day and the night, hearing the low murmur of the sea when waking, and when morning came he was strong and happy once more, and, after filling himself with the fruit, set off to the sea again. Arrived at the cliff, he began walking along the edge, and in about an hour's time came to the end of it, for there it sloped down to the water, and before him, far as he could see, there was a wide, shingled beach with low sand-hills behind it. With a shout of joy he ran down to the margin, and the rest of that day he spent dabbling in the water, gathering beautiful shells and seaweed and strangely-painted pebbles into heaps, then going on and on again, still picking up more beautiful riffraff on the margin, only to leave, it all behind him at last. Never had he spent a happier day, and when it came to an end he found a sheltered spot not far from the sea, so that when he woke in the night he would still hear the deep, low murmur of the waves on the beach. Many happy days he spent in the same way, with no living thing to keep him company, except the little white and grey sanderlings that piped so shrill and clear as they flitted along the margin before him; and the great sea-gulls that uttered hoarse, laughter-like cries as they soared and hovered above his head. "Oh, happy birds!" exclaimed Martin, clapping his hands, and shouting in answer to their cries. Every day Martin grew more familiar with the sea, and loved it more, and it was his companion and playmate. He was bolder than the little restless sanderlings that ran and flitted before the advancing waves, and so never got their pretty white and grey plumage wet: often he would turn to meet the coming wave, and let it break round and rush past him, and then in a moment he would be standing knee-deep in the midst of a great sheet of dazzling white foam, until with a long hiss as it fled back, drawing the round pebbles with it, it would be gone, and he would laugh and shout with glee. What a grand old play-fellow the sea was! And it loved him, like the big spotted cat of the hills, and only pretended to be angry with him when it wanted to play, and would do him no harm. And still he was not satisfied, but grew bolder and bolder, putting himself in its power and trusting to its mercy. He could play better with his clothes off; and one day, chasing a great receding wave as far as it would go, he stood up bravely to encounter the succeeding wave, but it was greater than the last, and lifting him in its great green arms it carried him high up till it broke with a mighty roar on the beach; then instead of leaving him stranded there it rushed back still bearing him in its arms out into the deep. Further and further from the shore it carried him, until he became terrified, and throwing out his little arms towards the land, he cried aloud, "Mother! Mother!" He was not calling to his own mother far away on the great plain; he had forgotten her. Now he only thought of the beautiful woman of the Hills, who was so strong, and loved him and made him call her "Mother"; and to her he cried in his need for help. Now he remembered her warm, protecting bosom, and how she had cried every night at the fear of losing him; how when he ran from her she followed him, calling to him to return. Ah, how cold was the sea's bosom, how bitter its lips! Struggling still with the great wave, struggling in vain, blinded and half-choked with salt water, he was driven violently against a great black object tumbling about in the surf, and with all the strength of his little hands he clung to it. The water rolled over him, and beat against him, but he would not lose his hold; and at last there came a bigger wave and lifted him up and cast him right on to the object he was clinging to. It was as if some enormous monster of the sea had caught him up and put him in that place, just as the Lady of the Hills had often snatched him up from the edge of some perilous precipice to set him down in a safe place. There he lay exhausted, stretched out at full length, so tossed about on the billows that he had a sensation of being in a swing; but the sea grew quiet at last, and when he looked up it was dark, the stars glittering in the dim blue vault above, and the smooth, black water reflecting them all round him, so that he seemed to be floating suspended between two vast, starry skies, one immeasurably far above, the other below him. All night, with only the twinkling, trembling stars for company, he lay there, naked, wet, and cold, thirsty with the bitter taste of sea-salt in his mouth, never daring to stir, listening to the continual lapping sound of the water. Morning dawned at last; the sea was green once more, the sky blue, and beautiful with the young, fresh light. He was lying on an old raft of black, water-logged spars and planks lashed together with chains and rotting ropes. But alas! there was no shore in sight, for all night long he had been drifting, drifting further and further away from land. A strange habitation for Martin, the child of the plain, was that old raft! It had been made by shipwrecked mariners, long, long ago, and had floated about the sea until it had become of the sea, like a half-submerged floating island; brown and many-coloured seaweeds had attached themselves to it; strange creatures, half plant and half animal, grew on it; and little shell-fish and numberless slimy, creeping things of the sea made it their dwelling-place. It was about as big as the floor of a large room, all rough, black, and slippery, with the seaweed floating like ragged hair many yards long around it, and right in the middle of the raft there was a large hole where the wood had rotted away. Now, it was very curious that when Martin looked over the side of the raft he could see down into the clear, green water a few fathoms only; but when he crept to the edge of the hole and looked into the water there, he was able to see ten times further down. Looking in this hole, he saw far down a strange, fish-shaped creature, striped like a zebra, with long spines on its back, moving about to and fro. It disappeared, and then, very much further down, something moved, first like a shadow, then like a great, dark form; and as it came up higher it took the shape of a man, but dim and vast like a man-shaped cloud or shadow that floated in the green translucent water. The shoulders and head appeared; then it changed its position and the face was towards him with the vast eyes, that had a dim, greyish light in them, gazing up into his. Martin trembled as he gazed, not exactly with fear, but with excitement, because he recognized in this huge water-monster under him that Old Man of the Sea who had appeared and talked to him in his dream when he fell asleep among the rocks. Could it be, although he was asleep at the time, that the Old Man really had appeared before him, and that his eyes had been open just enough to see him? By-and-by the cloud-like face disappeared, and did not return though he watched for it a long time. Then sitting on the black, rotten wood and brown seaweed he gazed over the ocean, a vast green, sunlit expanse with no shore and no living thing upon it. But after a while he began to think that there was some living thing in it, which was always near him though he could not see what it was. From time to time the surface of the sea was broken just as if some huge fish had risen to the surface and then sunk again without showing itself. It was something very big, judging from the commotion it made in the water; and at last he did see it or a part of it--a vast brown object which looked like a gigantic man's shoulder, but it might have been the back of a whale. It was no sooner seen than gone, but in a very short time after its appearance cries as of birds were heard at a great distance. The cries came from various directions, growing louder and louder, and before long Martin saw many birds flying towards him. On arrival they began to soar and circle round above him, all screaming excitedly. They were white birds with long wings and long sharp beaks, and were very much like gulls, except that they had an easier and swifter flight. Martin rejoiced at seeing them, for he had been in the greatest terror at the strangeness and loneliness of the sea now that there was no land in sight. Sitting on the black raft he was constantly thinking of the warning words his mother of the hills had spoken --that the sea would kiss him with cold salt lips and take him down into the depths where he would never see the light again. O how strange the sea was to him now, how lonely, how terrible! But birds that with their wings could range over the whole world were of the land, and now seemed to bring the land near him with their white forms and wild cries. How could they help him? He did not know, he did not ask; but he was not alone now that they had come to him, and his terror was less. And still more birds kept coming; and as the morning wore on the crowd of birds increased until they were in hundreds, then in thousands, perpetually wheeling and swooping and rising and hovering over him in a great white cloud. And they were of many kinds, mostly white, some grey, others sooty brown or mottled, and some wholly black. Then in the midst of the crowrd of birds he saw one of great size wheeling about like a king or giant among the others, with wings of amazing length, wild eyes of a glittering yellow, and a yellow beak half as long as Martin's arm, with a huge vulture-like hook at the end. Now when this mighty bird swooped close down over his head, fanning him with its immense wings, Martin again began to be alarmed at its formidable appearance; and as more and more birds came, with more of the big kind, and the wild outcry they made increased, his fear and astonishment grew; then all at once these feelings rose to extreme terror and amazement at the sight of a new bird-like creature a thousand times bigger than the largest one in the circling crowd above, coming swiftly towards him. He saw that it was not flying but swimming or gliding over the surface of the sea; and its body was black, and above the body were many immense white wings of various shapes, which stood up like a white cloud. Overcome with terror he fell flat on the raft, hiding his face in the brown seaweed that covered it; then in a few minutes the sea became agitated and rocked him in his raft, and a wave came over him which almost swept him into the sea. At the same time the outcry of the birds were redoubled until he was nearly deafened by their screams, and the screams seemed to shape themselves into words. "Martin! Martin!" the birds seemed to be screaming. "Look up, Martin, look up, look up!" The whole air above and about him seemed to be full of the cries, and every cry said to him, "Martin! Martin! lookup! lookup!" [Illustration: ] Although dazed with the awful din and almost fainting with terror and weakness, he could not resist the command. Pressing his hands on the raft he at last struggled up to his knees, and saw that the feared bird-like monster had passed him by: he saw that it was a ship with a black hull, its white sails spread, and that the motion of the water and the wave that swept over him had been created by the ship as it came close to the raft. It was now rapidly gliding from him, but still very near, and he saw a crowd of strange-looking rough men, with sun-browned faces and long hair and shaggy beards, leaning over the bulwarks staring at him. They had seen with astonishment the corpse, as they thought, of a little naked white boy lying on the old black raft, with a multitude of sea-birds gathered to feed on him; now when they saw him get up on his knees and look at them, they uttered a great cry, and began rushing excitedly hither and thither, to pull at ropes and lower a boat. Martin did not know what they were doing; he only knew that they were men in a ship, but he was now too weak and worn-out to look at or think of more than one thing at a time, and what he was looking at now was the birds. For no sooner had he looked up and seen the ship than their wild cries ceased, and they rose up and up like a white cloud to scatter far and wide over sky and sea. For some moments he continued watching them, listening to their changed voices, which now had a very soft and pleasant sound, as if they were satisfied and happy. It made him happy to hear them, and he lifted his hands up and smiled; then, relieved of his terror and overcome with weariness, he closed his eyes and dropped once more full length upon his bed of wet seaweed. At that the men stared into each other's face, a very strange startled look coming into their eyes. And no wonder! For long, long months, running to years, they had been cruising in those lonely desolate seas, thousands of miles from home, seeing no land nor any green thing, nor dear face of woman or child: and now by some strange chance a child had come to them, and even while they were making all haste to rescue it, putting their arms out to take it from the sea, its life had seemingly been snatched from them! But he was only sleeping. [Illustration: ] NOTE _When I arranged with Mr. Hudson for the publication of an American Edition of_ A Little Boy Lost, _I asked him to write a special foreword to his American readers. He replied with a characteristic letter, and, taking him at his word. I am printing it on the following pages_. ALFRED A. KNOPF. _Dear Mr. Knopf_: Your request for a Foreword to insert in the American reprint of the little book worries me. A critic on this side has said that my Prefaces to reprints of my earlier works are of the nature of parting kicks, and I have no desire just now to kick this poor innocent. That evil-tempered old woman, Mother Nature, in one of her worst tantrums, has been inflicting so many cuffs and blows on me that she has left me no energy or disposition to kick anything--even myself. The trouble is that I know so little about it. Did I write this book? What then made me do it? In reading a volume of Fors Clavigera I once came upon a passage which sounded well but left me in a mist, and it relieved me to find a footnote to it in which the author says: "This passage was written many years ago and what I was thinking about at the time has quite escaped my memory. At all events, though I let it stand, I can find no meaning in it now." Little men may admire but must not try to imitate these gestures of the giants. And as a result of a little quiet thinking it over I seem able to recover the idea I had in my mind when I composed this child's story and found a title for it in Blake. Something too of the semi-wild spirit of the child hero in the lines: "Naught loves another as itself.... And, father, how can I love you Or any of my brothers more? I love you like the little birds That pick up crumbs about the door." There nature is, after picking up the crumbs to fly away. A long time ago I formed a small collection of children's books of the early years of the nineteenth century; and looking through them, wishing that some of them had fallen into my hands when I was a child I recalled the books I had read at that time--especially two or three. Like any normal child I delighted in such stories as the Swiss Family Robinson, but they were not the books I prized most; they omitted the very quality I liked best--the little thrills that nature itself gave me, which half frightened and fascinated at the same time, the wonder and mystery of it all. Once in a while I got a book with something of this rare element in it, contained perhaps in some perfectly absurd narrative of animals taking human shape or using human speech, with such like transformations and vagaries; they could never be too extravagant, fantastic and incredible, so long as they expressed anything of the feeling I myself experienced when out of sight and sound of my fellow beings, whether out on the great level plain, with a glitter of illusory water all round me, or among the shadowy trees with their bird and insect sounds, or by the waterside and bed of tall dark bullrushes murmuring in the wind. These ancient memories put it in my mind to write a book which, I imagined, would have suited my peculiar taste of that early period, the impossible story to be founded on my own childish impressions and adventures, with a few dreams and fancies thrown in and two or three native legends and myths, such as the one of the Lady of the Hills, the incarnate spirit of the rocky Sierras on the great plains, about which I heard from my gaucho comrades when on the spot--the strange woman seldom viewed by human eyes who is jealous of man's presence and is able to create sudden violent tempests to frighten them from her sacred haunts. That's the story of my story, and to the question in your publisher's practical mind, I'm sorry to have to say I don't know. I have no way of finding out, since children are not accustomed to write to authors to tell them what they think of their books. And after all these excuses it just occurs to me that children do not read forewords and introductions; they have to be addressed to adults who do not read children's books, so that in any case it would be thrown away. Still if a foreword you must have, and from me, I think you will have to get it out of this letter. I remain, Yours cordially, W. H. HUDSON. November 14,1917. 
38421	----	http://www.archive.org/details/littleboylost00huds A LITTLE BOY LOST * * * * * UNUSUAL BOOKS _FOR BOYS AND GIRLS_ THREE AND THE MOON BY JACQUES DOREY _DECORATED BY BORIS ARTZYBASHEFF_ THE KINGDOM AND THE POWER AND THE GLORY BIBLE STORIES _SELECTED AND DECORATED BY JAMES DAUGHERTY_ THE RUNAWAY SARDINE _TOLD AND ILLUSTRATED BY EMMA L. BROCK_ THE THREE MULLA-MULGARS BY WALTER DE LA MARE _ILLUSTRATED BY DOROTHY LATHROP_ COME HITHER BY WALTER DE LA MARE _DECORATED BY ALEC BUCKELS_ * * * * * [Illustration: HE IN TURN, LEANING OVER THE ROCK STARED BACK INTO MARTIN'S FACE WITH HIS IMMENSE FISHY EYES.] A LITTLE BOY LOST by W · H · HUDSON Author of "Green Mansions," Etc. Illustrated by Dorothy · P · Lathrop [Illustration] New York Alfred · A · Knopf MCMXXXVI Copyright 1920 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages or reproduce not more than three illustrations in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper. Published September 18, 1920 Manufactured in the United States of America _Contents_ I THE HOME ON THE GREAT PLAIN, 13 II THE SPOONBILL AND THE CLOUD, 20 III CHASING A FLYING FIGURE, 29 IV MARTIN IS FOUND BY A DEAF OLD MAN, 33 V THE PEOPLE OF THE MIRAGE, 44 VI MARTIN MEETS WITH SAVAGES, 60 VII ALONE IN THE GREAT FOREST, 68 VIII THE FLOWER AND THE SERPENT, 76 IX THE BLACK PEOPLE OF THE SKY, 86 X A TROOP OF WILD HORSES, 95 XI THE LADY OF THE HILLS, 109 XII THE LITTLE PEOPLE UNDERGROUND, 117 XIII THE GREAT BLUE WATER, 129 XIV THE WONDERS OF THE HILLS, 135 XV MARTIN'S EYES ARE OPENED, 144 XVI THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST, 153 XVII THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA, 163 XVIII MARTIN PLAYS WITH THE WAVES, 173 NOTE, 184 _Illustrations_ He in turn, leaning over the rock stared back into Martin's face with his immense fishy eyes _Frontispiece_ PAGE "Oh, poor bird," he cried suddenly, "open your wings and fly away!" 28 Groping his way to the bucket of cold water--he managed to raise it up in his arms, and poured it over the sleeper 39 "The Queen wishes to speak to you--stand up, little boy" 52 How strange it seemed when, holding on to a twig, he bent over and saw himself reflected in that black mirror 71 He quickly ate it, and then pulled another and ate that, and then another, and still others, until he could eat no more 79 Then the wild man, catching Martin up, leaped upon the back of one of the horses 103 She raised him in her arms and pressed him to her bosom, wrapping her hair like a warm mantle around him 115 For a moment or two he was tempted to turn and run back into the passage through which he had come 122 The doe--timidly smelt at his hand, then licked it with her long pink tongue 140 Throwing up her arms, she uttered a long call, and the birds began to come lower and lower down 145 One of the mist people--held the shell to Martin's ear,--and Martin knew--that it was the voice of the sea 156 A LITTLE BOY LOST [Illustration] _Chapter One_ _The Home on the Great Plain_ Some like to be one thing, some another. There is so much to be done, so many different things to do, so many trades! Shepherds, soldiers, sailors, ploughmen, carters--one could go on all day naming without getting to the end of them. For myself, boy and man, I have been many things, working for a living, and sometimes doing things just for pleasure; but somehow, whatever I did, it never seemed quite the right and proper thing to do--it never quite satisfied me. I always wanted to do something else--I wanted to be a carpenter. It seemed to me that to stand among wood-shavings and sawdust, making things at a bench with bright beautiful tools out of nice-smelling wood, was the cleanest, healthiest, prettiest work that any man can do. Now all this has nothing, or very little, to do with my story: I only spoke of it because I had to begin somehow, and it struck me that would make a start that way. And for another reason, too. _His father was a carpenter_. I mean Martin's father--Martin, the Little Boy Lost. His father's name was John, and he was a very good man and a good carpenter, and he loved to do his carpentering better than anything else; in fact as much as I should have loved it if I had been taught that trade. He lived in a seaside town, named Southampton, where there is a great harbour, where he saw great ships coming and going to and from all parts of the world. Now, no strong, brave man can live in a place like that, seeing the ships and often talking to the people who voyaged in them about the distant lands where they had been, without wishing to go and see those distant countries for himself. When it is winter in England, and it rains and rains, and the east wind blows, and it is grey and cold and the trees are bare, who does not think how nice it would be to fly away like the summer birds to some distant country where the sky is always blue and the sun shines bright and warm every day? And so it came to pass that John, at last, when he was an old man, sold his shop, and went abroad. They went to a country many thousands of miles away--for you must know that Mrs. John went too; and when the sea voyage ended, they travelled many days and weeks in a wagon until they came to the place where they wanted to live; and there, in that lonely country, they built a house, and made a garden, and planted an orchard. It was a desert, and they had no neighbours, but they were happy enough because they had as much land as they wanted, and the weather was always bright and beautiful; John, too, had his carpenter's tools to work with when he felt inclined; and, best of all, they had little Martin to love and think about. But how about Martin himself? You might think that with no other child to prattle to and play with or even to see, it was too lonely a home for him. Not a bit of it! No child could have been happier. He did not want for company; his play-fellows were the dogs and cats and chickens, and any creature in and about the house. But most of all he loved the little shy creatures that lived in the sunshine among the flowers--the small birds and butterflies, and little beasties and creeping things he was accustomed to see outside the gate among the tall, wild sunflowers. There were acres of these plants, and they were taller than Martin, and covered with flowers no bigger than marigolds, and here among the sunflowers he used to spend most of the day, as happy as possible. He had other amusements too. Whenever John went to his carpenter's shop--for the old man still dearly loved his carpentering--Martin would run in to keep him company. One thing he loved to do was to pick up the longest wood-shavings, to wind them round his neck and arms and legs, and then he would laugh and dance with delight, happy as a young Indian in his ornaments. A wood-shaving may seem a poor plaything to a child with all the toyshops in London to pick and choose from, but it is really very curious and pretty. Bright and smooth to the touch, pencilled with delicate wavy lines, while in its spiral shape it reminds one of winding plants, and tendrils by means of which vines and creepers support themselves, and flowers with curling petals, and curled leaves and sea-shells and many other pretty natural objects. One day Martin ran into the house looking very flushed and joyous, holding up his pinafore with something heavy in it. "What have you got now?" cried his father and mother in a breath, getting up to peep at his treasure, for Martin was always fetching in the most curious out-of-the-way things to show them. "My pretty shaving," said Martin proudly. When they looked they were amazed and horrified to see a spotted green snake coiled comfortably up in the pinafore. It didn't appear to like being looked at by them, for it raised its curious heart-shaped head and flicked its little red, forked tongue at them. His mother gave a great scream, and dropped the jug she had in her hand upon the floor, while John rushed off to get a big stick. "Drop it, Martin--drop the wicked snake before it stings you, and I'll soon kill it." Martin stared, surprised at the fuss they were making; then, still tightly holding the ends of his pinafore, he turned and ran out of the room and away as fast as he could go. Away went his father after him, stick in hand, and out of the gate into the thicket of tall wild sunflowers where Martin had vanished from sight. After hunting about for some time, he found the little run-away sitting on the ground among the weeds. "Where's the snake?" he cried. "Gone!" said Martin, waving his little hand around. "I let it go and you mustn't look for it." John picked the child up in his arms and marched back to the room and popped him down on the floor, then gave him a good scolding. "It's a mercy the poisonous thing didn't sting you," he said. "You're a naughty little boy to play with snakes, because they're dangerous bad things, and you die if they bite you. And now you must go straight to bed; that's the only punishment that has any effect on such a harebrained little butterfly." Martin, puckering up his face for a cry, crept away to his little room. It was very hard to have to go to bed in the daytime when he was not sleepy, and when the birds and butterflies were out in the sunshine having such a good time. "It's not a bit of use scolding him--I found that out long ago," said Mrs. John, shaking her head. "Do you know, John, I can't help thinking sometimes that he's not our child at all." "Whose child do you think he is, then?" said John, who had a cup of water in his hand, for the chase after Martin had made him hot, and he wanted cooling. "I don't know--but I once had a very curious dream." "People often do have curious dreams," said wise old John. "But this was a very curious one, and I remember saying to myself, if this doesn't mean something that is going to happen, then dreams don't count for much." "No more they do," said John. "It was in England, just when we were getting ready for the voyage, and it was autumn, when the birds were leaving us. I dreamed that I went out alone and walked by the sea, and stood watching a great number of swallows flying by and out over the sea--flying away to some distant land. By-and-by I noticed one bird coming down lower and lower as if he wanted to alight, and I watched it, and it came down straight to me, and at last flew right into my bosom. I put my hand on it, and looking close saw that it was a martin, all pure white on its throat and breast, and with a white patch on its back. Then I woke up, and it was because of that dream that I named our child Martin instead of John as you wished to do. Now, when I watch swallows flying about, coming and going round the house, I sometimes think that Martin came to us like that one in the dream, and that some day he will fly away from us. When he gets bigger, I mean." "When he gets littler, you mean," said John with a laugh. "No, no, he's too big for a swallow--a Michaelmas goose would be nothing to him for size. But here I am listening to your silly dreams instead of watering the melons and cucumbers!" And out he went to his garden, but in a minute he put his head in at the door and said, "You may go and tell him to get up if you like. Poor little fellow! Only make him promise not to go chumming with spotted snakes any more, and not to bring them into the house, because somehow they disagree with me." [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Two_ _The Spoonbill and the Cloud_ As Martin grew in years and strength, his age being now about seven, his rambles began to extend beyond the waste grounds outside of the fenced orchard and gate. These waste grounds were a wilderness of weeds: here were the sunflowers that Martin liked best; the wild cock's-comb, flaunting great crimson tufts; the yellow flowering mustard, taller than the tallest man; giant thistle, and wild pumpkin with spotted leaves; the huge hairy fox-gloves with yellow bells; feathery fennel, and the big grey-green thorn-apples, with prickly burs full of bright red seed, and long white wax-like flowers, that bloomed only in the evening. He could never get high enough on anything to see over the tops of these plants; but at last he found his way through them, and discovered on their further side a wide grassy plain with scarcely a tree on it, stretching away into the blue distance. On this vast plain he gazed with wonderment and delight. Behind the orchard and weedy waste the ground sloped down to a stream of running water, full of tall rushes with dark green polished stems, and yellow water-lilies. All along the moist banks grew other flowers that were never seen in the dry ground above--the blue star, and scarlet and white verbenas; and sweet-peas of all colours; and the delicate red vinegar flower, and angel's hair, and the small fragrant lilies called Mary's-tears, and tall scattered flags, flaunting their yellow blossoms high above the meadow grass. Every day Martin ran down to the stream to gather flowers and shells; for many curious water-snails were found there with brown purple-striped shells; and he also liked to watch the small birds that build their nests in the rushes. There were three of these small birds that did not appear to know that Martin loved them; for no sooner would he present himself at the stream than forth they would flutter in a great state of mind. One, the prettiest, was a tiny, green-backed little creature, with a crimson crest and a velvet-black band across a bright yellow breast: this one had a soft, low, complaining voice, clear as a silver bell. The second was a brisk little grey and black fellow, with a loud, indignant chuck, and a broad tail which he incessantly opened and shut, like a Spanish lady playing with her fan. The third was a shy, mysterious little brown bird, peering out of the clustering leaves, and making a sound like the soft ticking of a clock. They were like three little men, an Italian, a Dutchman, and a Hindoo, talking together, each in his own language, and yet well able to understand each other. Martin could not make out what they said, but suspected that they were talking about him; and he feared that their remarks were not always of a friendly nature. At length he made the discovery that the water of the stream was perpetually running away. If he dropped a leaf on the surface it would hasten down stream, and toss about and fret impatiently against anything that stood in its way, until, making its escape, it would quickly hurry out of sight. Whither did this rippling, running water go? He was anxious to find out. At length, losing all fear and fired with the sight of many new and pretty things he found while following it, he ran along the banks until, miles from home, he came to a great lake he could hardly see across, it was so broad. It was a wonderful place, full of birds; not small, fretful creatures flitting in and out of the rushes, but great majestic birds that took very little notice of him. Far out on the blue surface of the water floated numbers of wild fowl, and chief among them for grace and beauty was a swan, pure white with black head and neck and crimson bill. There also were stately flamingoes, stalking along knee-deep in the water, which was shallow; and nearer to the shore were flocks of rose-coloured spoonbills and solitary big grey herons standing motionless; also groups of white egrets, and a great multitude of glossy ibises, with dark green and purple plumage and long sickle-like beaks. The sight of this water with its beds of rushes and tall flowering reeds, and its great company of birds, filled Martin with delight; and other joys were soon to follow. Throwing off his shoes, he dashed with a shout into the water, frightening a number of ibises; up they flew, each bird uttering a cry repeated many times, that sounded just like his old father's laugh when he laughed loud and heartily. Then what was Martin's amazement to hear his own shout and this chorus of bird ha, ha, ha's, repeated by hundreds of voices all over the lake. At first he thought that the other birds were mocking the ibises; but presently he shouted again, and again his shouts were repeated by dozens of voices. This delighted him so much that he spent the whole day shouting himself hoarse at the waterside. When he related his wonderful experience at home, and heard from his father that the sounds he had heard were only echoes from the beds of rushes, he was not a bit wiser than before, so that the echoes remained to him a continual wonder and source of never-failing pleasure. Every day he would take some noisy instrument to the lake to startle the echoes; a whistle his father made him served for a time; after that he marched up and down the banks, rattling a tin canister with pebbles in it; then he got a large frying-pan from the kitchen, and beat on it with a stick every day for about a fortnight. When he grew tired of all these sounds, and began casting about for some new thing to wake the echoes with, he all at once remembered his father's gun--just what he wanted, for it was the noisiest thing in the world. Watching his opportunity, he got secretly into the room where it was kept loaded, and succeeded in carrying it out of the house without being seen; then, full of joyful anticipations, he ran as fast as the heavy gun would let him to his favourite haunt. When he arrived at the lake three or four spoonbills--those beautiful, tall, rose-coloured birds--were standing on the bank, quietly dozing in the hot sunshine. They did not fly away at his approach, for the birds were now so accustomed to Martin and his harmless noises that they took very little notice of him. He knelt on one knee and pointed the gun at them. "Now, birdies, you don't know what a fright I'm going to give you--off you go!" he cried, and pulled the trigger. The roar of the loud report travelled all over the wide lake, creating a great commotion among the feathered people, and they rose up with a general scream into the air. All this was of no benefit to Martin, the recoil of the gun having sent him flying over, his heels in the air; and before he recovered himself the echoes were silent, and all the frightened birds were settling on the water again. But there, just before him, lay one of the spoonbills, beating its great rose-coloured wings against the ground. Martin ran to it, full of keen distress, but was powerless to help; its life's blood was fast running away from the shot wounds it had received in its side, staining the grass with crimson. Presently it closed its beautiful ruby-coloured eyes and the quivering wings grew still. Then Martin sat down on the grass by its side and began to cry. Oh, that great bird, half as tall as himself, and so many times more lovely and strong and beautiful in its life--he had killed it, and it would never fly again! He raised it up very tenderly in his arms and kissed it--kissed its pale green head and rosy wings; then out of his arms it tumbled back again on to the grass. "Oh, poor bird," he cried suddenly, "open your wings and fly away!" But it was dead. Then Martin got up and stared all round him at the wide landscape, and everything looked strange and dim and sorrowful. A shadow passed over the lake, and a murmur came up out of the rushes that was like a voice saying something that he could not understand. A great cry of pain rose from his heart and died to a whisper on his lips; he was awed into silence. Sinking down upon the grass again, he hid his face against the rosy-breasted bird and began to sob. How warm the dead bird felt against his cheek--oh, so warm--and it could not live and fly about with the others. At length he sat up and knew the reason of that change that had come over the earth. A dark cloud had sprung up in the south-west, far off as yet, and near the horizon; but its fringe already touched and obscured the low-hanging sun, and a shadow flew far and vast before it. Over the lake flew that great shadow: the waters looked cold and still, reflecting as in a polished glass the motionless rushes, the glassy bank, and Martin, sitting on it, still clasping in his arms the dead rose-coloured bird. Swifter and vaster, following close upon the flying shadow, came the mighty cloud, changing from black to slaty grey; and then, as the sun broke forth again under its lower edge, it was all flushed with a brilliant rose colour. But what a marvellous thing it was, when the cloud covered a third of the wide heavens, almost touching the horizon on either side with its wing-like extremities; Martin, gazing steadily at it, saw that in its form it was like an immense spoonbill flying through the air! He would gladly have run away then to hide himself from its sight, but he dared not stir, for it was now directly above him; so, lying down on the grass and hiding his face against the dead bird, he waited in fear and trembling. He heard the rushing sound of the mighty wings: the wind they created smote on the waters in a hurricane, so that the reeds were beaten flat on the surface, and a great cry of terror went up from all the wild birds. It passed, and when Martin raised his bowed head and looked again, the sun, just about to touch the horizon with its great red globe, shone out, shedding a rich radiance over the earth and water; while far off, on the opposite side of the heavens, the great cloud-bird was rapidly fading out of sight. [Illustration: "OH, POOR BIRD," HE CRIED SUDDENLY, "OPEN YOUR WINGS AND FLY AWAY!"] [Illustration] _Chapter Three_ _Chasing a Flying Figure_ After what had happened Martin could never visit the waterside and look at the great birds wading and swimming there without a feeling that was like a sudden coldness in the blood of his veins. The rosy spoonbill he had killed and cried over and the great bird-cloud that had frightened him were never forgotten. He grew tired of shouting to the echoes: he discovered that there were even more wonderful things than the marsh echoes in the world, and that the world was bigger than he had thought it. When spring with its moist verdure and frail, sweet-smelling flowers had gone; when the great plain began to turn to a rusty-brown colour, and the dry hard earth was full of cracks, and the days grew longer and the heat greater, there came an appearance of water that quivered and glittered and danced before his wondering sight, and would lead him miles from home every day in his vain efforts to find out what it was. He could talk of nothing else, and asked endless questions about it, and they told him that this strange thing was nothing but the Mirage, but of course that was not telling him enough, so that he was left to puzzle his little boy-brains over this new mystery, just as they had puzzled before over the mystery of the echoes. Now this Mirage was a glittering whiteness that looked just like water, always shining and dancing before him and all round him, on the dry level plain where there was no water. It was never quiet, but perpetually quivering and running into wavelets that threw up crests and jets of sprays as from a fountain, and showers of brilliant drops that flashed like molten silver in the sunlight before they broke and vanished, only to be renewed again. It appeared every day when the sun was high and the air hot, and it was often called _The False Water_. And false it was, since it always flew before him as he ran, so that although he often seemed to be getting nearer to it he could never quite overtake it. But Martin had a very determined spirit for a small boy, and although this appearance of water mocked his efforts a hundred times every day with its vanishing brightness and beauty, he would not give up the pursuit. Now one day when there was not a cloud on the great hot whitey-blue sky, nor a breath of air stirring, when it was all silent, for not even a grass-hopper creaked in the dead, yellow, motionless grass, the whole level earth began to shine and sparkle like a lake of silvery water, as Martin had never seen it shine before. He had wandered far away from home--never had he been so far--and still he ran and ran and ran, and still that whiteness quivered and glittered and flew on before him; and ever it looked more temptingly near, urging him to fresh exertions. At length, tired out and overcome with heat, he sat down to rest, and feeling very much hurt at the way he had been deceived and led on, he shed one little tear. There was no mistake about that tear; he felt it running like a small spider down his cheek, and finally he saw it fall. It fell on to a blade of yellow grass and ran down the blade, then stopped so as to gather itself into a little round drop before touching the ground. Just then, out of the roots of the grass beneath it, crept a tiny dusty black beetle and began drinking the drop, waving its little horns up and down like donkey's ears, apparently very much pleased at its good fortune in finding water and having a good drink in such a dry, thirsty place. Probably it took the tear for a drop of rain just fallen out of the sky. "You _are_ a funny little thing!" exclaimed Martin, feeling now less like crying than laughing. The wee beetle, satisfied and refreshed, climbed up the grass-blade, and when it reached the tip lifted its dusty black wing-cases just enough to throw out a pair of fine gauzy wings that had been neatly folded up beneath them, and flew away. Martin, following its flight, had his eyes quite dazzled by the intense glitter of the False Water, which now seemed to be only a few yards from him: but the strangest thing was that in it there appeared a form--a bright beautiful form that vanished when he gazed steadily at it. Again he got up and began running harder than ever after the flying mocking Mirage, and every time he stopped he fancied that he could see the figure again, sometimes like a pale blue shadow on the brightness; sometimes shining with its own excessive light, and sometimes only seen in outline, like a figure graved on glass, and always vanishing when looked at steadily. Perhaps that white water-like glitter of the Mirage was like a looking-glass, and he was only chasing his own reflection. I cannot say, but there it was, always before him, a face as of a beautiful boy, with tumbled hair and laughing lips, its figure clothed in a fluttering dress of lights and shadows. It also seemed to beckon to him with its hand, and encourage him to run on after it with its bright merry glances. At length when it was past the hour of noon, Martin sat down under a small bush that gave just shade enough to cover him and none to spare. It was only a little spot of shade like an island in a sea of heat and brightness. He was too hot and tired to run more, too tired even to keep his eyes open, and so, propping his back against the stem of the small bush, he closed his tired hot eyes. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Four_ _Martin is Found by a Deaf Old Man_ Martin kept his eyes shut for only about a minute, as he thought; but he must have been asleep some time, for when he opened them the False Water had vanished, and the sun, looking very large and crimson, was just about to set. He started up, feeling very thirsty and hungry and bewildered; for he was far, far from home, and lost on the great plain. Presently he spied a man coming towards him on horseback. A very funny-looking old man he proved to be, with a face wrinkled and tanned by sun and wind, until it resembled a piece of ancient shoe-leather left lying for years on some neglected spot of ground. A Brazil nut is not darker nor more wrinkled than was the old man's face. His long matted beard and hair had once been white, but the sun out of doors and the smoke in his smoky hut had given them a yellowish tinge, so that they looked like dry dead grass. He wore big jack-boots, patched all over, and full of cracks and holes; and a great pea-jacket, rusty and ragged, fastened with horn buttons big as saucers. His old brimless hat looked like a dilapidated tea-cosy on his head, and to prevent it from being carried off by the wind it was kept on with an old flannel shirt-sleeve tied under his chin. His saddle, too, like his clothes, was old and full of rents, with wisps of hair and straw-stuffing sticking out in various places, and his feet were thrust into a pair of big stirrups made of pieces of wood and rusty iron tied together with string and wire. "Boy, what may you being a doing of here?" bawled this old man at the top of his voice: for he was as deaf as a post, and like a good many deaf people thought it necessary to speak very loud to make himself heard. "Playing," answered Martin innocently. But he could not make the old man hear until he stood up on tip-toe and shouted out his answer as loud as he could. "Playing," exclaimed the old man. "Well, I never in all my life! When there ain't a house 'cepting my own for leagues and leagues, and he says he's playing! What may you be now?" he shouted again. "A little boy," screamed Martin. "I knowed that afore I axed," said the other. Then he slapped his legs and held up his hand with astonishment, and at last began to chuckle. "Will you come home along o' me?" he shouted. "Will you give me something to eat?" asked Martin in return. "Haw, haw, haw," guffawed the old fellow. It was a tremendous laugh, so loud and hollow, it astonished and almost frightened Martin to hear it. "Well I never!" he said. "He ain't no fool, neither. Now, old Jacob, just you take your time and think a bit afore you makes your answer to that." This curious old man, whose name was Jacob, had lived so long by himself that he always thought out loud--louder than other people talk: for, being deaf, he could not hear himself, and never had a suspicion that he could be heard by others. "He's lost, that's what he is," continued old Jacob aloud to himself. "And what's more, he's been and gone and forgot all about his own home, and all he wants is summat to eat. I'll take him and keep him, that's what I'll do: for he's a stray lamb, and belongs to him that finds him, like any other lamb I finds. I'll make him believe I'm his old dad; for he's little and will believe most anything you tells him. I'll learn him to do things about the house--to boil the kettle, and cook the wittels, and gather the firewood, and mend the clothes, and do the washing, and draw the water, and milk the cow, and dig the potatoes, and mind the sheep and--and--and that's what I'll learn him. Then, Jacob, you can sit down and smoke your pipe, 'cos you'll have some one to do your work for you." Martin stood quietly listening to all this, not quite understanding the old man's kind intentions. Then old Jacob, promising to give him something to eat, pulled him up on to his horse, and started home at a gallop. Soon they arrived at a mud hovel, thatched with rushes, the roof sloping down so low that one could almost step on to it; it was surrounded with a ditch, and had a potato patch and a sheep enclosure; for old Jacob was a shepherd, and had a flock of sheep. There were several big dogs, and when Martin got down from the horse, they began jumping round him, barking with delight, as if they knew him, half-smothering him with their rough caresses. Jacob led him into the hut, which looked extremely dirty and neglected, and had only one room. In the corners against walls were piles of sheep-skins that had a strong and rather unpleasant smell: the thatch above was covered with dusty cobwebs, hanging like old rags, and the clay floor was littered with bones, sticks, and other rubbish. The only nice thing to see was a tea-kettle singing and steaming away merrily on the fire in the grate. Old Jacob set about preparing the evening meal; and soon they sat down at a small deal table to a supper of cold mutton and potatoes, and tea which did not taste very nice, as it was sweetened with moist black sugar. Martin was too hungry to turn up his nose at anything, and while he ate and drank the old man chuckled and talked aloud to himself about his good fortune in finding the little boy to do his work for him. After supper he cleared the table, and put two mugs of tea on it, and then got out his clay pipe and tobacco. "Now, little boy," he cried, "let's have a jolly evening together. Your very good health, little boy," and here he jingled his mug against Martin's, and took a sip of tea. "Would you like to hear a song, little boy?" he said, after finishing his pipe. "No," said Martin, who was getting sleepy; but Jacob took no to mean yes, and so he stood up on his legs and sang this song:-- "My name is Jacob, that's my name; And tho' I'm old, the old man's game-- The air it is so good, d'ye see: And on the plain my flock I keep, And sing all day to please my sheep, And never lose them like Bo-Peep, Becos the ways of them are known to me. "When winter comes and winds do blow, Unto my sheep so good I go-- I'm always good to them, d'ye see-- Ho, sheep, say I, both ram, both ewe, I've sung you songs all summer through, Now lend to me a skin or two, To keep the cold and wet from out o' me." This song, accompanied with loud raps on the table, was bellowed forth in a dreadfully discordant voice; and very soon all the dogs rushed into the room and began to bark and howl most dismally, which seemed to please the old man greatly, for to him it was a kind of applause. But the noise was too much for Martin; so he stopped up his ears, and only removed his fingers from them when the performance was over. After the song the old man offered to dance, for he had not yet had amusement enough. "Boy, can you play on this?" he shouted, holding up a frying-pan and a big stick to beat it with. Of course Martin could play on _that_ instrument: he had often enough played on one like it to startle the echoes on the lake, in other days. And so, when he had been lifted on to the table, he took the frying-pan by the handle, and began vigorously beating on it with the stick. He did not mind the noise now since he was helping to make it. Meanwhile old Jacob began flinging his arms and legs about in all directions, looking like a scarecrow made to tumble about by means of springs and wires. He pounded the clay floor with his ponderous old boots until the room was filled with a cloud of dust; then in his excitement he kicked over chairs, pots, kettle, and whatever came in his way, while he kept on revolving round the table in a kind of crazy fandango. Martin thought it fine fun, and screamed with laughter, and beat his gong louder than ever; then to make matters worse old Jacob at intervals uttered whoops and yells, which the dogs answered with long howls from the door, until the din was something tremendous. At length they both grew tired, and then after resting and sipping some more cold tea, prepared to go to bed. Some sheep-skins were piled up in a corner for Martin to sleep on, and old Jacob covered him with a horse-rug, and tucked him in very carefully. Then the kind old man withdrew to his own bed on the opposite side of the room. [Illustration: GROPING HIS WAY TO THE BUCKET OF COLD WATER--HE MANAGED TO RAISE IT UP IN HIS ARMS, AND POURED IT OVER THE SLEEPER.] About midnight Martin was wakened by loud horrible noises in the room, and started up on bed trembling with fear. The sounds came from the old man's nose, and resembled a succession of blasts on a ram's horn, which, on account of its roughness and twisted shape, makes a very bad trumpet. As soon as Martin discovered the cause of the noise he crept out of bed and tried to waken the old snorer by shouting to him, tugging at his arms and legs, and finally pulling his beard. He refused to wake. Then Martin had a bright idea, and groping his way to the bucket of cold water standing beside the fire-place, he managed to raise it up in his arms, and poured it over the sleeper. The snoring changed to cries of loud choking snorts, then ceased. Martin, well pleased at the success of his experiment, was about to return to his bed when old Jacob struggled up to a sitting posture. "Hullo, wake up, little boy!" he shouted. "My bed's all full o' water--goodness knows where it comes from." "I poured it over you to wake you up. Don't you know you were making a noise with your nose?" cried Martin at the top of his voice. "You--you--you throwed it over me! You--O you most wicked little villain you! You throwed it over me did you!" and here he poured out such a torrent of abusive words that Martin was horrified and cried out, "O what a naughty, wicked, bad old man you are!" It was too dark for old Jacob to see him, but he knew his way about the room, and taking up the wet rug that served him for covering he groped his way to Martin's bed and began pounding it with the rug, thinking the naughty little boy was there. "You little rascal you--I hope you like that!--and that!--and that!" he shouted, pounding away. "I'll learn you to throw water over your poor old dad! And such a--a affectionate father as I've been too, giving him sich nice wittles--and--and singing and dancing to him to teach him music. Perhaps you'd like a little more, you takes it so quietly? Well, then, take that!--and that!--and that! Why, how's this--the young warmint ain't here arter all! Well, I'm blowed if that don't beat everythink! What did he go and chuck that water over me for? What a walloping I'll give him in the morning when it's light! and now, boy, you may go and sleep on my bed, 'cos it's wet, d'ye see; and I'll sleep on yourn, 'cos it's dry." Then he got into Martin's bed, and muttered and grumbled himself to sleep. Martin came out from under the table, and after dressing himself with great secrecy crept to the door to make his escape. It was locked and the key taken away. But he was determined to make his escape somehow, and not wait to be whipped; so, by and by, he drew the little deal table close against the wall, and getting on to it began picking the rushes one by one out of the lower part of the thatch. After working for half-an-hour, like a mouse eating his way out of a soft wooden box, he began to see the light coming through the hole, and in another half hour it was large enough for him to creep through. When he had got out, he slipped down to the ground, where the dogs were lying. They seemed very glad to see him, and began pressing round to lick his face; but he pushed them off, and ran away over the plain as fast as he could. The stars were shining, but it was very dark and silent; only in moist places, where the grass grew tall, he heard the crickets strumming sadly on their little harps. At length, tired with running, he coiled himself in a large tussock of dry grass and went to sleep, just as if he had been accustomed to sleep out of doors all his life. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Five_ _The People of the Mirage_ In that remote land where Martin was born, with its bright warm climate and rich soil, no person need go very long hungry--not even a small boy alone and lost on that great grassy plain. For there is a little useful plant in that place, with small leaves like clover leaves and a pretty yellow flower, which bears a wholesome sweet root, about as big as a pigeon's egg and of a pearly white colour. It is so well known to the settlers' children in that desert country that they are always wandering off to the plain to look for it, just as the children in a town are always running off with their halfpence to the sweet-stuff shop. This pretty white root is watery, so that it satisfies both hunger and thirst at the same time. Now when Martin woke next morning, he found a great many of the little three-leaved plants growing close to the spot where he had slept, and they supplied him with a nice sweet breakfast. After he had eaten enough and had amused himself by rolling over and over several times on the grass, he started once more on his travels, going towards the sunrise as fast as he could run. He could run well for a small boy, but he got tired at last and sat down to rest. Then he jumped up and went on again at a trot: this pace he kept up very steadily, only pausing from time to time to watch a flock of small white birds that followed him all the morning out of curiosity. At length he began to feel so hot and tired that he could only walk. Still he kept on; he could see no flowers nor anything pretty in that place--why should he stay in it? He would go on, and on, and on, in spite of the heat, until he came to something. But it grew hotter as the day advanced, and the ground about him more dry and barren and desolate, until at last he came to ground where there was scarcely a blade of grass: it was a great, barren, level plain, covered with a slight crust of salt crystals that glittered in the sun so brightly that it dazzled and pained his eyesight. Here were no sweet watery roots for refreshment, and no berries; nor could Martin find a bush to give him a little shade and protection from the burning noonday sun. He saw one large dark object in the distance, and mistaking it for a bush covered with thick foliage he ran towards it; but suddenly it started up, when he was near, and waving its great grey and white wings like sails, fled across the plain. It was an ostrich! Now this hot, shadeless plain seemed to be the very home and dwelling-place of the False Water. It sparkled and danced all round him so close that there only appeared to be a small space of dry ground for him to walk on; only he was always exactly in the centre of the dry spot; for as he advanced, the glittering whiteness, that looked so like shiny water, flew mockingly before his steps. But he hoped to get to it at last, as every time he flagged in the chase the mysterious figure of the day before appeared again to lure him still further on. At length, unable to move another step, Martin sat right down on the bare ground: it was like sitting on the floor of a heated oven, but there was no help for it, he was so tired. The air was so thick and heavy that he could hardly breathe, even with his mouth wide open like a little gasping bird; and the sky looked like metal, heated to a white heat, and so low down as to make him fancy that if he were to throw up his hands he would touch it and burn his fingers. And the Mirage--oh, how it glistened and quivered here where he had sat down, half blinding him with its brightness! Now that he could no longer run after it, nor even walk, it came to him, breaking round and over him in a thousand fantastic shapes, filling the air with a million white flakes that whirled about as if driven by a furious wind, although not a breath was stirring. They looked like whitest snow-flakes, yet stung his cheeks like sparks of fire. Not only did he see and feel, he could even _hear_ it now: his ears were filled with a humming sound, growing louder and louder every minute, like the noise made by a large colony of bumble-bees when a person carelessly treads on their nest, and they are angered and thrown into a great commotion and swarm out to defend their home. Very soon out of this confused murmur louder, clearer sounds began to rise; and these could be distinguished as the notes of numberless musical instruments, and voices of people singing, talking, and laughing. Then, all at once, there appeared running and skipping over the ground towards him a great company of girls--scores and hundreds of them scattered over the plain, exceeding in loveliness all lovely things that he had ever beheld. Their faces were whiter than lilies, and their loose, fluttering hair looked like a mist of pale shining gold; and their skirts, that rustled as they ran, were also shining like the wings of dragon-flies, and were touched with brown reflections and changing, beautiful tints, such as are seen on soap-bubbles. Each of them carried a silver pitcher, and as they ran and skipped along they dipped their fingers in and sprinkled the desert with water. The bright drops they scattered fell all around in a grateful shower, and flew up again from the heated earth in the form of a white mist touched with rainbow colours, filling the air with a refreshing coolness. At Martin's side there grew a small plant, its grey-green leaves lying wilted on the ground, and one of the girls paused to water it, and as she sprinkled the drops on it she sang:-- "Little weed, little weed, In such need, Must you pain, ask in vain, Die for rain, Never bloom, never seed, Little weed? O, no, no, you shall not die, From the sky With my pitcher down I fly. Drink the rain, grow again, Bloom and seed, Little weed." Martin held up his hot little hands to catch some of the falling drops; then the girl, raising her pitcher, poured a stream of cool water right into his face, and laughing at what she had done, went away with a hop, skip, and jump after her companions. The girls with pitchers had all gone, and were succeeded by troops of boys, just as beautiful, many of them singing and some playing on wind and stringed instruments; and some were running, others quietly walking, and still others riding on various animals--ostriches, sheep, goats, fawns, and small donkeys, all pure white. One boy was riding a ram, and as he came by, strum-strumming on a little silver-stringed banjo, he sang a very curious song, which made Martin prick up his ears to listen. It was about a speckled snake that lived far away on a piece of waste ground; how day after day he sought for his lost playmate--the little boy that had left him; how he glided this way and that on his smooth, bright belly, winding in and out among the tall wild sunflowers; how he listened for the dear footsteps--listened with his green leaf-shaped, little head raised high among the leaves. But his playmate was far away and came no more to feed him from his basin of bread and milk, and caress his cold, smooth coils with his warm, soft, little hand. Close after the boy on the ram marched four other little boys on foot, holding up long silver trumpets in readiness to blow. One of them stopped, and putting his trumpet down close to Martin's ear, puffed out his little, round cheeks, and blew a blast that made him jump. Laughing at the joke, they passed on, and were succeeded by others and still others, singing, shouting, twanging their instruments, and some of them stopping for a few moments to look at Martin or play some pretty little trick on him. But now all at once Martin ceased to listen or even look at them, for something new and different was coming, something strange which made him curious and afraid at the same time. It was a sound, very deep and solemn, of men's voices singing together a song that was like a dirge and coming nearer and nearer, and it was like the coming of a storm with wind and rain and thunder. Soon he could see them marching through the great crowd of people--old men moving in a slow procession, and they had pale dark faces and their hair and long beards were whiter than snow, and their long flowing robes were of the silvery dark colour of a rain-cloud. Then he saw that the leaders of the procession were followed by others who carried a couch of mother-o'-pearl resting on their shoulders, that on the couch reposed a pale sweet-looking youth dressed in silk clothes of a delicate rose-colour. He also wore crimson shoes, and a tight-fitting apple-green skull cap, which made his head look very small. His eyes were ruby-red, and he had a long slender nose like a snipe's bill, only broad and flattened at the tip. And then Martin saw that he was wounded, for he had one white hand pressed to his side and it was stained with blood, and drops of blood were trickling through his fingers. He was troubled at the sight, and he gazed at him, and listened to the words of that solemn song the old men were singing but could not understand them. Not because he was a child, for no person, however aged and wise and filled with all learning he might be, could have understood that strange song about Wonderful Life and Wonderful Death. Yet there was something in it too which any one who heard it, man or child, could understand; and he understood it, and it went into his heart to make it so heavy and sad that he could have put his little face down on the ground and cried as he had never cried before. But he did not put his face down and cry, for just then the wounded youth looked down on him as they carried him past and smiled a very sweet smile: then Martin felt that he loved him above all the bright and beautiful beings that had passed before him. [Illustration: "THE QUEEN WISHES TO SPEAK TO YOU--STAND UP, LITTLE BOY."] Then, when he was gone from sight; when the solemn sound of the voices began to grow fainter in the distance like the sound of a storm when it passes away, his heaviness of heart and sorrow left him, and he began to listen to the shouts and cries and clanging of noisy instruments of music swiftly coming nearer and nearer; and then all around and past him came a vast company of youths and maidens singing and playing and shouting and dancing as they moved onwards. They were the most beautiful beings he had ever seen in their shining dresses, some all in white, others in amber-colour, others in sky-blue, and some in still other lovely colours. "The Queen! the Queen!" they were shouting. "Stand up, little boy, and bow to the Queen." "The Queen! Kneel to the Queen, little boy," cried others. Then many others in the company began crying out together. "The Queen! lie down flat on the ground, little boy." "The Queen! Shut your eyes and open your mouth, little boy." "The Queen! Run away as fast as you can, little boy." "Stand on your head to the Queen, little boy!" "Crow like a cock and bark like a dog, little boy!" Trying to obey all these conflicting commands at one and the same time, poor Martin made strange noises and tumbled about this way and that and set them all laughing at him. "The Queen wishes to speak to you--stand up, little boy," said one of the brightest beings, touching Martin on the cheek. There before him, surrounded by all that beautiful company, stood the horses that drew her--great milk-white horses impatiently pawing the dusty ground with their hoofs and proudly champing their gold bridles, tossing the white froth from their mouths. But when he lifted his eyes timidly to the majestic being seated in her chariot before him he was dazzled and overcome with the sight. Her face had a brightness that was like that of the Mirage at noon, and the eyes that gazed on him were like two great opals; she appeared clothed in a white shining mist, and her hair spread wide on her shoulders looked white--whiter than a lamb's fleece, and powdered with fine gold that sparkled and quivered and ran through it like sparks of yellow fire: and on her head she wore a crown that was like a diamond seen by candle-light, or like a dew-drop in the sun, and every moment it changed its colour, and by turns was a red flame, then a green, then a yellow, then a violet. "Child, you have followed me far," said the Queen, "and now you are rewarded, for you have looked on my face and I have refreshed you; and the Sun, my father, will never more hurt you for my sake." "He is a naughty boy and unworthy of your goodness," spoke one of the bright beings standing near. "He killed the spoonbill." "He cried for the poor slain bird," replied the Queen: "He will never remember it without grief, and I forgive him." "He went away from his home and thinks no more of his poor old father and mother, who cry for him and are seeking for him on the great plain," continued the voice. "I forgive him," returned the Queen. "He is such a little wanderer--he could not always rest at home." "He emptied a bucketful of water over good old Jacob, who found him and took him in and fed him, and sang to him, and danced to him, and was a second father to him." At that there was great laughter; even the Queen laughed when she said that she forgave him that too. And Martin when he remembered old Jacob, and saw that they only made a joke of it, laughed with them. But the accusing voice still went on: "And when the good old shepherd went to sleep a second time, then the naughty little boy climbed on the table and picked a hole in the thatch and got out and ran away." Another burst of laughter followed; then a youth in a shining, violet-coloured dress suddenly began twanging on his instrument and wildly capering about in imitation of old Jacob's dancing, and while he played and danced he sang-- "Ho, sheep whose ways are known to me, Both ewe and lamb And horned ram Wherever can that Martin be? All day for him I ride Over the plains so wide, And on my horn I blow, Just to let him know That Jacob's on his track, And soon will have him back, I look and look all day, And when I'm home I say: He isn't like a mole To dig himself a hole; Them little legs he's got They can't go far, trot, trot, They can't go far, run run, Oh no, it is his fun; I'm sure he's near; He must be here A-skulking round the house Just like a little mouse. I'll get a mouse-trap in a minute, And bait with cheese that's smelly To bring him helter-skelly-- That little empty belly, And then I'll have him in it. Where have he hid, That little kid, That good old Jacob was so kind to? And when a rest I am inclined to Who'll boil the cow and dig the kittles And milk the stockings, darn the wittles? Who mugs of tea Will drink with me? When round and round I pound the ground With boots of cowhide, boots of thunder, Who'll help to make the noise, I wonder? Who'll join the row Of loud bow-wow With din of tin and copper clatter With bang and whang of pan and platter? O when I find Him fast I'll bind And upside down I'll hold him; And when a-home I gallop late-o I'll give him no more cold potato, But cuff him, box him, bang him, scold him, And drench him with a pail of water, And fill his mouth with wool and mortar, Because he don't do things he oughter, But does the things he ought not to, Then tell me true, Both ram and ewe, Wherever have that Martin got to? For Jacob's old and deaf and dim And never knowed the ways of him." "I forgive him everything," said the Queen very graciously, when the song ended, at which they all laughed. "And now let two of you speak and each bestow a gift on him. He deserves to be rewarded for running so far after us." Then one of those bright beautiful beings came forward and cried out: "He loves wandering; let him have his will and be a wanderer all his days on the face of the earth." "Well spoken!" cried the Queen. "A wanderer he is to be," said another: "let the sea do him no harm--that is my gift." "So be it," said the Queen; "and to your two gifts I shall add a third. Let all men love him. Go now, Martin, you are well equipped, and satisfy your heart with the sight of all the strange and beautiful things the world contains." "Kneel and thank the Queen for her gifts," said a voice to Martin. He dropped on to his knees, but could speak no word; when he raised his eyes again the whole glorious company had vanished. The air was cool and fragrant, the earth moist as if a shower had just fallen. He got up and slowly walked onward until near sunset, thinking of nothing but the beautiful people of the Mirage. He had left the barren salt plain behind by now; the earth was covered with yellow grass, and he found and ate some sweet roots and berries. Then feeling very tired, he stretched himself out on his back and began to wonder if what he had seen was nothing but a dream. Yes, it was surely a dream, but then--in his life dreams and realities were so mixed--how was he always to know one from the other? Which was most strange, the Mirage that glittered and quivered round him and flew mockingly before him, or the people of the Mirage he had seen? If you are lying quite still with your eyes shut and some one comes softly up and stands over you, somehow you know it, and open your eyes to see who it is. Just in that way Martin knew that some one had come and was standing over him. Still he kept his eyes shut, feeling sure that it was one of those bright and beautiful beings he had lately seen, perhaps the Queen herself, and that the sight of her shining countenance would dazzle his eyes. Then all at once he thought that it might be old Jacob, who would punish him for running away. He opened his eyes very quickly then. What do you think he saw? An ostrich--that same big ostrich he had seen and startled early in the day! It was standing over him, staring down with its great vacant eyes. Gradually its head came lower and lower down, until at last it made a sudden peck at a metal button on his jacket, and gave such a vigorous tug at it that Martin was almost lifted off the ground. He screamed and gave a jump; but it was nothing to the jump the ostrich gave when he discovered that the button belonged to a living boy. He jumped six feet high into the air and came down with a great flop; then feeling rather ashamed of himself for being frightened at such an insignificant thing as Martin, he stalked majestically away, glancing back, first over one shoulder then the other, and kicking up his heels behind him in a somewhat disdainful manner. Martin laughed, and in the middle of his laugh he fell asleep. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Six_ _Martin Meets With Savages_ When, on waking next morning, Martin took his first peep over the grass, there, directly before him, loomed the great blue hills, or Sierras as they are called in that country. He had often seen them, long ago in his distant home on clear mornings, when they had appeared like a blue cloud on the horizon. He had even wished to get to them, to tread their beautiful blue summits that looked as if they would be soft to his feet--softer than the moist springy turf on the plain; but he wished it only as one wishes to get to some far-off impossible place--a white cloud, for instance, or the blue sky itself. Now all at once he unexpectedly found himself near them, and the sight fired him with a new desire. The level plain had nothing half so enchanting as the cloud-like blue airy hills, and very soon he was up on his feet and hurrying towards them. In spite of hurrying he did not seem to get any nearer; still it was pleasant to be always going on and on, knowing that he would get to them at last. He had now left the drier plains behind; the earth was clothed with green and yellow grass easy to the feet, and during the day he found many sweet roots to refresh him. He also found quantities of cam-berries, a round fruit a little less than a cherry in size, bright yellow in colour, and each berry inside a green case or sheath shaped like a heart. They were very sweet. At night he slept once more in the long grass, and when daylight returned he travelled on, feeling very happy there alone--happy to think that he would get to the beautiful hills at last. But only in the early morning would they look distinct and near; later in the day, when the sun grew hot, they would seem further off, like a cloud resting on the earth, which made him think sometimes that they moved on as he went towards them. On the third day he came to a high piece of ground; and when he got to the top and looked over to the other side he saw a broad green valley with a stream of water running in it: on one hand the valley with its gleaming water stretched away as far as he could see, or until it lost itself in the distant haze; but on the other hand, on looking up the valley, there appeared a great forest, looking blue in the distance; and this was the first forest Martin had ever seen. Close by, down in the green valley before him, there was something else to attract his attention, and this was a large group of men and horses. No sooner had he caught sight of them than he set off at a run towards them, greatly excited; and as he drew near they all rose up from the grass where they had been sitting or lying to stare at him, filled with wonder at the sight of that small boy alone in the desert. There were about twenty men and women, and several children; the men were very big and tall, and were dressed only in robes made of the skins of some wild animal; they had broad, flat faces, and dark copper-coloured skins, and their long black hair hung down loose on their backs. These strange, rude-looking people were savages, and are supposed to be cruel and wicked, and to take pleasure in torturing and killing any lost or stray person that falls into their hands; but indeed it is not so, as you shall shortly find. Poor ignorant, little Martin, who had never read a book in his life, having always refused to learn his letters, knew nothing about savages, and feared them no more than he had feared old Jacob, or the small spotted snake, the very sight of which had made grown-up people scream and run away. So he marched boldly up and stared at them, and they in turn stared at him out of their great, dark, savage eyes. They had just been eating their supper of deer's flesh, roasted on the coals, and after a time one of the savages, as an experiment, took up a bone of meat and offered it to him. Being very hungry he gladly took it, and began gnawing the meat off the bone. When he had satisfied his hunger, he began to look round him, still stared at by the others. Then one of the women, who had a good-humoured face, caught him up, and seating him on her knees, tried to talk to him. "Melu-melumia quiltahou papa shani cha silmata," she spoke, gazing very earnestly into his face. They had all been talking among themselves while he was eating; but he did not know that savages had a language of their own different from ours, and so thought that they had only been amusing themselves with a kind of nonsense talk, which meant nothing. Now when the woman addressed this funny kind of talk to him, he answered her in her own way, as he imagined, readily enough: "Hey diddle-diddle, the cat's in the fiddle, fe fo fi fum, chumpty-chumpty-chum, with bings on her ringers, and tells on her boes." They all listened with grave attention, as if he had said something very important. Then the woman continued: "Huanatopa ana ana quiltahou." To which Martin answered, "Theophilus Thistle, the thistle-sifter, sifted a sieve of unsifted thistles; and if Theophilus--oh, I won't say any more!" Then she said, "Quira-holata silhoa mari changa changa." "Cock-a-doodle-do!" cried Martin, getting tired and impatient. "Baa, baa, black sheep, bow, wow, wow; goosey, goosey gander; see-saw, Mary Daw; chick-a-dee-dee, will you listen to me. And now let me go!" But she held him fast and kept on talking her nonsense language to him, until becoming vexed he caught hold of her hair and pulled it. She only laughed and tossed him up into the air and caught him again, just as he might have tossed and caught a small kitten. At length she released him, for now they were all beginning to lie down by the fire to sleep, as it was getting dark; Martin being very tired settled himself down among them, and as one of the women threw a skin over him he slept very comfortably. Next morning the hills looked nearer than ever just across the river; but little he cared for hills now, and when the little savage children went out to hunt for berries and sweet roots he followed and spent the day agreeably enough in their company. On the afternoon of the second day his new play-fellows all threw off their little skin cloaks and plunged into the stream to bathe; and Martin, seeing how much they seemed to enjoy being in the water, undressed himself and went in after them. The water was not too deep in that place, and it was rare fun splashing about and trying to keep his legs in the swift current and clambering over slippery rocks, he went out some distance from the bank. All at once he discovered that the others had left him, and looking back he saw that they were all scrambling out on to the bank and fighting over his clothes. Back he dashed in haste to rescue his property, but by the time he reached the spot they had finished dividing the spoil, and jumping up they ran away and scattered in all directions, one wearing his jacket, another his knickerbockers, another his shirt and one sock, another his cap and shoes, and the last the one remaining sock only. In vain he pursued and called for them; and at last he was compelled to follow them unclothed to the camping ground, where he presented himself crying piteously; but the women who had been so kind to him would not help him now, and only laughed to see how white his skin looked by contrast with the dark copper-coloured skins of the other children. At length one of them compassionately gave him a small soft-furred skin of some wild animal, and fastened it on him like a cloak; and this he was compelled to wear with shame and grief, feeling very strange and uncomfortable in it. But the feeling of discomfort in that new savage dress was nothing to the sense of injury that stung him, and in his secret heart he was determined not to lose his own clothes. When the children went out next day he followed them, watching and waiting for a chance to recover anything that belonged to him; and at last, seeing the little boy who wore his cap off his guard, he made a sudden rush, and snatching it off the young savage's head, put it firmly upon his own. But the little savage now regarded that cap as his very own: he had taken it by force or stratagem, and had worn it on his head since the day before, and that made it his property; and so at Martin he went, and they fought stoutly together, and being nearly of a size, he could not conquer the little white boy. Then he cried out to the others to help him, and they came and overthrew Martin, and deprived him not only of his cap, but of his little skin cloak as well, and then punished him until he screamed aloud with pain. Leaving him crying on the ground, they ran back to the camp. He followed shortly afterwards, but got no sympathy, for, as a rule, grown-up savages do not trouble themselves very much about these little matters: they leave their children to settle their own disputes. During the rest of that day Martin sulked by himself behind a great tussock of grass, refusing to eat with the others, and when one of the women went to him and offered him a piece of meat he struck it vindictively out of her hand. She only laughed a little and left him. Now when the sun was setting, and he was beginning to feel very cold and miserable in his nakedness, the men were seen returning from the hunt; but instead of riding slowly to the camp as on other days, they came riding furiously and shouting. The moment they were seen and their shouts heard the women jumped up and began hastily packing the skins and all their belongings into bundles; and in less than ten minutes the whole company was mounted on horseback and ready for flight. One of the men picked Martin up and placed him on the horse's back before him, and then they all started at a swift canter up the valley towards that great blue forest in the distance. In about an hour they came to it: it was then quite dark, the sky powdered with numberless stars; but when they got among the trees the blue, dusky sky and brilliant stars disappeared from sight, as if a black cloud had come over them, so dark was it in the forest. For the trees were very tall and mingled their branches overhead; but they had got into a narrow path known to them, and moving slowly in single file, they kept on for about two hours longer, then stopped and dismounted under the great trees, and lying down all close together, went to sleep. Martin, lying among them, crept under the edge of one of the large skin robes and, feeling warm, he soon fell fast asleep and did not wake till daylight. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Seven_ _Alone in the Great Forest_ Imagine to yourself one accustomed to live in the great treeless plain, accustomed to open his eyes each morning to the wide blue sky and the brilliant sunlight, now for the first time opening them in that vast gloomy forest, where neither wind nor sunlight came, and no sound was heard, and twilight lasted all day long! All round him were trees with straight, tall grey trunks, and behind and beyond them yet other trees--trees everywhere that stood motionless like pillars of stone supporting the dim green roof of foliage far above. It was like a vast gloomy prison in which he had been shut, and he longed to make his escape to where he could see the rising sun and feel the fanning wind on his cheeks. He looked round at the others: they were all stretched on the ground still in a deep sleep, and it frightened him a little to look at their great, broad, dark faces framed in masses of black hair. He felt that he hated them, for they had treated him badly: the children had taken his clothes, compelling him to go naked, and had beaten and bruised him, and he had not been pitied and helped by their elders. By and by, very quietly and cautiously he crept away from among them, and made his escape into the gloomy wood. On one side the forest shadows looked less dark than the other, and on that side he went, for it was the side on which the sun rose, and the direction he had been travelling when he first met with the savages. On and on he went, over the thick bed of dark decaying leaves, which made no rustling sound, looking like a little white ghost of a boy in that great gloomy wood. But he came to no open place, nor did he find anything to eat when hunger pressed him; for there were no sweet roots and berries there, nor any plant that he had ever seen before. It was all strange and gloomy, and very silent. Not a leaf trembled; for if one had trembled near him he would have heard it whisper in that profound stillness that made him hold his breath to listen. But sometimes at long intervals the silence would be broken by a sound that made him start and stand still and wonder what had caused it. For the rare sounds in the forest were unlike any sounds he had heard before. Three or four times during the day a burst of loud, hollow, confused laughter sounded high up among the trees; but he saw nothing, although most likely the creature that had laughed saw him plainly enough from its hiding-place in the deep shadows as it ran up the trunks of the trees. At length he came to a river about thirty or forty yards wide; and this was the same river that he had bathed in many leagues further down in the open valley. It is called by the savages Co-viota-co-chamanga, which means that it runs partly in the dark and partly in the light. Here it was in the dark. The trees grew thick and tall on its banks, and their wide branches met and intermingled above its waters that flowed on without a ripple, black to the eye as a river of ink. How strange it seemed when, holding on to a twig, he bent over and saw himself reflected--a white, naked child with a scared face--in that black mirror! Overcome by thirst, he ventured to creep down and dip his hand in the stream, and was astonished to see that the black water looked as clear as crystal in his hollow hand. After quenching his thirst he went on, following the river now, for it had made him turn aside; but after walking for an hour or more he came to a great tree that had fallen across the stream, and climbing on to the slippery trunk, he crept cautiously over and then went gladly on in the old direction. [Illustration: HOW STRANGE IT SEEMED WHEN, HOLDING ON TO A TWIG, HE BENT OVER AND SAW HIMSELF REFLECTED IN THAT BLACK MIRROR.] Now, after he had crossed the river and walked a long distance, he came to a more open part; but though it was nice to feel the sunshine on him again, the underwood and grass and creepers trailing over the ground made it difficult and tiring to walk, and in this place a curious thing happened. Picking his way through the tangled herbage, an animal his footsteps had startled scuttled away in great fear, and as it went he caught a glimpse of it. It was a kind of weasel, but very large--larger than a big tom-cat, and all over as black as the blackest cat. Looking down he discovered that this strange animal had been feasting on eggs. The eggs were nearly as large as fowls', of a deep green colour, with polished shells. There had been about a dozen in the nest, which was only a small hollow in the ground lined with dry grass, but most of them had been broken, and the contents devoured by the weasel. Only two remained entire, and these he took, and tempted by his hunger, soon broke the shells at the small end and sucked them clean. They were raw, but never had eggs, boiled, fried, or poached, tasted so nice before! He had just finished his meal, and was wishing that a third egg had remained in the ruined nest, when a slight sound like the buzzing of an insect made him look round, and there, within a few feet of him, was the big black weasel once more, looking strangely bold and savage-tempered. It kept staring fixedly at Martin out of its small, wicked, beady black eyes, and snarling so as to show its white sharp teeth; and very white they looked by contrast with the black lips, and nose, and hair. Martin stared back at it, but it kept moving and coming nearer, now sitting straight up, then dropping its fore-feet and gathering its legs in a bunch as if about to spring, and finally stretching itself straight out towards him again, its round flat head and long smooth body making it look like a great black snake crawling towards him. And all the time it kept on snarling and clicking its sharp teeth and uttering its low, buzzing growl. Martin grew more and more afraid, it looked so strong and angry, so unspeakably fierce. The creature looked as if he was speaking to Martin, saying something very easy to understand, and very dreadful to hear. This is what it seemed to be saying:-- "Ha, you came on me unawares, and startled me away from the nest I found! You have eaten the last two eggs; and I found them, and they were mine! Must I go hungry for you--starveling, robber! A miserable little boy alone and lost in the forest, naked, all scratched and bleeding with thorns, with no courage in his heart, no strength in his hands! Look at me! I am not weak, but strong and black and fierce; I live here--this is my home; I fear nothing; I am like a serpent, and like brass and tempered steel--nothing can bruise or break me: my teeth are like fine daggers; when I strike them into the flesh of any creature I never loose my hold till I have sucked out all the blood in his heart. But you, weak little wretch, I hate you! I thirst for your blood for stealing my food from me! What can you do to save yourself? Down, down on the ground, chicken-heart, where I can get hold of you! You shall pay me for the eggs with your life! I shall hold you fast by the throat, and drink and drink until I see your glassy eyes close, and your cheeks turn whiter than ashes, and I feel your heart flutter like a leaf in your bosom! Down, down!" It was terrible to watch him and seem to hear such words. He was nearer now--scarcely a yard away, still with his beady glaring eyes fixed on Martin's face: and Martin was powerless to fly from him--powerless even to stir a step or to lift a hand. His heart jumped so that it choked him, his hair stood up on his head, and he trembled so that he was ready to fall. And at last, when about to fall to the ground, in the extremity of his terror, he uttered a great scream of despair; and the sudden scream so startled the weasel, that he jumped and scuttled away as fast as he could through the creepers and bushes, making a great rustling over the dead leaves and twigs; and Martin, recovering his strength, listened to that retreating sound as it passed away into the deep shadows, until it ceased altogether. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Eight_ _The Flower and the Serpent_ His escape from the horrible black animal made Martin quite happy, in spite of hunger and fatigue, and he pushed on as bravely as ever. But it was slow going and very difficult, even painful in places, on account of the rough thorny undergrowth, where he had to push and crawl through the close bushes, and tread on ground littered with old dead prickly leaves and dead thorny twigs. After going on for about an hour in this way, he came to a stream, a branch of the river he had left, and much shallower, so that he could easily cross from side to side, and he could also see the bright pebbles under the clear swift current. The stream appeared to run from the east, the way he wished to travel towards the hills, so that he could keep by it, which he was glad enough to do, as it was nice to get a drink of water whenever he felt thirsty, and to refresh his tired and sore little feet in the stream. Following this water he came before very long to a place in the forest where there was little or no underwood, but only low trees and bushes scattered about, and all the ground moist and very green and fresh like a water-meadow. It was indeed pleasant to feel his feet on the soft carpet of grass, and stooping, he put his hands down on it, and finally lying down he rolled on it so as to have the nice sensation of the warm soft grass all over his body. So agreeable was it lying and rolling about in that open green place with the sweet sunshine on him, that he felt no inclination to get up and travel on. It was so sweet to rest after all his strivings and sufferings in that great dark forest! So sweet was it that he pretty soon fell asleep, and no doubt slept a long time, for when he woke, the sun, which had been over his head, was now far down in the west. It was very still, and the air warm and fragrant at that hour, with the sun shining through the higher branches of the trees on the green turf where he was lying. How green it was--the grass, the trees, every tiny blade and every leaf was like a piece of emerald green glass with the sun shining through it! So wonderful did it seem to him--the intense greenness, the brilliant sunbeams that shone into his eyes, and seemed to fill him with brightness, and the stillness of the forest, that he sat up and stared about him. What did it mean--that brightness and stillness? Then, at a little distance away, he caught sight of something on a tree of a shining golden yellow colour. Jumping up he ran to the tree, and found that it was half overgrown with a very beautiful climbing plant, with leaves divided like the fingers of a hand, and large flowers and fruit, both green and ripe. The ripe fruit was as big as a duck's egg, and the same shape, and of a shining yellow colour. Reaching up his hand he began to feel the smooth lovely fruit, when, being very ripe, it came off its stem into his hand. It smelt very nice, and then, in his hunger, he bit through the smooth rind with his teeth, and it tasted as nice as it looked. He quickly ate it, and then pulled another and ate that, and then another, and still others, until he could eat no more. He had not had so delicious a meal for many a long day. Not until he had eaten his fill did Martin begin to look closely at the flowers on the plant. It was the passion-flower, and he had never seen it before, and now that he looked well at it he thought it the loveliest and strangest flower he had ever beheld; not brilliant and shining, jewel-like, in the sun, like the scarlet verbena of the plains, or some yellow flower, but pale and misty, the petals being of a dim greenish cream-colour, with a large blue circle in the centre; and the blue, too, was misty like the blue haze in the distance on a summer day. To see and admire it better he reached out his hand and tried to pluck one of the flowers; then in an instant he dropped his hand, as if he had been pricked by a thorn. But there was no thorn and nothing to hurt him; he dropped his hand only because he felt that he had hurt the flower. Moving a step back he stared at it, and the flower seemed like a thing alive that looked back at him, and asked him why he had hurt it. [Illustration: HE QUICKLY ATE IT, AND THEN PULLED ANOTHER AND ATE THAT, AND THEN ANOTHER, AND STILL OTHERS, UNTIL HE COULD EAT NO MORE.] "O, poor flower!" said Martin, and, coming closer he touched it gently with his finger-tips; and then, standing on tip-toe, he touched its petals with his lips, just as his mother had often and often kissed his little hand when he had bruised it or pricked it with a thorn. Then, while still standing by the plant, on bringing his eyes down to the ground he spied a great snake lying coiled up on a bed of moss on the sunny side of the same tree where the plant was growing. He remembered the dear little snake he had once made a friend of, and he did not feel afraid, for he thought that all snakes must be friendly towards him, although this was a very big one, thicker than his arm and of a different colour. It was a pale olive-green, like the half-dry moss it was lying on, with a pattern of black and brown mottling along its back. It was lying coiled round and round, with its flat arrow-shaped head resting on its coils, and its round bright eyes fixed on Martin's face. The sun shining on its eyes made them glint like polished jewels or pieces of glass, and when Martin moved nearer and stood still, or when he drew back and went to this side or that, those brilliant glinting eyes were still on his face, and it began to trouble him, until at last he covered his face with his hands. Then he opened his fingers enough to peep through them, and still those glittering eyes were fixed on him. Martin wondered if the snake was vexed with him for coming there, and why it watched him so steadily with those shining eyes. "Will you please look some other way?" he said at last, but the snake would not, and so he turned from it, and then it seemed to him that everything was alive and watching him in the same intent way--the passion-flowers, the green leaves, the grass, the trees, the wide sky, the great shining sun. He listened, and there was no sound in the wood, not even the hum of a fly or a wild bee, and it was so still that not a leaf moved. Finally he moved away from that spot, but treading very softly, and holding his breath to listen, for it seemed to him that the forest had something to tell him, and that if he listened he would hear the leaves speaking to him. And by-and-by he did hear a sound: it came from a spot about a hundred yards away, and was like the sound of a person crying. Then came low sobs which rose and fell and then ceased, and after a silent interval began again. Perhaps it was a child, lost there in the forest like himself. Going softly to the spot he discovered that the sobbing sounds came from the other side of a low tree with wide-spread branches, a kind of acacia with thin loose foliage, but he could not see through it, and so he went round the tree to look, and startled a dove which flew off with a loud clatter of its wings. When the dove had flown away it was again very silent. What was he to do? He was too tired now to walk much farther, and the sun was getting low, so that all the ground was in shadow. He went on a little way looking for some nice shelter where he could pass the night, but could not find one. At length, when the sun had set and the dark was coming, he came upon an old half-dead tree, where there was a hollow at the roots, lined with half-dry moss, very soft to his foot, and it seemed a nice place to sleep in. But he had no choice, for he was afraid of going further in the dark among the trees; and so, creeping into the hollow among the old roots, he curled himself up as comfortably as he could, and soon began to get very drowsy, in spite of having no covering to keep him warm. But although very tired and sleepy, he did not go quite to sleep, for he had never been all alone in a wood by night before, and it was different from the open plain where he could see all round, even at night, and where he had feared nothing. Here the trees looked strange and made strange black shadows, and he thought that the strange people of the wood were perhaps now roaming about and would find him there. He did not want them to find him fast asleep; it was better to be awake, so that when they came he could jump up and run away and hide himself from them. Once or twice a slight rustling sound made him start and think that at last some one was coming to him, stealing softly so as to catch him unawares, but he could see nothing moving, and when he held his breath to listen there was no sound. Then all at once, just when he had almost dropped off, a great cry sounded at a distance, and made him start up wide awake again. "Oh look! look! look!" cried the voice in a tone so deep and strange and powerful that no one could have heard it without terror, for it seemed to be uttered by some forest monster twenty times bigger than an ordinary man. In a moment an answer came from another part of the wood. "What's that?" cried the answering voice; and then another voice cried, and then others far and near, all shouting "What's that?" and for only answer the first voice shouted once more, "O Look! Look! Look!" Poor Martin, trembling with fright, crouched lower down in his mossy bed, thinking that the awful people of the forest must have seen him, and would be upon him in a few moments. But though he stared with wide-open eyes into the gloom he could see nothing but the trees, standing silent and motionless, and no sound of approaching footsteps could he hear. After that it was silent again for a while, and he began to hope that they had given up looking for him; when suddenly, close by, sounded a loud startling "Who's that?" and he gave himself up for lost. For he was too terrified to jump up and run away, as he had thought to do: he could only lie still, his teeth chattering, his hair standing up on his head. "Who's that?" exclaimed the terrible voice once more, and then he saw a big black shape drop down from the tree above and settle on a dead branch a few feet above his hiding-place. It was a bird--a great owl, for now he could see it, sharply outlined against the clear starry sky; and the bird had seen and was peering curiously at him. And now all his fear was gone, for he could not be afraid of an owl; he had been accustomed to see owls all his life, only they were small, and this owl of the forest was as big as an eagle, and had a round head and ears like a cat, and great cat-like eyes that shone in the dark. The owl kept staring at Martin for some time, swaying his body this way and that, and lowering then raising his head so as to get a better view. And Martin, on his side, stared back at the owl, and at last he exclaimed, "O what a great big owl you are! Please say _Who's that?_ again." But before the owl said anything Martin was fast asleep in his mossy bed. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Nine_ _The Black People of the Sky_ Whether or not the great owl went on shouting _O look! look! look!_ and asking _What's that?_ and _Who's that?_ all night, Martin did not know. He was fast asleep until the morning sun shone on his face and woke him, and as he had no clothes and shoes to put on he was soon up and out. First he took a drink of water, then, feeling very hungry he went back to the place where he had found the ripe fruit and made a very good breakfast. After that he set out once more through the wood towards sunrise, still following the stream. Before long the wood became still more open, and at last to his great joy he found that he had got clear of it, and was once more on the great open plain. And now the hills were once more in sight--those great blue hills where he wished to be, looking nearer and larger than before, but they still looked blue like great banks of cloud and were a long distance away. But he was determined to get to them, to climb up their steep sides, and by and by when he found the stream bent away to the south, he left it so as to go on straight as he could to the hills. Away from the waterside the ground was higher, and very flat and covered with dry yellow grass. Over this yellow plain he walked for hours, resting at times, but finding no water and no sweet roots to quench his thirst, until he was too tired to walk any further, and so he sat down on the dry grass under that wide blue sky. There was not a cloud on it--nothing but the great globe of the sun above him; and there was no wind and no motion in the yellow grass blades, and no sight or sound of any living creature. Martin lying on his back gazed up at the blue sky, keeping his eyes from the sun, which was too bright for them, and after a time he did see something moving--a small black spot no bigger than a fly moving in a circle. But he knew it was something big, but at so great a height from the earth as to look like a fly. And then he caught sight of a second black speck, then another and another, until he could make out a dozen or twenty, or more, all moving in wide circles at that vast height. Martin thought they must be the black people of the sky; he wondered why they were black and not white, like white birds, or blue, and of other brilliant colours like the people of the Mirage. Now it was impossible for Martin to lie like that, following those small black spots on the hot blue sky as they wheeled round and round continuously, without giving his eyes a little rest by shutting them at intervals. By-and-by he kept them shut a little too long; he fell asleep, and when he woke he didn't wake fully in a moment; he remained lying motionless just as before, with eyes still closed, but the lids just raised enough to enable him to see about him. And the sight that met his eyes was very curious. He was no longer alone in that solitary place. There were people all round him, dozens and scores of little black men about two feet in height, of a very singular appearance. They had bald heads and thin hatchet faces, wrinkled and warty, and long noses; and they all wore black silk clothes--coat, waistcoat and knickerbockers, but without shoes and stockings; their thin black legs and feet were bare; nor did they have anything on their bald heads. They were gathered round Martin in a circle, but a very wide circle quite twenty to thirty feet away from him, and some were walking about, others standing alone or in groups, talking together, and all looking at Martin. Only one who appeared to be the most important person of the company kept inside the circle, and whenever one or more of the others came forward a few steps he held up his hand and begged them to go back a little. "We must not be in a hurry," he said. "We must wait." "Wait for what?" asked one. "For what may happen," said the important one. "I must ask you again to leave it to me to decide when it is time to begin." Then he strutted up and down in the open space, turning now towards his fellows and again to Martin, moving his head about to get a better sight of his face. Then, putting his hand down between his coat and waistcoat he drew out a knife with a long shining blade, and holding it from him looked attentively at it. By and by he breathed gently on the bright blade, then pulling out a black silk pocket handkerchief wiped off the stain of his breath, and turning the blade about made it glitter in the sun. Then he put it back under his coat and resumed his walk up and down. "We are getting very hungry," said one of the others at length. "Very hungry indeed!" cried another. "Some of us have not tasted food these three days." "It certainly does seem hard," said yet another, "to see our dinner before us and not be allowed to touch it." "Not so fast, my friends, I beg," exclaimed the man with the knife. "I have already explained the case, and I do think you are a little unfair in pressing me as you do." Thus rebuked they consulted together, then one of them spoke. "If, sir, you consider us unfair, or that we have not full confidence in you, would it not be as well to get some other person to take your place?" "Yes, I am ready to do that," returned the important one promptly; and here, drawing forth the knife once more, he held it out towards them. But instead of coming forward to take it they all recoiled some steps, showing considerable alarm. And then they all began protesting that they were not complaining of him, that they were satisfied with their choice, and could not have put the matter in abler hands. "I am pleased at your good opinion," said the important one. "I may tell you that I am no chicken. I first saw the light in September, 1739, and, as you know, we are now within seven months and thirteen days of the end of the first decade of the second half of the nineteenth century. You may infer from this that I have had a pretty extensive experience, and I promise you that when I come to cut the body up you will not be able to say that I have made an unfair distribution, or that any one has been left without his portion." All murmured approval, and then one of the company asked if he would be allowed to bespeak the liver for his share. "No, sir, certainly not," replied the other. "Such matters must be left to my discretion entirely, and I must also remind you that there is such a thing as the _carver's privilege_, and it is possible that in this instance he may think fit to retain the liver for his own consumption." After thus asserting himself he began to examine the blade of his knife which he still held in his hand, and to breathe gently on it, and wipe it with his handkerchief to make it shine brighter in the sun. Finally, raising his arm, he flourished it and then made two or three stabs and lunges in the air, then walking on tip-toe he advanced to Martin lying so still on the yellow grass in the midst of that black-robed company, the hot sun shining on his naked white body. The others all immediately pressed forward, craning their necks and looking highly excited: they were expecting great things; but when the man with a knife had got quite close to Martin he was seized with fear and made two or three long jumps back to where the others were; and then, recovering from his alarm, he quietly put back the knife under his coat. "We really thought you were going to begin," said one of the crowd. "Oh, no; no indeed; not just yet," said the other. "It is very disappointing," remarked one. The man with the knife turned on him and replied with dignity, "I am really surprised at such a remark after all I have said on the subject. I do wish you would consider the circumstances of the case. They are peculiar, for this person--this Martin--is not an ordinary person. We have been keeping our eyes on him for some time past, and have witnessed some remarkable actions on his part, to put it mildly. Let us keep in mind the boldness, the resource, the dangerous violence he has displayed on so many occasions since he took to his present vagabond way of life." "It appears to me," said one of the others, "that if Martin is dead we need not concern ourselves about his character and desperate deeds in the past." "_If_ he is dead!" exclaimed the other sharply. "That is the very point,--_is_ he dead? Can you confidently say that he is not in a sound sleep, or in a dead faint, or shamming and ready at the first touch of the knife to leap up and seize his assailant--I mean his carver--by the throat and perhaps murder him as he once murdered a spoonbill?" "That would be very dreadful," said one. "But surely," said another, "there are means of telling whether a person is dead or not? One simple and effectual method, which I have heard, is to place a hand over the heart to feel if it still beats." "Yes, I know, I have also heard of that plan. Very simple, as you say; but who is to try it? I invite the person who makes the suggestion to put it in practice." "With pleasure," said the other, coming forward with a tripping gait and an air of not being in the least afraid. But on coming near the supposed corpse he paused to look round at the others, then pulling out his black silk handkerchief he wiped his black wrinkled forehead and bald head. "Whew!" he exclaimed, "it's very hot today." "I don't find it so," said the man with the knife. "It is sometimes a matter of nerves." It was not a very nice remark, but it had the effect of bracing the other up, and moving forward a little more he began anxiously scrutinizing Martin's face. The others now began to press forward, but were warned by the man with a knife not to come too near. Then the bold person who had undertaken to feel Martin's heart doubled back the silk sleeve of his coat, and after some further preparation extended his arm and made two or three preliminary passes with his trembling hand at a distance of a foot or so from the breast of the corpse. Then he approached it a little nearer, but before it came to the touching point a sudden fear made him start back. "What is it? What did you see?" cried the others. "I'm not sure there wasn't a twitch of the eyelid," he replied. "Never mind the eyelid--feel his heart," said one. "That's all very well," he returned, "but how would you like it yourself? Will _you_ come and do it?" "No, no!" they all cried. "You have undertaken this, and must go through with it." Thus encouraged, he once more turned to the corpse, and again anxiously began to examine the face. Now Martin had been watching them through the slits of his not quite closed eyes all the time, and listening to their talk. Being hungry himself he could not help feeling for them, and not thinking that it would hurt him to be cut up in pieces and devoured, he had begun to wish that they would really begin on him. He was both amused and annoyed at their nervousness, and at last opening wide his eyes very suddenly he cried, "Feel my heart!" It was as if a gun had been fired among them; for a moment they were struck still with terror, and then all together turned and fled, going away with three very long hops, and then opening wide their great wings they launched themselves on the air. For they were not little black men in black silk clothes as it had seemed, but vultures--those great, high-soaring, black-plumaged birds which he had watched circling in the sky, looking no bigger than bees or flies at that vast distance above the earth. And when he was watching them they were watching him, and after he had fallen asleep they continued moving round and round in the sky for hours, and seeing him lying so still on the plain they at last imagined that he was dead, and one by one they closed or half-closed their wings and dropped, gliding downwards, growing larger in appearance as they neared the ground, until the small black spots no bigger than flies were seen to be great black birds as big as turkeys. But you see Martin was not dead after all, and so they had to go away without their dinner. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Ten_ _A Troop of Wild Horses_ It seemed so lonely to Martin when the vultures had gone up out of sight in the sky, so silent and solitary on that immense level plain, that he could not help wishing them back for the sake of company. They were an amusing people when they were walking round him, conversing together, and trying without coming too near to discover whether he was dead or only sleeping. All that day it was just as lonely, for though he went on as far as he could before night, he was still on that great level plain of dry yellow grass which appeared to have no end, and the blue hills looked no nearer than when he had started in the morning. He was hungry and thirsty that evening, and very cold too when he nestled down on the ground with nothing to cover him but the little heap of dry grass he had gathered for his bed. It was better next day, for after walking two or three hours he came to the end of that yellow plain to higher ground, where the earth was sandy and barren, with a few scattered bushes growing on it--dark, prickly bushes like butcher's broom. When he got to the highest part of this barren ground he saw a green valley beyond, stretching away as far as he could see on either hand. But it was nice to see a green place again, and going down into the valley he managed to find some sweet roots to stay his hunger and thirst; then, after a rest, he went on again, and when he got to the top of the high ground beyond the valley, he saw another valley before him, just like the one he had left behind. Again he rested in that green place, and then slowly went up the high land beyond, where it was barren and sandy with the dark stiff prickly bushes growing here and there, and when he got to the top he looked down, and behold! there was yet another green valley stretching away to the right and left as far as he could see. Would they never end--these high barren ridges and the long green valleys between! When he toiled slowly up out of this last green resting-place it was growing late in the day, and he was very tired. Then he came to the top of another ridge like the others, only higher and more barren, and when he could see the country beyond, lo! another valley, greener and broader than those he had left behind, and a river flowing in it, looking like a band of silver lying along the green earth--a river too broad for him to cross, stretching away north and south as far as he could see. How then should he ever be able to get to the hills, still far, far away beyond that water? Martin stared at the scene before him for some time; then, feeling very tired and weak, he sat down on the sandy ground beside a scanty dark bush. Tears came to his eyes: he felt them running down his cheeks; and all at once he remembered how long before when his wandering began, he had dropped a tear, and a small dusty beetle had refreshed himself by drinking it. He bent down and let a tear drop, and watched it as it sank into the ground, but no small beetle came out to drink it, and he felt more lonely and miserable than ever. He began to think of all the queer creatures and people he had met in the desert, and to wish for them. Some of them had not been very kind, but he did not remember that now, it was so sad to be quite alone in the world without even a small beetle to visit him. He remembered the beautiful people of the Mirage and the black people of the sky; and the ostrich, and old Jacob, and the savages, and the serpent, and the black weasel in the forest. He stood up and stared all round to see if anything was coming, but he could see nothing and hear nothing. By-and-by, in that deep silence, there was a sound; it seemed to come from a great distance, it was so faint. Then it grew louder and nearer; and far away he saw a little cloud of dust, and then, even through the dust, dark forms coming swiftly towards him. The sound he heard was like a long halloo, a cry like the cry of a man, but wild and shrill, like a bird's cry; and whenever that cry was uttered, it was followed by a strange confused noise as of the neighing of many horses. They were, in truth, horses that were coming swiftly towards him--a herd of sixty or seventy wild horses. He could see and hear them only too plainly now, looking very terrible in their strength and speed, and the flowing black manes that covered them like a black cloud, as they came thundering on, intending perhaps to sweep over him and trample him to death with their iron-hard hoofs. All at once, when they were within fifty yards of Martin, the long, shrill, wild cry went up again, and the horses swerved to one side, and went sweeping round him in a wide circle. Then, as they galloped by, he caught sight of the strangest-looking being he had ever seen, a man, on the back of one of the horses; naked and hairy, he looked like a baboon as he crouched, doubled up, gripping the shoulders and neck of the horse with his knees, clinging with his hands to the mane, and craning his neck like a flying bird. It was this strange rider who had uttered the long piercing man-and-bird-like cries; and now changing his voice to a whinnying sound the horses came to a stop, and gathering together in a crowd they stood tossing their manes and staring at Martin with their wild, startled eyes. In another moment the wild rider came bounding out from among them, and moving now erect, now on all fours, came sideling up to Martin, flinging his arms and legs about, wagging his head, grimacing and uttering whinnying and other curious noises. Never had Martin looked upon so strange a man! He was long and lean so that you could have counted his ribs, and he was stark naked, except for the hair of his head and face, which half covered him. His skin was of a yellowish brown colour, and the hair the colour of old dead grass; and it was coarse and tangled, falling over his shoulders and back and covering his forehead like a thatch, his big brown nose standing out beneath it like a beak. The face was covered with the beard which was tangled too, and grew down to his waist. After staring at Martin for some time with his big, yellow, goat-like eyes, he pranced up to him and began to sniff round him, then touched him with his nose on his face, arms, and shoulders. "Who are you?" said Martin in astonishment. For only answer the other squealed and whinnied, grimacing and kicking his legs up at the same time. Then the horses advanced to them, and gathering round in a close crowd began touching Martin with their noses. He liked it--the softness of their sensitive skins, which were like velvet, and putting up his hands he began to stroke their noses. Then one by one, after smelling him, and being touched by his hand, they turned away, and going down into the valley were soon scattered about, most of them grazing, some rolling, others lying stretched out on the grass as if to sleep; while the young foals in the troop, leaving their dams, began playing about and challenging one another to run a race. Martin, following and watching them, almost wished that he too could go on four legs to join them in their games. He trusted those wild horses, but he was still puzzled by that strange man, who had also left him now and was going quietly round on all fours, smelling at the grass. By-and-by he found something to his liking in a small patch of tender green clover, which he began nosing and tearing it up with his teeth, then turning his head round he stared back at Martin, his jaws working vigorously all the time, the stems and leaves of the clover he was eating sticking out from his mouth and hanging about his beard. All at once he jumped up, and flying back at Martin, snatched him up from the ground, carried him to the clover patch, and set him upon it, face down, on all fours; then when Martin sat up he grasped him by the head and forced it down until his nose was on the grass so as to make him smell it and know that it was good. But smell it he would not, and finally the other seized him roughly again and opening his mouth, forced a bunch of grass into it. "It's grass, and I sha'n't eat it!" screamed Martin, crying with anger at being so treated, and spewing the green stuff out of his mouth. Then the man released him, and withdrawing a space of two or three yards, sat down on his haunches, and, planting his bony elbows on his knees thrust his great brown fingers in his tangled hair, and stared at Martin with his big yellow goat's eyes for a long time. Suddenly a wild excited look came into his eyes, and, leaping up with a shrill cry, which caused all the horses to look round at him, he once more snatched Martin up, and holding him firmly gripped to his ribby side by his arm, bounded off to where a mare was standing giving suck to her young foal. With a vigorous kick he sent the foal away, and forced Martin to take his place, and, to make it easier for him, pressed the teat into his mouth. Martin was not accustomed to feed in that way, and he not only refused to suck, but continued to cry with indignation at such treatment, and to struggle with all his little might to free himself. His striving was all in vain; and by-and-by the man, seeing that he would not suck, had a fresh idea, and, gripping Martin more firmly than ever, with one hand forced and held his mouth open, and with the other drew a stream of milk into it. After choking and spluttering and crying more than ever for a while, Martin began to grow quiet, and to swallow the milk with some satisfaction, for he was very hungry and thirsty, and it tasted very good. By-and-by, when no more milk could be drawn from the teats, he was taken to a second mare, from which the foal was kicked away with as little ceremony as the first one, and then he had as much more milk as he wanted, and began to like being fed in this amusing way. Of what happened after that Martin did not know much, except that the man seemed very happy after feeding him. He set Martin on the back of a horse, then jumped and danced round him, making funny chuckling noises, after which he rolled horse-like on the grass, his arms and legs up in the air, and finally, pulling Martin down, he made him roll too. But the little fellow was too tired to keep his eyes any longer open, and when he next opened them it was morning, and he found himself lying wedged in between a mare and her young foal lying side by side close together. There too was the wild man, coiled up like a sleeping dog, his head pillowed on the foal's neck, and the hair of his great shaggy beard thrown like a blanket over Martin. He very soon grew accustomed to the new strange manner of life, and even liked it. Those big, noble-looking wild horses, with their shining coats, brown and bay and black and sorrel and chestnut, and their black manes and tails that swept the grass when they moved, were so friendly to him that he could not help loving them. As he went about among them when they grazed, every horse he approached would raise his head and touch his face and arms with his nose. "O you dear horse!" Martin would exclaim, rubbing the warm, velvet-soft, sensitive nose with his hand. [Illustration: THEN THE WILD MAN, CATCHING MARTIN UP, LEAPED UPON THE BACK OF ONE OF THE HORSES.] He soon discovered that they were just as fond of play as he was, and that he too was to take part in their games. Having fed as long as they wanted that morning, they all at once began to gather together, coming at a gallop, neighing shrilly; then the wild man, catching Martin up, leaped upon the back of one of the horses, and away went the whole troop at a furious pace to the great open dry plain, where Martin had met with them on the previous day. Now it was very terrifying for him at first to be in the midst of that flying crowd, as the animals went tearing over the plain, which seemed to shake beneath their thundering hoofs, while their human leader cheered them on with his shrill, repeated cries. But in a little while he too caught the excitement, and, losing all his fear, was as wildly happy as the others, crying out at the top of his voice in imitation of the wild man. After an hour's run they returned to the valley, and then Martin, without being compelled to do so, rolled about on the grass, and went after the young foals when they came out to challenge one another to a game. He tried to do as they did, prancing and throwing up his heels and snorting, but when they ran from him they soon left him hopelessly behind. Meanwhile the wild man kept watch over him, feeding him with mare's milk, and inviting him from time to time to smell and taste the tender grass. Best of all was, when they went for another run in the evening, and when Martin was no longer held with a tight grip against the man's side, but was taught or allowed to hold on, clinging with his legs to the man's body and clasping him round the neck with his arms, his fingers tightly holding on to the great shaggy beard. Three days passed in this way, and if his time had been much longer with the wild horses he would have become one of the troop, and would perhaps have eaten grass too, and forgotten his human speech, or that he was a little boy born to a very different kind of life. But it was not to be, and in the end he was separated from the troop by accident. At the end of the third day, when the sun was setting, and all the horses were scattered about in the valley, quietly grazing, something disturbed them. It might have been a sight or sound of some feared object, or perhaps the wind had brought the smell of their enemies and hunters from a great distance to their nostrils. Suddenly they were all in a wild commotion, galloping from all sides toward their leader, and he, picking Martin up, was quickly on a horse, and off they went full speed, but not towards the plain where they were accustomed to go for their runs. Now they fled in the opposite direction down to the river: into it they went, into that wide, deep, dangerous current, leaping from the bank, each horse, as he fell into the water with a tremendous splash, disappearing from sight; but in another moment the head and upper part of the neck was seen to rise above the surface, until the whole lot were in, and appeared to Martin like a troop of horses' heads swimming without bodies over the river. He, clinging to the neck and beard of the wild man, had the upper half of his body out of the cold, rushing water, and in this way they all got safely across and up the opposite bank. No sooner were they out, than, without even pausing to shake the water from their skins, they set off at full speed across the valley towards the distant hills. Now on this side, at a distance of a mile or so from the river, there were vast reed-beds standing on low land, dried to a hard crust by the summer heat, and right into the reeds the horses rushed and struggled to force their way through. The reeds were dead and dry, so tall that they rose high above the horses' heads, and growing so close together that it was hard to struggle through them. Then when they were in the midst of this difficult place, the dry crust that covered the low ground began to yield to the heavy hoofs, and the horses, sinking to their knees, were thrown down and plunged about in the most desperate way, and in the midst of this confusion Martin was struck and thrown from his place, falling amongst the reeds. Luckily he was not trampled upon, but he was left behind, and then what a dreadful situation was his, when the whole troop had at last succeeded in fighting their way through, and had gone away leaving him in that dark, solitary place! He listened until the sound of heavy hoofs and the long cries of the man had died away in the distance; then the silence and darkness terrified him, and he struggled to get out, but the reeds grew so close together that before he had pushed a dozen yards through them he sank down, unable to do more. The air was hot and close and still down there on the ground, but by leaning his head back, and staring straight up he could see the pale night sky sprinkled with stars in the openings between the dry leaves and spikes of the reeds. Poor Martin could do nothing but gaze up at the little he could see of the sky in that close, black place, until his neck ached with the strain; but at last, to make him hope, he heard a sound--the now familiar long shrill cry of the wild man. Then, as it came nearer, the sound of tramping hoofs and neighing of the horses was heard, and the cries and hoof-beats grew louder and then fainter in turns, and sounded now on this side, now on that, and he knew that they were looking for him. "I'm here, I'm here," he cried; "oh, dear horses, come and take me away!" But they could not hear him, and at last the sound of their neighing and the wild long cries died away altogether, and Martin was left alone in that black silent place. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Eleven_ _The Lady of the Hills_ No escape was possible for poor little Martin so long as it was dark, and there he had to stay all night, but morning brought him comfort; for now he could see the reed-stems that hemmed him in all round, and by using his hands to bend them from him on either side he could push through them. By-and-by the sunlight touched the tops of the tall plants, and working his way towards the side from which the light came he soon made his escape from that prison, and came into a place where he could walk without trouble, and could see the earth and sky again. Further on, in a grassy part of the valley, he found some sweet roots which greatly refreshed him, and at last, leaving the valley, he came out on a high grassy plain, and saw the hills before him looking very much nearer than he had ever seen them look before. Up till now they had appeared like masses of dark blue banked up cloud resting on the earth, now he could see that they were indeed stone--blue stone piled up in huge cliffs and crags high above the green world; he could see the roughness of the heaped up rocks, the fissures and crevices in the sides of the hills, and here and there the patches of green colour where trees and bushes had taken root. How wonderful it seemed to Martin that evening standing there in the wide green plain, the level sun at his back shining on his naked body, making him look like a statue of a small boy carved in whitest marble or alabaster. Then, to make the sight he gazed on still more enchanting, just as the sun went down the colour of the hills changed from stone blue to a purple that was like the purple of ripe plums and grapes, only more beautiful and bright. In a few minutes the purple colour faded away and the hills grew shadowy and dark. It was too late in the day, and he was too tired to walk further. He was very hungry and thirsty too, and so when he had found a few small white partridge-berries and had made a poor supper on them, he gathered some dry grass into a little heap, and lying down in it, was soon in a sound sleep. It was not until the late afternoon next day that Martin at last got to the foot of the hill, or mountain, and looking up he saw it like a great wall of stone above him, with trees and bushes and trailing vines growing out of the crevices and on the narrow ledges of the rock. Going some distance he came to a place where he could ascend, and here he began slowly walking upwards. At first he could hardly contain his delight where everything looked new and strange, and here he found some very beautiful flowers; but as he toiled on he grew more tired and hungry at every step, and then, to make matters worse, his legs began to pain so that he could hardly lift them. It was a curious pain which he had never felt in his sturdy little legs before in all his wanderings. Then a cloud came over the sun, and a sharp wind sprang up that made him shiver with cold: then followed a shower of rain; and now Martin, feeling sore and miserable, crept into a cavity beneath a pile of overhanging rocks for shelter. He was out of the rain there, but the wind blew in on him until it made his teeth chatter with cold. He began to think of his mother, and of all the comforts of his lost home--the bread and milk when he was hungry, the warm clothing, and the soft little bed with its snowy white coverlid in which he had slept so sweetly every night. "O mother, mother!" he cried, but his mother was too far off to hear his piteous cry. When the shower was over he crept out of his shelter again, and with his little feet already bleeding from the sharp rocks, tried to climb on. In one spot he found some small, creeping, myrtle plants covered with ripe white berries, and although they had a very pungent taste he ate his fill of them, he was so very hungry. Then feeling that he could climb no higher, he began to look round for a dry, sheltered spot to pass the night in. In a little while he came to a great, smooth, flat stone that looked like a floor in a room, and was about forty yards wide: nothing grew on it except some small tufts of grey lichen; but on the further side, at the foot of a steep, rocky precipice, there was a thick bed of tall green and yellow ferns, and among the ferns he hoped to find a place to lie down in. Very slowly he limped across the open space, crying with the pain he felt at every step; but when he reached the bed of ferns he all at once saw, sitting among the tall fronds on a stone, a strange-looking woman in a green dress, who was gazing very steadily at him with eyes full of love and compassion. At her side there crouched a big yellow beast, covered all over with black, eye-like spots, with a big round head, and looking just like a cat, but a hundred times larger than the biggest cat he had ever seen. The animal rose up with a low sound like a growl, and glared at Martin with its wide, yellow, fiery eyes, which so terrified him that he dared not move another step until the woman, speaking very gently to him, told him not to fear. She caressed the great beast, making him lie down again; then coming forward and taking Martin by the hand, she drew him up to her knees. "What is your name, poor little suffering child?" she asked, bending down to him, and speaking softly. "Martin--what's yours?" he returned, still half sobbing, and rubbing his eyes with his little fists. "I am called the Lady of the Hills, and I live here alone in the mountain. Tell me, why do you cry, Martin?" "Because I'm so cold, and--and my legs hurt so, and--and because I want to go back to my mother. She's over there," said he, with another sob, pointing vaguely to the great plain beneath their feet, extending far, far away into the blue distance, where the crimson sun was now setting. "I will be your mother, and you shall live with me here on the mountain," she said, caressing his little cold hands with hers. "Will you call me mother?" "You are _not_ my mother," he returned warmly. "I don't want to call you mother." "When I love you so much, dear child?" she pleaded, bending down until her lips were close to his averted face. "How that great spotted cat stares at me!" he suddenly said. "Do you think it will kill me?" "No, no, he only wants to play with you. Will you not even look at me, Martin?" He still resisted her, but her hand felt very warm and comforting--it was such a large, warm, protecting hand. So pleasant did it feel that after a little while he began to move his hand up her beautiful, soft, white arm until it touched her hair. For her hair was unbound and loose; it was dark, and finer than the finest spun silk, and fell all over her shoulders and down her back to the stone she sat on. He let his fingers stray in and out among it; and it felt like the soft, warm down that lines a little bird's nest to his skin. Finally, he touched her neck and allowed his hand to rest there, it was such a soft, warm neck. At length, but reluctantly, for his little rebellious heart was not yet wholly subdued, he raised his eyes to her face. Oh, how beautiful she was! Her love and eager desire to win him had flushed her clear olive skin with rich red colour; out of her sweet red lips, half parted, came her warm breath on his cheek, more fragrant than wild flowers; and her large dark eyes were gazing down into his with such a tenderness in them that Martin, seeing it, felt a strange little shudder pass through him, and scarcely knew whether to think it pleasant or painful. "Dear child, I love you so much," she spoke, "will you not call me mother?" Dropping his eyes and with trembling lips, feeling a little ashamed at being conquered at last, he whispered "Mother." She raised him in her arms and pressed him to her bosom, wrapping her hair like a warm mantle round him; and in less than one minute, overcome by fatigue, he fell fast asleep in her arms. [Illustration] [Illustration: SHE RAISED HIM IN HER ARMS AND PRESSED HIM TO HER BOSOM, WRAPPING HER HAIR LIKE A WARM MANTLE AROUND HIM.] [Illustration] _Chapter Twelve_ _The Little People Underground_ When he awoke Martin found himself lying on a soft downy bed in a dim stone chamber, and feeling silky hair over his cheek and neck and arms, he knew that he was still with his new strange mother, the beautiful Lady of the Mountain. She, seeing him awake, took him up in her arms, and holding him against her bosom, carried him through a long winding stone passage, and out into the bright morning sunlight. There by a small spring of clearest water that gushed from the rock she washed his scratched and bruised skin, and rubbed it with sweet-smelling unguents, and gave him food and drink. The great spotted beast sat by them all the time, purring like a cat, and at intervals he tried to entice Martin to leave the woman's lap and play with him. But she would not let him out of her arms: all day she nursed and fondled him as if he had been a helpless babe instead of the sturdy little run-away and adventurer he had proved himself to be. She also made him tell her the story of how he had got lost and of all the wonderful things that had happened to him in his wanderings in the wilderness--the people of the Mirage, and old Jacob and the savages, the great forest, the serpent, the owl, the wild horses and wild man, and the black people of the sky. But it was of the Mirage and the procession of lovely beings about which he spoke most and questioned her. "Do you think it was all a dream?" he kept asking her, "the Queen and all those people?" She was vexed at the question, and turning her face away, refused to answer him. For though at all other times, and when he spoke of other things, she was gentle and loving in her manner, the moment he spoke of the Queen of the Mirage and the gifts she had bestowed on him, she became impatient, and rebuked him for saying such foolish things. At length she spoke and told him that it was a dream, a very very idle dream, a dream that was not worth dreaming; that he must never speak of it again, never think of it, but forget it, just as he had forgotten all the other vain silly dreams he had ever had. And having said this much a little sharply, she smiled again and fondled him, and promised that when he next slept he should have a good dream, one worth the dreaming, and worth remembering and talking about. She held him away from her, seating him on her knees, to look at his face, and said, "For oh, dear little Martin, you are lovely and sweet to look at, and you are mine, my own sweet child, and so long as you live with me on the hills, and love me and call me mother, you shall be happy, and everything you see, sleeping and walking, shall seem strange and beautiful." It was quite true that he was sweet to look at, very pretty with his rosy-white skin deepening to red on his cheeks; and his hair curling all over his head was of a bright golden chestnut colour; and his eyes were a very bright blue, and looked keen and straight at you just like a bird's eyes, that seem to be thinking of nothing, and yet seeing everything. After this Martin was eager to go to sleep at once and have the promised dream, but his very eagerness kept him wide awake all day, and even after going to bed in that dim chamber in the heart of the hill, it was a long time before he dropped off. But he did not know that he had fallen asleep: it seemed to him that he was very wide awake, and that he heard a voice speaking in the chamber, and that he started up to listen to it. "Do you not know that there are things just as strange underground as above it?" said the voice. Martin could not see the speaker, but he answered quite boldly: "No--there's nothing underground except earth and worms and roots. I've seen it when they've been digging." "Oh, but there is!" said the voice. "You can see for yourself. All you've got to do is to find a path leading down, and to follow it. There's a path over there just in front of you; you can see the opening from where you are lying." He looked, and sure enough there _was_ an opening, and a dim passage running down through the solid rock. Up he jumped, fired at the prospect of seeing new and wonderful things, and without looking any more to see who had spoken to him, he ran over to it. The passage had a smooth floor of stone, and sloped downward into the earth, and went round and round in an immense spiral; but the circles were so wide that Martin scarcely knew that he was not travelling in a straight line. Have you by chance ever seen a buzzard, or stork, or vulture, or some other great bird, soaring upwards into the sky in wide circles, each circle taking it higher above the earth, until it looked like a mere black speck in the vast blue heavens, and at length disappeared altogether? Just in that way, going round and round in just such wide circles, lightly running all the time, with never a pause to rest, and without feeling in the least tired, Martin went on, only down and down and further down, instead of up and up like the soaring bird, until he was as far under the mountain as ever any buzzard or crane or eagle soared above it. [Illustration: FOR A MOMENT OR TWO HE WAS TEMPTED TO TURN AND RUN BACK INTO THE PASSAGE THROUGH WHICH HE HAD COME.] Thus running he came at last out of the passage to an open room or space so wide that, look which way he would, he could see no end to it. The stone roof of this place was held up by huge stone pillars standing scattered about like groups of great rough-barked trees, many times bigger round than hogsheads. Here and there in the roof, or the stone overhead, were immense black caverns which almost frightened him to gaze up at them, they were so vast and black. And no light or sun or moon came down into that deep part of the earth: the light was from big fires, and they were fires of smithies burning all about him, sending up great flames and clouds of black smoke, which rose and floated upwards through those big black caverns in the roof. Crowds of people were gathered around the smithies, all very busy heating metal and hammering on anvils like blacksmiths. Never had he seen so many people, nor ever had he seen such busy men as these, rushing about here and there shouting and colliding with one another, bringing and carrying huge loads in baskets on their backs, and altogether the sight of them, and the racket and the smoke and dust, and the blazing fires, was almost too much for Martin; and for a moment or two he was tempted to turn and run back into the passage through which he had come. But the strangeness of it all kept him there, and then he began to look more closely at the people, for these were the little men that live under the earth, and they were unlike anything he had seen on its surface. They were very stout, strong-looking little men, dressed in coarse dark clothes, covered with dust and grime, and they had dark faces, and long hair, and rough, unkempt beards; they had very long arms and big hands, like baboons, and there was not one among them who looked taller than Martin himself. After looking at them he did not feel at all afraid of them; he only wanted very much to know who they were, and what they were doing, and why they were so excited and noisy over their work. So he thrust himself among them, going to the smithies where they were in crowds, and peering curiously at them. Then he began to notice that his coming among them created a great commotion, for no sooner would he appear than all work would be instantly suspended; down would go their baskets and loads of wood, their hammers and implements of all kinds, and they would stare and point at him, all jabbering together, so that the noise was as if a thousand cockatoos and parrots and paroquets were all screaming at once. What it was all about he could not tell, as he could not make out what they said; he could only see, and plainly enough, that his presence astonished and upset them, for as he went about among them they fell back before him, crowding together, and all staring and pointing at him. But at length he began to make out what they were saying; they were all exclaiming and talking about him. "Look at him! look at him!" they cried. "Who is he? What, Martin--this Martin? Never. No, no, no! Yes, yes, yes! Martin himself--Martin with nothing on! Not a shred--not a thread! Impossible--it cannot be! Nothing so strange has ever happened! _Naked_--do you say that Martin is naked? Oh, dreadful--from the crown of his head to his toes, naked as he was born! No clothes--no clothes--oh no, it can't be Martin. It is, it is!" And so on and on, until Martin could not endure it longer, for he had been naked for days and days, and had ceased to think about it, and in fact did not know that he was naked. And now hearing their remarks, and seeing how they were disturbed, he looked down at himself and saw that it was indeed so--that he had nothing on, and he grew ashamed and frightened, and thought he would run and hide himself from them in some hole in the ground. But there was no place to hide in, for now they had gathered all round him in a vast crowd, so that whichever way he turned there before him they appeared--hundreds and hundreds of dark, excited faces, hundreds of grimy hands all pointing at him. Then, all at once, he caught sight of an old rag of a garment lying on the ground among the ashes and cinders, and he thought he would cover himself with it, and picking it hastily up was just going to put it round him when a great roar of "No!" burst out from the crowd; he was almost deafened with the sound, so that he stood trembling with the old dirty rag of cloth in his hand. Then one of the little men came up to him, and snatching the rag from his hand, flung it angrily down upon the floor; then as if afraid of remaining so near Martin, he backed away into the crowd again. Just then Martin heard a very low voice close to his ear speaking to him, but when he looked round he could see no person near him. He knew it was the same voice which had spoken to him in the cave where he slept, and had told him to go down into that place underground. "Do not fear," said the gentle voice to Martin. "Say to the little men that you have lost your clothes, and ask them for something to put on." Then Martin, who had covered his face with his hands to shut out the sight of the angry crowd, took courage, and looking at them, said, half sobbing, "O, Little Men, I've lost my clothes--won't you give me something to put on?" This speech had a wonderful effect: instantly there was a mighty rush, all the Little Men hurrying away in all directions, shouting and tumbling over each other in their haste to get away, and by-and-by it looked to Martin as if they were having a great struggle or contest over something. They were all struggling to get possession of a small closed basket, and it was like a game of football with hundreds of persons all playing, all fighting for possession of the ball. At length one of them succeeded in getting hold of the basket and escaping from all the others who opposed him, and running to Martin he threw it down at his feet, and lifting the lid displayed to his sight a bundle of the most beautiful clothes ever seen by child or man. With a glad cry Martin pulled them out, but the next moment a very important-looking Little Man, with a great white beard, sprang forward and snatched them out of his hand. "No, no," he shouted. "These are not fit for Martin to wear! They will soil!" Saying which, he flung them down on that dusty floor with its litter of cinders and dirt, and began to trample on them as if in a great passion. Then he snatched them up again and shook them, and all could see that they were unsoiled and just as bright and beautiful as before. Then Martin tried to take them from him, but the other would not let him. "Never shall Martin wear such poor clothes," shouted the old man. "They will not even keep out the wet," and with that he thrust them into a great tub of water, and jumping in began treading them down with his feet. But when he pulled them out again and shook them before their faces, all saw that they were as dry and bright as before. "Give them to me!" cried Martin, thinking that it was all right now. "Never shall Martin wear such poor clothes--they will not resist fire," cried the old man, and into the flames he flung them. Martin now gave up all hopes of possessing them, and was ready to burst into tears at their loss, when out of the fire they were pulled again, and it was seen that the flames had not injured or tarnished them in the least. Once more Martin put out his arms and this time he was allowed to take those beautiful clothes, and then just as he clasped them to him with a cry of delight he woke! His head was lying on his new mother's arm, and she was awake watching him. "O, mother, what a nice dream I had! O such pretty clothes--why did I wake so soon?" She laughed and touched his arms, showing him that they were still clasping that beautiful suit of clothes to his breast--the very clothes of his wonderful dream! [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Thirteen_ _The Great Blue Water_ There was not in all that land, nor perhaps in all the wide world, a happier little boy than Martin, when after waking from his sleep and dream he dressed himself for the first time in that new suit, and went out from the cave into the morning sunlight. He then felt the comfort of such clothes, for they were softer than the finest, softest down or silk to his skin, and kept him warm when it was cold, and cool when it was hot, and dry when it rained on him, and the earth could not soil them, nor the thorns tear them; and above everything they were the most beautiful clothes ever seen. Their colour was a deep moss green, or so it looked at a little distance, or when seen in the shade, but in the sunshine it sparkled as if small, shining, many-coloured beads had been sewn in the cloth; only there were no beads; it was only the shining threads that made it sparkle so, like clean sand in the sun. When you looked closely at the cloth, you could see the lovely pattern woven in it--small leaf and flower, the leaves like moss leaves, and the flowers like the pimpernel, but not half so big, and they were yellow and red and blue and violet in colour. But there were many, many things besides the lovely clothes to make him contented and happy. First, the beautiful woman of the hills who loved and cherished him and made him call her by the sweet name of "mother" so many times every day that he well nigh forgot she was not his real mother. Then there was the great stony hillside on which he now lived for a playground, where he could wander all day among the rocks, overgrown with creepers and strange sweet-smelling flowers he had never seen on the plain below. The birds and butterflies he saw there were different from those he had always seen; so were the snakes which he often found sleepily coiled up on the rocks, and the little swift lizards. Even the water looked strange and more beautiful than the water in the plain, for here it gushed out of the living rock, sparkling like crystal in the sun, and was always cold when he dipped his hands in it even on the hottest days. Perhaps the most wonderful thing was the immense distance he could see, when he looked away from the hillside across the plain and saw the great dark forest where he had been, and the earth stretching far, far away beyond. Then there was his playmate, the great yellow-spotted cat, who followed him about and was always ready for a frolic, playing in a very curious way. Whenever Martin would prepare to take a running leap, or a swift run down a slope, the animal, stealing quietly up behind, would put out a claw from his big soft foot--a great white claw as big as an owl's beak--and pull him suddenly back. At last Martin would lose his temper, and picking up a stick would turn on his playmate; and away the animal would fly, pretending to be afraid, and going over bushes and big stones with tremendous leaps to disappear from sight on the mountain side. But very soon he would steal secretly back by some other way to spring upon Martin unawares and roll him over and over on the ground, growling as if angry, and making believe to worry him with his great white teeth, although never really hurting him in the least. He played with Martin just as a cat plays with its kitten when it pretends to punish it. When ever Martin began to show the least sign of weariness the Lady of the Hills would call him to her. Then, lying back among the ferns, she would unbind her long silky tresses to let him play with them, for this was always a delight to him. Then she would gather her hair up again and dress it with yellow flowers and glossy dark green leaves to make herself look more lovely than ever. At other times, taking him on her shoulders, she would bound nimbly as a wild goat up the steepest places, springing from crag to crag, and dancing gaily along the narrow ledges of rock, where it made him dizzy to look down. Then when the sun was near setting, when long shadows from rocks and trees began to creep over the mountain, and he had eaten the fruits and honey and other wild delicacies she provided, she would make him lie on her bosom. Playing with her loose hair and listening to her singing as she rocked herself on a stone, he would presently fall asleep. In the morning on waking he would always find himself lying still clasped to her breast in that great dim cavern; and almost always when he woke he would find her crying. Sometimes on opening his eyes he would find her asleep, but with traces of tears on her face, showing that she had been awake and crying. One afternoon, seeing him tired of play and hard to amuse, she took him in her arms and carried him right up the side of the mountain, where it grew so steep that even the big cat could not follow them. Finally she brought him out on the extreme summit, and looking round he seemed to see the whole world spread out beneath him. Below, half-way down, there were some wild cattle feeding on the mountain side, and they looked at that distance no bigger than mice. Looking eastwards he beheld just beyond the plain a vast expanse of blue water extending leagues and leagues away until it faded into the blue sky. He shouted with joy when he saw it, and could not take his eyes from this wonderful world of water. "Take me there--take me there!" he cried. She only shook her head and tried to laugh him out of such a wish; but by-and-by when she attempted to carry him back down the mountain he refused to move from the spot; nor would he speak to her nor look up into her pleading face, but kept his eyes fixed on that distant blue ocean which had so enchanted him. For it seemed to Martin the most wonderful thing he had ever beheld. At length it began to grow cold on the summit; then with gentle caressing words she made him turn and look to the opposite side of the heavens, where the sun was just setting behind a great mass of clouds--dark purple and crimson, rising into peaks that were like hills of rose-coloured pearl, and all the heavens beyond them a pale primrose-coloured flame. Filled with wonder at all this rich and varied colour he forgot the ocean for a moment, and uttered an exclamation of delight. "Do you know, dear Martin," said she, "what we should find there, where it all looks so bright and beautiful, if I had wings and could fly with you, clinging to my bosom like a little bat clinging to its mother when she flies abroad in the twilight?" "What?" asked Martin. "Only dark dark clouds full of rain and cutting hail and thunder and lightning. That is how it is with the sea, Martin: it makes you love it when you see it at a distance; but oh, it is cruel and treacherous, and when it has once got you in its power then it is more terrible than the thunder and lightning in the cloud. Do you remember, when you first came to me, naked, shivering with cold, with your little bare feet blistered and bleeding from the sharp stones, how I comforted you with my love, and you found it warm and pleasant lying on my breast? The sea will not comfort you in that way; it will clasp you to a cold, cold breast, and kiss you with bitter salt lips, and carry you down where it is always dark, where you will never never see the blue sky and sunshine and flowers again." Martin shivered and nestled closer to her; and then while the shadows of evening were gathering round them, she sat rocking herself to and fro on a stone, murmuring many tender, sweet words to him, until the music of her voice and the warmth of her bosom made him sleep. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Fourteen_ _The Wonders of the Hills_ Now, although Martin had gone very comfortably to sleep in her arms and found it sweet to be watched over so tenderly, he was not the happy little boy he had been before the sight of the distant ocean. And she knew it, and was troubled in her mind, and anxious to do something to make him forget that great blue water. She could do many things, and above all she could show him new and wonderful things in the hills where she wished to keep him always with her. To caress him, to feed and watch over him by day, and hold him in her arms when he slept at night--all that was less to him than the sight of something new and strange; she knew this well, and therefore determined to satisfy his desire and make his life so full that he would always be more than contented with it. In the morning he went out on the hillside, wandering listlessly among the rocks, and when the big cat found him there and tried to tempt him to a game he refused to play, for he had not yet got over his disappointment, and could think of nothing but the sea. But the cat did not know that anything was the matter with him, and was more determined to play than ever; crouching now here, now there among the stones and bushes, he would spring out upon Martin and pull him down with its big paws, and this so enraged him that picking up a stick he struck furiously at his tormentor. But the cat was too quick for him; he dodged the blows, then knocked the stick out of his hand, and finally Martin, to escape from him, crept into a crevice in a rock where the cat could not reach him, and refused to come out even when the Lady of the Hills came to look for him and begged him to come to her. When at last, compelled by hunger, he returned to her, he was silent and sullen and would not be caressed. He saw no more of the cat, and when next day he asked her where it was, she said that it had gone from them and would return no more--that she had sent it away because it had vexed him. This made Martin sulk, and he would have gone away and hidden himself from her had she not caught him up in her arms. He struggled to free himself, but could not, and she then carried him away a long distance down the mountainside until they came to a small dell, green with creepers and bushes, with a deep carpet of dry moss on the ground, and here she sat down and began to talk to him. "The cat was a very beautiful beast with his spotted hide," she said; "and you liked to play with him sometimes, but in a little while you will be glad that he has gone from you." He asked her why. "Because though he was fond of you and liked to follow you about and play with you, he is very fierce and powerful, and all the other beasts are afraid of him. So long as he was with us they would not come, but now he has gone they will come to you and let you go to them." "Where are they?" said Martin, his curiosity greatly excited. "Let us wait here," she said, "and perhaps we shall see one by-and-by." So they waited and were silent, and as nothing came and nothing happened, Martin sitting on the mossy ground began to feel a strange drowsiness stealing over him. He rubbed his eyes and looked round; he wanted to keep very wide awake and alert, so as not to miss the sight of anything that might come. He was vexed with himself for feeling drowsy, and wondered why it was; then listening to the low continuous hum of the bees, he concluded that it was that low, soft, humming sound that made him sleepy. He began to look at the bees, and saw that they were unlike other wild bees he knew, that they were like bumble-bees in shape but much smaller, and were all of a golden brown colour: they were in scores and hundreds coming and going, and had their home or nest in the rock a few feet above his head. He got up, and climbing from his mother's knee to her shoulder, and standing on it, he looked into the crevice into which the bees were streaming, and saw their nest full of clusters of small round objects that looked like white berries. Then he came down and told her what he had seen, and wanted to know all about it, and when she answered that the little round fruit-like objects he had seen were cells full of purple honey that tasted sweet and salt, he wanted her to get him some. "Not now--not today," she replied, "for now you love me and are contented to be with me, and you are my own darling child. When you are naughty, and try to grieve me all you can, and would like to go away and never see me more, you shall taste the purple honey." He looked up into her face wondering and troubled at her words, and she smiled down so sweetly on his upturned face, looking very beautiful and tender, that it almost made him cry to think how wilful and passionate he had been, and climbing on to her knees he put his little face against her cheek. [Illustration: THE DOE--TIMIDLY SMELT AT HIS HAND, THEN LICKED IT WITH HER LONG PINK TONGUE.] Then, while he was still caressing her, light tripping steps were heard over the stony path, and through the bushes came two beautiful wild animals--a doe with her fawn! Martin had often seen the wild deer on the plains, but always at a great distance and running; now that he had them standing before him he could see just what they were like, and of all the four-footed creatures he had ever looked on they were undoubtedly the most lovely. They were of a slim shape, and of a very bright reddish fawn-colour, the young one with dappled sides; and both had large trumpet-like ears, which they held up as if listening, while they gazed fixedly at Martin's face with their large, dark, soft eyes. Enchanted with the sight of them, he slipped down from his mother's lap, and stretched out his arms towards them, and the doe, coming a little nearer, timidly smelt at his hand, then licked it with her long, pink tongue. In a few minutes the doe and fawn went away and they saw them no more; but they left Martin with a heart filled with happy excitement; and they were but the first of many strange and beautiful wild animals he was now made acquainted with, so that for days he could think of nothing else and wished for nothing better. But one day when she had taken him a good way up on the hillside, Martin suddenly recognized a huge rocky precipice before him as the one up which she had taken him, and from the top of which he had seen the great blue water. Instantly he demanded to be taken up again, and when she refused he rebelled against her, and was first passionate and then sullen. Finding that he would not listen to anything she could say, she sat down on a rock and left him to himself. He could not climb up that precipice, and so he rambled away to some distance, thinking to hide himself from her, because he thought her unreasonable and unkind not to allow him to see the blue water once more. But presently he caught sight of a snake lying motionless on a bed of moss at the foot of a rock, with the sun on it, lighting up its polished scales so that they shone like gems or coloured glass. Resting his elbows on the stone and holding his face between his hands he fell to watching the snake, for though it seemed fast asleep in the sun its gem-like eyes were wide open. All at once he felt his mother's hand on his head: "Martin," she said, "would you like to know what the snake feels when it lies with eyes open in the bright hot sun? Shall I make you feel just how he feels?" "Yes," said Martin eagerly, forgetting his quarrel with her; then taking him up in her strong arms she walked rapidly away, and brought him to that very spot where he had seen the doe and fawn. She sat him down, and instantly his ears were filled with the murmur of the bees; and in a moment she put her hand in the crevice and pulled out a cluster of white cells, and gave them to Martin. Breaking one of the cells he saw that it was full of thick honey, of a violet colour, and tasting it he found it was like very sweet honey in which a little salt had been mixed. He liked it and he didn't like it; still, it was not the same in all the cells; in some it was scarcely salt at all; and he began to suck the honey of cell after cell, trying to find one that was not salt; and by-and-by he dropped the cluster of cells from his hand, and stooping to pick it up forgot to do so, and laying his head down and stretching himself out on the mossy ground looked up into his mother's face with drowsy, happy eyes. How sweet it seemed, lying there in the sun, with the sun shining right into his eyes, and filling his whole being with its delicious heat! He wished for nothing now--not even for the sight of new wonderful things; he forgot the blue water, the strange, beautiful wild animals, and his only thought, if he had a thought, was that it was very nice to lie there, not sleeping, but feeling the sun in him, and seeing it above him; and seeing all things--the blue sky, the grey rocks and green bushes and moss, and the woman in her green dress and her loose black hair--and hearing, too, the soft, low, continuous murmur of the yellow bees. For hours he lay there in that drowsy condition, his mother keeping watch over him, and when it passed off, and he got up again, his temper appeared changed; he was more gentle and affectionate with his mother, and obeyed her every wish. And when in his rambles on the hill he found a snake lying in the sun he would steal softly near it and watch it steadily for a long time, half wishing to taste that strange purple honey again, so that he might lie in the sun, feeling what the snake feels. But there were more wonderful things yet for Martin to see and know in the hills, so that in a little while he ceased to have that desire. [Illustration] _Chapter Fifteen_ _Martin's Eyes Are Opened_ One morning when they went up into a wild rocky place very high up on the hillside a number of big birds were seen coming over the mountain at a great height in the air, travelling in a northerly direction. They were big hawks almost as big as eagles, with very broad rounded wings, and instead of travelling straight like other birds they moved in wide circles, so that they progressed very slowly. [Illustration: THROWING UP HER ARMS, SHE CRIED A LONG CALL, AND THE BIRDS BEGAN TO COME LOWER AND LOWER DOWN.] They sat down on a stone to watch the birds, and whenever one flying lower than the others came pretty near them Martin gazed delightedly at it, and wished it would come still nearer so that he might see it better. Then the woman stood up on the stone, and, gazing skywards and throwing up her arms, she uttered a long call, and the birds began to come lower and lower down, still sweeping round in wide circles, and by-and-by one came quite down and pitched on a stone a few yards from them. Then another came and lighted on another stone, then another, and others followed, until they were all round him in scores, sitting on the rocks, great brown birds with black bars on their wings and tails, and buff-coloured breasts with rust-red spots and stripes. It was a wonderful sight, those eagle-like hawks, with their blue hooked beaks and deep-set dark piercing eyes, sitting in numbers on the rocks, and others and still others dropping down from the sky to increase the gathering. Then the woman sat down by Martin's side, and after a while one of the hawks spread his great wings and rose up into the air to resume his flight. After an interval of a minute or so another rose, then another, but it was an hour before they were all gone. "O the dear birds--they are all gone!" cried Martin. "Mother, where are they going?" She told him of a far-away land in the south, from which, when autumn comes, the birds migrate north to a warmer country hundreds of leagues away, and that birds of all kinds were now travelling north, and would be travelling through the sky above them for many days to come. Martin looked up at the sky, and said he could see no birds now that the buzzards were all gone. "I can see them," she returned, looking up and glancing about the sky. "O mother, I wish I could see them!" he cried. "Why can't I see them when you can?" "Because your eyes are not like mine. Look, can you see this?" and she held up a small stone phial which she took from her bosom. He took it in his hand and unstopped and smelt at it. "Is it honey? Can I taste it?" he asked. She laughed. "It is better than honey, but you can't eat it!" she said. "Do you remember how the honey made you feel like a snake? This would make you see what I see if I put some of it on your eyes." He begged her to do so, and she consenting poured a little into the palm of her hand. It was thick and white as milk; then taking some on her finger tip, she made him hold his eyes wide open while she rubbed it on the eye-balls. It made his eyes smart, and everything at first looked like a blue mist when he tried to see; then slowly the mist faded away and the air had a new marvellous clearness, and when he looked away over the plain beneath them he shouted for joy, so far could he see and so distinct did distant objects appear. At one point where nothing but the grey haze that obscured the distance had been visible, a herd of wild cattle now appeared, scattered about, some grazing, others lying down ruminating, and in the midst of the herd a very noble-looking, tawny-coloured bull was standing. "O mother, do you see that bull?" cried Martin in delight. "Yes, I see him," she returned. "Sometimes he brings his herd to feed on the hillside, and when I see him here another time I shall take you to him, and put you on his back. But look now at the sky, Martin." He looked up, and was astonished to see numbers of great birds flying north, where no birds had appeared before. They were miles high, and invisible to ordinary sight, but he could see them so distinctly, their shape and colours, that all the birds he knew were easily recognized. There were swans, shining white, with black heads and necks, flying in wedge-shaped flocks, and rose-coloured spoonbills, and flamingoes with scarlet wings tipped with black, and ibises, and ducks of different colours, and many other birds, both water and land, appeared, flock after flock, all flying as fast as their wings could bear them towards the north. He continued watching them until it was past noon, and then he saw fewer and fewer, only very big birds, appearing; and then these were seen less and less until there were none. Then he turned his eyes on the plain and tried to find the herd of wild cattle, but they were no longer visible; it was as he had seen it in the morning with the pale blue haze over all the distant earth. He was told that the power to see all distant things with a vision equal to his mother's was now exhausted, and when he grieved at the loss she comforted him with the promise that it would be renewed at some other time. Now one day when they were out together Martin was greatly surprised and disturbed at a change in his mother. When he spoke to her she was silent; and by-and-by, drawing a little away, he looked at her with a fear which increased to a kind of terror, so strangely altered did she seem, standing motionless, gazing fixedly with wide-open eyes at the plain beneath them, her whole face white and drawn with a look of rage. He had an impulse to fly from her and hide himself in some hole in the rocks from the sight of that pale, wrathful face, but when he looked round him he was afraid to move from her, for the hill itself seemed changed, and now looked black and angry even as she did. The ground he stood on, the grey old stones covered with silvery-white and yellow lichen and pretty flowery, creeping plants, so beautiful to look at in the bright sunlight a few moments ago, now were covered with a dull mist which appeared to be rising from them, making the air around them dark and strange. And the air, too, had become sultry and close, and the sky was growing dark above them. Then suddenly remembering all her love and kindness he flew to her, and clinging to her dress sobbed out, "O mother, mother, what is it?" She put her hand on him, then drew him up to her side, with his feet on the stone she was standing by. "Would you like to see what I see, Martin?" she asked, and taking the phial from her bosom she rubbed the white thick liquid on his eye-balls, and in a little while, when the mistiness passed off, she pointed with her hand and told him to look there. He looked, and as on the former occasion, all distant things were clearly visible, for although that mist and blackness given off by the hill had wrapped them round so that they seemed to be standing in the midst of a black cloud, yet away on the plain beneath the sun was shining brightly, and all that was there could be seen by him. Where he had once seen a herd of wild cattle he now saw mounted men, to the number of about a dozen, slowly riding towards the hill, and though they were miles away he could see them very distinctly. They were dark, black-bearded men, strangely dressed, some with fawn-coloured cloaks with broad stripes, others in a scarlet uniform, and they wore cone-shaped scarlet caps. Some carried lances, others carbines; and they all wore swords--he could see the steel scabbards shining in the sun. As he watched them they drew rein and some of them got off their horses, and they stood for some time as if talking excitedly, pointing towards the hill and using emphatic gestures. What were they talking about so excitedly? thought Martin. He wanted to know, and he would have asked her, but when he looked up at her she was still gazing fixedly at them with the same pale face and terrible stern expression, and he could but dimly see her face in that black cloud which had closed around them. He trembled with fear and could only murmur, "Mother! mother!" Then her arm was put round him, and she drew him close against her side, and at that moment--O how terrible it was!--the black cloud and the whole universe was lit up with a sudden flash that seemed to blind and scorch him, and the hill and the world was shaken and seemed to be shattered by an awful thunder crash. It was more than he could endure: he ceased to feel or know anything, and was like one dead, and when he came to himself and opened his eyes he was lying in her lap with her face smiling very tenderly, bending over him. "O poor little Martin," she said, "what a poor weak little boy you are to lose your senses at the lightning and thunder! I was angry when I saw them coming to the hill, for they are wicked, cruel men, stained with blood, and I made the storm to drive them away. They are gone, and the storm is over now, and it is late--come, let us go to our cave;" and she took him up and carried him in her arms. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Sixteen_ _The People of the Mist_ When Martin first came to the hills it was at the end of the long, hot, dry summer of that distant land: it was autumn now, and the autumn was like a second summer, only not so hot and dry as the first. But sometimes at this season a wet mist came up from the sea by night and spread over all the country, covering it like a cloud; to a soaring bird looking down from the sky it must have appeared like another sea of a pale or pearly grey colour, with the hills rising like islands from it. When the sun rose in the morning, if the sky was clear so that it could shine, then the sea-fog would drift and break up and melt away or float up in the form of thin white clouds. Now, whenever this sea-mist was out over the world the Lady of the Hills, without coming out of her chamber, knew of it, and she would prevent Martin from leaving the bed and going out. He loved to be out on the hillside, to watch the sun come up, and she would say to him, "You cannot see the sun because of the mist; and it is cold and wet on the hill; wait until the mist has gone and then you shall go out." But now a new idea came into her mind. She had succeeded in making him happy during the last few days; but she wished to do more--she wished to make him fear and hate the sea so that he would never grow discontented with his life on the hills nor wish to leave her. So now, one morning, when the mist was out over the land, she said to Martin when he woke, "Get up and go out on to the hill and see the mist; and when you feel its coldness and taste its salt on your lips, and see how it dims and saddens the earth, you will know better than to wish for that great water it comes from." So Martin got up and went out on the hill, and it was as she had said: there was no blue sky above, no wide green earth before him: the mist had blotted all out; he could hardly see the rocks and bushes a dozen yards from him; the leaves and flowers were heavy laden with the grey wet; and it felt clammy and cold on his face, and he tasted its salt on his lips. It seemed thickest and darkest when he looked down and lightest when he looked up, and the lightness led him to climb up among the dripping, slippery rocks; and slipping and stumbling he went on and on, the light increasing as he went, until at last to his delight he got above the mist. There was an immense crag there which stood boldly up on the hillside, and on to this he managed to climb, and standing on it he looked down upon that vast moving sea of grey mist that covered the earth, and saw the sun, a large crimson disc, rising from it. [Illustration: ONE OF THE MIST PEOPLE--HELD THE SHELL TO MARTIN'S EAR--AND MARTIN KNEW--THAT IT WAS THE VOICE OF THE SEA.] It was a great thing to see, and made him cry out aloud for joy: and then as the sun rose higher into the pure, blue sky the grey mist changed to silvery white, and the white changed in places to shining gold: and it drifted faster and faster away before the sun, and began to break up, and when a cloud of mist swept by the rock on which he stood it beat like a fine rain upon his face, and covered his bright clothes with a grey beady moisture. Now, looking abroad over the earth, it appeared to Martin that the thousands and tens and hundreds of thousands of fragments of mist, had the shapes of men, and were like an innumerable multitude of gigantic men with shining white faces and shining golden hair and long cloud-like robes of a pearly grey colour, that trailed on the earth as they moved. They were like a vast army covering the whole earth, all with their faces set towards the west, all moving swiftly and smoothly on towards the west. And he saw that every one held his robes to his breast with his left hand, and that in his right hand, raised to the level of his head, he carried a strange object. This object was a shell--a big sea-shell of a golden yellow colour with curved pink lips; and very soon one of the mist people came near him, and as he passed by the rock he held the shell to Martin's ear, and it sounded in his ear--a low, deep murmur as of waves breaking on a long shingled beach, and Martin knew, though no word was spoken to him, that it was the sound of the sea, and tears of delight came to his eyes, and at the same time his heart was sick and sad with longing for the sea. Again and again, until the whole vast multitude of the mist people had gone by, a shell was held to his ear; and when they were all gone, when he had watched them fade like a white cloud over the plain, and float away and disappear in the blue sky, he sat down on the rock and cried with the desire that was in him. When his mother found him with traces of tears on his cheeks; and he was silent when she spoke to him, and had a strange look in his eyes as if they were gazing at some distant object, she was angrier than ever with the sea, for she knew that the thought of it had returned to him and that it would be harder than ever to keep him. One morning on waking he found her still asleep, although the traces of tears on her cheeks showed that she had been awake and crying during the night. "Ah, now I know why she cries every morning," thought Martin; "it is because I must go away and leave her alone on the hills." He was out of her arms and dressed in a very few moments, moving very softly lest she should wake; but though he knew that if she awoke she would not let him go, he could not leave her without saying good-bye. And so coming near he stooped over her and very gently kissed her soft cheek and sweet mouth and murmured, "Good-bye, sweet mother." Then, very cautiously, like a shy, little wild animal he stole out of the cavern. Once outside, in the early morning light, he started running as fast as he could, jumping from stone to stone in the rough places, and scrambling through the dew-laden bushes and creepers, until, hot and panting, he arrived down at the very foot of the hill. Then it was easier walking, and he went on a little until he heard a voice crying, "Martin! Martin!" and, looking back, he saw the Lady of the Hills standing on a great stone near the foot of the mountain, gazing sadly after him. "Martin, oh, my child, come back to me," she called, stretching out her arms towards him. "Oh, Martin, I cannot leave the hills to follow you and shield you from harm and save you from death. Where will you go? Oh, me, what shall I do without you?" For a little while he stood still, listening with tears in his eyes to her words, and wavering in his mind; but very soon he thought of the great blue water once more and could not go back, but began to run again, and went on and on for a long distance before stopping to rest. Then he looked back, but he could no longer see her form standing there on the stone. All that day he journeyed on towards the ocean over a great plain. There were no trees and no rocks nor hills, only grass on the level earth, in some places so tall that the spikes, looking like great white ostrich plumes, waved high above his head. But it was easy walking, as the grass grew in tussocks or bunches, and underneath the ground was bare and smooth so that he could walk easily between the bunches. He wondered that he did not get to the sea, but it was still far off, and so the long summer day wore to an end, and he was so tired that he could scarcely lift his legs to walk. Then, as he went slowly on in the fading light, where the grass was short and the evening primroses were opening and filling the desert air with their sweet perfume, he all at once saw a little grey old man not above six inches in height standing on the ground right before him, and staring fixedly at him with great, round, yellow eyes. "You bad boy!" exclaimed this curious little, old man; whereupon Martin stopped in his walk and stood still, gazing in the greatest surprise at him. "You bad boy!" repeated the strange little man. The more Martin stared at him the harder he stared back at Martin, always with the same unbending severity in his small, round, grey face. He began to feel a little afraid, and was almost inclined to run away; then he thought it would be funny to run from such a very small man as this, so he stared bravely back once more and cried out, "Go away!" "You bad boy!" answered the little grey man without moving. "Perhaps he's deaf, just like that other old man," said Martin to himself, and throwing out his arms he shouted at the top of his voice, "Go away!" And away with a scream he went, for it was only a little grey burrowing owl after all! Martin laughed a little at his own foolishness in mistaking that common bird he was accustomed to see every day for a little old man. By-and-by, feeling very tired, he sat down to rest, and just where he sat grew a plant with long white flowers like tall thin goblets in shape. Sitting on the grass he could see right into one of the flower-tubes, and presently he noticed a little, old, grey, shrivelled woman in it, very, very small, for she was not longer than the nail of his little finger. She wore a grey shawl that dragged behind her, and kept getting under her feet and tripping her up. She was most active, whisking about this way and that inside the flower; and at intervals she turned to stare at Martin, who kept getting nearer and nearer to watch her until his face nearly touched the flower; and whenever she looked at him she wore an exceedingly severe expression on her small dried-up countenance. It seemed to Martin that she was very angry with him for some reason. Then she would turn her back on him, and tumble about in the tube of the flower, and gathering up the ends of her shawl in her arms begin dusting with great energy; then hurrying out once more she would shake the dust from her big, funny shawl in his eyes. At last he carefully raised a hand and was just going to take hold of the queer, little, old dame with his forefinger and thumb when up she flew. It was only a small, grey, twilight moth! Very much puzzled and confused, and perhaps a little frightened at these curious deceptions, he laid himself down on the grass and shut his eyes so as to go to sleep; but no sooner had he shut his eyes than he heard a soft, soft little voice calling, "Martin! Martin!" He started up and listened. It was only a field cricket singing in the grass. But often as he lay down and closed his eyes the small voice called again, plainly as possible, and oh, so sadly, "Martin! Martin!" It made him remember his beautiful mother, now perhaps crying alone in the cave on the mountain, no little Martin resting on her bosom, and he cried to think of it. And still the small voice went on, calling, "Martin! Martin!" sadder than ever, until, unable to endure it longer, he jumped up and ran away a good distance, and at last, too tired to go any further, he crept into a tussock of tall grass and went to sleep. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Seventeen_ _The Old Man of the Sea_ Next day Martin journeyed on in the old way, jumping up and taking a good long run, then dropping into a trot, then a walk, and finally sitting down to rest. Then up again and another run, and so on. But although feeling hungry and thirsty, he was so full of the thought of the great blue water he was going to see, so eager to look upon it at last after wishing for it so long, that he hardly gave himself any time to hunt for food. Nor did he think of his mother of the hills, alone today, and grieving at his loss, so excited was he at the prospect of what lay before him. A little past noon he began to hear a low murmuring sound that seemed in the earth beneath him, and all about him, and in the air above him; but he did not know that it was the sound of the sea. At length he came to a place where the earth rose up in long ridges of yellow sand, on which nothing grew but scattered tufts of stiff, yellow grass. As he toiled over the loose sand, sometimes sinking ankle-deep in it, the curious deep murmuring sound he had heard for so long grew louder and louder, until it was like the sound of a mighty wind in a wood, but deeper and hoarser, rising and falling, and at intervals broken by great throbs, as of thunder echoed and re-echoed among the distant hills. At length he had toiled over the last ridge of sand; and then all at once the world--his world of solid earth at all events--came to an abrupt end; for no more ground on which to set a foot was before him, but only the ocean--that ocean which he had wanted so badly, and had loved at a distance more than the plains and hills, and all they contained to delight him! How wide, how vast it was, stretching away to where it melted into the low sky, its immense grey-blue surface broken into ten thousand thousand waves, lit with white crests that came in sight and vanished like lightning flashes! How tremendous, how terrible it was in its agitation--O the world had nothing to compare with it, nothing to hold his heart after it; and it was well that the earth was silent, that it only gazed upon it with the sun and moon and stars, listening day and night for ever to the great voice of the sea! Only by lying flat on his chest could Martin look down over the edge of the awful cliff, which is one of the highest in the world; and then the sight of the sea swirling and beating at the foot of that stupendous black precipice, sending up great clouds of spray in its fury, made him shudder, it was so awful to look upon. But he could not stir from that spot; there he stayed lying flat on his chest, gazing and gazing, feeling neither hunger nor thirst, forgetful of the beautiful woman he had called mother, and of everything besides. And as he gazed, little by little, that great tumult of the waves grew less; they no longer lifted themselves up, wave following wave, to beat upon the cliff, and make it tremble; but sank lower and lower; and at last drew off from the precipice, leaving at its foot a long narrow strip of sand and shingle exposed to sight. A solemn calm fell upon the waste of waters; only near the shore it continued to move a little, rising and falling like the chest of a sleeping giant, while along the margin small waves continued to form and break in white foam on the shingle with a perpetual low, moaning sound. Further out it was quite calm, its surface everywhere flushed with changing violet, green, and rosy tints: in a little while these lovely colours faded as from a sunset cloud, and it was all deep dark blue: for the sun had gone, and the shadows of evening were over land and sea. Then Martin, his little heart filled with a great awe and a great joy, crept away a few yards from the edge of the cliff and coiled himself up to sleep in a hollow in the soft warm sand. On the following morning, after satisfying his hunger and thirst with some roots which he had not to go very far to find, he returned to watch the sea once more, and there he remained, never removing his eyes from the wonderful scene until the sun was directly over his head; then, when the sea was calm once more, he got up and started to walk along the cliff. Keeping close to the edge, occasionally stopping to lie down on his chest and peer over, he went on and on for hours, until the afternoon tide once more covered the strip of shingled beach, and the waves rising high began to beat with a sound like thunder against the tremendous cliff, making the earth tremble under him. At length he came to a spot where there was a great gap in the line of the cliff, where in past times a portion of it had tumbled down, and the stupendous masses of rock had rolled far out into the sea, and now formed islands of black jagged rock, standing high above the water. Here among the rocks the sea boiled and roared its loudest, churning its waters into masses of white froth. Here a fresh wonder met his sight: a number of big animals unlike any creature he had ever seen before were lying prone on the rocks just out of reach of the waves that beat round them. At first they looked like cows, then he saw that they had neither horns nor legs, that their heads were like dog's but without ears, and that they had two great flapper-shaped feet on their chests with which they walked or crawled upon the rocks whenever a wave broke on them, causing them to move a little higher. They were sea-lions, a very big sort of seal, but Martin had never heard of such a creature, and being anxious to look more closely at them he went into the gap, and began cautiously climbing down over the broken masses of rock and clay until he got quite near the sea. Lying there on a flat rock he became absorbed in watching these strange dog-headed legless cattle of the sea; for he now had them near, and they could see him, and occasionally one would lift his head and gaze earnestly at him out of large dark eyes that were soft and beautiful like the eyes of the doe that came to him on the hills. O how glad he was to know that the sea, the mighty waters roaring so loud as if in wrath, had its big beasts too for him to love, like the hills and plains with their cattle and deer and horses! But the tide was still rising, and very soon the biggest waves began to come quite over the rocks, rolling the big beasts over and even washing them off, and it angered them when the waves struck them, and they roared aloud, and by-and-by they began to go away, some disappearing beneath the water, others with heads above the surface swimming away out into the open sea, until all were gone. Martin was sorry to lose them, but the sight of the sea tumbling and foaming on the rocks still held him there, until all the rocks but one had been covered by the waters, and this one was a great black jagged rock close to the shore, not above twenty or thirty yards from him. Against this mass of rock the waves continued to dash themselves with a mighty noise, sending up a cloud of white foam and spray at every blow. The sight and sound fascinated him. The sea appeared to be talking, whispering, and murmuring, and crying out aloud to him in such a manner that he actually began trying to make out what it was saying. Then up would come a great green wave rushing and moaning, to dash itself to pieces right before his face; and each time it broke against the rock, and rose high up it took a fantastic shape that began to look more and more the shape of a man. Yes, it was unmistakably like a monstrous grey old man, with a vast snow-white beard, and a world of disordered white hair floating over and around its head. At all events it was white for a moment, then it looked green--a great green beard which the old man took with his two hands and twisted just as a washerwoman twists a blanket or counterpane, so as to wring the water out of it. Martin stared at this strange uncouth visitor from the sea; while he in turn, leaning over the rock, stared back into Martin's face with his immense fishy eyes. Every time a fresh wave broke over him, lifting up his hair and garments, which were of brown seaweed and all rags and tatters, it seemed to annoy him somewhat; but he never stirred; and when the wave retired he would wring the water out once more and blow a cloud of sea-spray from his beard. At length, holding out his mighty arms towards Martin, he opened his great, cod-fish mouth, and burst into a hoarse laugh, which sounded like the deep laughter-like cries of the big, black-backed gulls. Still, Martin did not feel at all afraid of him, for he looked good-natured and friendly. "Who are you?" shouted Martin at last. "Who be I?" returned the man-shaped monster in a hoarse, sea-like voice. "Ho, ho, ho,--now I calls that a good un! Why, little Martin, that I've knowed all along, I be Bill. Leastways, that's what they called me afore: but I got promotion, and in consekence I'm called the Old Man of the Sea." "And how did you know I was Martin?" "How did I know as you was Martin? Why, bless your innocent heart, I knowed it all along of course. How d'ye think I wouldn't know that? Why, I no sooner saw you there among them rocks than I says to myself, 'Hullo,' says I, bless my eyes if that ain't Martin looking at my cows, as I calls 'em. Of course I knowed as you was Martin." "And what made you go and live in the sea, Old--Bill?" questioned Martin, "and why did you grow so big?" "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the giant, blowing a great cloud of spray from his lips. "I don't mind telling you that. You see, Martin, I ain't pressed for time. Them blessed bells is nothing to me now, not being in the foc'sle trying to git a bit of a snooze. Well, to begin, I were born longer ago than I can tell in a old town by the sea, and my father he were a sailor man, and was drowned when I were very small; then my mother she died just becoz every man that belonged to her was drowned. For those as lives by the sea, Martin, mostly dies in the sea. Being a orphan I were brought up by Granny. I were very small then, and used to go and play all day in the marshes, and I loved the cows and water-rats and all the little beasties, same as you, Martin. When I were a bit growed Granny says to me one day, 'Bill, you go to sea and be a sailor-boy,' she says, 'becoz I've had a dream,' she says, 'and it's wrote that you'll never git drowned.' For you see, Martin, my Granny were a wise woman. So to the sea I goes, and boy and man, I was on a many voyages to Turkey and Injy and the Cape and the West Coast and Ameriky, and all round the world forty times over. Many and many's the time I was ship-wrecked and overboard, but I never got drowned. At last, when I were gitting a old man, and not much use by reason of the rheumatiz and stiffness in the jints, there was a mutiny in our ship when we was off the Cape; and the captain and mate they was killed. Then comes my turn, becoz I went again the men, d'ye see, and they wasn't a-going for to pardon me that. So out they had me on deck and began to talk about how they'd finish me--rope, knife, or bullet. 'Mates,' says I, 'shoot me if you like and I'll dies comfortably; or run a knife into me, which is better still; or string me up to the yard-arm, which is the most comforble thing I know. But don't you go and put me into the sea,' says I, 'becoz it's wrote that I ain't never going to git drowned, and you'll have all your trouble for nothing,' says I. That made 'em larf a most tremenjous larf. 'Old Bill,' says they, 'will have his little joke.' Then they brings up some iron stowed in the hold, and with ropes and chains they ties well-nigh half a ton of it to my legs and arms, then lowers me over the side. Down I went, in course, which made 'em larf louder than afore; and I were fathoms and fathoms under water afore I stopped hearing them larf. At last I comes down to the bottom of the sea, and glad I were to git there, becoz now I couldn't go no further. There I lies doubled up like a old sea-sarpint along of the rocks, but warm and comfortable like. Last of all, the ropes and chains they got busted off becoz of my growing so big and strong down there, and up I comes to blow like a grampus, for I were full of water by reason that it had soaked into me. So that's how I got to be the Old Man of the Sea, hundreds and hundreds of years ago." "And do you like to be always in the sea, Old Bill?" asked Martin. "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the monster. "That's a good un, little Martin! Do I like it? Well, it's better than being a sailor man in a ship, I can tell 'ee. That were a hard life, with nothing good except perhaps the baccy. I were very fond of baccy once before the sea put out my pipe. Likewise of rum. Many's the time I've been picked up on shore that drunk, Martin, you wouldn't believe it, I were that fond of rum. Sometimes, down here, when I remember how good it tasted, I open my mouth wide and takes down a big gulp of sea water, enough to fill a hogshead; then I comes up and blows it all out again just like a old grampus." And having said this, he opened his vast cavernous mouth and roared out his hoarse ho, ho, ho! louder than before, and at the same time he rose up higher above the water and the black rock he had been leaning on, until he stood like a stupendous tower above Martin--a man-shaped tower of water and spray, and white froth and brown seaweed. Then he slowly fell backwards out upon the sea, and falling upon the sea caused so mighty a wave that it went high over the black rock and washed the face of the cliff, sweeping Martin back among the rocks. When the great wave retired, and Martin, half-choked with water and half-dazed, struggled on to his feet, he saw that it was night, and a cloudy, black sky was above, and the black sea beneath him. He had not seen the light fade, and had perhaps fallen asleep and seen and talked with that old sea monster in a dream. But now he could not escape from his position down in the gap, just above the roaring waves. There he had to stay, sheltered in a cavity in the rock, and lying there, half sleeping and half waking, he had that great voice of the sea in his ears all night. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Chapter Eighteen_ _Martin Plays With the Waves_ After a night spent in the roar of the sea, a drenched and bruised prisoner among the rocks, it was nice to see the dawn again. No sooner was it light than Martin set about trying to make his escape. He had been washed by that big wave into a deep cleft among the rocks and masses of hard clay, and shut in there he could not see the water nor anything excepting a patch of sky above him. Now he began climbing over the stones and crawling and forcing himself through crevices and other small openings, making a little progress, for he was sore from his bruises and very weak from his long fast, and at intervals, tired and beaten, he would drop down crying with pain and misery. But Martin was by nature a very resolute little boy, and after two or three minutes' rest his tears would cease, and he would be up struggling on determinedly as before. He was like some little wild animal when it finds itself captive in a cage or box or room, who tries without ceasing to find a way out. There may be no way, but it will not give up trying to find one. And at last, after so trying, Martin's efforts were rewarded: he succeeded in getting into the steep passage by which he had come down to the sea on the previous day, and in the end got to the top of the cliff once more. It was a great relief, and after resting a little while he began to feel glad and happy at the sight before him: there was the glorious sea again, not as he had seen it before, its wide surface roughened by the wind and flecked with foam; for now the water was smooth, but not still; it rose and fell in vast rollers, or long waves that were like ridges, wave following wave in a very grand and ordered manner. And as he gazed, the clouds broke and floated away, and the sky grew clear and bright, and then all at once the great red sun came up out of the waters! But it was impossible for him to stay there longer when there was nothing to eat; his extreme hunger compelled him to get up and leave the cliff and the sandy hills behind it; and then for an hour or two he walked feebly about searching for sweet roots, but finding none. It would have gone hard with him then if he had not seen some low, dark-looking bushes at a distance on the dry, yellow plain, and gone to them. They looked like yew-bushes, and when he got to them he found that they were thickly covered with small berries; on some bushes they were purple-black, on others crimson, but all were ripe, and many small birds were there feasting on them. The berries were pleasant to the taste, and he feasted with the little birds on them until his hunger was satisfied; and then, with his mouth and fingers stained purple with the juice, he went to sleep in the shade of one of the bushes. There, too, he spent the whole of that day and the night, hearing the low murmur of the sea when waking, and when morning came he was strong and happy once more, and, after filling himself with the fruit, set off to the sea again. Arrived at the cliff, he began walking along the edge, and in about an hour's time came to the end of it, for there it sloped down to the water, and before him, far as he could see, there was a wide, shingled beach with low sand-hills behind it. With a shout of joy he ran down to the margin, and the rest of that day he spent dabbling in the water, gathering beautiful shells and seaweed and strangely-painted pebbles into heaps, then going on and on again, still picking up more beautiful riffraff on the margin, only to leave it all behind him at last. Never had he spent a happier day, and when it came to an end he found a sheltered spot not far from the sea, so that when he woke in the night he would still hear the deep, low murmur of the waves on the beach. Many happy days he spent in the same way, with no living thing to keep him company, except the little white and grey sanderlings that piped so shrill and clear as they flitted along the margin before him; and the great sea-gulls that uttered hoarse, laughter-like cries as they soared and hovered above his head. "Oh, happy birds!" exclaimed Martin, clapping his hands, and shouting in answer to their cries. Every day Martin grew more familiar with the sea, and loved it more, and it was his companion and playmate. He was bolder than the little restless sanderlings that ran and flitted before the advancing waves, and so never got their pretty white and grey plumage wet: often he would turn to meet the coming wave, and let it break round and rush past him, and then in a moment he would be standing knee-deep in the midst of a great sheet of dazzling white foam, until with a long hiss as it fled back, drawing the round pebbles with it, it would be gone, and he would laugh and shout with glee. What a grand old play-fellow the sea was! And it loved him, like the big spotted cat of the hills, and only pretended to be angry with him when it wanted to play, and would do him no harm. And still he was not satisfied, but grew bolder and bolder, putting himself in its power and trusting to its mercy. He could play better with his clothes off; and one day, chasing a great receding wave as far as it would go, he stood up bravely to encounter the succeeding wave, but it was greater than the last, and lifting him in its great green arms it carried him high up till it broke with a mighty roar on the beach; then instead of leaving him stranded there it rushed back still bearing him in its arms out into the deep. Further and further from the shore it carried him, until he became terrified, and throwing out his little arms towards the land, he cried aloud, "Mother! Mother!" He was not calling to his own mother far away on the great plain; he had forgotten her. Now he only thought of the beautiful woman of the Hills, who was so strong, and loved him and made him call her "Mother"; and to her he cried in his need for help. Now he remembered her warm, protecting bosom, and how she had cried every night at the fear of losing him; how when he ran from her she followed him, calling to him to return. Ah, how cold was the sea's bosom, how bitter its lips! Struggling still with the great wave, struggling in vain, blinded and half-choked with salt water, he was driven violently against a great black object tumbling about in the surf, and with all the strength of his little hands he clung to it. The water rolled over him, and beat against him, but he would not lose his hold; and at last there came a bigger wave and lifted him up and cast him right on to the object he was clinging to. It was as if some enormous monster of the sea had caught him up and put him in that place, just as the Lady of the Hills had often snatched him up from the edge of some perilous precipice to set him down in a safe place. There he lay exhausted, stretched out at full length, so tossed about on the billows that he had a sensation of being in a swing; but the sea grew quiet at last, and when he looked up it was dark, the stars glittering in the dim blue vault above, and the smooth, black water reflecting them all round him, so that he seemed to be floating suspended between two vast, starry skies, one immeasurably far above, the other below him. All night, with only the twinkling, trembling stars for company, he lay there, naked, wet, and cold, thirsty with the bitter taste of sea-salt in his mouth, never daring to stir, listening to the continual lapping sound of the water. Morning dawned at last; the sea was green once more, the sky blue, and beautiful with the young fresh light. He was lying on an old raft of black, water-logged spars and planks lashed together with chains and rotting ropes. But alas! there was no shore in sight, for all night long he had been drifting, drifting further and further away from land. A strange habitation for Martin, the child of the plain, was that old raft! It had been made by ship-wrecked mariners, long, long ago, and had floated about the sea until it had become of the sea, like a half-submerged floating island; brown and many-coloured seaweeds had attached themselves to it; strange creatures, half plant and half animal, grew on it; and little shell-fish and numberless slimy, creeping things of the sea made it their dwelling-place. It was about as big as the floor of a large room, all rough, black and slippery, with the seaweed floating like ragged hair many yards long around it, and right in the middle of the raft there was a large hole where the wood had rotted away. Now, it was very curious that when Martin looked over the side of the raft he could see down into the clear, green water a few fathoms only; but when he crept to the edge of the hole and looked into the water there, he was able to see ten times further down. Looking in this hole, he saw far down a strange, fish-shaped creature, striped like a zebra, with long spines on its back, moving about to and fro. It disappeared, and then, very much further down, something moved, first like a shadow, then like a great, dark form; and as it came up higher it took the shape of a man, but dim and vast like a man-shaped cloud or shadow that floated in the green translucent water. The shoulders and head appeared; then it changed its position and the face was towards him with the vast eyes, that had a dim, greyish light in them, gazing up into his. Martin trembled as he gazed, not exactly with fear, but with excitement, because he recognized in this huge water-monster under him that Old Man of the Sea who had appeared and talked to him in his dream when he fell asleep among the rocks. Could it be, although he was asleep at the time, that the Old Man really had appeared before him, and that his eyes had been open just enough to see him? By-and-by the cloud-like face disappeared, and did not return though he watched for it a long time. Then sitting on the black, rotten wood and brown seaweed he gazed over the ocean, a vast green, sunlit expanse with no shore and no living thing upon it. But after a while he began to think that there was some living thing in it, which was always near him though he could not see what it was. From time to time the surface of the sea was broken just as if some huge fish had risen to the surface and then sunk again without showing itself. It was something very big, judging from the commotion it made in the water; and at last he did see it or a part of it--a vast brown object which looked like a gigantic man's shoulder, but it might have been the back of a whale. It was no sooner seen than gone, but in a very short time after its appearance cries as of birds were heard at a great distance. The cries came from various directions, growing louder and louder, and before long Martin saw many birds flying towards him. On arrival they began to soar and circle round above him, all screaming excitedly. They were white birds with long wings and long sharp beaks, and were very much like gulls, except that they had an easier and swifter flight. Martin rejoiced at seeing them, for he had been in the greatest terror at the strangeness and loneliness of the sea now that there was no land in sight. Sitting on the black raft he was constantly thinking of the warning words his mother of the hills had spoken--that the sea would kiss him with cold salt lips and take him down into the depths where he would never see the light again. O how strange the sea was to him now, how lonely, how terrible! But birds that with their wings could range over the whole world were of the land, and now seemed to bring the land near him with their white forms and wild cries. How could they help him? He did not know, he did not ask; but he was not alone now that they had come to him, and his terror was less. And still more birds kept coming; and as the morning wore on the crowd of birds increased until they were in hundreds, then in thousands, perpetually wheeling and swooping and rising and hovering over him in a great white cloud. And they were of many kinds, mostly white, some grey, others sooty brown or mottled, and some wholly black. Then in the midst of the crowd of birds he saw one of great size wheeling about like a king or giant among the others, with wings of amazing length, wild eyes of a glittering yellow, and a yellow beak half as long as Martin's arm, with a huge vulture-like hook at the end. Now when this mighty bird swooped close down over his head, fanning him with its immense wings, Martin again began to be alarmed at its formidable appearance; and as more and more birds came, with more of the big kind, and the wild outcry they made increased, his fear and astonishment grew; then all at once these feelings rose to extreme terror and amazement at the sight of a new bird-like creature a thousand times bigger than the largest one in the circling crowd above, coming swiftly towards him. He saw that it was not flying but swimming or gliding over the surface of the sea; and its body was black, and above the body were many immense white wings of various shapes, which stood up like a white cloud. Overcome with terror he fell flat on the raft, hiding his face in the brown seaweed that covered it; then in a few minutes the sea became agitated and rocked him in his raft, and a wave came over him which almost swept him into the sea. At the same time the outcry of the birds were redoubled until he was nearly deafened by their screams, and the screams seemed to shape themselves into words. "Martin! Martin!" the birds seemed to be screaming. "Look up, Martin, look up, look up!" The whole air above and about him seemed to be full of the cries, and every cry said to him, "Martin! Martin! look up! look up!" Although dazed with the awful din and almost fainting with terror and weakness, he could not resist the command. Pressing his hands on the raft he at last struggled up to his knees, and saw that the feared bird-like monster had passed him by: he saw that it was a ship with a black hull, its white sails spread, and that the motion of the water and the wave that swept over him had been created by the ship as it came close to the raft. It was now rapidly gliding from him, but still very near, and he saw a crowd of strange-looking rough men, with sun-browned faces and long hair and shaggy beards, leaning over the bulwarks staring at him. They had seen with astonishment the corpse, as they thought, of a little naked white boy lying on the old black raft, with a multitude of sea-birds gathered to feed on him; now when they saw him get up on his knees and look at them, they uttered a great cry, and began rushing excitedly hither and thither, to pull at ropes and lower a boat. Martin did not know what they were doing; he only knew that they were men in a ship, but he was now too weak and worn-out to look at or think of more than one thing at a time, and what he was looking at now was the birds. For no sooner had he looked up and seen the ship than their wild cries ceased, and they rose up and up like a white cloud to scatter far and wide over sky and sea. For some moments he continued watching them, listening to their changed voices, which now had a very soft and pleasant sound, as if they were satisfied and happy. It made him happy to hear them, and he lifted his hands up and smiled; then, relieved of his terror and overcome with weariness, he closed his eyes and dropped once more full length upon his bed of wet seaweed. At that the men stared into each other's face, a very strange startled look coming into their eyes. And no wonder! For long, long months, running to years, they had been cruising in those lonely desolate seas, thousands of miles from home, seeing no land nor any green thing, nor dear face of woman or child: and now by some strange chance a child had come to them, and even while they were making all haste to rescue it, putting their arms out to take it from the sea, its life had seemingly been snatched from them! But he was only sleeping. [Illustration] _Note_ _When I arranged with Mr. Hudson for the publication of an American Edition of_ A Little Boy Lost, _I asked him to write a special foreword to his American readers. He replied with a characteristic letter, and, taking him at his word I am printing it on the following pages._ ALFRED A. KNOPF. _Dear Mr. Knopf:_ Your request for a Foreword to insert in the American reprint of the little book worries me. A critic on this side has said that my Prefaces to reprints of my earlier works are of the nature of parting kicks, and I have no desire just now to kick this poor innocent. That evil-tempered old woman, Mother Nature, in one of her worst tantrums, has been inflicting so many cuffs and blows on me that she has left me no energy or disposition to kick anything--even myself. The trouble is that I know so little about it. Did I write this book? What then made me do it? In reading a volume of Fors Clavigera I once came upon a passage which sounded well but left me in a mist, and it relieved me to find a footnote to it in which the author says: "This passage was written many years ago and what I was thinking about at the time has quite escaped my memory. At all events, though I let it stand, I can find no meaning in it now." Little men may admire but must not try to imitate these gestures of the giants. And as a result of a little quiet thinking it over I seem able to recover the idea I had in my mind when I composed this child's story and found a title for it in Blake. Something too of the semi-wild spirit of the child hero in the lines: "Naught loves another as itself.... And, father, how can I love you Or any of my brothers more? I love you like the little birds That pick up crumbs about the door." There nature is, after picking up the crumbs to fly away. A long time ago I formed a small collection of children's books of the early years of the nineteenth century; and looking through them, wishing that some of them had fallen into my hands when I was a child I recalled the books I had read at that time--especially two or three. Like any normal child I delighted in such stories as the Swiss Family Robinson, but they were not the books I prized most; they omitted the very quality I liked best--the little thrills that nature itself gave me, which half frightened and fascinated at the same time, the wonder and mystery of it all. Once in a while I got a book with something of this rare element in it, contained perhaps in some perfectly absurd narrative of animals taking human shape or using human speech, with such like transformations and vagaries; they could never be too extravagant, fantastic and incredible, so long as they expressed anything of the feeling I myself experienced when out of sight and sound of my fellow beings, whether out on the great level plain, with a glitter of illusory water all round me, or among the shadowy trees with their bird and insect sounds, or by the waterside and bed of tall dark bull-rushes murmuring in the wind. These ancient memories put it in my mind to write a book which, I imagined, would have suited my peculiar taste of that early period, the impossible story to be founded on my own childish impressions and adventures, with a few dreams and fancies thrown in and two or three native legends and myths, such as the one of the Lady of the Hills, the incarnate spirit of the rocky Sierras on the great plains, about which I heard from my gaucho comrades when on the spot--the strange woman seldom viewed by human eyes who is jealous of man's presence and is able to create sudden violent tempests to frighten them from her sacred haunts. That's the story of my story, and to the question in your publisher's practical mind, I'm sorry to have to say I don't know. I have no way of finding out, since children are not accustomed to write to authors to tell them what they think of their books. And after all these excuses it just occurs to me that children do not read forewords and introductions; they have to be addressed to adults who do not read children's books, so that in any case it would be thrown away. Still if a foreword you must have, and from me, I think you will have to get it out of this letter. I remain, Yours cordially, W. H. HUDSON. November 14, 1917. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation and typographical errors have been corrected. 
54737	----	[Illustration: ROBERT OVERHEARS AN IMPORTANT CONVERSATION. _Frontispiece_] OUT FOR BUSINESS OR _ROBERT FROST'S STRANGE CAREER_ BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "FALLING IN WITH FORTUNE," "LUCK OR PLUCK," "THE YOUNG BOATMAN," "ONLY AN IRISH BOY," "YOUNG MINER," ETC. COMPLETED BY ARTHUR M. WINFIELD AUTHOR OF "THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL," "THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN," "THE ROVER BOYS IN THE JUNGLE," "THE ROVER BOYS OUT WEST," ETC. [Illustration] GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS :: :: NEW YORK BY THE SAME AUTHOR THE YOUNG BOOK AGENT; Or, Frank Hardy's Road to Success. FROM FARM TO FORTUNE; Or, Nat Nason's Strange Experience. LOST AT SEA; Or, Robert Roscoe's Strange Cruise. JERRY, THE BACKWOODS BOY; Or, The Parkhurst Treasure. NELSON, THE NEWSBOY; Or, Afloat in New York. YOUNG CAPTAIN JACK; Or, The Son of a Soldier. OUT FOR BUSINESS; Or, Robert Frost's Strange Career. FALLING IN WITH FORTUNE; Or, The Experiences of a Young Secretary. _12mo, finely illustrated and bound. Price per volume, 60 cents._ GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY THE MERSHON COMPANY PREFACE. "OUT FOR BUSINESS" is a complete tale in itself, but forms the first of two companion stories, the second being entitled "Falling in with Fortune." In this tale are related the various haps and mishaps which befall a sturdy country youth, of high moral aim, who, by the harsh actions of his step-father, is compelled to leave what had once been the best of homes, and go forth into the world to make his own way. Robert Frost finds his path to fortune no easy one to tread. The thorns of adversity line the way, and there is many a pitfall to be avoided. But the lad is possessed of a good stock of hard, common sense, and in the end we find him on the fair road to success--and a success richly deserved. The two stories, "Out for Business" and "Falling in with Fortune," give to the reader the last tales begun by that prince of juvenile writers, Mr. Horatio Alger, Jr., whose books have sold to the extent of hundreds of thousands of copies, not only in America, but also in England and elsewhere. The gifted writer was stricken when on the point of finishing the stories, and when he saw that he could not complete them himself, it was to the present writer that he turned, and an outline for a conclusion was drawn up which met with his approval,--and it is this outline which has now been filled out in order to bring the tales to a finish, so that both stories might be as nearly as possible what Mr. Alger intended they should be. It may be that the stories will not be found as interesting as if Mr. Alger had written them entirely, nevertheless the present writer trusts that they will still hold the reader's attention to the end. ARTHUR M. WINFIELD. March 1st, 1900. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. A GREAT SURPRISE, 7 II. MR. TALBOT AND THE DOG, 15 III. THE LITTLE PLOT AGAINST ROBERT, 24 IV. MR. TALBOT IS MYSTIFIED, 33 V. A CRISIS, 42 VI. ON THE TRAIN, 51 VII. BAFFLED, 59 VIII. PERIL, 67 IX. AT THE PALMER HOUSE, 75 X. ROBERT GETS A PLACE, 83 XI. MR. PALMER'S INFATUATION, 92 XII. AN UNLOOKED-FOR SCENE, 101 XIII. ROBERT RECEIVES A LETTER, 110 XIV. JAMES TALBOT LEARNS SOMETHING OF IMPORTANCE, 118 XV. THE RESULT OF A FIRE, 127 XVI. TWO DISAPPOINTMENTS, 136 XVII. ROBERT IS GIVEN A MISSION, 143 XVIII. THE POST-OFFICE MONEY ORDER, 150 XIX. AN UNEXPECTED ATTACK, 160 XX. THE ESCAPE OF CROSS AND HUSKIN, 169 XXI. ROBERT AND THE OLD LUMBERMAN, 178 XXII. A CLEVER CAPTURE, 187 XXIII. PALMER'S UNFORTUNATE DÉBUT, 197 XXIV. PALMER CALLS UPON ROBERT'S MOTHER, 209 XXV. ANOTHER TALK ABOUT ROBERT, 215 XXVI. ROBERT SPEAKS HIS MIND, 222 XXVII. MR. TALBOT RECEIVES ANOTHER SET-BACK, 229 XXVIII. THE CONSPIRATORS ARE DISGUSTED, 236 XXIX. A LUCKY CHANGE OF STATEROOMS, 245 XXX. ANOTHER PLOT AGAINST ROBERT, 253 XXXI. THE MISSING BAGGAGE CHECK, 261 XXXII. ROBERT DELIVERS THE PRECIOUS MAP, 269 XXXIII. ROBERT VISITS HOME--CONCLUSION, 279 OUT FOR BUSINESS. CHAPTER I. A GREAT SURPRISE. Robert Frost, with his books under his arm, turned into the front yard of a handsome residence in the village of Granville. He was a boy of sixteen, strongly built, and with a handsome, expressive face. "I wish mother were at home," he soliloquized. "It seems very lonesome when she is away." He opened the front door and let himself into the house. It was a handsome and spacious hall. Two paintings hung on the walls, and both were portraits. One represented a lady, with a pretty, but rather weak face. She looked as if she had very little resolution, and might easily be influenced by one with stronger will. The other picture was that of a man of near forty. It was an attractive face. The strong resemblance which it bore to the boy made it probable that it was his father, and such was the case. Robert looked up to it regretfully, for he had not yet got over the loss of his father, hardly twelve months dead. "I wish dad were alive," he thought sadly, "we were such good friends, he and I." Mr. Frost had not died of disease. He was cut off in the full vigor of life, the victim of a railroad accident. Robert remembered well when he was taken home, mangled and hardly to be recognized. His death did not entail any privation upon his little family--Robert was the only child--for he left a considerable fortune and was heavily insured besides, so that they were still able to live in handsome style. "When will supper be ready, Jane?" Robert asked of the servant, as he passed into the dining-room. "At half-past five o'clock, Master Robert." "All right, Jane. I will be on hand, and with a good appetite." He put on his hat, after laying down his books, and was about to go out, when Jane arrested his steps. "Wait a minute, Master Robert. There's a telegram for you." He took the yellow envelope in some surprise. "When was it left?" he asked. "Half an hour since." "It must be from mother," he said thoughtfully. "Very likely--I hope it isn't bad news." Robert echoed the wish, but did not say a word. He took out his penknife and opened the envelope. There it was--just a few words, but they puzzled him. "What is it?" asked Jane, whose curiosity was excited. Robert read the telegram. It ran thus: "Gloucester, June 5. "Shall be at home to-morrow. Prepare for a great surprise. "Mother." Robert looked surprised and bewildered. "What can it mean, Jane, do you think?" he asked. "I don't know, I'm sure, Master Robert. Perhaps your mother is going to bring you a present." "But she wouldn't call that a great surprise." "I don't know then. You'll know to-morrow." Yes, he would know to-morrow, but he could not help letting his mind dwell on the mystery. It occurred to him that it might be a gold watch, which he had long wanted, and which his mother had promised to get him very soon. But this would scarcely be considered a great surprise. "Well, there's no use guessing," he decided at length. "I'll only have to wait till to-morrow, and then I shall know." The next day was Saturday, and school did not keep. Robert looked over the railroad time-table, and concluded that his mother would arrive about twelve o'clock. This would bring her in time for dinner, which was usually on the table at half past twelve. He suggested to Jane to get a better dinner than usual, as his mother would probably be present to partake of it. This suggestion proved unnecessary, for about ten o'clock Jane herself received a telegram to this effect. "Have a good dinner ready at the usual time. I shall reach home in time for it, and bring another with me." "So that's the surprise!" reflected Jane. "She is going to bring a friend with her. I wonder who it is. Maybe it's the lady she's been visiting. I hope it isn't, for lady visitors are so fussy." However, Jane went to the market and ordered a pair of chickens, with a variety of vegetables, and prepared apple dumplings, which she knew Mrs. Frost always enjoyed. "Now," she said, "I'll have a dinner good enough for anybody." Robert intended to go to the depot to meet his mother, but he went on an expedition with one of his schoolmates, and found that he would scarcely have time to do so. So he returned home. "Has mother come, Jane?" he asked. "No, Master Robert, not yet." He posted himself at the front window, and five minutes later he saw the depot carriage approaching the house. "She's coming, Jane!" he called out in excitement. "I forgot to tell you that she's going to bring a visitor." "How do you know?" "Because I received a telegraph this morning," answered Jane. "Did she say who was coming with her?" "No; can you see anyone in the carriage?" By this time the carriage had reached the entrance to the neat graveled path which led from the gate to the front door. The door of the carriage was opened, and a man got out--a man of less than medium size. Robert was surprised. "Why, Jane" he said, "it's a gentleman!" "Go out and meet them, Master Robert." Robert opened the front door quickly, and hurried out. Meanwhile, the gentleman had helped Mrs. Frost out, and she was advancing up the walk, leaning on the arm of her companion. Mrs. Frost smiled, and turning to the man at her side, said, "This is my son Robert, James." "Ah, indeed!" said the other with a smile. "He looks like a stout, strong boy." "I wonder who he is," thought Robert. But he was soon to learn. "Did you have a pleasant visit, mother?" he asked. "Yes, very pleasant," answered his mother, with a meaning glance at her companion. "Robert, did you receive my telegram?" "Yes, mother." "You remember what I said about the great surprise?" "Yes, mother." "Well, this gentleman is the great surprise," she said, simpering. By this time the whole party had entered the house. "I don't understand you, mother," said the boy, but a sudden suspicion had entered his mind, and he was afraid that he did understand. He waited in painful suspense for his mother to speak. "I have brought you a new father, Robert. This is my husband, Mr. Talbot." "Oh, mother!" exclaimed Robert in a grief-stricken tone. "How could you marry again?" Mrs. Talbot, for this was now her name, blushed and looked uncomfortable. Her husband looked angry. "Really, young man," he said, "it seems to me that is a very improper way of addressing your mother." For the first time Robert fixed his eyes upon this man whom he was so suddenly called upon to think of as--not his father, for he could not tolerate the thought--but as his mother's husband. As before mentioned, he was a small-sized man, with black hair and side whiskers, a thin face, aquiline nose, and an expression which, so far from attracting, actually repelled the boy. It was a baleful look, which suggested Mephistopheles, though this well-known character in Faust did not occur to Robert, for he had never heard of him. The boy was not accustomed to regard new acquaintances with repugnance, but this was the feeling with which he regarded Mr. Talbot. "I hate you!" he blazed out in sudden fury. "Oh, mother, why did you marry him?" This, it must be admitted, was not a very cordial welcome, and the boy's anger was reflected in the face of his new step-father, who bit his nether lip, and glared at our hero with wrathful eyes. "You are an impudent cub!" he exclaimed. "I won't forget the way you have received me." "Oh, James, forgive him!" pleaded the mother. "He doesn't realize what he says. He will get over it to-morrow." "I shall never get over it, mother!" said Robert. "If you must marry again, why at least didn't you marry a gentleman?" "I'll get even with you for this, young man!" exclaimed Talbot furiously. Mrs. Talbot screamed and sat upon a couch. Robert seized his hat, and without waiting for dinner, dashed out of the house. CHAPTER II. MR. TALBOT AND THE DOG. "You didn't tell me what a violent temper your son had," said James Talbot, when Robert had left the house. "He has a good temper, James, but I suppose he was taken by surprise." "I'll take him by surprise!" said Talbot spitefully. "He'll find out that he has a master." "No, James," pleaded Mrs. Talbot. "Remember that he is my son." "I will treat him well if he treats me well, not otherwise. He has the temper of a fiend." "I am so sorry," said the bride, and she indulged in weak tears. "I looked forward with so much pleasure to this day, and now----" "Perhaps you are sorry you married me," said Talbot, biting his mustache. "Oh no, not that, but Robert has gone away without his dinner." "Serves him right. When he gets hungry enough he will come back." "Promise, James, that you will overlook his rudeness." James Talbot was silent a moment, and then constrained his harsh features into a smile, which he tried to make pleasant. "I will remember that he is your son, Sarah," he said, softening his voice. "It will not be my fault if I do not teach him to like me." "Thank you! How good you are!" "And now, my love, let me remind you that I am hungry. Won't you order dinner served? Really, I am almost famished." "Jane, you may put the dinner on the table," said Mrs. Talbot, looking relieved. Jane followed directions. "And where is Master Robert, Mrs. Frost--no, I mean Mrs. Talbot?" "He has gone out for a short time. If he is not back before long, you may save some dinner for him." "That's queer, his going out just as his mother gets back," thought Jane, but she kept silence. She looked disapprovingly at the new husband. "Sure, he looks like a gorilla," she mused. "How could the mistress marry him when her first husband was such a fine handsome man? I mistrusts he and Master Robert won't get along very well together." James Talbot took the place at the head of the table, and began to carve the fowls. Jane noticed that though he helped his wife first, he reserved the nicest portion of the chicken for himself. "Sure, he's a selfish beast!" reflected Jane. "If he was a gentleman he wouldn't take all the breast for himself." She was right. Talbot was selfish and had always been so. Some men can conceal this trait. He did not try to do so. He did not trouble himself about criticism, as long as he got what he wanted. "I wish Robert were here," said Mrs. Talbot plaintively. "I can't be happy, thinking that he is going without his dinner." "He'll be all right to-morrow. I'll try to make friends with him." "Will you really? It will be so good of you." "I always try to be kind and considerate, my love. Your son is very hasty, but he will soon understand me better." "Oh, I do hope so." After dinner Talbot said: "Now, my love, I wish you would show me over the house--our house," he added with cat-like softness. "I shall be so glad to do so." They passed out into the hall, and the new husband's attention was drawn to the portrait of Robert's father. He frowned slightly. "Who is that?" he asked. "It is my first husband." James Talbot glanced curiously at the picture. He was displeased to notice that the portrait represented such a handsome man--a man with whom he was not to be compared. "He was generally considered a fine-looking man," remarked the bride. "Humph! Tastes differ. No doubt he was a good man, but I don't consider him handsome." Through the open door Jane heard this remark, and took instant offense, for she had liked Mr. Frost, who was always kind to her. "He didn't look a gorilla, as you do," she said to herself, and would like to have said aloud. Meanwhile Robert went down to the village. He was the prey of contending emotions. It looked as if all the happiness of their quiet home was gone. This man--this interloper--would spoil it all. "How could mother marry him?" he said to himself. But in spite of his dissatisfaction, he felt hungry. There was a restaurant in the village, and he turned in there. He felt that on this day at least he could not dine at home. He sat down at the table beside Mr. Jameson, a jeweler, and an old friend of the family. The jeweler regarded Robert with surprise. "How is it that you don't dine at home?" he asked. "I believe, however, that your mother is away." "It isn't that, for Jane prepares the meals." "You want a change then?" said Mr. Jameson smiling. "No, it isn't that either. Mother has got home," he added bluntly. "And you go away at such a time?" "I may as well tell you--everybody will know it soon. She has come home with a new husband." "You amaze me! And you don't like the arrangement?" he asked, with a keen glance at his young companion. "No; he's not a gentleman," answered Robert bitterly. "I don't see how she could have married him--or anybody, after my father." "It is natural for you to feel so. Still, she had a right to do so." They talked further, and Mr. Jameson gradually modified Robert's excited feelings. He made the boy promise that if Mr. Talbot should show a disposition to be friendly, he would at any rate treat him with courtesy. About three o'clock in the afternoon Robert met his new step-father in the street. He paused, uncertain how to act. But James Talbot approached him with a soft, ingratiating smile. "Robert," he said, "I am sorry you have taken such a dislike to me. You will excuse my saying that it is quite unreasonable, as you can't know anything about me." "Perhaps I was hasty," Robert forced himself to say, "but it was a trial to me to think my mother had married again." "Quite natural, I am sure, so I shall not look upon your manifestations of dislike as personal to myself." "I suppose not," said Robert slowly. "Of course, I don't know much about you." "When you do, I hope you will like me better," said Talbot cheerfully. "Have you had any dinner?" "Yes, sir." "I hope you will come home to supper. It makes your mother feel very sad to have you stay away." "Yes, I will come." "Shall we take a walk together? I don't know anything of your village. You might show me something of it." Robert hesitated, but he was naturally polite, and, though rather reluctantly, he walked through different parts of the village and pointed out the churches and the public library, the center school-house, and other buildings. Gradually they approached the outskirts of the village till they reached a house occupied by an eccentric old bachelor, who kept a large dog of an uncertain temper. As the two passed, the dog bounded from the yard and ran after them. This gave Robert a chance to judge of his step-father's courage. James Talbot turned pale with fright, and started to run. "Save me, Robert!" he called out, in tremulous accents. "Will he--will he bite?" "I don't think so, Mr. Talbot," said Robert manfully, not exhibiting the least alarm. "What do you mean, Tige?" he continued sternly, addressing the dog. He snatched a stout stick from the side of the road, and made threatening demonstrations. The dog stood still, evidently cowed. "I don't think he is dangerous, Mr. Talbot," Robert started to say, but he looked in vain for his step-father. "Here I am, Robert," he heard in quavering accents. James Talbot had managed, with an agility hardly to be expected of a man of forty-five, to climb into a tree by the roadside. "I--I thought I should be safer here," he said, Robert wanted to laugh, but he was polite, and refrained. "I--I hope he won't bite you." "I'll risk it, sir." "What a terrible situation! I don't dare to come down." "I think you may, sir; I will protect you." "How can you? You wouldn't be a match for a dog like that." By this time Tiger had got over his fierce demonstrations, and seemed quite friendly. "You see he has got over his fierceness. You had better come down." "Do you really think it would be safe?" "I am sure of it." James Talbot got down from the tree cautiously, eyeing the dog askance. "Now let us get away from here at once," he said nervously. "Very well, sir." They took the road for home, the dog making no hostile demonstrations. "I--I was always afraid of dogs," said Talbot, half ashamed. "If it had been a man I wouldn't have cared." And then he began to tell Robert how he had once frightened a burglar from the house where he was lodging; but Robert didn't believe him. He felt contempt for his step-father as a coward. CHAPTER III. THE LITTLE PLOT AGAINST ROBERT. Robert resumed his place in the home circle. Between him and his step-father there was no cordiality, but formal politeness, though at times Mrs. Talbot tried to cultivate more friendly relations. He was somewhat ashamed of the cowardice he displayed during their walk through the village. It was partly because Robert had been a witness of his humiliation that he grew to dislike him the more and determined, when occasion offered, to get even with the boy. He was somewhat afraid of the spirited boy, but gradually plucked up courage for an encounter. When Robert came home from school three days later, he found his step-father in the hall, standing on a chair, engaged in taking down the portrait of Mr. Frost. "What are you doing, Mr. Talbot," he demanded indignantly. Talbot turned his head, and answered curtly, "I apprehend that is my business." "Are you going to take down my father's portrait?" "That's exactly what I am going to do." "Why?" asked Robert sternly. "It is not fitting, now that your mother is my wife, that the picture of her first husband should hang here." "Are you going to put yours in its place?" "As soon as I have one painted." Robert paused for a moment. After all, why should he interfere? His mother had transferred her love and allegiance to another husband, and his father's face would be a silent reproach to her. "Did my mother authorize this removal?" he asked. "Certainly." "Then I have only one request to make, that the portrait be hung up in my chamber. I still revere the memory of my father." "I have no objections. You can take it up to your room when you please." The portrait was taken down, and Robert received it. He at once carried it upstairs. His heart swelled within him, and a look of bitterness came over his young face. "I can't stand it long," he said to himself. "The sight of that man fills me with indignation and disgust. I would as soon see a serpent." As yet, however, there had been no open outbreak, but it was to come very soon. "May I ask a favor of you, James?" said his wife at the breakfast table. "What is it, my dear?" "I find that our woodpile needs replenishing. Will you stop at Mr. Webber's on your way to the post-office and ask him to call? I want to speak to him about sawing and splitting a new supply." "My dear," said her husband, "let me make a suggestion. Why employ Mr. Webber when you have a strong, able-bodied boy in the house?" "Do you mean Robert?" "There is no other boy in the house, I take it." "But," expostulated Mrs. Talbot, "there is no occasion to put Robert at such work. I am quite able to employ and pay Mr. Webber." "And bring up the boy in idleness. That's a very bad plan. He will be getting lazy." "He has his studies to attend to." "He needs physical exercise." "He plays ball and foot-ball." "His time is thrown away. He could get quite as healthful exercise in sawing and splitting wood, and it would save money." Mrs. Talbot was of a gentle, yielding temper, but she was not disposed to adopt her husband's views. She still ventured to expostulate. "Robert is not lazy, James," she said. "If I were poor and there were any need of it, he would willingly saw and split the wood." "Perhaps he would and perhaps he wouldn't. From what I have seen of him, I am decidedly of the opinion that he has been pampered and spoiled. He has a very bad temper----" "Oh, James!" "It is true, but it is partly because of his bringing-up. He needs to have his will broken. He has always had his own way, and it is quite time that he learned who is master here." "You are very hard and cruel, James," said his wife, the tears filling her eyes. "You think so, but I am only seeking the boy's good. I am quite decided on this point. We will drop the discussion." "Oh, what will happen?" thought the poor mother. "Robert will never submit, and there will be serious trouble." The next morning was Saturday, and Robert had a holiday from school. He was out in the yard, after breakfast, and was about to leave the premises, when his step-father appeared in the doorway. "Stop a minute," he called out in a tone of command. Robert looked back in surprise. "What is wanted?" he asked. "Where are you going?" "Out fishing with Harry Baker." "I think you had better postpone it." "Why?" demanded Robert in surprise. "Come out in the back-yard and I will tell you." Very much surprised, Robert followed his step-father out into the back-yard. "What does all this mean?" he thought. "I want you to spend the forenoon in sawing and splitting wood. Your mother tells me there is need of a fresh supply." "I don't understand you, sir," said Robert coldly. "Mr. Webber always saws and splits wood for us." "He always has hitherto, but this arrangement is to be changed." Robert's eyes flashed. He was beginning to understand now. "Why? Is my mother unable to pay him?" "That is not the point. You are strong and well able to do the work. There is no need of going to unnecessary expense." Robert's lip curled. "You really expect me to work at the woodpile?" he said. "I do. What is more, I command you to go to work at once." Robert looked his step-father firmly in the face. "You command me to go to work?" he repeated slowly. "Yes, I do," blustered Mr. Talbot, thinking by his loud voice to intimidate the boy. But he didn't understand the boy with whom he had to deal. Robert eyed his step-father contemptuously. James Talbot, though perhaps an inch taller, was less heavily built, and looked thin and puny beside the sturdy boy whom he was trying to coerce. He felt the contempt which Robert's face so plainly expressed, and it enraged him, for he was a man of violent temper. "I think, Mr. Talbot," said Robert, after a pause, "that you will have hard work in getting your orders obeyed." If James Talbot had not been beside himself with rage, he would not have dared to act as he did. He seized a stout stick lying on the ground and sprang towards his disobedient step-son. Robert instantly seized the ax, which was conveniently near, and brandished it in a threatening manner. "Don't you dare to touch me!" he exclaimed in excitement. James Talbot turned pale. "Are you insane?" he demanded, drawing back in affright. "No, but I don't propose to be bulldozed. Just lay down that stick, if you please." Mechanically Talbot dropped it. "You have a terrible temper!" he exclaimed. "I hope not, but I am quite prepared to defend myself, Mr. Talbot." "How old are you, sir?" "Sixteen." "Then you are under authority. You are bound to obey me." "Am I? I don't recognize you as having any authority over me." "Evidently you have a good deal to learn. Once more, will you obey me?" "Once more, I won't," returned Robert firmly. "You will be sorry for your disobedience. You haven't seen the end of this." He turned and walked back to the house, feeling with mortification that he had been worsted in this first encounter with his step-son. "I'd like to flog that boy within an inch of his life," he muttered spitefully. "I--I wish I dared to grapple with him." Robert and his step-father didn't meet at dinner or supper, as the latter had to go away on business. "Mother," said Robert, "do you wish me to take Mr. Webber's place at the woodpile?" "No, Robert. It was Mr. Talbot's idea. He thought it would be healthful exercise for you." "Why not for him?" "I will try to get him off the idea." "It makes no difference. He can't make me do it, though he threatened me with a stick this morning." "Surely he did not strike you?" said his mother nervously. "No, I guess not. He did not dare to." It so happened that James Talbot did not reach home till a late hour in the evening, when Robert was already in bed. He went upstairs softly, ascertained from Robert's regular breathing that he was sound asleep, then taking the key from the lock inside, locked the door from the outside, and went downstairs with a smile. "When the boy wakes up, he will find himself a prisoner," he said. "I shall get even with him, after all." CHAPTER IV. MR. TALBOT IS MYSTIFIED. Robert slept soundly, and didn't wake till near breakfast-time. He jumped out of bed and hastily dressed himself. Then he went to the door of his chamber, and tried to open it. To his surprise, he found himself unable to do so. For the first time he noticed that the key was not in the lock. "What does this mean?" he asked himself. He peered through the key-hole and detected the key sticking in from the other side of the door. "This is Mr. Talbot's work," he decided. "What does he expect to gain by it?" Robert was quite cool, and upon the whole, rather amused. It seemed to him a childish trick to play upon him. "What a contemptible fellow he is!" he said to himself. "It mortifies me to think he is my mother's husband." Robert's room was a large front apartment on the third floor. It was quite as handsome as any on the second floor. It was directly over the room occupied by his mother. She, however, must already be downstairs. "I am sure mother can't know of this," he decided. Just then the breakfast bell rang, and Robert wondered whether anyone would come up to see why he did not come down. Presently he heard a step on the stairs, and a minute later he heard the voice of his step-father. "Robert!" he called out, "are you up?" "Yes, Mr. Talbot. Why did you lock me in?" "I had my reasons. You were disobedient to me yesterday." Robert laughed, a little to Mr. Talbot's annoyance. He hoped to find the boy in a state of alarm, ready to submit to his orders. "About the wood, I suppose you mean." "Yes." "Are you going to unlock the door?" His voice was quite calm, and he showed no nervousness nor excitement. "I will upon one condition." "You have no right to lock me up here, and no right to make conditions." "That is for me to say. I will unlock the door on condition that you agree to saw and split the wood, as I required yesterday." "To-day is Sunday. Do you expect me to work to-day?" Mr. Talbot was rather taken aback. He had forgotten when the evening before he locked the door of Robert's chamber that the next day would be Sunday. "No, but next week." "I don't agree," said Robert firmly. "All right; I will come up in an hour, and see if you have changed your mind." With a malicious chuckle James Talbot drew the key from the lock, put it in his pocket, and went downstairs. His wife was already sitting in her place at the breakfast table. "What makes you so late, James," she asked. "I have been having a little interview with your son, my dear." "He is late, too. Is he coming down?" "No doubt he would like to," said her husband, chuckling. "I don't understand you, James. If he would like to come, why doesn't he?" "Because he is locked in his chamber." "Who locked him there?" "I did." Mrs. Talbot was a meek woman, but this excited her to anger. "I will go right up and let him out," she said. James Talbot laughed, but allowed his wife to leave the room without a word. She hurried up to Robert's chamber. "Robert!" she called through the key-hole. "Is it you, mother?" "Yes. Are you locked in?" "Yes." "Where is the key?" "In Mr. Talbot's pocket, I presume." "Why did he lock you in?" "Because I would not agree to saw and split the wood in place of Mr. Webber next week." "That is shameful. Poor boy! and you have had no breakfast." "And am not likely to have, unless you can pass some through the key-hole. You see what sort of a man you have married, mother." Mrs. Talbot was silent. She began to realize it herself. "How is this going to end?" she asked, half crying. "Don't mind me, mother. I'll get out some way." "I will ask James--Mr. Talbot for the key." "He won't give it to you. Let things take their course. I will consider what is best to be done. But first, is there any other key in the house that will fit this door?" "No, I don't think so." When Mrs. Talbot went downstairs her husband was half through breakfast. "I am afraid your breakfast will be cold, my dear," he said. "How can you act so meanly, James?" "It is all for Robert's good. He has been too much indulged. I want to make a man of him. What did he say to you?" "He told me not to mind--that he would get out some way." "Perhaps through the key-hole," laughed James Talbot, apparently much amused. "You are real mean," whimpered his wife. "The poor boy has had no breakfast." "Don't let that interfere with your breakfasting, Mrs. T." "How can I eat when he is hungry?" "You see it doesn't affect my appetite. Really, this steak is unusually good." Meanwhile Robert was considering how he was to escape. It was rather a puzzling question to consider, and he could not think of any way. But as he was looking out of the window he saw Sam Jones, a school friend, pass by. An idea came to him. Sam's father was a carpenter, and the owner of a tall ladder. "I say, Sam!" he called out. Sam looked up in the direction of the voice, and to his surprise saw Robert at the window. "What's up?" he asked. "I am." "Why don't you come down?" "For a very good reason--because I am locked in." "What's that for?" asked Sam in natural surprise. Robert explained. "What are you going to do?" "Get out, if you will help me." "What shall I do?" "Ask your father to bring his tall ladder. I am sure it will reach up to my window. Only be quick about it. I want to get out before Mr. Talbot is through breakfast." "I'll do it. It will be good fun to circumvent the old rascal." Sam started on a run, and in less than ten minutes came back with his father and the ladder. Mr. Jones was very ready to lend his assistance, for he had taken a dislike to Mr. Talbot, who had beaten him down on the price of some repairs he had made to the barn. The two together put up the ladder against the window, and Robert stepping through the opening, put his foot on the top rung and quickly descended. He breathed a sigh of relief and exultation as he set foot on the ground. "That's the first time I was ever a prisoner, and I don't like it," he said. "I wish I had old Talbot up there. He wouldn't dare to escape as I did, for he is an awful coward." He told the story of the dog, and how frightened his step-father had been. Sam and his father enjoyed the story. "Now, take away the ladder quick. I don't want Mr. Talbot to know how I got out. I mustn't forget to thank you for your kindness." "You can do as much for me if father ever locks me up," said Sam. "I don't think there's much danger." Meanwhile, Mr. Talbot having got through breakfast went upstairs to enjoy the uncomfortable position of his step-son. "Robert!" he called through the key-hole. There was no answer. "You needn't be sullen. It will do you no good." Still there was no answer. "I would open the door," thought the man, "but he may be lying in wait for me, and he is very strong for a boy." A third time he called, but still there was no answer. "I hope he hasn't done anything desperate," thought James Talbot. Finally he summoned up courage to unlock the door. Lo, the bird was flown, and the window was open. "I wonder if he has jumped out!" said Talbot in alarm. He went to the window and looked out, but could see nothing of Robert. "It is very strange," he muttered. "If he had broken a limb, he would be lying on the lawn." He went downstairs considerably perturbed. Hearing noise in the dining-room, he looked in, and saw Robert sitting at the table. "Good morning, Mr. Talbot," said Robert, with much politeness. "You will excuse my being late to breakfast, but circumstances prevented my being on time." James Talbot sank into a chair and stared at Robert open-mouthed. "Did you get out of the window?" he asked. "Yes, but next time I'd rather go through the door." "What a very remarkable boy!" thought his step-father. CHAPTER V. A CRISIS. Nothing more was said about the woodpile. Apparently Mr. Talbot concluded that he was not likely to carry his point, and prudently withdrew from the conflict. But his sense of defeat only made him the more incensed against his rebellious step-son. "I would give five dollars to see that boy thrashed," he said to himself moodily, as from the window he watched Robert playing ball in the street with his friend Sam Jones. As Robert seemed to be enjoying himself, he could not resist the temptation to interfere. So he opened the window and called out, "Robert, I wish you would stop playing ball in the street." "Why?" asked his step-son. "Because the ball might come this way and break one of the windows." "There is no chance of it, Mr. Talbot. We are sending the ball up and down the street." "Still there is danger." "I don't see it." "Will you be guided by my wishes?" demanded Talbot querulously. "I would if they were reasonable. I don't think they are." "I am the best judge of that. I don't want you to play ball in front of my house." "Your house? How long has it been yours? It belongs to my mother." "Your mother is my wife." "I am sorry to say that you are right. But that doesn't make the house yours." "I have no wish to quibble. I represent your mother, and I have a right to ask you to stop playing ball in front of the house." "Even if the house were yours, you don't own the street. Go ahead, Sam!" Mr. Talbot banged the door and went into the house. "That is the most impudent cub I ever saw," he muttered. He was worsted again, and he felt angry and provoked. "What a sweet step-father you've got, Robert," said Sam. "Isn't he? But don't call him my step-father. I want to forget that he is connected with me in any way. He is constantly nagging me. I don't think I can stand it much longer." "How does your mother stand it?" "Mother has a very sweet temper, and she has no will of her own." "Unlike you," said Sam, smiling. "Yes, I have a will of my own. I don't think a boy or man can succeed who hasn't." "You say you can't stand it. What will that lead to?" "It may lead to my leaving the house, and going out into the world to seek my fortune. Our house is a large one, but it isn't large enough to contain Mr. Talbot and myself." "I hope you won't have to go, Robert. I should miss you awfully." "And I should miss you, Sam. But time will show." Probably no persons could be more incompatible, or less likely to get along together, than Robert and Mr. Talbot. The presence of one was a constant irritation to the other. This could have but one issue. One day, perhaps a week after the dispute about ball-playing, Robert entered the gate on his way back from the village. Mr. Talbot was standing on the lawn. He had scarcely entered the yard when a man reeling under the influence of drink staggered by. "That man has more than he can carry," observed Robert. "Yes," answered Talbot with a smile. "Take care that you don't fall into the same habit." "Why do you caution me," asked Robert curtly. "Do you think there is any need of it?" "Yes, if all that I have heard is true." "What have you heard?" "That your father was an intemperate man." Robert's eyes flashed with intense anger. "It is a lie," he said. "Take it back." "I have every reason to believe it is true, and I won't take it back." This was too much for Robert, who was a boy of spirit, and had been devotedly attached to his father. "Take it back!" he repeated in a tone of menace. "Do you think I would take it back at the order of a whipper-snapper like you?" sneered his step-father. Robert waited to hear no more. His affection and reverence for his father were so strong that he felt outraged by the insult to his memory. He made a sudden attack upon his step-father, so impetuous that it dashed Mr. Talbot to the ground. The man was very much frightened. His encounter with the dog showed that he was a coward, and though he, a grown person, was attacked by a boy, he seemed helpless and over-whelmed. "Ah--what does this mean?" he gasped. "It means that I won't allow you or any other man to insult my father's memory," answered Robert fiercely. "I will have you arrested," said Talbot venomously. "Do as you please," returned Robert contemptuously. He sprang to his feet, and without waiting for Mr. Talbot to rise, entered the house and sought his mother, who had not witnessed the fracas. The time had been brief, but he had already made up his mind to do what had been in his mind for some time. He would leave home and seek his fortune in the great world. He felt that to stay at home any longer--to live under the same roof as his step-father--would be absolutely impossible. He was not afraid to depend upon his own exertions. He was young, well-educated, strong, and had confidence in his own ability to earn a living. He would be sorry to leave his mother of course, but his mother didn't seem to belong to him now that she was the wife of a man whom he despised. Leaving James Talbot to pick himself up at his leisure, he sought his mother, who was in the sitting room, engaged in sewing. She noticed the flush upon Robert's face, and his excited air, and asked at once, "What's the matter, Robert? You look disturbed." "I am disturbed, mother." "What is it? Tell me about it." "I got into a dispute with Mr. Talbot." "I wish you could be friendly with him." "It is impossible, mother. He is always irritating me. This time he insulted my father's memory." "How did he do that?" "He said father was a man of intemperate habits." "Surely he did not mean it," said his mother, looking troubled. "I don't know whether he meant it or not. I only know that he said it. And now, mother, you mustn't take too hard what I am going to say to you." "What is it?" inquired Mrs. Talbot nervously. "I have made up my mind to leave home." "Surely you would not do that," said his mother startled. "Yes, it is the best way. I can't live under the same roof as Mr. Talbot. Besides I am now sixteen. It is time I was earning my own living." "But that is not necessary, Robert. I have enough for you." "I know it, but I can't live on you all my life. I want to go out into the world, and see what I can do for myself." "Take time to think it over, Robert. You are not through school." "I shall be very soon. I have a good education already, and I can get along." "What do you want to do?" "I don't know yet. Something will open up for me." "Wait till next week," pleaded his mother. "No, I must go this very day. I have had a fight with Mr. Talbot, and I can't stay in the house any longer." "Oh, Robert, you will make me very unhappy." "I am sorry for that, mother, but I don't see how I can help it. Look on the bright side. I think things will turn out well for me." "If you must go, you must let me give you some money," and Mrs. Talbot, rising, went to her secretary. "No, mother; I have twenty dollars laid by. That will do for the present. When that is gone I will write you for some more." "Will you promise to do it, Robert?" "Yes, mother?" "Where do you think of going?" "To Chicago, first." "But you don't know anyone there, and I am told there are a great many bad men there who might lead you into temptation." "I hope I am strong enough to resist them. But I must go upstairs and get ready." Robert went up to his chamber and drew out from a closet a large grip-sack. Into this he put hurriedly a supply of shirts, socks, handkerchiefs, and underclothing. "I came near forgetting a comb and brush," he said to himself, unlocking the grip-sack after it was closed. "I am not used to traveling, but I suppose I shall be in time." Meanwhile, Mr. Talbot after taking time to recover his equanimity, sought his wife. "Mrs. T.," he said, "your promising son is getting worse and worse." "Explain yourself," she said coldly. "He sprang upon me with the ferocity of a tiger, after I had made an inoffensive remark, and taking me unawares, actually threw me down. I can't endure his presence." "You won't be obliged to. He has decided to leave home." "Where will he go?" "He is going out into the world to seek his fortune," she answered sadly. "He will fetch up in jail," said his step-father savagely. "I think, Mr. Talbot, we will drop the subject. I do not feel equal to discussing it when my dear and only child is about to leave home, driven from it by you." She rose and left the room. "Well, I'm glad he's going," thought Talbot. "I can the better carry out my plans." CHAPTER VI. ON THE TRAIN. His valise filled with a stock of necessary underwear, Robert walked to the railway station. It was a very sudden start, and he had no time to consider what he was to do, for the train moved off five minutes after his arrival. He selected a seat by a window, and placed his valise on the seat beside his own. It was not till the train had fairly started that he began to realize the importance of the step that he was taking. He was leaving a comfortable, nay, a luxurious home, where he was provided with every comfort, and by his own choice was undertaking to earn his own living. It was enough to make any boy feel serious. But Robert was manly and resolute, and he decided that anything would be better than to live under the same roof with his odious step-father. Five minutes later a tall thin man walked over from the opposite side of the car, and said, "Will you allow me to sit beside you?" "Certainly," answered Robert courteously, and removed his grip-sack. "Thank you. I am tired of sitting alone, and thought I should like a chat with an intelligent young man." Robert smiled. "So you think I am an intelligent young man?" he said. "I am sure of it." "I am very much obliged, but what makes you think so?" "I am well versed in character reading, being a professional phrenologist and a student of physiognomy. Are you going to the city?" "Yes, sir. I think so." "So am I. Are you connected with any business house there?" "Not yet, sir. I may be before long." "I may be able to help you get a place. I am extensively acquainted with business firms. But perhaps you have a place already secured?" "No, sir." "Are you well acquainted in Chicago?" "I know scarcely anyone there--no one of any prominence." "You may have to wait for a position. Pardon me--it is none of my business--but you ought to have money enough to carry you on a few weeks in case you have to wait." "I have some money," said Robert cautiously. "That is well. I am glad to hear it. Are you well educated?" "Tolerably so." "Do you know anything about bookkeeping?" "Yes, sir." "I have a brother-in-law who is a commission merchant. Indeed I may say that Mr. Claflin, the great merchant, is a cousin of mine." "Indeed, sir." "I was once in Claflin's employ," continued the stranger. "I was head of one of the departments, with a salary of five thousand dollars a year." "What made you leave so good a place?" "I don't wonder you ask. It was because Claflin interfered with me. I felt that I ought to have full charge of my department, and would tolerate no interference. He interfered with me, and in a fit of anger I threw up my position. I dare say you think me foolish?" "Yes, I do," answered Robert frankly. "You are right, but an angry man doesn't stop to consider. Claflin seemed surprised, and no doubt he was sorry, but he is a proud man and he wouldn't demean himself by asking me to stay. So I put on my coat and left." "Have you got on well since?" "I went over to a rival merchant, but had to take less pay. Still I got on very well, till last spring, when I had an attack of malaria. That broke me down in health and pocket, and now I am what you call hard up." "Hadn't you saved up anything from your large salary?" "Yes, but I invested in running stock, and lost all." "I wonder what he is telling me all this for?" mused Robert. "I have about recovered my health, and now I shall soon get a good place," went on the stranger. Here Robert took out his watch--it was an excellent Waltham silver watch--and consulted it. "Let me look at your watch!" said the stranger. Robert put it in his hands. "A very good watch! Let me show you mine." He drew from his pocket a showy gold watch--at least it was yellow, and had a good appearance. "What do you think of it?" "It is showy." "Yes, and is of high grade. It is well worth seventy-five dollars, though I have had it for three years." Robert was not especially interested. His own watch had cost but twenty-five, but it was a gift from his father, and as such he valued it. "I have a great mind to offer you a bargain," said his companion. Robert looked at him inquiringly. "If you will give me ten dollars to boot, I will exchange with you." "Why should you do that? You say your watch is worth seventy-five dollars." "So it is, but, my young friend, I am very short of money. The silver watch would keep as good time, and the money would be of great service to me." Robert shook his head. "My watch was a present," he said, "I should not care to part with it." "Of course, that is a consideration," said the stranger, appearing disappointed. "Besides I could not very well spare ten dollars." "You could easily pawn the watch for forty dollars." "Why don't you do that?" "Egad! I didn't think of it. I believe I will. By the way, will you do me a favor?" "What is it?" "Will you keep the watch for fifteen minutes? I am going out into the smoking-car, and I may go to sleep. That is the way smoking affects me. I might get robbed, but if you hold the watch I shall feel easy." This seemed a strange proposal to make, but after all it was plausible. It seemed a trifling favor to grant. Why should he object? "But how do you know I am honest," asked Robert. "You have only known me a few minutes." "Didn't I tell you I was skilled in reading character? You have an honest face." "Thank you for your favorable opinion." "Do you consent?" "Yes. How long will you be gone?" "I shall come back before we reach the city." "Very well, if you are anxious to have me take charge of it." "Yes; I shall feel safe if it is in your hands." "All right, sir." Robert wore a sack coat with pockets on each side. He put the watch in one of these pockets, and resumed looking out of the window. His companion left the car and went to the car in the rear, which was the smoking-car. Half an hour passed, and then a stout, thick-set man of thirty-five entered the car and walked through it, looking at the passengers as he passed along. He paused in front of Robert's seat. "Young man," he said, "show me your watch." Robert looked at him in astonishment. "What do you mean?" he asked. "I mean that I have had my watch stolen, and I am sure some passenger has taken it." "What kind of a watch was it?" "It was a gold watch. Have you such a watch about you?" "Yes, but----" "Never mind about any buts," said the other fiercely. "I can tell by your expression that you have got my watch. Let me have it at once." "A gentleman, now in the smoking-car, gave me a watch to keep for him." "And you have it about you?" "Yes." "Give it to me at once." "I couldn't, without his permission." "That won't go down. Either give me the watch, or I will have you arrested." "I have no right to give you the watch. If it is yours it was stolen by the man who handed it to me to keep for him." "I give you two minutes to produce the watch. If you will do this, and pay me ten dollars besides, I will overlook your offense." Robert's face flushed. He felt that he was in a tight place. This man might be a confederate of the other. But how was he to prove it? CHAPTER VII. BAFFLED. The charge had come upon Robert so suddenly that he hardly knew what to say. Gradually, his presence of mind returned to him. "What made you fix upon me as the one likely to have the watch?" he asked. "Why didn't you select some other passenger?" The stout man hesitated. He could not say what was the truth, that Robert had been described to him by his confederate. "It was your guilty look," he answered, after a pause. "So you think I look guilty?" said our hero, with an amused smile. "Yes, I do," said the other defiantly. "I have had a great deal to do with crooks in my time." "No doubt of it," chimed in a new voice. Both Robert and the man who accused him looked round. The voice proceeded from a tall, rough-looking man who sat behind Robert. The accuser looked a little uneasy. "As I said, I know a crook when I see him." "So do I," said the rough-looking man, who had the appearance of a Western miner. "My friend," said the claimant of the watch severely, "will you do me the favor to mind your own business?" "That's good advice. I hope you follow it yourself." "Will you give me the watch, or are you prepared to be arrested?" "Describe the watch," said Robert composedly. "I have. It is a gold watch." "So is this," said the miner, producing a heavy gold watch from his fob. "You needn't put in your oar," said the claimant, frowning. "The boy is right. Describe the watch." "I have already said that it is a gold watch." "So is this. Do you claim this watch as yours?" "No. I suppose it is your watch. The watch in the boy's pocket is not his." "Correct, squire. But that doesn't prove it is yours." "Where is the man who handed it to me?" asked Robert. "I don't know. I don't believe there is any such man." "Bring him here, and I will hand it to him." "That's where your head's level, boy," said the miner. "If this man wants any proof that he asked you to keep it for him, he can call on me. I saw him do it." "No doubt!" sneered the accuser. "I presume you are in league with the boy." The miner coolly lifted the window beside his seat. "Do you see that window," he asked. "Yes. What of it?" "Have you any particular desire to be thrown out?" "No," answered the other, in evident alarm. "Then don't you dare to insinuate that I am in league with anybody for crooked work." As he spoke, he rose to his full height, showing a muscular figure, rather more than six feet in length. Robert's antagonist was about six inches shorter. "No offense, mister," he said meekly. "You seem to be coming to your senses. Now, is this watch yours?" "What watch?" "The watch in the boy's pocket." "Yes." "How did the other man get hold of it?" "If he had it at all, he stole it from me." "Very good; we'll investigate this. My young friend, come with me into the smoking-car." The claimant protested uneasily, but the miner insisted. He and Robert left the car and went into the one behind. There about the middle of the car sat the man from whom Robert had received the watch. "Give it back to him," said the miner. Robert walked up to his first acquaintance. "I want you to take back your watch," he said. "This man says it belongs to him." The tall, thin man looked at his confederate. He saw that their little plan of frightening Robert into giving them ten dollars had failed. "Did you send him in to me?" went on Robert. "There is some mistake. I sent him in for it, but he misunderstood me." He looked askance at the miner, who he saw was disposed to be a friend of Robert. "Look here," said the miner sternly, "you are a precious pair of rascals. Your little game hasn't worked. I have seen such men as you before. I was on the vigilance committee in San Francisco some years ago, and such fellows as you we strung up to the nearest lamp-post. Can you make it convenient to get off at the next station?" "That's where we intend to stop," said the tall man meekly. "That is fortunate. It will save you a good deal of trouble. Now, boy, come back into the other car. We have no further business with these gentlemen." Going back, they sat down in the same seat. "I am very much obliged to you for getting me out of the scrape," said Robert gratefully. "Don't mention it." "Do you really think they were----?" "Crooks? Yes. They had all the signs. I've rubbed against such fellows before now. These fellows are not smart. They don't understand the rudiments of the business." "You spoke of San Francisco. Have you been there?" asked Robert with interest. "I lived there and at the mines for five years." "Were you lucky?" "You mean, did I strike it rich? Well, I had middling luck. I didn't go there for nothing. How much do you think I had when I landed at Frisco?" "A hundred dollars?" "I had just three dollars and a half. I had one extra shirt, and that was about all." "That wasn't a very large supply. Where did you go from?" "I was raised in Vermont. Worked on a farm for dad till I was twenty-two. Then with fifty dollars, which I had in the savings bank, I started for California. Well, I got there at last, but my funds were almost gone. I got a chance to do some rough work till I had enough to go to the mines. There I made something of a pile, enough to pay off the mortgage on the old farm, and have ten thousand dollars left. I've just come from there." "Do you ever expect to go back to the mines?" "Yes. I should not be satisfied now to remain at the East. Where are you going?" "To the city." "To get a place?" "Yes, if I can." "Have you parents living?" "I have a mother," said Robert slowly. "And you want to get work to help support her?" "No, she has plenty of money." "Then why do you leave home?" Robert looked at his companion. His plain, honest face impressed him favorably. He felt that he was a man in whom he could confide. "I have a step-father," he said briefly. "I understand. You and he don't hitch horses. Is that so?" "You are right." "Tell me all about it." "I will. I should like to ask somebody's advice. I want to know whether I have done right." "Go ahead, my lad." Robert told the story, and the miner listened attentively. "Do you know what I think of that step-father of yours?" "Tell me." "I think he is about as mean a skunk as I ever heard mentioned. What made your mother marry him?" "I don't know. She must have been infatuated." "I suppose you had an easy time at home." "Yes, I did." "And now you will have to work for a living?" "Yes, but I don't mind that." "I see you're the right sort," said the miner approvingly. They had reached the next station. In the next car there was a tumult and a noise as of men scuffling. The miner rose and opened the door of the car. He and Robert saw the two men who had tried to swindle our hero in the hands of two angry men, who hustled them out of the car with such violence that they fell prostrate beside the track. "What's the matter?" asked the miner. "These men tried to relieve me of my watch. They won't try it again in a hurry." Bruised by the fall, the two men picked themselves up and slunk away. "They're a precious pair of rascals," said the miner. "If we had them at the mines, they would soon dangle from the branch of a tree." CHAPTER VIII. PERIL. Jones and Barlow, the two men who had been so ignominiously expelled from the train, picked themselves up, and with faces flaming with anger shook their fists at the train in impotent wrath. "This is an outrage, Jones," said Barlow, the taller of the two. "So it is," said Jones, rubbing his knee, which had received an abrasion from falling on a flinty stone. "They don't know how to treat a gentleman." "No, they don't. You're right, Barlow." "I suppose the boy and that long-legged miner are laughing in their sleeves." As he spoke, both turned their glances upon the car in which Robert and the miner were located, and saw both looking out of a car window. The miner's face wore a look of amusement and satisfaction, which was enough to anger the two adventurers. "Good-by, boys!" he said. "You're leaving us in a hurry, but we won't forget you." In reply, Jones, who was the more choleric of the two, shook his fist at the miner, but did not indulge himself in any remarks. His feelings were probably too deep for words. "What shall we do, Barlow?" he asked. "Foot it to the next station, I reckon. I'm used to walkin', aint you?" "I've done a little of it in my time," said Jones, with a grin. "Then we can take the next train that comes along. That cursed miner won't be on board, and we can be received as gentlemen." "Say, have you got a clothes-brush, Barlow? My knees--that is the knees of my pants--are all over mud." "So are mine. Yes, I believe I have, but don't let us repair damages here. They will be looking out of the car-windows and laughing at us." "Go ahead, then. I'll follow." They started in the direction in which the train was going. Two minutes later they fell in with a young Irish boy, who surveyed their dilapidated appearance with amusement. "Say," he remarked, "have youse been racin' wid de train?" "Why do you ask, boy?" inquired Barlow with lofty dignity. "I take it all back. I guess you've been on your knees prayin'." "Boy, don't you know how to address a gentleman?" "Where's the gentleman?" inquired the youth, with a vacant look. "Jones, chase that boy and give him a lesson." Jones undertook to do so, but he was short and fat, and the boy easily eluded him. He climbed over a fence on one side of the railway, and began to make faces at the pair. "What would you have done to me if you had caught me?" he asked in a mocking and derisive tone. "Given you a first-class thrashing," growled Jones. "Then I'm glad you didn't catch me. Say, I saw you get out of the train." "Suppose you did?" "You were kicked out. What had you been doin'?" Angry as the two adventurers were at their humiliating treatment, their feeling of indignation was intensified by the boy's taunts. Jones was about to make an angry retort, when Barlow stopped him. "Don't mind the boy," he said. "We'd better be getting on." They walked briskly till they had probably got a quarter of a mile on their way to the next station. Then they paused and looked back, for on the way they had passed the train. "What's the matter with the train?" asked Barlow. "Don't know. It's making quite a stop." "I wish it would get wrecked." This gave an idea to Jones. "So I say. We'd get even with that miner, and the men that hustled us off the train. What do you say to wrecking it?" "We can do it. See that switch?" "Yes. What of it?" "I'm an old switchman. Tended switch for three years on a Western road. All we'll have to do is to reverse that switch," pointing to one a hundred feet farther on, "and there'll be a smash." Barlow's breath came quick. He was not as daring a rascal as his companion. "Do you really mean it, Jones?" he said. "Yes, I do." "Suppose we get caught?" "We won't get caught." "Somebody may see us." "There's no one around. Look and satisfy yourself." "If you think it safe?" "Of course it's safe. Besides, if there's a wreck, there'll be booty for us. I'd like to rifle the pockets of that miner." The train had been detained at a signal tower by a telegram, and this allowed the two adventurers to arrange their plans for wrecking it. But on trying to move the switch, Jones found a difficulty. He had not the necessary appliances. "Can't you move it?" asked Barlow. "No." "Then we must give up the plan." "No, there's another way. Do you see that rock?" He pointed to a square rock, weighing not far from a hundred pounds, by the side of the railroad. "Yes, that'll do the business. But there's no time to lose. The train may come along at any moment. I don't know why it has been so delayed." "Come along then, and help me move it. It is heavy." The two rascals bent over and lifted the rock in concert. They grumbled over the weight, neither of them being used to hard labor. "I should think it weighed most half a ton," grumbled Barlow. "Never mind. We will soon have it in position. Quick! I hear the train!" The rumbling of the train could be heard at a considerable distance. The two scoundrels didn't trouble themselves about the possible, or probable consequences of their dastardly plot. They only thought of revenging themselves upon the men who had ejected them from the train, and they felt, besides, an animosity against Robert and his miner friend. They thought themselves without a witness, but in this they were mistaken. The boy already mentioned, whom they had pursued ineffectually, had followed them at a distance, having a feeling of curiosity about them. "I wonder what they're up to?" he soliloquized, as he watched them tampering with the switch. He could not quite understand the meaning of their movements. But when they took the rock, and between them conveyed it to the railroad track, and put it in the way of the coming train, he understood. "I believe the mean chaps want to wreck the train," he said to himself. What should he do? He bethought himself of calling out to them, and trying to prevent their plot. But he was sure they would pay no attention to him, and besides there was no time. He could already hear the thundering sound of the approaching train. Tommy was on a bluff about fifteen feet above the roadbed. To descend the bank and run to meet the train would consume more time than he had at command. "Oh, dear!" muttered Tommy. "There'll be a smash, and lots of people will be killed." But there was one thing that neither Tommy nor the two scoundrels had seen. It was a cow that somehow or other had found its way through a gap in the fence from a pasture to the left, and was leisurely walking along the track, full in the path of the approaching train. The engineer could not see the rock, for it was too small an object, but by great good luck he did see the cow. With a tremendous effort, he stopped the engine just in time. When the train halted, it was only ten feet away from the animal, who was looking with startled eyes at the coming train. The shock of the sudden stop was such that the passengers started to their feet, and the engineer leaped from the engine. By this time Tommy had descended the bank, and was standing only a few feet away. "We have had a narrow escape," said the miner, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "You have had two narrow escapes," said Tommy, pointing to the large rock which lay across one of the rails fifteen feet further on. The engineer started, and seemed horror-struck. "Who put that rock on the track?" he demanded sternly. CHAPTER IX. AT THE PALMER HOUSE. Tommy Keegan pointed to Barlow and Jones, who rather imprudently had maintained their position, in the hope that the train would be wrecked. The engineer and the group of passengers around him eyed the two men with a quick, scrutinizing glance. Their appearance made the charge a probable one. "How do you know, boy?" asked the engineer. "I seed them put the rock on the track," answered Tommy. "It's a lie!" blustered Jones. "The boy did it himself." "The boy could not lift a rock of that size," said the engineer positively. Among the group of passengers were Robert and the miner. "Why, it's the scamps that were put off the train!" exclaimed the miner. "You recognize them?" asked the engineer. "Yes, they were put off the train at the last station for trying to swindle some of the passengers." "What have you to say to this, man?" demanded the engineer sternly. "It's a lie. The gentleman is mistaken." "No, he isn't. I was one of those who put them off the train," said one of the other passengers. "Tell all you know about it, boy," said the engineer. "I seed them try to turn the switch first," said Tommy. "They couldn't do that, so they got the rock and put dat on the track just before the train come along." Barlow and Jones saw that things were getting serious for them, and very foolishly started to run. But a dozen men went in pursuit, prominent among them being the miner, whose long legs soon brought him abreast of the rascally pair. He seized Barlow by the collar, and at the same time another passenger grasped Jones. "Now," said the engineer, "what was your object in trying to wreck the train?" "We didn't do it. The boy lies," said Jones sullenly. "It was in revenge for being put off the train," suggested the miner. "Lynch them! Hang them to the nearest tree!" shouted half a dozen. "That's my idea," said the miner. Had the engineer sanctioned this, it would have been done without further delay, but he was a man of good judgment, and would not countenance such a proceeding. "No," he said, "secure them and take them on board the train." "Come here, boy," said the miner, beckoning to Tommy. "The passengers owe you something for exposing these infamous rascals. Who will chip in?" He took off his hat and dropped in a piece of money. Others followed suit, and the happy Tommy went away the richer by over thirty dollars. The two men were secured by a strong cord, and once again boarded the train as passengers, but under very unfavorable circumstances, and with gloomy forebodings as to the fate that was in store for them. As they neared Chicago the miner turned to Robert and asked: "Are you intending to go to a hotel, my lad?" Robert hesitated. "I don't think I can afford it," he said. "I have but little money, and I don't know how long I may have to wait for work." "Don't let that worry. I am going to the Palmer House, and will take you along with me." "Isn't it a high-priced hotel?" "Yes, but it will cost you nothing. You can stay with me two or three days while you are looking around for work." "You are very kind," said Robert gratefully, "but I am a stranger to you." "Not now. I feel as well acquainted with you as if I had known you for years. I have been poor myself, and it will go hard if Dick Marden can't take care of a boy who is looking out for a chance to make a living. Well, youngster, what do you say?" "I can only say that I accept your offer with gratitude, Mr. Marden." "That's all right. You may consider me your guardian for the time being." Twenty minutes more brought them to the Chicago station. The hackmen were on hand with their offers of transportation, but the miner declined. "I want to unfold myself," he said, "and I reckon I'll walk. My bag isn't heavy, for I don't carry round a dress suit. I suppose you're able to walk, Robert?" "Yes, I would prefer it." So, unheeding the hackmen, they started for the Palmer House, which was less than half a mile distant. When Robert came in sight of the hotel, he was impressed by the large size and handsome appearance of the structure. "I shouldn't dare to put up at such a hotel if I were alone," he said with a smile. "No, I reckon not. As it is, you are all right. Let us go in." They walked in to the office. "I want a room with two beds," said the miner, after registering his name. "All right, sir. Front!" A bell-boy came up at the summons. "Take this gentleman and his son to 297." The bell-boy took their bags and preceded them to the elevator. "Did you hear what the clerk said, Robert? He called you my son." "Yes, I heard him." "I haven't chick nor child, and have no right to have, as I never married, but if I did have a son, you would suit me as well as any boy I know." "Thank you, Mr. Marden; I consider that a compliment." "I mean it. Now let us see what sort of a room has been assigned to us." It proved to be a very good room, moderately spacious, with two beds, one on each side of the apartment. "I think we'll be comfortable here, Robert," said his new friend. "I feel sure of it," replied the boy, looking about him with an air of satisfaction. "You can have that bed and I'll take the other. Now, do you feel hungry?" "I think I could eat something, Mr. Marden." "Don't call me Mr. Marden. I'm not used to it." "What shall I call you?" "Call me Dick." "If you wish me to, though I am afraid it is hardly respectful, considering how much older you are than I am." "Oh, hang respect! That won't bother me any. Take a wash, if you want to, and we'll go down to the dining-room." Robert was glad to do so, as he felt heated and dusty. Mr. Marden followed his example. They went down to the dining-room, and both did justice to the excellent meal provided. They had just commenced on the dessert when a small man with a slight hump entered the dining-room, and took a seat opposite. He glanced across the table. "Why, Dick Marden!" he cried in surprise. "Is that you?" The miner looked across the table. "Well, well, who would have expected to see you here, Peter Gray?" he returned, arching his eyebrows. "Strange things will happen, Dick. I've been in Chicago for nearly a year." "Are you in business here?" "Yes, I keep a cut-rate ticket office on Clark street." "Are you making money?" The small man shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not rich yet," he answered. "I suppose you are." "I have a little money," he answered. "Let me see; the last time I saw you was at the diggings?" "Yes, we were both in hard luck then. How are you fixed?" "I've got a little, and my business gives me a living." "It must, if you are boarding here." "I am not. I generally eat at a restaurant, but once a week I come in here and get a good dinner. The remembrance of it lasts me a week, and makes my other meals more palatable." "You are a sensible man." "Is that your son, Dick?" "No, I wish he were. He is a young friend of mine, who is for a short time under my protection. His name is Robert Frost. Don't you want a clerk in your office?" "Well, I don't know," said Mr. Gray. "If he were your son now----" "Consider him my son, then. But we'll speak of this after dinner." "All right, Dick." Robert's eyes lighted up with pleasant anticipation. He felt that he would indeed be fortunate if he should obtain a place at once. He would not be able to look up to his employer, for the cripple was a little less than five feet in height, but their relations might be pleasant, nevertheless. CHAPTER X. ROBERT GETS A PLACE. "You can go out and take a walk, Robert, while I go with Mr. Gray to his office." "All right, sir." "Now," said Marden, as they emerged into State street, "will you take the boy?" "Yes, but I can't pay him much." "How much?" "Five dollars a week." "That won't support him. He has been well brought up, and will need twelve." Peter Gray stopped short and whistled in his surprise. "I can't possibly pay twelve dollars to any clerk, not even if he were experienced--and this boy probably isn't." "He knows nothing of the business." "Then, Marden----" "Stop a minute! I propose that you shall pay him twelve dollars a week, but I will undertake to pay seven of it." "You must take a great interest in the lad." "I do--a most unusual interest." "Of course that will make a difference." "I should say so." "In that case he can come at once." "He will come day after to-morrow. To-morrow I want to show him Chicago." "All right. Oh, there is one thing I must mention. I have another clerk--twenty-two years of age--whom I only pay ten dollars a week. He mustn't know that the boy gets twelve." "Very well; I will caution Robert. Should the young man find out, let him understand that only five dollars come from you." "That will be satisfactory." Marden went to the office of his old acquaintance. It was small, but as large as many in the same line of business. At four he returned to the hotel. "Well, Robert," he said, "it's arranged. You will go to work on Thursday morning. Here is the card of your employer. To-morrow I will go round the city with you." "Shall I receive enough to pay my board, Mr. Marden," asked Robert anxiously. "You will receive twelve dollars a week." Robert was amazed. "I don't see how Mr. Gray should be willing to pay me so much," he said. Marden smiled. "Oh, he has a little private arrangement with me. There is another clerk, considerably older than you. He is not to know how much you get. Let him understand that it is five dollars." "I understand. How generous you are, Mr. Marden." "Not Mr. Marden--Dick." "Well, Dick. But you ought not to pay so much for me." "Why not? Consider me your uncle, and take care to do credit to my recommendation." "I will," said Robert earnestly. "Shall you remain in the city, Uncle Dick?" "I may come here now and then, but I expect day after to-morrow to go to the northern part of Michigan, to visit an old friend there, who is in the lumber business." "Then, hadn't I better be looking for a boarding-place?" "Well thought of. We'll look over the _Record_ and hunt up a place." Within an hour Robert had selected a small room not far from La Salle street, where he was to have full board for five dollars a week. The room was not equal to the one he had at home, but he would spend very little time there. During the day following, Robert and his miner friend made an extensive tour of Chicago, and Robert felt impressed with the magnitude of the city and the extent of the business that was carried on in it. "Do you think you shall like Chicago, Robert?" "Yes, Uncle Dick; I begin to feel like a man of business already." "And you will be contented?" "Yes, but I shall miss you." "I am glad to hear that, boy. Let me see, how long have we known each other?" "Only two days." "And yet you seem like my own boy. I never had anyone belonging to me before." "You may get tired of me, Uncle Dick." "Perhaps so, but I don't believe it." "Will you write to me?" "I'm not much on letter writing, but I reckon I'll be able to scribble a few lines occasionally." Robert remained with the miner till Thursday morning, and then made his way to Mr. Gray's office. He found a tall young man with tallowy hair and freckles standing behind the counter. "What can I do for you, boy?" he asked with lofty politeness. Robert smiled. "I'm the new clerk," he said. "Didn't Mr. Gray mention me?" "I believe he did say something about hiring a boy. What's your name?" "Robert Frost." "Well, Frost, my name is Mr. Livingston Palmer." "Indeed! Are you related to Mr. Palmer who keeps the hotel?" "I--ahem! I believe we are distantly related. Do your people live in Chicago?" "No. Some distance out in the country." "Got a father and mother?" "No, a mother--and a step-father." "I sympathize with you. So have I a step-father. He drinks." "I don't think that is true of Mr. Talbot--my step-father--but if he did, I should not dislike him any more. How do you like this business?" "So-so." "Does Mr. Gray treat you well?" "Well, I can't complain. He doesn't pay me enough salary." "That is a common complaint, I suppose," said Robert, smiling. "How much are you to get?" "From Mr. Gray--five dollars." "That's what I got the first year. Now I only get ten." "That is considerably more." "Yes, but it isn't enough. Why, I am the brains of the establishment." Robert was amused. But he saw that Mr. Livingston Palmer was quite in earnest. "How about the boss?" "Oh, he's a fair business man, but he couldn't get along without me." "Then I hope he won't have to. I will take it as a favor if you will help me along. I am quite inexperienced. I never was in any business before." "Yes, I'll look after you. If Mr. Gray knew what was to his interest, he would take me into partnership." "Did you ever suggest it to him?" "Well, no, not exactly, but I've given him a delicate hint, but he never seemed to understand what I meant." Just then Peter Gray came in. He looked quite insignificant compared with either of his two clerks, but Robert soon found that he was a hustler and a good man of business. "So you are here on time?" he said pleasantly. "Yes, sir." "Where is my old friend, Marden?" "He starts this forenoon for Michigan." "So? He seems to feel a great interest in you." "I am glad to say he does." "He says you are a smart, go-ahead boy. I hope you will prove so." "I'll try, Mr. Gray." "If you try you'll succeed. Now, let me tell you a little about the business. You understand that this is a cut-rate railroad ticket office?" "Yes, sir." "You'll soon get to understand our way of doing business--that is, if you pay attention." "I will do that." The day passed, and Robert, who was on the alert, began to get an insight into the business. He found that it was not very hard, and could be soon mastered. He was not as much impressed as he expected to be by the business ability of Mr. Livingston Palmer, who had claimed to be the "brains of the business." It seemed to him that Mr. Palmer was slow, and prone to make mistakes, but those were only his first impressions, which might be modified hereafter. The office closed at six. "Where do you board, Frost?" asked the senior clerk. Robert told him. "I have a room, and get my meals at restaurants." "I don't think I should like that so well." "We live on the same street. Have you any engagement this evening?" "No." "I would invite you to go to some amusement with me, but I am almost broke." "Then suppose you go to some amusement with me, Mr. Palmer?" "With pleasure," said the elder clerk, brightening up--"that is, if you don't mind the expense." "No, I can afford it." "I don't see how you can on five dollars a week." "Oh, I have an allowance besides." "You're in luck. I wish I had." Mr. Palmer selected a variety theater, and Robert purchased two orchestra seats, although he would have preferred some performance of a higher class. "Do you know why I wanted to come here?" asked Palmer in a low confidential tone. "No. Why?" "There's a girl that sings here--she's a daisy, and I have reason to think that she's sweet on me. There's her name on the bill--Alameda Churchill. When she comes out, give me your opinion of her." CHAPTER XI. MR. PALMER'S INFATUATION. In about twenty minutes Miss Churchill appeared. She was a stout young lady, weighing at least one hundred and sixty pounds. She had a high color, black hair, and a loud metallic voice. Mr. Palmer surveyed her with rapt intensity. "That's she!" he whispered. "Didn't I tell you she was a daisy?" Robert was tempted to smile. He had a very indefinite idea of what might be considered a feminine daisy, but he recognized his companion's conception of the term. Miss Churchill sang in a loud voice and with plenty of action one of the popular songs of the day. Livingston Palmer looked the picture of rapture. With his head thrown back and his eyes fastened upon his charmer, he could hardly fail to attract her attention. She paused between two of the verses, and looked at him with a smile. "Did you see?" he whispered in delight, "she smiled at me." "Yes," answered Robert, "I noticed that she did." "It looks as if she was sweet on me, don't you think so?" "Perhaps so, I don't know much about young ladies. I can't read their thoughts." "How would it do for me to write her a note?" "What could you write? You don't know her?" "But she has taken notice of me. I might ask her for an interview." "I don't feel competent to give you advice, Mr. Palmer; I am only a boy." "That is true. I--I think I will venture." "But what will it lead to? Your attachment is not serious, I presume?" "I don't know but it may be. The fact is, Robert, I am in love." "Were you ever in love before, Mr. Palmer?" "Never. This is the first time I have met my ideal." "You surely wouldn't think of marrying her," said Robert. "Why not?" "I thought perhaps you would not care to marry on ten dollars a week." "I could not. But she is probably earning considerably more. If we both of us worked, there would be a nice income between us." "Then you would not object to your wife appearing in a theater?" "No, Robert. I have no narrow prejudices." "Then you think she would marry you?" "You saw for yourself how sweetly she smiled on me. Oh, Robert, I am very happy!" and the infatuated young man looked in the seventh heaven of bliss. "Excuse me for ten minutes, Robert," he said. "I am going into the Sherman House to write a note. I will try to get it to her this evening." Robert smiled. He was a good deal amused by Palmer's romantic infatuation, but he did not feel called upon to remonstrate with him. "I will wait for you here," he said. In fifteen minutes Livingston Palmer returned to his seat. "Well, have you written the note?" asked Robert. "Yes, here it is. Cast your eye over it, and see what you think of it." Robert glanced at the note. This was the way it was expressed: * * * * * "Adorable Alameda: "Doubtless you will know from whom this note comes. It is from the young man in the fourth row of the orchestra on whom you smiled so sweetly this evening. I am sure you read my devotion in my face. I have never spoken to you, but I feel that I love you, and I have never loved before. Will you appoint a time when I can meet you? Perhaps I flatter myself too much when I say that you seem to be kindly disposed towards me. I will send this by the usher, and will beg for a reply. "Yours devotedly, "Livingston Palmer." "What do you think of it?" asked Palmer eagerly. "I think it ought to make a favorable impression on the young lady," said Robert, doubtfully, however. "I think it is pretty good, myself," said Palmer complacently. When the entertainment was over, Palmer went up to one of the ushers. "My friend," he said, "do you know Miss Alameda Churchill, the singer?" "Yes, sir." "Can you manage to put this note into her hands?" "When?" "To-night." "Well, I might if----" "I will pay you for your trouble." "All right, sir. I see you are a gentleman. Give it to me." "I shall be glad if she will send me an answer." A few minutes later the usher returned. "Did you give it to her?" asked Palmer eagerly. "Yes, sir." "Did she send an answer?" "Here it is." It was a small scrap of paper, folded diagonally. Palmer opened and read it, his heart beating with feverish excitement. Then he smiled. "Shall I read it to you, Robert?" he asked. "Yes, if you like." * * * * * "Many thanks for your pretty note. To-morrow evening at eleven be under the window at No. 98 Lemore street. "Alameda." "What do you think of that?" said Livingston Palmer triumphantly. "Do you notice that she signs herself Alameda?" "Yes." "That seems nice and friendly, doesn't it?" "Yes, it seems so." "She is evidently taken with me. Oh, Robert, I never was so happy." Robert, of course, being a boy, could not enter fully into Palmer's feelings. However, he answered in a sympathetic tone which satisfied his fellow clerk. "I never thought I should be so fortunate," he said. "Oh, Robert, you don't know how I feel towards that girl." "No, I suppose not, Mr. Palmer." "It isn't to be expected, for you are only a boy." "Yes, I am only a boy." "I suppose I was the same at your age. How fortunate it was that you invited me to accompany you this evening. I feel under the greatest obligations to you," and Palmer, seizing our hero's hand, shook it with impulsive energy. "I am sure you are quite welcome, Mr. Palmer." Robert was beginning to be weary. To his mind, Palmer seemed to be acting in a very silly manner. However, as he reflected, he was only a boy, and could not comprehend the effect of a grand passion on a man like his fellow clerk. The next day Palmer was like a man in a dream. He was at his desk in the office, but he found it hard to attend to his duties in an intelligent manner. He made some ludicrous blunders, which finally attracted his employer's notice. "It seems to me, Mr. Palmer," he said quietly, "that you are not quite yourself. Where did the man you just waited on wish to go?" "Alameda," blurted out Palmer. "No," he corrected himself in some confusion, "Denver, Colorado." "You seem to have Alameda on the brain. We don't sell tickets to Alameda." "No, sir." "Do you know where Alameda is?" "No," answered Palmer hesitatingly. "I believe there is such a place in California, but we never had any tickets for it." "Yes, sir." "For the rest of the day try to keep your wits about you." "Do you think he suspects?" asked Palmer in a whisper to Robert, when Mr. Gray had gone out for a minute. "No; how should he?" "Really, I hope not. It makes me feel embarrassed and confused." "I see it does. Can't you put the matter out of your mind during business hours?" "I will try to, but oh, Robert, when I think of to-night I feel like dancing a Highland fling right in the office." "If you did I am sure Mr. Gray would think you were crazy." "Of course, I don't mean that exactly, Robert, I was speaking figuratively." "You refer to the figure you would cut when you were dancing the Highland fling?" "I see you are witty, Robert." "No one ever accused me of that before," said Robert demurely. Livingston Palmer laughed, and managed with an effort to devote himself for the rest of the day strictly to business. "You will be with me to-night, Frost," he said, as they closed the office, and started on their way to supper. "Do you mean that I am to go to 98 Lemore street with you?" "Yes, you could stand on the other side of the street." "Your appointment is at eleven o'clock. What are you going to do before that time comes? Will you go to the theater?" "No. I could not enjoy it. May I pass the evening in your room?" "Certainly, if you like." "You know we can speak of her. That will be better than having my thoughts taken up by a variety entertainment. But, oh, how long the evening will be!" "We shall get through it after a while. You might go round and take supper with me. I look upon you as my confidential friend." CHAPTER XII. AN UNLOOKED-FOR SCENE. As the clocks of the city struck eleven Robert and his friend Palmer turned into Lemore street. It was a small, narrow street, lined with brick houses, and evidently far from fashionable. The house indicated by the singer was no better than its neighbors. "I wonder which is her room?" murmured Palmer. "There seems to be no light in any of the windows." But as he spoke, one of the windows was lighted up by a lamp, which was lighted from within. "That's her room," said Palmer joyfully. "She is expecting me." The curtain was lifted, and the fair face of Alameda peered out. She looked across the street and smiled, as she caught sight of Palmer and his young companion. "You see?" "Yes. Perhaps I had better go now." "No; stay till she opens the window and speaks to me." "Very well, if you wish it." Livingston Palmer walked across the street, and taking a harmonica from his pocket, started on a tune. It was the only instrument on which he knew how to play, and that is why he selected it. It might have been hard to distinguish the tune, but that was not of so much importance. He felt that it was the proper thing to do, to serenade his charmer. Robert maintained his position, and wondered what would come next. He had not long to wait. The window opened, and Alameda leaned out with something in her hand. The next moment Palmer was drenched by the contents of a pitcher, which Alameda poured out, locating him with careful precision, so that he should receive the full benefit of it. Palmer started with a cry of dismay, and turned quickly. But too late. His collar, his hat, and coat were thoroughly wet. It was certainly very aggravating, and his mortification was increased by a hard, cold laugh, evidently proceeding from his charmer. "Good-night," she said, and then shut the window. Robert hurried across the street to where Palmer was standing motionless, as if dazed. He did not laugh, as most boys would have done, for he felt indignant at the treatment his unlucky companion had received. "Are you much wet?" he asked in a tone of sympathy. "Yes," answered Livingston Palmer in a hollow voice. "But it is not that that troubles me. She is false, heartless. Oh, Robert, my heart is broken!" And the poor fellow actually shed tears. "Brace up, Palmer!" said Robert in a cheery voice. "She is not worthy of you. You are lucky to have found her out so soon." "Perhaps you are right," said Palmer in a mournful voice. "But how could she be so false, so cruel?" "You had not known her long?" "No." "And you will soon forget her, now that you know how false she is." "I don't know, Robert," said the poor fellow sadly. "I don't think I shall ever get over it." "Oh, yes, you will. You will meet someone else, who will appreciate your devotion." They heard the window opening again, and fearing a second deluge, drew quickly away. It was just in time, for the pitcher was again emptied, but this time the water only wet the sidewalk. "Surely you can't love her after that," said Robert. "No. She is not what my fancy painted her. What can I do?" "You had better let the matter drop." "No. I will go home and write her a reproachful letter. I will make her ashamed of herself." "Better not. She will only laugh at it." "But it will make me feel better. I--would you mind going into the Sherman House with me while I write the letter?" "Better wait till to-morrow." "No, it will ease my breaking heart if I write to her to-night." Sympathizing with his friend, Robert made no further opposition, and Palmer stepped into the Sherman House, procured a sheet of paper, and wrote thus: "Perfidious Girl: "How could you find it in your heart to treat so cruelly one who loves you so wildly? You led me to think that you returned my love, at any rate that you felt an interest in me. I have just returned from the house in Lemore street. I will not refer to the way you received me. It was cruel and unwomanly. I feel that my heart has received a wound from which it will never recover. Yet, if you acted in a thoughtless manner, and did not mean to wound me, I am ready to forgive and forget all. Once more I will come to your side, and renew my vows of devotion. I put my business address below, and shall be most glad to hear from you. "Your faithful friend, "Livingston Palmer." "What do you think of that, Robert?" asked Palmer, handing the boy the letter to read. "I wouldn't have said anything about going back to her, if I had been you." "But perhaps she only meant it in fun. Girls sometimes act that way." "Not if they love a person." "But if there is any chance of getting in with her again, I don't want to lose it." "Well, Mr. Palmer, if you are satisfied with the letter, you had better mail it." "I'll get a stamp and mail it to-night." "Now I think we had better go home and go to bed." "I shall not sleep to-night, Robert," said Palmer mournfully. "My poor heart is too sore;" and he placed his hand on the place where he supposed his heart to be. "I am glad I am not old enough to have any heart troubles." "Yes, you are fortunate. But your time will come." Robert doubted whether he should ever be affected like Palmer, but he dropped the subject, and went home to bed. Palmer appeared at business the next day. His face showed a mild melancholy, but there were no indications of a breaking heart. Whenever the postman entered the office, he looked up hopefully. But there was no letter for him till three o'clock. And then it was not directed in a feminine hand. But he opened it eagerly. As he read it his face became blanched. Then he laid it down on the counter and beckoned to Robert. Mr. Gray was not in the office. "Is the letter from her?" asked Robert. "No, but it is about her. Read it." Robert cast his eye over the letter. It was written in a large masculine hand. It ran thus: "Mr. Livingston Palmer. "Dear Sir: You have dared to write an insulting letter to my wife and I demand an apology. You are evidently seeking to alienate her affections from me. If ever she should forsake me it won't be for such a man as you. She requests me to say that your attentions are unwelcome, and that she has never given you any encouragement. If you renew them, I will horsewhip you on sight. "Yours, etc., "Peter Churchill. "Should you take offense at my letter, I am willing to meet you on the field of honor. You have the choice of weapons." * * * * * "So Alameda is a married woman?" said Robert, rather amused. "Yes." "And her husband charges you with trying to alienate her affections?" "It is terrible!" murmured Palmer. "And he hints at a duel. Shall you meet him on the field of honor, Mr. Palmer?" "No! no! I wouldn't fight a duel for anything. What do you think I had better do?" "Write a letter of apology. Tell him you did not know she was a married woman, and will withdraw your attentions." "I will. I--I don't think I love her any more, now that I know she is another man's wife." "You are quite right. It would not be honorable." "Still she encouraged me." "You had better not say anything about that. Mr. Churchill might take offense, and insist on your fighting a duel." "My dream is at an end. I will never think of her again." "You are wise." Livingston Palmer wrote a letter of apology, and mailed it just after supper. After that he seemed more cheerful. Robert concluded that his heart was not quite broken. The next day about eleven o'clock a large dark-complexioned man with black hair and whiskers and a deep, hoarse voice entered the office. "What can I do for you, sir?" asked Robert, who was nearest the door. "Is Mr. Livingston Palmer employed here?" "Yes, sir. That is he." The new arrival strode up to where Palmer was standing. "Mr. Palmer," he said. "I have received your letter. I am Peter Churchill." Palmer turned pale, his knees knocked together, and he looked terror-stricken. CHAPTER XIII. ROBERT RECEIVES A LETTER. As Palmer looked at the stalwart black-bearded man facing him a terrible fear sent a tremor through his slender frame. Suppose the fellow had come to inflict punishment upon him? Suppose he had a cowhide somewhere concealed about his clothes? He felt ready to sink through the floor. "I hope," he said tremulously, "you found my letter satisfactory. I--I didn't know Alameda--I mean Mrs. Churchill--was married." "Oh, that's all right. So you supposed her single?" "I assure you I do." "Well, at any rate she got even with you. She told me of the pitcher of water she threw on you out of the window. How did it feel?" "Very wet," responded Palmer with a faint smile. "Good joke!" said Churchill, laughing boisterously. "I wish I had been there." Somehow Palmer did not enjoy having the scene which had been so harrowing to him recalled. Yet this man must be propitiated. "I was there," he said with a feeble attempt at a joke. "So you were, so you were. When Alameda told me about it I nearly laughed myself to death." Palmer began to recover from his alarm. Evidently the injured husband was not disposed to take things seriously, for he seemed in a good humor. "I hope you don't object to my admiring your wife?" he said. "No, it does credit to your taste, but I can't have you flirting with her." "I assure you my intentions were and are strictly honorable." "Oh, Alameda will take care of that. I'll tell you what I came about." "As long as it isn't about a duel, I don't mind," thought Palmer. "My wife is to have a benefit next Thursday evening. Tickets are a dollar each. How many will you take?" "I'll take one." "Better take two. You can scare up some young lady to take with you." "I don't know many young ladies." "Don't tell me that. You were not so very bashful with Alameda." "I--I believe I'll take two." "All right! Here they are." "I'm afraid I haven't got two dollars with me," said Palmer embarrassed. In fact, he lived so closely up to his income that he seldom had that amount about him. Peter Churchill frowned a little. "I can't leave the tickets without the money," he said. "I'll lend you the money, Mr. Palmer," said Robert. "Thank you," said the senior clerk gratefully. "Won't you take a couple of tickets, young fellow?" asked Churchill. "No, sir. I will use one of Mr. Palmer's tickets." The tickets were paid for and transferred to Palmer's vest-pocket. Then Alameda's husband left the office. "I'm glad he's gone," said Livingston Palmer feebly. "I--I really thought he'd come in to horsewhip me." "I guess he could do it," said Robert, with a smile. "Isn't he a terrible looking ruffian? To think the divine Alameda should be married to such a man!" "It's a pity she didn't meet you first. But I say, Mr. Palmer, you'd better give up paying attentions to her. It wouldn't be safe." "I shall never dare to speak to her again." "And you won't try to alienate her affections from him." "No," answered Palmer fervently. "I--I feel that I have had a narrow escape." Two weeks passed without any event of importance. Robert had no difficulty in "getting the run" of the business in the office, and it is not too much to say that he became in that short time quite as efficient as Livingston Palmer, though the latter had been in the office for several years. Robert was on the whole satisfied with his position, but it must be confessed that he was looking around for something better. "I am sure Mr. Marden wouldn't want me to remain here if I could improve myself," he thought. "In fact, I think he would like me the better for striking out for myself." "It's a terribly dull life--this in a stuffy office," said Livingston Palmer one day. Since his upsetting with the variety singer the senior clerk had hardly known what to do with himself. "That's true," answered Robert. "But it's much better than doing nothing." "That's true." "When I struck out from home I was at first afraid I would be left stranded." "Humph! that wouldn't happen to me," said Palmer loftily. "I am certain I could strike something at once, if I tried." Robert did not agree with his fellow clerk, since he had seen many a poor fellow on the streets begging for work of any kind. But he saw it would be useless to attempt to argue Palmer out of his high opinion of himself. On the day following there came a long letter for Robert. It was postmarked Timberville, Michigan, and was from Dick Marden. "My dear Robert," wrote the miner, "I've been wanting to drop you a few lines for some time, but could not get around to do it. When I arrived here I found my uncle, Felix Amberton, very ill, and I have had to take practically entire charge of his affairs. My uncle is a bachelor like myself, so he hadn't even a wife to depend upon in this emergency. "My uncle owns a large lumber interest here, close to the upper end of the State, and several Canadians are trying to force him into a sale of his lands at a low price. They claim to have some hold upon the land. "I must say I wish you were up here with me--to help run the lumber office. I have to be out on the lands a greater part of the time, and the office clerk is not to be trusted, since he is a great friend of the Canadians I mentioned. I am in hopes that my uncle will soon recover, to take charge for himself." Dick Marden's letter interested Robert greatly. The confinement of city life was beginning to tell on the boy, who had heretofore lived more or less in the open at home. "I'd like to go to Timberville," he said to Palmer, when he showed the communication. "The smell of pine and spruce would do a fellow a world of good." "It wouldn't suit me," said Palmer, with a decided shake of his head. "Why, you have no amusements in a place like that--no theaters, no concerts, no billiard parlors, nothing." "And yet people get along very well without them," smiled Robert. "They can't have very elevated tastes." "Perhaps more elevated than you think, Livingston. I've known some lumbermen who were very well educated." "If I made a change do you know what I would do?" asked Palmer. "No." "I would go on the stage," said the senior clerk earnestly. "What stage? Perhaps the variety stage the adorable Alameda is on, eh?" "No! no! I am done with that forever. I would go in for tragedy." "Tragedy doesn't pay, so I've heard said." "Good, real talent will pay, I feel sure of it." "And what would you play, Hamlet?" "I would play all of Shakespeare's plays, but the part of Sparticus the Gladiator would suit me better." "Did you ever act?" "Twice--at the Twice-a-week Club. We gave Julius Cæsar, and I was Cæsar. The performance was a great success from an artistic standpoint." "How about it financially?" "Well, to tell the truth, we ran about thirty-three dollars behind." "Which proves what I said, that tragedy doesn't pay," said Robert, with a short laugh. "My support was very poor, and, besides, our performance was not advertised widely enough." "I presume the newspapers gave you some favorable notices." "No, they did nothing of the sort. We had not given them much advertising and so they ignored us. You know they won't do a thing without being paid for it." "I didn't know it. I thought they gave the news. Why, sometimes they condemn a play even while they advertise it." "Never mind, they ought to have praised our play, but they didn't." And here Palmer walked away and the subject was dropped. CHAPTER XIV. JAMES TALBOT LEARNS SOMETHING OF IMPORTANCE. A week passed and nothing of special interest happened. During that time Robert wrote to his mother, telling her where he was and what he was doing. He hoped to receive a letter in return, and was quite disappointed when no word came back. The trouble was that the letter he had sent fell into James Talbot's hands. "Here is a letter for Mrs. Talbot," said the postmaster, one day to Talbot, when the latter had called at the place for the mail. "All right, I'll take it home to her," answered Robert's step-father. "It's from Chicago," said the postmaster, whose name was Joel Blarcomb. "It looks like Robert's handwriting, too." "Do you know Robert's writing?" questioned Mr. Talbot. "Very well. He once did some writing for me in my books, when I had injured my finger on a nail in a sugar barrel," said the postmaster, who also kept the principal store in Granville. "Well, give me the letter and I will take it home," said Mr. Talbot, and soon after left the store with the communication in his pocket. As soon as he was out of sight of the store he began to inspect the letter and wondered what it contained. "More than likely the young rascal has sent to his mother for money," he thought. "I've a good mind to open the letter and read it." The communication was not sealed very well, and by breathing repeatedly upon the flap James Talbot soon had the envelope open. Then he drew out the letter and read it. He was chagrined to learn that his step-son was doing so nicely and needed no assistance. "He seems to have fallen upon his feet," he murmured. "Well, I'll wager it won't last. Sooner or later he'll be back home and wanting me and his mother to take care of him. When that time comes, I'll dictate pretty stiff terms to him, or my name isn't James Talbot." One passage in the letter positively angered him. "I trust Mr. Talbot treats you as you should be treated," wrote Robert. "If he does not, let me know, and I will compel him to do what is right. He must remember that the house and everything else belongs to you so long as you live." "Belongs to you so long as you live," mused James Talbot. "Can it be possible that the estate goes to Robert after his mother's death? I must look into this." At first he was of a mind to destroy the letter, but thought better of it and placed it again in the envelope. When he reached the house he found his wife in the garden, sitting under a grape arbor. Mrs. Talbot's face showed that she had been weeping. "Why, my love, what is the matter?" he asked softly. Of late he had been treating her well, having what is popularly called "an ax to grind." "Nothing is the matter, James." "But your face shows that you have been crying." "It is nothing." "Have you had any trouble with Jane?" "No." "Then what is it?" "I was thinking of Robert. Isn't it terrible that I get no word from him?" Mr. Talbot started, and his hand went into the pocket where the letter rested. Then he recovered and shrugged his shoulders. "I have already told you what I think of the boy," he said. "My love, he is unworthy of your tears." "Oh, James!" "It is true. He has gone out into the world and has forgotten you." "No, no! Robert would never be so heartless." "I think I know him better than do you. You are blind to the truth because you are his mother." "He may be penniless, or sick, so that he cannot write." "Perhaps he is out on the ocean, or on the Great Lakes," said Mr. Talbot. "Even so, I am sure he would have written before going." "You must not think so much of him, my love. You are altogether too melancholy. I have just learned that we are to have a first-class theatrical company in Granville next week. I will get good seats and take you there." "I do not care to go to any play. Life is too real to me for that." "You are blue, Sarah. Forget the boy and you will feel better," said James Talbot, and receiving no answer to this, he walked away. "Forget Robert! forget my only child!" thought Mrs. Talbot. "Never! Oh, if I only knew where I could write to him!" On the day following Mrs. Talbot had occasion to call at Joel Blarcomb's store to order a number of groceries for the house. "I hope you got good news from Robert," said the postmaster, after she had given her order. "Good news?" she repeated, in bewilderment. "I haven't any news, Mr. Blarcomb." "Oh, then that Chicago letter wasn't from him?" "What Chicago letter?" "The one I gave to Mr. Talbot yesterday. I felt certain it was your son's handwriting on the envelope." "He gave me no letter," answered the lady, and then a sudden fear came into her heart that made her feel faint. Had her husband received a letter from her son and destroyed it? "No, no, he would not be so cruel," she thought. "Well, the letter was for you, whether you got it or not," said Joel Blarcomb bluntly. He did not like James Talbot any more than did many others in the little town. All who had had dealings with Robert's step-father had found him mean to the last degree. "Perhaps he has forgotten to give it to me," said Mrs. Talbot, and abruptly left the store. Joel Blarcomb gazed after her pityingly. "She didn't make no happy match an' I know it," he muttered. "That Talbot aint half the man Frost was." Arriving at home, Mrs. Talbot at once sought out her husband. "James, where is the letter Mr. Blarcomb gave you for me?" she demanded. "The letter?" he said carelessly. "Why--er--that didn't amount to anything." "Did you open it?" "Yes--by mistake. It was only an advertisement from a Chicago investment company. The men who run it are little better than swindlers and I don't want you to have anything to do with them." Mrs. Talbot's heart sank. The letter was not from Robert after all. "Still, I would like to see the letter," she continued. "I am sorry, my love, but I really believe I tore it up--in fact I am sure I did." "You shouldn't have done that, since it was addressed to me." "As your husband, I didn't do so very wrong to open the letter. When I saw what it was I thought best to destroy it--I didn't want you to place any of your money in the hands of such swindlers. If you did that you would never see a dollar of it again." "Don't you think I am capable of looking out a little bit for myself, James?" "Not in money matters, Sarah. Such things a woman should leave entirely to her husband." "I feel I must differ with you. After Mr. Frost died I became the sole executrix of his will, and I do not know that anything has gone wrong." "Oh, I do not say that." James Talbot paused for a moment. "Speaking of Mr. Frost," he continued. "May I ask, did he leave his estate entirely to you?" "No, he left me my choice of one-half of all he possessed, the other half to go to Robert, or the use of everything so long as I lived, all to go to Robert after my death, providing he was living at that time." "And which did you choose," asked Talbot, trying vainly to conceal his intense interest in the matter. "I chose a life interest only, and signed the necessary papers for the surrogate." "Then when you die, all will go to that good-for-nothing boy." "All will go to Robert, yes; but he is not a good-for-nothing boy." "That is where we differ, Mrs. Talbot. Once he gets the fortune he will run through it like wildfire, mark my words." "Robert is far too sensible to do any such thing." "Suppose he dies before you do, what then becomes of the estate?" "It becomes mine absolutely." "I see." "But I do not anticipate Robert will die before I do," went on Mrs. Talbot. "He is a strong, healthy lad." "True, but there is many an accident happens to a boy that is knocking around like him." "Mr. Talbot, do you wish any harm to befall my son?" demanded the lady of the house, half angrily. "Oh, no, of course not. But in knocking around he is taking a big risk, you must admit that." At these words Mrs. Talbot's face became a study and she left her husband without another word. "I really believe he wishes Robert out of the way," she thought. "Then the money would be mine, and he would try to get me to leave it to him." Left to himself James Talbot walked up and down in moody contemplation. "Here's a nice mess," he muttered. "I thought the whole estate belonged to her. If she died to-morrow I would be turned out without a cent and that boy or his guardian would take sole possession. I half wish I could get him out of my way for good, I really do." And then he began to speculate upon how such a dark deed could be accomplished. CHAPTER XV. THE RESULT OF A FIRE. On the following Sunday morning Robert attended one of the principal churches in Chicago and heard what he considered a very fine sermon on charity. "I suppose we ought all to be more charitable," he thought, on coming out. "But I must say I find it very hard to have any charitable feelings for Mr. Talbot. I do hope he is treating mother as he should." He was walking down State Street when he heard a commotion on the thoroughfare. A fire engine was coming along, followed by a long hook and ladder truck. He watched them and to his surprise saw them draw up almost in front of the tall office building in which Mr. Gray's cut-rate ticket establishment was located. "Can it be possible that our place is on fire?" he cried, and ran to the office with all speed. He soon discovered that the building was a mass of flames from top to bottom, the fire having started in the boiler room in the basement and found a natural outlet through the elevator shafts. He tried to get into the office, but the door was locked and he had no key. "Back there, young man!" came from a policeman, as he rushed up to force the gathering crowd out of the firemen's way. "I work in this office," answered Robert. "Hadn't I better try to save something?" "Are your books in your safe?" "I presume they are." "Then you had better get back. Something may cave in soon, you know." While Robert hesitated another officer came along, and then everybody was ordered back, and a rope was stretched across the street at either end of the block. Meanwhile the fire kept increasing until it was easy to see that the office building was doomed. "It's too bad," thought Robert, as he watched the progress of the flames. "This will upset Mr. Gray's business completely." Half an hour later, as the boy was moving around in the dense crowd, he ran across Livingston Palmer. "This will throw us out of employment, Livingston," he said. "It looks like it, Robert," answered the senior clerk. "Still, I can't say that I care so much." "You do not?" "No. You see, after we closed up Saturday night I met my friend Jack Dixon, of the Combination Comedy Company, and he has offered me a place to travel with the organization." "And you are going to accept?" "I certainly shall now. At first I was on the fence about it, for I wanted to get with a tragedy company. But I suppose this will do for a stepping stone to something better." Robert had his doubts about this, for Palmer had recited several times for him, and he had thought the recitations very poor. But the senior clerk was thoroughly stage-struck, and Robert felt that it would do no good to argue the matter with him. "Your leaving may throw Mr. Gray into a worse hole than ever," he ventured. "Oh, I guess not. He will have you to fall back on. I doubt if he will be able to resume business immediately." Livingston Palmer was right in the latter surmise. The next day Robert found his employer in an office on the opposite side of the street. "I am all upset, Frost," said Mr. Gray. "The safe has dropped to the bottom of the ruins and it will be a week or two before they can dig it out." "Shall you resume at once?" "I hardly think so. The fact is, I have telegraphed to my brother in New York about business there. It may be that I shall open up in that city instead of here." "Then I fancy I can consider myself disengaged for the present." "Yes. I am sorry for you, but you can see it cannot be helped." "I don't blame you in the least, Mr. Gray. I am sorry on your own account, as well as mine, that you have been burnt out. I hope you were fully insured." "I was, in a way. Yet I have lost valuable records which no amount of money can replace." When Robert left the office it was with a sober face. He was out of a position. What should he do next? "It's too bad," he mused. "And just after writing to mother that I was doing so nicely." All told he had saved up about twenty-five dollars, and he resolved to be very careful of this amount and not spend a cent more than was necessary, until another situation was secured. Feeling that no time was to be lost, he procured two of the morning papers and carefully read the want columns. There were several advertisements which seemed to promise well, and he made a note of these and then started to visit the addresses given. The first was at a restaurant where a cashier was wanted. Robert found the resort to be anything but high-styled. It was on a side street and looked far from clean. "Well, a fellow can't be too particular," he thought, and marched inside without hesitation. "This way," said the head waiter, thinking he had come in to get something to eat. "I wish to see the proprietor," answered Robert. "He advertised for a cashier." "He's got one." "Oh, if that's so, excuse me for troubling you," and the boy turned on his heel to walk out. "Hold on," said the head waiter. "I don't think the new man suits Mr. Hinks entirely. Perhaps he'll give you a show after all. You'll find Mr. Hinks over at the pie counter yonder," and the waiter jerked his thumb in the direction. Robert walked to the counter and found a short, stout man in charge. The individual had a pair of crafty eyes that the boy did not at all admire. "I came to see about that position which you advertised," he said. "Yes? Have you had any experience?" "I worked in a cut-rate ticket office--the one that was burned out on Sunday last. I think I could do the work of an ordinary cashier." "No doubt you could, if you are used to handling money. Did you work for Gray?" "Yes, sir." "Well, I reckon he wouldn't have you unless you were all right," said Mr. Hinks. "I've got a new man on but he don't suit--he's too fussy and particular. Last night he left his desk and ran all the way to the sidewalk to give a man a dollar bill which he had forgotten." "Well, that shows he is honest," said Robert, with a laugh. "Yes, but my desk might have been robbed in the meantime." "I suppose that is true." "I don't want a man to be so honest as all that,--that is, with the customers,--although he must be honest with me. If a customer is foolish enough to leave his change behind, why let him lose it, that's my motto. What do you want a week?" "I was getting twelve dollars." "Phew! That's pretty stiff." "I might start in for less." "I never pay a man over five dollars." "I cannot live on five dollars, I am afraid." "Well, you pick up a good deal, you know," replied Mr. Hinks, and closed one eye suggestively. "You mean in the way of tips?" "Tips? Oh, no, they go to the waiters. But through making change and the like," and Mr. Hinks closed one eye again. Robert's face flushed. "Do you mean by giving people the wrong change?" he demanded indignantly. "I didn't say so. But I know almost every cashier picks up lots of extra money in one way and another." "Not if they are honest, sir. And I would not be dishonest--I would starve first. I am out for business, but not the kind of business you seem to expect of your employees." At this plain talk Mr. Hinks scowled darkly at Robert. "Here, here, I won't have you speak to me in this fashion," he blustered. "If you don't like the offer I've made you, you can get out." "I don't like the offer, and I think it is an outrage that you are allowed to conduct business on such principles," replied Robert, and lost no time in quitting the place. The proprietor followed him to the door and shook his fist after him. The next place was a map-maker's office. Here there was a large force of clerks, and the youth was received very politely. "I am sorry to keep you waiting," said the clerk who advanced to see what the boy wanted. "But Mr. Ruggles is very busy at present. Will you sit down or call again?" "I'll wait a little while," said Robert, who was favorably impressed by the surroundings. "That is, if the place that was advertised is still open." "I can't say as to that. There have been several applicants, but the entire matter is in Mr. Ruggles' hands." The clerk turned away and Robert dropped on a long bench running up one side of the waiting room. Hardly had he settled himself than two men came in. One looked like an Englishman while the other was evidently French. The clerk greeted them as if they had been there before. "Mr. Stanhope will see you directly," he said. "We cannot wait too long," said the Englishman. "My friend--Jean Le Fevre, must get back to Michigan as soon as possible." "I will tell Mr. Stanhope," said the clerk, and vanished into an inner office. Left to themselves, the Englishman and the Frenchman began to converse rapidly, the subject of their talk being a certain tract of timber land in the upper section of Michigan. This interested Robert, who could not help but hear all that was said. "Ze map--zat is what we want," he heard the French Canadian--for such Jean Le Fevre was--say. "Once we have zat, and the land will be ours." "Right you are," answered the Englishman. "And then old Felix Amberton can whistle for his money. His claim won't be worth the paper it is written upon." Robert was startled at these words. He remembered that Felix Amberton was the name of Dick Marden's uncle, the Michigan lumberman. Were these the fellows who wished to get the lumberman's lands away from him? CHAPTER XVI. TWO DISAPPOINTMENTS. "I must hear all they have to say," thought Robert. Ordinarily he despised playing the part of an eavesdropper, but in the present instance he felt justified in doing so. "It ees a great pity zat man came to help Mistair Amberton," went on the Canadian. "Who is he, do you know, Mistair Hammerditch?" "His name is Marden and he is Amberton's nephew." "He seem to be verra smart, as you call heem." "Perhaps he is smart, Le Fevre. But I don't think he can outwit me," returned Oscar Hammerditch. He was one of the kind of men who hold a very exalted opinion of themselves. The French Canadian nodded his round head rapidly. "No, he cannot outwit you--nor Jean Le Fevre. Once we have ze map and all will be well." At that moment the clerk came forward again. "Mr. Ruggles is at liberty now," he said to Robert. "You had best go in at once, before one of the clerks engages him." "Thank you, I will," answered the boy. "I wish he had left me to listen to those schemers a bit longer," was what he thought. But there seemed no help for it, and leaving the Englishman and the Canadian talking earnestly to each other he entered the private office of the proprietor of the firm. Mr. Ruggles proved to be a pleasant man past middle age. "If you have been waiting to see me I am sorry for you," he said, after Robert had stated the object of his visit. "I engaged a clerk less than an hour ago." This was a set-back and the boy's face fell. "I am sorry too," he said. "I imagine this office would just suit me." "You can leave your name and address. Perhaps the other young man may not be suitable. Have you any recommendations?" "I worked for Mr. Peter Gray, the cut-rate ticket man. We were burnt out, and Mr. Gray doesn't know what he is going to do next." "I know Mr. Gray, and if he can recommend you that will be sufficient. Here is a sheet of paper. Do you know what I pay a clerk at the start?" "No, sir?" "Can you keep an ordinary set of books?" "Yes, sir." "How about writing an ordinary business letter?" "I wrote many letters for Mr. Gray." "In that case I would be willing to start you at eight dollars per week, and after six months I would raise you to ten dollars." "That would be satisfactory." "Then leave your name and address. Even if that new clerk does suit there may be another opening before long--although I would not advise you to lay back and depend upon it." "I couldn't afford to lay back, sir." "You have to support yourself?" "I do." "Then I trust you get an opening soon--if I cannot use you," concluded Mr. Ruggles. Robert wrote out his name in his best style, and added the address of his boarding house. The handwriting pleased the map-publisher, but he put it on file without comment. Then the boy bowed himself out. "What a nice man," he thought. "I like him even better than I do Mr. Gray." He was pleased to think that, although there was no immediate opening for him, there might be one in the near future. As Robert entered the outer office he looked around for the Englishman and the Canadian. They were nowhere to be seen. "They are either in one of the other offices or they have gone," he said to himself. "I'd give a good deal to know just what they are up to. When I write to Mr. Marden I must tell him about the pair." Once on the sidewalk the boy hardly knew how to turn. He had one more place on his list--that of a wholesale butcher, but the idea of working in a packing house did not please him. "I don't believe it would suit me," he said to himself. "Especially if I had to work down by the stockyards." Nevertheless, he was resolved not to remain idle if it could be helped, and so started out to find the address. The locality was some distance from the center of the city and in a neighborhood filled with factories and saloons. At the corner of the block upon which the packing establishment was located, Robert came to a halt. "I don't believe mother would like me to work in such a place as this," he mused. "The folks may be honest enough, but they don't know the meaning of the word refinement." "Lookin' fer sumthin', mister?" The question came from a very small and very dirty boy who had brushed up against Robert's elbow. "Hardly," answered Robert. "Is that Rogers' packing house over there?" "Yes." "Thank you, that's all I wanted to know." "Goin' in to see Mr. Rogers?" "I was thinking of it." "Better not go now?" "Why?" "He jest came out of O'Grady's saloon and he's more'n half full." "Do you mean drunk?" "Dat's it." "Then I don't think I care to see him." "Does he owe you anything?" went on the street urchin, with a coolness that swallowed up the impertinence of the question. "No, he doesn't owe me anything. He advertised for a clerk and I had a notion I would strike for the situation," answered Robert, who could not help but like the street lad, he had such an open, friendly face. "He had a fight with one o' his clerks day before yesterday, an' the clerk got a black eye." "Indeed. And what did the clerk do?" "I heard dad say he was going to have old Rogers arrested, but Rogers gave him some extry money to keep still about it." "And that is the reason he wants a new clerk, eh?" said Robert, with a short laugh. "Well, I don't think I'll apply." "Couldn't you lick old Rogers if he hit you first?" "I wouldn't want to get into a fight with him." "He's a terror when he's half drunk--my dad says so." "Does he work in the place?" "Yes, he's a butcher." "And did he ever have any trouble?" "Lots of times. Once old Rogers followed my dad with a butcher knife, but dad up and knocked the knife from his hand with a club." "And what did your father do then?" "He was goin' to have old Rogers locked up for salt the battery, or sumt'ing like that, but Rogers he raised dad's wages a dollar a week, an' so dad didn't do nuthin." "Evidently Mr. Rogers thinks money will cover everything," said Robert. "Well, it wouldn't cover everything with me." "I'd like to see old Rogers git one good wallopin'--an' so would all of the boys around here. He won't let none of us around the packing house to see what's going on. He calls us all a set of thieves." "He certainly must be a hard man to work for," concluded Robert. "I don't want to go near him," and with this remark he walked back the way he had come. CHAPTER XVII. ROBERT IS GIVEN A MISSION. "Well, what luck?" asked Livingston Palmer, when he and Robert met again. "No luck at all," answered Robert. "That's bad." "One man said he might have an opening in the near future." "That's all right, but a fellow can't live on promises." "Exactly my idea." "Why don't you try the stage, as I am going to do." "I don't believe I can act." "No one knows what is in him until he tries. Didn't you ever recite?" "In school, yes. But I don't think I ever made a hit, as actors call it." "If you managed to get in with Jack Dixon I might be able to coach you in your part," said Livingston Palmer loftily. "Have you had a part assigned to you yet?" asked Robert curiously. "Yes. We are to play two plays, 'The Homeless Sister,' and 'All for Love.' In 'The Homeless Sister' I am to take the part of a heartless landlord, and in 'All for Love' I am a butler in a Fifth Avenue mansion in New York." "Are they leading parts?" "Well--er--hardly. Dixon says he can't put me in leading parts yet, for it would make the older actors jealous." "I see." "He says he will shove me ahead as soon as I've made a hit." "Then I trust you make a hit on the opening night." "Oh, I certainly shall. I have my lines down fine, and Dixon says my make-up is just what it ought to be." "Aren't you afraid of being nervous?" "Nervous? Not a bit. Did you ever see me nervous, Frost?" "No--excepting----" Robert was going to mention the time when the adorable Alameda's husband had called at the ticket office, but cut himself short. "Excepting when?" "It's of no consequence, Palmer." "But I demand to know when I was ever nervous," insisted the would-be actor. "Well, you were rather put out when the husband of that variety actress called upon you." "Oh! Well--er--I'll admit it. But that was an unusual case, wasn't it?" "I presume so. Does she know you are going on the stage?" "Yes; I took particular pains to let her hear of it, through one of the ladies of our combination." "And did you hear what she said?" "The lady says she laughed and said I would ruin Dixon. But I'll show her that she is mistaken," added Livingston Palmer, drawing himself up to his full height and inflating his chest. "Robert, I am a born actor--I feel it in my bones." "Do your bones ache?" "You know what I mean. Shall I give you a sample of what I am to do?" "If you get through by the time the supper bell rings. My walk has made me tremendously hungry." "The part of the landlord is not a long one--in fact it contains but six speeches each about thirty words in length. At first I come into the parlor where the guests have arrived. I make a low bow and turn to the gentleman and say: 'What, it is my father's friend, Roger Brockbury, as I live! Thrice welcome to the Lion Inn, sir. And what is the matter with the lady, sir?'" As Palmer began to recite he strutted around in grand style, ending by elevating his eyebrows, clenching his fists and throwing his head so far back that he nearly lost his balance. "Is that what you have to say?" questioned Robert, who could scarcely keep from laughing outright. "Yes. How do you like it?" "You'll certainly make them take notice of you?" "I knew you would say that. Why, Robert, it won't be a month before I'm the star of the combination." "You have my best wishes." "Shall I take you to see Jack Dixon?" "No--at least, not for the present." "But you may be missing the chance of your life." "No, I'm no actor. I believe I was cut out for some office business and nothing else." "Do you mean to say you would be content to sit on a high stool keeping books all your life? That wouldn't suit me." "No, I don't mean that exactly. I would like to manage some large office business--after I had learned it thoroughly." "Of course that is somewhat better." At that moment the supper bell rang, and Palmer took his leave, to go to the theater for rehearsal. As Robert went down to the dining room of the boarding house he could not help but utter a short sigh. "Poor Palmer," he mused. "He means well, but I'm afraid he will make an awful mess of it." The evening was spent in his room reading a paper, for Robert was in no humor to go anywhere, even if he had felt like spending any money. "I must try my luck again to-morrow," was his resolve. "And I must get around early, too." He was up before seven o'clock, and dressing hastily, went out and purchased several newspapers. At the house he sat down in the sitting room to examine the Help Wanted columns, as he had done the day before. Presently he heard the postman's whistle and ring. Soon after one of the servant girls came in with a letter for him. It was from Timberville, as he could see by the postmark, and he tore it open eagerly, feeling it must have been sent by Dick Marden. The communication interested Robert deeply. It ran as follows: "My Dear Robert: "I have just learned by the newspapers that Peter Gray's office was burnt out last Sunday. I see that the loss was heavy, and in an interview Gray says he may not resume. "This will, of course, throw you out of a position. In one way I am sorry of it; in another, I am glad. "I hate to have you compelled to make a change, yet, as matters have turned, I would like to have a smart boy like you up here to help me, since my uncle is worse than before and those swindlers--for such they are--are determined to get the lumber lands away from him. "In the crowd are two men, a French Canadian Le Fevre and an Englishman named Hammerditch. They want to get hold of an old map which was in the possession of a certain lumberman named Herman Wenrich. This lumberman used to live in upper Michigan but now resides in Chicago. "If you can do so, I would like you to find Herman Wenrich and get the map from him, even if you have to pay fifty or a hundred dollars for it. The map will be valuable in showing up the actual grants which belong to my uncle. "In case Wenrich cannot be found in the course of two or three days you can drop the matter and come on to here without further delay. I send you some money in case the fire has left you short, and in case you have a chance to buy the map. "Yours truly, "Richard Marden." Enclosed in the letter were money orders amounting to one hundred and fifty dollars. "I'm glad I didn't get a job now," thought Robert. "If I had I would only had to have thrown it up. I'll go down to the post-office at once, get those money orders cashed, and then go on a hunt for Herman Wenrich." CHAPTER XVIII. THE POST-OFFICE MONEY ORDER. Robert had been to the post-office a number of times for Mr. Gray, so he made his way there after breakfast without difficulty. He found the money-order department somewhat crowded, and had to take his place at the end of a line numbering a dozen persons or more. While he was moving toward the window his attention was attracted to a loudly-dressed individual, who came in and glanced around as if looking for somebody he knew. The man singled out Robert and came up to him. "Are you acquainted here, young man?" he asked, in a low tone, so that those standing around might not hear. "What do you mean?" asked the youth. He was positive he had never seen the loudly-dressed individual before. "I mean do they know you at yonder window?" "One of the clerks knows me." "Then I wish you would do me a favor. My name is Charles Shotmore. I come from Lexington. I received a money order yesterday from my aunt, with whom I reside, and I want to get the order cashed." "Well?" "Won't you identify me? Of course, it's a mere matter of form, but it places one in a regular hole if one is not known," went on the man glibly. "You know they are very particular just at present, although they didn't used to be." "But I don't know you," said Robert, with considerable surprise. "I have just told you my name--Charles Shotmore, of Lexington. My aunt's name is Caroline Shotmore. And your name is----?" The man paused, expecting Robert to fill in the blank. But the youth had seen enough of city life to make him shy of strangers, and he did not mention his name. "Never mind about my name," he said coldly. "Won't you identify me?" "How can I when I do not know you." "I have just told you my name. Isn't that sufficient?" "Why don't you tell them the same thing at the window?" "Because they are too particular." "I don't think they are." "Then you won't do me the favor?" And the loudly-dressed individual frowned darkly. "I cannot, conscientiously." "Humph! it seems to me you are mighty particular." "And you are very forward," retorted Robert, and turned his back on the fellow. The man started to say more, but suddenly turned and walked to the corner of the room. Robert had no difficulty in getting his money orders cashed. "For yourself?" said the clerk, with a smile. "Yes." "You're in luck." "I've got to use most of the money," answered the boy, and left the window. A hundred and fifty dollars was quite a sum, even for Robert to handle, and he placed the amount in the breast pocket of his coat. The flashily-dressed man saw the youth stow the bank bills away, and his eyes glistened greedily. He was a sharper by the name of Andy Cross, and it is doubtful if he had ever done an honest day's work in his life. The money order he carried was one belonging to a man who had been stopping at the same boarding place at which Andy Cross had put up. The order had come in a letter the day before, and Cross was anxious to get it cashed before Charles Shotmore should become aware of his loss. "I've a good mind to follow that boy and see if I can't get hold of that money," said Cross to himself. As Robert went out of the post-office he came behind him. Not far away was a drug store, where several directories lay on a stand for the use of the public. Robert stepped into the drug store to look for Herman Wenrich's name in the directory, and Andy Cross took a stand outside where he might watch the boy. While the sharper was waiting, he felt himself touched on the arm, and wheeling about, found himself confronted by the man to whom the stolen money order belonged. "Mr. Smith, I wish to speak to you," said Charles Shotmore, somewhat excitedly. He did not know Cross' real name, for he had never heard it. "What do you want?" demanded Andy Cross, as coolly as he could, although he was much disconcerted. "I--I--that is, I believe you have a letter belonging to me." "A letter belonging to you?" "Yes." "I have no such letter, Mr. Shotmore. What makes you think I have?" "The servant at the boarding house says a letter came yesterday for me, and that she saw you pick it up from the hall rack." "She is mistaken." "She says she is positive, and--and she says your record is none of the best." "Sir, do you mean to insult me!" demanded Cross, but his face turned pale with sudden fear. "The girl comes from the South End, and she says you are known by the name of Cross. She is positive you took my letter, and I want it." "Preposterous! Why should I take your letter?" "I don't know. But I was expecting a money order from my aunt, and if it was in the letter I want it." "Did you follow me to here?" asked Andy Cross, nervously. "I came down to the post-office, yes, for that is where they cash money orders." "Well, I haven't your money order, and that is all there is to it. Let go of my arm." For Charles Shotmore had clutched the sharper while they were conversing. At that moment Robert came out of the drug store. On catching sight of Cross in the grasp of another, he paused in wonder. "Something is wrong," he thought, and drew closer to the pair. "I am of the opinion that you have the money order," said Charles Shotmore. "If you are an honest man you will not object to being searched." "But I do object!" burst out Andy Cross, fiercely, and tried to wrench himself loose. He had almost succeeded when Robert came to Charles Shotmore's assistance. "I'll help you hold him, sir," he said quietly, but firmly. "Let go, boy!" fumed the sharper. "Let go, or it will be the worse for you!" "I'll not let go." Robert turned to the other man. "Do you know this fellow, sir?" "Perhaps I had better ask you that question," returned Charles Shotmore, cautiously. "I was at the post-office a while ago and he wanted me to identify him. He said his name was Charles Shotmore." "Why, that is my name." "He had a money order he wished to have cashed." "My money order, I'll wager a new hat. You villain. I have caught you just in time," and Charles Shotmore clutched Cross tighter than before. It must be confessed that the sharper was nonplussed, for he had not expected to have Shotmore follow him up thus rapidly. "This is--er--a--a great mistake," he stammered. "I guess it was a mistake--for you," said Shotmore grimly. "If I--I have the letter, I took it by mistake," went on Andy Cross. "Sometimes I have violent headaches, and during those periods I do the most extraordinary things." "Indeed!" sneered Charles Shotmore. "Never mind the headaches, just you hand over the money order." As he spoke he slipped his hand into Cross' breast pocket and drew forth the letter. "Mine, sure enough!" he ejaculated. "Is the money order in it?" questioned Robert. "Yes. My boy, you have done me a valuable service." "I am glad of it." "I really believe I ought to have this rascal arrested." "I think you are justified, Mr. Shotmore. It's bad policy to have such dishonest persons running around loose." "Arrest me?" gasped Andy Cross. "If you have me arrested you will make the greatest mistake of your lives." "I'll risk it," said Charles Shotmore. He started to look around for an officer. As he did so, Andy Cross gave a pull and freed himself from both Shotmore and Robert. Then he dashed into the street, among the cars and trucks going in both directions. "Hi! stop him!" cried Shotmore. "Police! Police!" Robert at once took up the chase. Soon Shotmore joined in. But Andy Cross was fleet of foot, and fear lent speed to his feet. By the time the other side of the crowded thoroughfare was gained he was nowhere to be seen. "He's disappeared," panted Robert, coming to a halt at the corner. "So I see," returned Charles Shotmore. "He could run, couldn't he?" "Well, he had something to run for." "That's right." Shotmore indulged in a low laugh. "I'm glad I got my letter and money order away from him before he started." "Do you know him?" "No more than that he boarded at the same house with me. I fancy he is an all-round sharper, from what the servant girl said of him." "Then it's a pity he escaped." "I may meet him again some day. But I owe you something for your aid." "You are welcome to whatever I have done for you." "But I would like to pay you something," persisted Charles Shotmore. "I don't wish it." "May I ask your name?" Robert gave it, and they shook hands. "I hope we meet again," said the gentleman, and after a few more words they parted, Shotmore going over to have his money order cashed without further delay,--he being already known at the post-office. From the directory in the drug store Robert had obtained Herman Wenrich's address. The old lumberman lived on the outskirts of the city, on the other side of the Chicago River, and the youth set off for the place, little dreaming of what trouble his visit was to bring to him. CHAPTER XIX. AN UNEXPECTED ATTACK. Andy Cross ran for several blocks after leaving Charles Shotmore and Robert so unceremoniously. Then he turned into a large office building and took the elevator to one of the upper floors. Here he felt himself tolerably safe from pursuit. He stood at a hall window, which overlooked the street, and gazing down saw a friend walking along on the opposite sidewalk. "Jim Huskin," he murmured. "I wonder if he has anything new on?" Feeling that Shotmore and Robert must have given up the pursuit by this time, he descended again and hurried after the man he had recognized. "Hullo, Jim!" he said, as he caught the other by the arm. Jim Huskin started, half fearing that it was a detective who had accosted him, for he was wanted for several petty crimes--indeed the two rascals were well matched, and had committed many a wrong deed together. "Andy!" replied Jim Huskin. "How are you?" "Nothing to brag of," answered Andy Cross. "Then you haven't been striking it rich lately." "On the contrary, I've had mighty poor luck. Have you got another cigar, Jim?" He said this for Huskin was smoking. "No. I got this out of a gent at the Palmer House. I tried to work him for a loan, but it was no go." "Then I reckon you haven't any more money than I." "I've got a quarter," answered Jim Huskin, frankly. "You are exactly five cents richer than yours truly." Both sharpers laughed at this. With them it was "easy come, easy go," and temporary poverty did not bother them. "Perhaps I am five cents richer," went on Jim Huskin. "But I owe my hotel three weeks' board." "It's a wonder they let you stay that long." "I've got a well-filled trunk in my room." And Huskin chuckled and winked one eye. "Filled with bricks, eh?" "No, paving stones--although they are about the same thing. Say, when the hotel keeper opens that he'll have enough to build on another addition." "He won't build it on to accommodate such guests as you." "I don't suppose he will--and I don't care." "I am behind two weeks with my landlady. She's sharp after me--but I don't care. I can't go back, even if I wanted to." "Had a falling out with somebody?" "Yes. One of the boarders got a money order and I tried to get it cashed for him." "And it didn't work, eh?" "No, it didn't--and what's more, the man and a boy came close to having me arrested. I'll tell you what, Jim, I would like to get that boy in some spot where I could go through his pockets." "Has he got much?" "He's got a good silver watch, and I saw him cash money orders at the post office amounting to one hundred and fifty dollars." "Phew! that would make a nice haul. Where is the boy?" "I don't believe he's far off. I left him near the post office." "Why not look him up?" "He would recognize me and make trouble." "Then point him out to me, and I'll see what I can do." Andy Cross was willing to do this, providing Jim Huskin would "whack up" with anything which was netted from the proceedings, and the pair sauntered the way Cross had come. "There he is now!" cried the sharper presently. He pointed across the street to where Robert was walking, bound for the place where Herman Wenrich lived. "You are sure that's the boy?" asked Huskin. "I am positive." "Is the money in his vest pocket?" "I think he put it in his breast pocket." "Then I'll soon have it from him, providing I get half a chance." "You've got to be careful. He's a smart customer, I can tell you that." "I've never met the boy or man I couldn't work--if I had half a show," returned Jim Huskin confidently. "What will you do, follow me?" "Yes. If you can corner him and want assistance, whistle, and I'll do all I can," added Andy Cross. So it was arranged, and a moment later Jim Huskin crossed the street and placed himself at Robert's heels. By this time the boy was close to the river, and crossing the bridge at the foot of the street, he hurried on in the direction where the old lumberman resided. "I wonder if he lives over here?" thought Huskin. "If he does I must tackle him before he reaches home." Several blocks were passed, and Robert came to a halt on a street corner. As he did so Huskin stooped down and pretended to pick up a handkerchief. "Excuse me, but you dropped your handkerchief," he said, holding out the article. Robert felt in his pocket. "You are mistaken, the handkerchief is not mine," he answered. "Is that so? Why, I was sure you dropped it." And Jim Huskin appeared much surprised. "It's a pretty good article," he continued. "I guess I'll keep it." "You might as well--if you can't find the owner." "I once had a funny thing happen with a handkerchief," went on Jim Huskin, as he ranged up alongside of Robert when the boy started off again. "A lady dropped hers in a street car. I picked it up, and as I did so, out rolled, what do you think?" "I'm sure I cannot imagine." "A set of false teeth. The lady had been wiping her mouth and the teeth had dropped into the handkerchief. Maybe both of us weren't embarrassed. The lady got as red as a beet, and left the car at the very next corner." And Jim Huskin laughed loudly. "A good joke, wasn't it?" "Perhaps for the others in the car; not for the lady," answered Robert, yet he could not help smiling. "Live down this way?" asked the sharper carelessly. "No, I am a stranger in this part of Chicago. I am looking for Grandon street." "Grandon Street. I can take you there easily enough. I own property on that street." "Do you? Then perhaps you can take me to number 238--that is, if you are going there now." "Yes, I was bound there--to see one of my tenants who talks of moving. Number 238 is less than a block from my houses. I think the Nelsons live at 238,--or is it the Romers." "I am looking for a man named Herman Wenrich--an old lumberman from Michigan." "Oh, yes, to be sure. I know him fairly well. Doesn't he live in the house with the Nelsons,--or maybe it's next door?" "I don't know who he lives with, or if he lives alone. He is a stranger to me. I want to see him on a little business." "And you have never been in this part of Chicago before?" "No." Jim Huskin turned his head to conceal a smile. "I reckon I can lead him where I please now," he thought. Then he looked back, to see Andy Cross following them at a distance of less than a block. Several squares were covered, and Huskin took Robert around a corner into a street which was little better than an alleyway. "This is a short cut," he said. "The street is all torn up a bit further on, and unless we go this way we will have to walk several blocks out of our way." "Any way will suit me," answered Robert. "Only I may have some difficulty in finding my way back." "Not if you take the street two blocks to our left." As they entered the alleyway Jim Huskin began to whistle a lively air. It was the signal for Andy Cross to draw closer. "I always whistle when I get here," explained the sharper, glibly, as he stopped for a second. "I was born and brought up in this neighborhood, and the scene takes me back to my boyhood days." Robert was not favorably impressed by the surroundings. On one side of the alleyway were a number of deserted tenement houses, and on the other the high brick wall surrounding a factory yard. "He must have been pretty poor to have lived in one of those shanties," thought the boy. "In those days these houses were well kept, and where the factory stands was a pretty open lot," said Huskin, as if reading his thoughts. "Everything is changed now. Will you mind my stopping at one of the houses for a minute? An old negro lives here, and I want to see if he is sick." "All right." Jim Huskin entered one of the tenements, to find it as he expected, deserted. "Say, just look here a minute!" he cried, coming to the front door. "What do you think is the matter with this poor fellow?" Wondering what was up, Robert advanced and entered the hallway of the tenement. The light was poor, and for several seconds he could see but little. "I don't see anybody--" he began, when, without warning, Jim Huskin leaped upon him and caught him by the arm and collar. "Give me that money and your watch!" he cried, harshly. "Give it to me instantly, or it will be the worse for you." CHAPTER XX. THE ESCAPE OF CROSS AND HUSKIN. For the moment Robert was dumfounded, for he had not dreamed that this pleasant stranger was about to attack him. "Do you hear? Give me that money," repeated Huskin, and tightened his grip. "Let me go!" returned Robert. "Would you rob me?" "I want that money you drew out of the post-office. And I want it instantly." "I won't give you a cent," cried Robert, and began to struggle with all the strength at his command. Although but a boy, he was strong, and soon it looked as if he might break away in spite of all the sharper could do to hold him. Seeing this, Huskin whistled loudly three times,--a signal that Andy Cross must join him at once. The signal had scarcely come to an end when Andy Cross pushed his way into the hallway. "Quick--hold him!" shouted Jim Huskin. "He's a regular eel." "I've got him," answered Andy Cross, and caught Robert from behind, and soon his bony fingers were pressing themselves directly into the poor youth's windpipe, so that it looked as if Robert would be choked to death. Robert could not see Cross, but he recognized the sharper's voice, and at once came to the conclusion that the two men had laid a plot to rob him. Nearly strangled, he let go his hold of Huskin, and tried to break Andy Cross' grip. The moment Jim Huskin felt himself free he wrenched Robert's watch and chain from their fastening and placed them in his own pocket. Then he dove into the boy's coat. "Let--let me go!" spluttered Robert. "Help! thiev----" He could go no farther, for now his wind was cut off entirely. All grew black before his eyes, and it was only in a hazy fashion that he felt Huskin snatch the money from where he had placed it with care. "Got what you want?" asked Andy Cross. "Yes." "Sure about the money?" "Here is a package of five and ten dollar bills." "That's it. And the watch?" "Safe." "Then we had better make tracks." "Ram his head against the wall first. We don't want him to give the alarm too soon." Andy Cross understood what Huskin meant, and between them the sharpers raised the boy's body up and threw him with great violence against the hard wall close at hand. The shock landed mainly upon Robert's head, as was intended, and with a groan, the youth sank down in a heap unconscious. "I guess he's done for," said Cross. "He is for a while, anyway," responded Huskin. "Come, the sooner we get out of this neighborhood the better off we will be." Running to the doorway of the tenement, both sharpers peered forth. "A man is coming!" cried Cross. "Let us get out by the back way," said his companion. They hurried back past Robert, and into the kitchen. Here, to their surprise, a fire was burning in a dilapidated stove. "Hullo! I thought this place was deserted," ejaculated Jim Huskin, in astonishment. "We must not be caught," added Cross. "Here is a back door and another alleyway." The door was unlocked, and they slipped outside. Soon the rascals had placed several blocks between themselves and the scene of the nefarious encounter. Meanwhile the man coming up the alleyway paused at the tenement. He lived in the place, paying no rent. He was very old, and could hardly walk, and his eyesight was poor. He had been to the corner grocery to buy himself a few of the necessities of life. Entering the semi-dark hallway he shambled along until his foot struck Robert's body. "Why, what can this be?" he muttered, and bent over that he might see. He was greatly amazed to find a boy there, suffering from a slight cut over one eye, from which the blood was flowing. "Something is wrong," he thought. "Has the lad met with foul play?" He was half of a mind to summon the police, but was afraid he could not find an officer short of six or seven blocks off. Setting down his basket, he raised up Robert's head. As he did this, our hero gave a groan and a shiver. "Don't, don't hit me again," he murmured. "Don't!" "I ain't hit ye," answered the old man. "How did ye git here?" But Robert did not answer, having relapsed again into unconsciousness. Not without considerable trouble did the old man bring some cold water and bathe Robert's face, and bind up the wound with an old towel. He carried the boy to the kitchen and set him down on a worn-out lounge. "How do you feel?" he asked as Robert opened his eyes and stared around him. "Where are they--the rascals?" asked Robert. He was completely bewildered. "Who do you mean?" "I mean the men who attacked me." "I don't know anything about 'em. I found ye in the hallway in a heap." "Two men attacked me and robbed me." "Gee shoo! Did they git much?" "Yes." Robert gave a groan. "They got my watch and over a hundred and fifty dollars." At this announcement the eyes of Lemuel Branley almost started from their sockets. "A hundred and fifty dollars!" "Yes; and a watch worth twenty-five more." "What was ye a-doing with so much money about ye?" "I was expecting to use the most of it to buy something with. So you didn't see the men?" Lemuel Branley shook his head. "They couldn't have left so long ago." "Then they didn't go out by the front door, for I was at the top of the alleyway quite a spell." "Is there a rear way out?" "Yes; and come to think of it, the back door was wide open when I first came in for the water." "Then they went out that way." There was a pause. "Did you know them?" asked the old man, curiously. "I knew one of them in a way. The other introduced himself to me while I was on my way over here." And Robert related how he had fallen in with Jim Huskin, and how the sharper had gotten him to enter the tenement hallway. "You're lucky to escape with your life," said Lemuel Branley. "You don't know how bad some of the criminals in Chicago are." "I must try to get on their track. I can't afford to lose my money, nor the watch, either." And Robert's face grew serious. The watch was the one his father had given him, and without the money how was he to purchase the map Dick Marden was so anxious to possess? "You'll have to hustle to find them rogues, to my way of thinking," said Lemuel Branley. "Like as not they'll quit Chicago just as soon as possible." Robert stood up. He felt strangely weak and far from able to pursue anybody. "Can you call a policeman?" he asked. "Certainly." Lemuel Branley made off, and while he was gone the boy brushed off his clothing and washed himself. Luckily he had a bit of court-plaster in his pocket, and this he plastered over the cut on forehead, thus doing away with the ragged towel. By the time he had finished he felt a little stronger. Soon the old man came back, followed by a tall, heavy-set officer of the law. "I saw you and one of the men a while ago," said the policeman, after our hero had told his story. "The man didn't impress me very favorably. I rather think I've seen his picture in the rogues' gallery." "Then you would know him again?" "I think I would." "I wish you would try to hunt him up." "I will. Will you go along." Robert was willing, and they left the tenement by the back way, our hero first thanking Lemuel Branley for what he had done. But nothing was to be seen of Andy Cross and Jim Huskin, and in an hour the policeman and the youth gave up the hunt. The officer directed Robert to the nearest station house, and here the particulars of the robbery were taken down. A large book of photographs was placed before Robert, and he soon found Jim Huskin's portrait. "That's the man," he said. "You are certain." "Yes, I would know him out of a thousand." Andy Cross' photograph could not be found, since he had not yet sat for the rogues' gallery, even though he richly deserved it. The officer in charge took down Robert's address, and told our hero if anything was learned he would let the youth know. With this small consolation Robert had to be content. He left the station house much crestfallen. "Everything seems to be going wrong," he mused. "I do hope those rascals are caught, and that very soon." CHAPTER XXI. ROBERT AND THE OLD LUMBERMAN. It must be confessed that Robert was in no humor to hunt up Herman Wenrich. "Even if I find him, what good will it do, if I can't offer him the money for the map?" was his mental comment. Nevertheless, there seemed to be nothing else to do, and so, after a lunch, he started again for No. 238 Grandon Street. He was careful where he went this time, and found the thoroughfare without further difficulty. It was fully eight blocks from the tenement where he had been robbed. The number he was searching for was a block away, and as he walked toward it two men passed him whom he instantly recognized. The men were Jean Le Fevre and Oscar Hammerditch. "Well, I declare!" muttered the boy. "Can it be possible that they have been calling upon Herman Wenrich?" It certainly would seem so, yet Robert had no way of proving it. Both the Canadian and the Englishman were walking rapidly, and soon they passed out of sight around the corner. Robert found No. 238 Grandon Street a modest dwelling set in the rear of a tiny garden of flowers. As he entered the garden a girl came out on the front porch and gazed up and down the street anxiously. She was probably fifteen years of age, and was pale and thin, as if just getting over a long sickness, which was the case. "Does Mr. Herman Wenrich live here?" asked Robert politely, as he tipped his hat. "Yes, sir," answered the girl. "Is he in?" "He is, but he is not very well." As she spoke the girl eyed Robert sharply, wondering what he wanted. "He doesn't look like one of these traveling agents," she thought. She had been bothered with agents a great deal lately. "I am sorry to hear Mr. Wenrich is not well," said Robert. "I wished to see him on a little business." "May I ask your name?" "My name is Robert Frost. But he doesn't know me. You might tell him that I came here at the request of Richard Marden, who is a nephew of Felix Amberton, of Timberville, Michigan. I wish to see him about a lumber tract up there." "Why, that is what those two men came about!" cried the girl. "You mean the two men I just met on the street?" "I presume they are the same. The men left but a minute before you came." "Can you tell me if they came for a map?" "Why, yes, they----" The girl stopped short. "I do not know as I have any right to talk of these things, Mr. Frost. My father might not like it." "So Mr. Wenrich is your father." "Yes. My name is Nettie Wenrich." Robert bowed. "I certainly would not wish to make any trouble for you," he said, with a smile. "But I would like to see your father." Nettie Wenrich hesitated for a moment. "He looks like a nice boy," she thought. "I like him better than I did those men." "Come into the parlor and I will tell father you are here," said she. Robert found the parlor small but cozy. There were several covered chairs, some pictures and books, and in one corner stood a small organ. The youth sat down near a window and waited. The girl was gone fully five minutes. When she returned her face bore a puzzled look. "Father does not know what to make of this," she said. "You say you came because Mr. Amberton sent you?" "Mr. Marden sent me. He is Mr. Amberton's nephew and has taken full charge, now that Mr. Amberton is sick." "Father says Mr. Hammerditch, one of the men who just called, said Mr. Amberton sent him for the map." "What!" cried Robert, leaping to his feet. "That cannot be possible." "Why?" "Because those men are enemies of Mr. Amberton. They wish to get some of his lumber lands away from him." The girl studied Robert's honest face for a moment. "I believe you. But it is a queer mix-up," was her comment. "Perhaps I can explain some things, Miss Wenrich. But I would like to talk with your father first." "Very well. But my father is quite sick, and I would not like to have you excite him." "I will be careful. But I hope he didn't let them have the map." "No, he is holding that. They made a proposition to him and he said he would think it over." Nettie Wenrich led the way to the second story of the cottage, and to the front bedchamber. Here, on a snowy couch lay Herman Wenrich, feeble with age and a malady that had attacked his digestive organs. "I do not wish to disturb you, Mr. Wenrich," said Robert, after introducing himself and shaking hands. "But I think it very strange that I should come here right after those two men I met outside." "It is strange, lad," responded Herman Wenrich feebly. "I cannot understand it." "I think I can safely say that Mr. Amberton never sent them and that he knows nothing of their coming," continued our hero. "That makes the whole thing even more strange." "They wish to get a certain map from you--a map of some lumber lands in upper Michigan." "Yes, yes, there is but one map," cried Herman Wenrich. "I have kept it safely for years." "Papa, please do not excite yourself," pleaded Nettie Wenrich, coming to the bedside. "I am not excited, my child." "I do not know a great deal about the matter," continued Robert. "But I do know that those two men, Le Fevre and Hammerditch, are Mr. Amberton's enemies and not his friends." "Can you prove that?" For the instant the youth was nonplussed. Then he thought of Dick Marden's letter. "Here is a letter I got from Timberville," he said. "You can read that." "My eyesight is poor. Nettie, read the letter." At once the daughter complied. Herman Wenrich listened attentively. "Ah, yes, I remember this Marden now," he said slowly. "He was the son of Amberton's youngest sister. Where does he come from?" "He belongs in California and is a rich miner. But he was brought up down east--in Vermont, if I remember rightly." "Exactly--he is Grace Amberton's boy. A good fellow, too--if he takes after his mother. So Amberton is sick and has put Dick Marden in charge. Then what those two men told me is a--a string of falsehoods." "You can see what I am authorized to offer you for the map," said Robert. "I started for here with the money in my pocket----" "Stop, Mr. Frost. You do not understand old Herman Wenrich. I am not thinking to sell the map." "But you are willing to see justice done to Mr. Amberton, are you not?" "Yes, yes--full justice--for he deserves it. He could have had the map before, but it affected some land of mine--which I have since sold." "Then you will let him have the map!" exclaimed Robert, much delighted. "I will pay----" "Not a cent, my lad, not a cent. He can have it and welcome. But--but----" "But what, sir?" "I must be dead sure, as they say, of what I am doing. You look honest enough, but so did those men." "Those men didn't look very honest to me," came from Nettie Wenrich, who had taken a strong liking to Robert, and it must be admitted that the feeling was reciprocated. "I could not bear that Englishman." "I cannot blame you for being suspicious," said Robert gravely. "I wish I had been so this morning. I might have saved my watch and some of my money." He did not feel called upon to state that he had lost the amount which was to be paid over to Herman Wenrich for the map. Of course he had to tell his story--or, at least, a part of it. Nettie Wenrich was quite affected. "It was too bad!" she cried. "I hope you get your watch and money back and succeed in sending those bad men to prison." "I will tell you what I will do," said Herman Wenrich, after several minutes of silent thinking. "Let Felix Amberton send me a written order to deliver the map to you and I will do so." "That is fair," said Robert. "No honest person could ask more at your hands. But what of those two men? They are to call again, I believe." "I will put them off, for, say three days. You ought to be able to get your order by that time." "Perhaps I can get it sooner, but I wish you would make it four days. There may be some delay, especially if Mr. Amberton is very ill." "Very well, we will make it four days then," said Herman Wenrich, and thanking him for his kindness Robert withdrew and followed Nettie Wenrich downstairs. "Do your father and you live here alone?" he asked. "Yes." "I hope he gets well soon," said the youth gravely, and his voice was full of a sympathy which went straight to the girl's heart. "I am afraid he will never get well," answered Nettie, and the tears sprang into her eyes. He took her hand and shook it warmly. "You must hope for the best," he said. And then, as she looked straight into his clear, honest eyes, he added, "If I can ever be of service to you don't hesitate to call upon me." And a minute later he was gone. CHAPTER XXII. A CLEVER CAPTURE. As Robert was approaching his boarding house he ran into Livingston Palmer, valise in hand, bound for the theater. "I'm off," said Palmer. "Our company leaves town to-day." "Well, I wish you every success." "Have you struck anything yet?" asked Palmer curiously. "I have and I haven't. I've got a letter from Mr. Marden requesting me to come to Timberville in Michigan." "It wouldn't suit me to bury myself in such a hole." "I don't know that I will stay there any great length of time. I am to go up on a little private business." "I see. Well, I must hurry. What time have you?" "No time at all. My watch is gone." "Hullo! Do you mean to say you've had to pawn it already. I thought you were one of the saving kind, to look out for a rainy day." "The watch was stolen from me." "Indeed!" "Yes, and some of my money went with it." "That's too bad, Robert," and Palmer's face was full of real sympathy. "It is bad." "I would loan you some money if I had it. But the truth is, I'm broke excepting for a couple of dollars that Jack Dixon advanced me on my salary." "Thank you, Livingston, but I am not quite broke, even if I have been robbed." "I'm glad to hear it. Now I am off, or I will be left behind." And with a hearty grasp of Robert's hand the would-be actor hurried down the street. Robert gazed after him meditatingly. "I hope his engagement proves all he wishes," he thought. "But I am afraid he is running up against a tremendous disappointment." Retiring to his room, Robert wrote a long letter to Dick Marden, telling of the receipt of the money orders and of his interview with Herman Wenrich. He also mentioned Le Fevre and Hammerditch and asked for the order from Felix Amberton for the map. At first he thought to put in about the stolen money and the watch, but then reconsidered the matter. "I'll wait, since the map is not to be paid for," he said to himself. "Perhaps the police will catch the sharpers. If the worst comes to the worst I guess I can scrape up enough money to take me to Timberville without applying to Mr. Marden for more." The letter finished, Robert went down to the post-office to post it. There now seemed nothing to do but to wait, and he returned to his boarding house worn out with the exertions of the day. A good sleep made the youth feel much better, and while he was eating his breakfast he began to deliberate upon what to do during the time in which he would have to wait for an answer from his miner friend. The front door bell rang, and presently he heard somebody ask to see the landlady of the house. "Please, mum, a gentleman to see you," said Mary, coming into the dining room. Mrs. Gibbs, the landlady, went into the parlor at once, thinking the newcomer might be somebody for board. "This is the landlady?" asked the man, bowing. "Yes, I am Mrs. Gibbs." "I am looking for a nice, quiet boarding place," went on the newcomer. "Have you any vacant rooms?" "I have one room vacant, but it is on the third floor." "Is it a nice, quiet room?" "It is in the rear and looks out on a small private garden. I think you will find it quiet enough." "I cannot stand a noise. I used to board on the other side of the city, but there was a factory in the neighborhood and the rumble set me wild." "We have no noises of that kind here." "And what do you ask for board and room?" "With one person in the room my charges are ten dollars per week. If two gentlemen take the room together the rate is eight dollars each." "I prefer to be alone, madam." "I will show you the room," said Mrs. Gibbs, moving toward the door. "I am sure you will find it as nice as any for the price." "I think so myself--for the house shows it," replied the man, with a glance around at the well-kept parlor. Mrs. Gibbs led the way into the hall. As she did so Robert came out of the dining room. The man glanced carelessly at our hero and then fell back as if he had received a shock. Then Robert uttered a cry of amazement. "You!" he gasped, and rushing forward caught the man by the arm. "Let go of me, young man!" cried the man savagely. "I will not," answered Robert firmly. "I know you, and I am going to hand you over to the police." At these words Mrs. Gibbs uttered a little shriek. "Oh, Mr. Frost, what can this mean?" she demanded. "It means that this man is a thief," declared Robert. "I met him in the post-office yesterday, where he saw me cash several money orders. After that he and a confederate robbed me of both money and my watch." At these words the face of Andy Cross--for it was really he--became a study. The sharper had not dared to go back to his former boarding house. He had calculated to find some new victim and to keep "shady" by pretending to be too ill to leave his room for several days. Now his little game was knocked completely in the head. "He is a thief?" ejaculated the landlady. "Oh, my! and to think I was going to take him in to board!" And the good old lady appeared ready to faint. "There is some strange mistake here," said Andy Cross. "Young man, how dare you call me a thief!" "I dare to because it is the truth." "Do you know who I am?" "You are what I just called you." "I have a strong inclination to knock you down, but I will try to curb my temper, as all Christian people should. I am Ralph Goodwill, the son of the Reverend Amos Goodwill, of Denver. I have come to Chicago to complete my studies for the ministry." "You'll have to turn over a new leaf before you become a minister," answered Robert. "Evidently you do not believe me." "Why should I? You are a thief, and you cannot humbug me into believing otherwise." "Mr. Frost, there may be some mistake," put in the landlady timidly. "There is no mistake, Mrs. Gibbs. Did you ever see a seminary student sporting such a suit of clothing." "Well--er--I don't know as to that." "The suit is one I picked up in the slums," said Andy Cross glibly. "I have been doing some work there, assisted by some Salvation Army people. You can work better among the poor, lost ones if you are dressed like them," he added softly. "Yes, yes, I presume that is so," said Mrs. Gibbs, who was somewhat interested in slum work herself. "He is an out and out fraud," said Robert, as firmly as ever. "Mrs. Gibbs, will you send Mary to call a policeman? I will be responsible for the arrest." "But if there is a mistake----" "Haven't I said that I will be responsible? I am not going to let him escape if I can help it." At that moment the front door opened, to admit one of the lady boarders. Robert stepped back to let her pass, and as he did so Andy Cross wrenched himself free and leaped for the door. "Stop!" cried Robert. "Stop!" "Go to blazes!" snarled the sharper, and pulling the door back, he leaped out on the piazza. Our hero's blood was up and he was determined that Cross should not escape him again. He, too, leaped for the doorway, and as the sharper gained the piazza Robert put out his foot to trip him up. The movement was far more successful than anticipated. Down went Andy Cross on his knees, and before he could recover he went down the steps, bump! bump! bump! to the sidewalk. The wind was knocked completely out of him, and he was sadly bruised about the head, while the blood spurted from his nose in a stream. "Oh! oh! I'm killed!" he moaned, as he sat up. "If you were, you wouldn't be able to groan over it," answered Robert. "Stay where you are, if you know when you are well off." "Don't have me arrested," pleaded the sharper. The unexpected fall had taken all his self-possession from him. At that moment a policeman showed himself at the corner, and Robert called to him to come up. "What's the trouble?" demanded the officer of the law. Seeing to it that Andy Cross did not get away, Robert told his story. "Yes, I have the report of the robbery," said the policeman. "You were lucky to fall in with him." In vain the sharper protested that he was innocent. The policeman marched him off to the nearest station house. Here he was examined and searched, and fifty dollars of Robert's money was found in the envelope which our hero had obtained at the post-office. "What of the rest of the money and the watch?" asked Robert. Seeing there was no help for it, Andy Cross made a confession. He stated that Jim Huskin had kept both the timepiece and the rest of the money, and left Chicago the night before. "And where did he go?" asked Robert. "He took a steamer for Muskegon, Michigan," answered Andy Cross. "Muskegon!" cried our hero. And then he said no more. But he was filled with interest, for he had thought to journey to Timberville by way of a steamer to the town named and then by railroad for the balance of the journey. "We will look this matter up and telegraph to the authorities at Muskegon," said the officer who was examining Cross. "If we learn anything we will let you know." This ended the matter for the time being, and Andy Cross was locked up. Robert returned to his boarding house, feeling lighter in both heart and mind than he had a couple of hours before. CHAPTER XXIII. PALMER'S UNFORTUNATE DEBUT. It had made James Talbot feel very bitter to think that should his wife die the Frost fortune would go entirely to his step-son. "He doesn't deserve a cent of it--with his impudence to me and his running away from home," he said to himself. "The money ought to come to me." The more he thought over the matter the more bitter did he become. He tried to think of some way by which he could alter the conditions of Mr. Frost's will, but nothing came to his mind that was satisfactory. Of course he did not dare show his wife his real feelings. She was still angry over the lost letter, and he was afraid of causing an open rupture. He concluded to do everything he could to win her good graces, and then question her again about the will and the property. Perhaps he might be able, he thought, to get control of the money lying in the bank, which amounted to about thirty thousand dollars. "Once I get control of that," he told himself, "Robert can whistle for his share. I'll run away to Europe before I'll give it up." The first thing he did was to buy Mrs. Talbot a new bonnet, since he had heard that a woman will be pleased over a new bonnet, if over nothing else. The lady, however, received the gift rather coldly. "It is very nice," she said. "But I do not need it, James." "Never mind, my love, I want my wife to look as good as or better than any lady in Granville." "Thank you, but I never tried to set the fashion." "I know that. But you should--with so much money behind you." "The money is for Robert, not for me." And Mrs. Talbot sighed as she thought of her son, and wondered how he was faring. "Always the boy," thought James Talbot savagely. "Will she never forget him?" "There is going to be a play at the opera house to-night," he said sweetly. "I would like you to go. You can wear the new bonnet, if you will." "Thank you. What is the play, James?" "'All for Love,' a romance of high life in New York. The newspaper says it is a good play." "The newspapers cannot always be depended upon. Do you know anything of the company?" "It is the Dixon Combination Comedy Company of Chicago." "I never heard of it." "I am afraid, my love, that you do not keep very good track of theatrical affairs." "I like to read about the good ones in the papers." "This company has some very good advertising. One of the bills says they carry ten star actors and actresses. I am sure you will like the play." "I will go if you wish me to," answered Mrs. Talbot, although she was doubtful if she would enjoy the performance. During the time Mr. Frost had been living, husband and wife had gone to both the theater and to the concert, but only to the very best. But Mr. Talbot had no taste for such things, and an ordinary performance pleased him about as well as one which was far superior. There had been no show in Granville for over two weeks. Consequently when the doors of the opera house were opened that night, the fair-sized hall became crowded in short order. The Dixon Combination Comedy Company was entirely unknown, and for good reason--it had never existed until two weeks previous to the opening at Granville. Jack Dixon, the manager, had been a "hanger-on" among theatrical people for several years, and having received several hundred dollars through the death of a rich aunt, had at once set to work to put a company of his own on the road. The man meant well, but he knew very little about the business, as was proved by his hiring Livingston Palmer and several others who were no better actors. Rehearsals had been backward and unsatisfactory from the start, and the combination would have done much better had it held back for another week for practice before appearing in public. But everyone was anxious to make a hit, and nobody thought failure possible. "We will carry the town by storm," said the leading man, a fellow by the name of Caster. He had been on the boards for several years, but had never before risen to a position higher than that of being a member of a stock company attached to a dime museum. "Yes, we will show them what real acting is," answered Livingston Palmer. "To-morrow the newspapers will be full of complimentary notices." At quarter to eight the orchestra, consisting of a piano player, a violinist, a flutist, and a cornetist, struck up on the overture, and at eight o'clock sharp the curtain went up on the first act of "All for Love." The scene represented Fifth avenue, in New York--at least, so the programme said,--although it is doubtful if anybody living on that fashionable thoroughfare would have recognized the locality. People were coming and going, and doing this as if their lives depended upon it, the same person appearing and disappearing every half minute or so. In the crowd was a girl who was supposed to be a companion to a rich old lady. As she stood waiting for something, the villain of the play, a fashionably-dressed man, came up and tried to tempt her into stealing the rich lady's jewels. While this was going on the butler of the lady's mansion appeared and overheard the plot. The acting was crude from the start, but at the opening of a play few people pay much attention, and it was not until Livingston Palmer appeared as the spying butler that the audience began to grow attentive. "Ha, what is this I hear!" cried Palmer, as he peered forth from behind a dry goods box set up against a building marked Hotel. "She is plotting to rob my mistress. Base woman that she is, I will--will--will----" Palmer should have said, "I will expose her to Mrs. Ulmer and have her arrested," but the words would not come, for he had caught sight of the hundreds of faces in the audience and become stage-frightened in consequence. "I will--will--I will----" he stammered, trying again. "Will you?" came a voice from the gallery. "All right, Willie!" There was a laugh and then a hiss. "I will expose her," whispered the prompter, who stood in the prompter's box with the book of the play in his hand. "I will--will expose her!" burst out Livingston Palmer. "I will expose her, base--I mean--I will expose her to be arrested--to--by--I mean--Mrs. Ulmer shall arrest her!" and then he fell back out of sight, and all but overcome. At once the prompter ran up to him. "You fool!" he whispered wildly. "That wasn't right. You've ruined the scene." "Have I?" asked Palmer, in awe-stricken tones. "Oh, I--I--something slipped my mind. But--but I'll be all right in the next scene." "I hope so. Better study your lines before you go on." "I will," answered the would-be actor, and began to study as never before. In the meantime the scene went on, the actors reciting their lines without a break, but with so little dramatic action that scarcely anyone in the audience was interested. "Do you like it, my love?" asked James Talbot, who sat beside his wife in one of the orchestra rows. "No, it is very stupid so far," answered Mrs. Talbot. "The next act may be better, Sarah. The best plays rarely start well." "That young man missed his part entirely," was Mrs. Talbot's comment. The second act of the play represented the drawing room of Mrs. Ulmer's mansion. There was at first a love scene which promised very well. But the lover in the play was as nervous as he might have been in real life, and when he started to kiss his lady-love good-by, he smacked her so warmly that his false mustache fell off into her lap. "Oh!" she cried, and there was a roar of laughter from the audience. The lover snatched the mustache up in a trice and hurried off as if he was leaving an enemy, instead of her whose heart he was supposed to have won. The rich old lady came in, supported on the arm of her nephew, a captain of the regular army. The captain was wearing his sword, but he was not used to the weapon, and it got tangled up between his legs more than once, and came near to upsetting him. "Take it off!" cried a voice from the gallery. Of course a laugh followed the bit of advice. The captain was about to conclude an important interview with his rich aunt, when the butler walked in with a tray, on which were a bottle supposed to contain wine, and two glasses. "Be careful there, Willie, or you'll drop the tray!" cried the voice from the gallery. "Will--he?" said another voice, with an attempt at a pun. "Ah, so this is honest John!" exclaimed the captain, turning to the butler. "John, what have you to say to the captain who used to go horseback riding on your foot?" "I'm glad to see you, sir," said Livingston Palmer. "Very glad, sir." Then he took a deep breath, and started again, so that his next lines might not escape him. "Mrs. Ulmer, Ihavea secret to tell." He meant, "I have a secret to tell," but some of his words ran one into another. "A secret, John. What can it be?" "You'retoberobb'd, yes, madam, youretobe robb'd." "Robbed!" "Yes, madam, robb'd. Oneyou have fondly robbed intendsto loveyou." A shout went up at this, a shout that speedily became a roar. Of course Palmer meant to say, "One you have fondly loved intends to rob you," but he was hopelessly bewildered, and hardly knew what he was doing. For once his self-confidence had entirely left him. "Go! I will not believe it!" cried the rich lady. "Leave my sight!" "Yes, madam, Iwillgo, but--but----" Livingston Palmer stared around wildly. He wanted to add, "I can prove what I have to say," but the words became mixed as before. "Icansay--whatIcanprove--I mean, I provetosay what I can--I can say what Icansay----" "Then go and say it!" yelled somebody from the gallery. "Say it, and give somebody else a chance to talk." "Say, but this is a bum company," added somebody else. "Worst I ever saw!" came from a third party. And then followed a storm of hisses. In the midst of this Palmer hurried from the stage. At once Dixon collared him. "Palmer, what do you mean by this?" demanded the manager. "Have you lost your wits?" "No, but--but--it's awful to have so many folks staring at you, and cat-calling, too." "You spoiled both acts." "I did my best," pleaded Livingston Palmer. "Then you'll never make an actor if you live to be a hundred years," responded Jack Dixon, and with this cold cut he walked off, leaving Palmer the picture of misery and despair. But the scene was not yet ended, and scarcely had Dixon turned away when there came another roar and a hiss. The unfortunate captain had fallen down with his sword between his feet. In trying to pick himself up he had upset a small table, scattering the books thereon in every direction. His wig came off, and when he managed to gain his feet once more it was found that his coat was split up the back for a foot and over. "They are a disgrace to the opera house!" came the cry. "They are no good!" "Let us give 'em something to remember us by!" The last suggestion was greeted with a wild assent, and soon half a dozen different articles landed on the stage, including the core of an apple and a half-decayed orange. In the midst of the uproar a number of the audience started to leave and the drop curtain came down with a bang. CHAPTER XXIV. PALMER CALLS UPON ROBERT'S MOTHER. Among the first to leave the opera house were Mrs. Talbot and her husband. "I have had quite enough of this," said the lady to James Talbot. "The company and the play are both very poor." "Perhaps you are right," he admitted. "I must say I looked for something much better myself. That poor butler couldn't act at all." "He was dumstruck," said Mrs. Talbot, and felt compelled to laugh. "Poor fellow, he ought to go at some other line of work." They were soon on the way home. Mr. Talbot had ordered a carriage to come for them when the performance was over, but this was not at hand, so they were forced to walk. "I didn't make much by taking her out to-night," said the schemer to himself. "Next time I'll have to make sure that I am taking her to something that is really first-class." When the pair reached home James Talbot wished his wife to come into the sitting-room, to talk over their business affairs. The fact of the matter was, he was running short of money, and he desired his wife to make him an advance. "I have something of a headache, James," she said. "I think I had better retire early." "I will not detain you long, my love," he answered. Soon they were in the sitting-room and the lady dropped into an easy chair. He could not sit down, but began to walk up and down nervously. "I hate very much to mention the matter to you, Sarah," he began, "but the fact is, a remittance from a man in Chicago who owes me quite some money has been delayed, and this has cut me short." "Do you want money?" "If you can spare it, I would like to have a hundred dollars or so until the remittance comes." "Very well, you can have it in the morning," answered Mrs. Talbot quietly. James Talbot had told her before they were married that he was fairly well-to-do, but since they had become man and wife she had not seen a dollar of his money. It was true, he had a little money, or had had it, but the amount was less than a thousand dollars, and it was now tied up in a speculation that promised little or no return. James Talbot had no head for business, and even his wife was beginning to find that out. He could be miserly, but miserliness is not true economy. He pretended to deal in real estate, but he was too shiftless and lazy to apply himself to steady work. "I will be all right as soon as the money comes," went on Talbot cheerfully. "After this I trust I shall never have to trouble you again." "How is the real estate business progressing?" she asked. "Fairly well. Granville is not a booming town." "I know that." "I am half of a mind to try my luck in Chicago. That is where they make fortunes in real estate every year." "Perhaps; but they have to have a large capital to start on." "Exactly, my love. But with a large capital it is a dead sure thing, for it cannot burn up, cannot be stolen from you, and constantly increases in value. What do you think of my plan to start in Chicago?" "I am sure I have no objection, although I am comfortably situated here." "You could keep this home if you wished--at least, at first, and I could come out every Saturday afternoon and remain until Monday. The trouble is, the venture would require quite some capital." "I presume it would." "If I had five or ten thousand dollars to spare, I would start at once." "Haven't you that much, James?" she asked, with interest. "Not in ready money. My cash is tied up in investments. But you could loan me the amount, couldn't you, my love?" Mrs. Talbot's face flushed, and her eyes sought the floor. She had been afraid that this was what was coming. "I--I suppose so," she faltered, hardly knowing what to say. "Of course you would be secured. I would see to that." "Yes, James, I would want that. For the money is to go to Robert, you know." His face fell. "The boy always!" he thought. "Oh, I wish he would never be heard from again!" "But if I make a barrel of money out of my investments, that must go to you," he said aloud. "No, you shall keep the money," she replied. "I have as much as I will ever need." In a few minutes more Mrs. Talbot retired. James Talbot walked the sitting-room floor with considerable satisfaction. "Ten thousand dollars will be a nice sum," he mused, rubbing his horny hands together. "Robert, eh? Well, he'll never see the cash, I'll give James Talbot's word on that! It will be several years before he becomes of age, and who knows how much more of the fortune will come my way before that time?" The morning paper contained a long and semi-humorous account of the performance of "All for Love." It said the actors and actresses were probably well-meaning amateurs who had yet much to learn before they would become successful in their profession. They advised the butler in the play to perfect himself in the part of a stuttering comedian! By the account it was evident that the play had come to a conclusion in a perfect uproar, and that many in the audience had demanded their money back. James Talbot had gone off to his real estate office, to perfect his plans for opening up in Chicago, when the door-bell rang and Jane announced a visitor to see Mrs. Talbot. "He gives his name as Livingston Palmer," said Jane. "Livingston Palmer?" mused the lady of the house. "Why, where have I heard that before? Oh, I remember now. It was on that theatrical programme," and she looked it up to make sure. "He was that butler who started all the trouble. What can he want of me?" She descended to the parlor to greet her visitor. Livingston Palmer was seated on the edge of a chair, his face far more careworn than ever before, and his clothing much soiled and torn. "Good-morning," he said humbly. "This is Mrs. Talbot, who used to be Mrs. Frost, I believe." "Yes," she answered. "I am a stranger to you, madam, but I come from Chicago, and I am well acquainted with your son Robert." "Indeed!" cried Mrs. Talbot, and her whole manner changed. "Is Robert in Chicago?" "He is--or at least he was when I left there, two days ago." "Can you tell me what he is doing?" "He and I were clerks in a cut-rate ticket office. But a fire threw us both out of employment." "And you joined a theatrical company," added Mrs. Talbot. "How do you know that?" "I was at the opera house last night and saw you on the stage." For once in his life Livingston Palmer's face grew as red as a beet. "You--er--witnessed that unfortunate affair," he stammered. "I--I----" "I thought you were new at acting," said the lady candidly. "It was, as you say, unfortunate." "The people used us meanly," exclaimed Palmer. "I was struck in half a dozen places, and my coat was nearly torn from my back, and in the struggle to get away I lost my money and could not find it again." "When was this? I came away at the conclusion of the second act." "It was after the play was over. A regular mob congregated around the stage door, and we could scarcely escape with our lives. I never shall go on the stage again, never!" And Palmer shook his head bitterly. He meant what he said, and let it be recorded here that he kept his word. CHAPTER XXV. ANOTHER TALK ABOUT ROBERT. Mrs. Talbot saw plainly that Livingston Palmer was suffering, both from humiliation and from the manner in which he had been treated physically, and her heart was touched. "I am very sorry for you, Mr. Palmer," she said. "If there is anything I can do for you I will do it willingly. But I would first like to hear something of my son." "I will tell you all I know," answered the young man quickly. "I was in hope that Robert's mother might aid me. We have been good friends. He's a splendid lad." "Yes, Robert is a good boy and always was. Is he well?" "Perfectly well, and was, as I said before, doing finely, until the fire threw us both out." "How much was he getting a week?" "Five dollars." "I do not call that very good," cried Mrs. Talbot. "He cannot live very well on that in such a city as Chicago." "He told me he had an allowance besides." "An allowance?" Mrs. Talbot looked puzzled. "I can't understand that. I made him no allowance, for he would not permit it. He said he was going to make his own way in the world." "Well, I can only tell you what he said," returned Livingston Palmer. "Will you give me his address, so that I can write to him?" "Why, haven't you his address? I am sure he wrote to you." "I never got the letter." And then Mrs. Talbot's face flushed, as she remembered about the letter her husband had destroyed. Had she been deceived in the matter, after all? "Then I will write the address down for you," said Palmer, and did so. A long talk followed, and the young man told Mrs. Talbot all he knew about Robert, and also mentioned Dick Marden, but not in such a way that the lady suspected the allowance Robert received came from the miner. Palmer frankly admitted that he was without means of any sort. "If I were in Chicago, this would not matter so much," he added. "But in Granville I know nobody but you and the members of our company, or rather the company to which I belonged. I was discharged, and Dixon refuses to even give me my carfare back to the city." "I shall be pleased to give you what you need," replied Mrs. Talbot. "I am overjoyed to learn that Robert is well. I am going to pay Chicago a visit soon, and then if he will not come to me I will go to him." "He will come to you fast enough, madam. It is only his step-father whom he dreads." "Yes, yes, I know." Mrs. Talbot thought best to change the subject. "Will you not have breakfast with me, Mr. Palmer?" "With pleasure," answered the young man. "But I--er--I would like to brush and wash up first." "To be sure." Mrs. Talbot surveyed him critically. "I really believe some of Robert's clothing would fit you. At least his coat would." "Yes, his coat would." "Then I can perhaps replace that torn garment you are wearing." Mrs. Talbot was as good as her word, and half an hour later Livingston Palmer came down from the room Robert had occupied, thoroughly brushed and washed and wearing a coat and vest which had belonged to the boy. They were rather tight, it is true, but they were almost new, and a vast improvement over the ragged garments Palmer had worn upon presenting himself. A substantial breakfast followed, of fish, omelet, hot rolls, and coffee, and it is perhaps needless to say that Palmer did full justice to all that was set before him. And small wonder, for he had eaten nothing since the afternoon of the day before. It was nearly noon before the young man prepared to take his departure, with twenty dollars in his pocket, which he had insisted should be a loan only, to be paid back as soon as the opportunity afforded. "I am very grateful to you, Mrs. Talbot," he said, on parting. "You have treated me like a king. Why Robert should leave such a home and such a mother I can't understand." Mrs. Talbot was visibly affected. "It was entirely on his step-father's account, Mr. Palmer. Robert is high spirited and would not bend as Mr. Talbot wished." "Then let me be bold enough to say that I imagine Robert was in the right." To this Mrs. Talbot made no reply. But she begged Palmer to keep an eye on her son, and if anything went wrong to let her know by sending her a letter in care of the postmaster, and marked for personal delivery only. Then Palmer hurried away, to catch the first train he could for the great city by the lakes. When her visitor was gone Mrs. Talbot sat down to review the situation in her mind. Her thoughts were not pleasant ones. Her second marriage was proving to be anything but agreeable. She realized that her husband was not the man she had imagined him to be. Dinner was on the table at twelve, for Mr. Talbot insisted on having his main meal at mid-day. Yet the man did not come in until nearly half an hour later, and then he appeared to be much put out about something. "I understand you had a visitor this morning," he began, as he and his wife sat down to the table, and Jane brought on the food. "Yes." "Some friend of that reckless son of yours," went on Mr. Talbot. "What did Robert send him for, money?" Mrs. Talbot was surprised. "How did you learn my visitor was a friend of Robert?" she asked. "I got it from Sproggens at the depot. He was talking with the fellow while he was waiting for a train. I hope you didn't encourage him, Sarah. If the boy sees fit to run away and stay away, let him make his own way." "That is just what Robert is doing, James," cried the lady, her face flushing. "Then why did Robert send that young man here?" "He didn't send him here." "Humph!" James Talbot was on the point of saying that he did not believe the statement, but cut himself short. If he angered his wife now he might have trouble in getting the five or ten thousand dollars she had said she would loan him. "The young man belonged to that theatrical company we went to see," continued Mrs. Talbot. "He knew Robert and so he thought he would call here and see me." "What did he have to say about the boy?" "He said Robert had been doing very well, but a fire burnt out the office in which he was employed." "And what is the boy doing now?" "Nothing, just at present." "He won't find it easy to get another opening." "Mr. Palmer said Robert might go up to Michigan in a few days. He had to do something for a man interested in some timber lands in the upper part of that State." "Humph! I shouldn't wonder if the boy came home soon. He'll get tired of roughing it." "Robert has a stout heart, Mr. Talbot, and I doubt if he ever comes home so long as you are here." And with these words Mrs. Talbot arose and swept from the dining room, hardly having touched a mouthful of the food Jane had taken so much pains to prepare. James Talbot finished his meal in silence, and ate as heartily as ever, for seldom did anything interfere with his appetite. From the kitchen Jane eyed him in a manner which was anything but agreeable. "The old gorilla," she said to herself, as she rattled the pans angrily. "He ought to be thrown out of the house. If it wasn't for the poor mistress, sure and I wouldn't stay another minute. I wish the victuals would choke him." And then she vowed that the next time she fixed the dessert she would make Mr. Talbot's portion so bad that he could not eat it. CHAPTER XXVI. ROBERT SPEAKS HIS MIND. Robert waited for two days for a letter from Dick Marden. In the meantime he went down to the police station twice to learn if anything had been found out about Jim Huskin. "We telegraphed to Muskegon and several other points," said the officer in charge. "But so far no one has seen the rascal." In the evening mail of the second day came two letters for the boy, both of which he perused with great interest. The first was from his mother, telling of the meeting with Livingston Palmer, and of what the would-be actor had told her. "I am glad to hear that you have not suffered so far, Robert," she wrote. "But I am afraid that the fire may prove an unexpected set-back for you, and so I enclose twenty dollars, which may come in useful. So far I have received no letter from you, although Mr. Palmer says you have written. When you write again send it in care of the postmaster, and mark it for personal delivery only. Then I am sure Mr. Blarcomb will give it to me and to nobody else." It may be imagined that Robert was indignant. "I'll wager old Talbot stole that letter," he told himself. "And I guess mother thinks as much. Oh, what a mistake she made in marrying that man! I'll write her another letter this very night." And he did so, and posted it before retiring. In the communication he told her to beware of his step-father and not trust him in money matters, as she might be very sorry for it. "It's best to open her eyes," he reasoned, "even if it does cause her pain." The second letter was from Dick Marden, enclosing the order from Felix Amberton for the map. In this the old miner urged Robert to obtain the document at the earliest possible moment. "Our enemies are hedging us in and intend to proceed against us in the county court in a day or two," he added. "As soon as we get the map we will know just where we stand, and our lawyer will know exactly what claims he can make. My uncle is of the opinion that the other side is making a big bluff in the hope that we will offer to compromise." "I'll go and get the document the first thing in the morning," Robert told himself. "And if all goes well I'll be on my way to Timberville by noon." With the money recovered from Andy Cross, and with what his mother had sent to him, he now had ample funds for the trip. After writing the letter to his parent, he packed his valise, that nothing might delay his start. A surprise awaited him the next morning just after he had left the dining room, and while he was telling Mrs. Gibbs that he intended to go away, to be gone an indefinite time. "A gentleman to see Mr. Frost," announced the girl, and entering the parlor Robert found himself confronted by his step-father. "Good-morning, Robert," said James Talbot, smiling affably and extending his hand. "Good-morning, Mr. Talbot," replied our hero coldly. He pretended not to see the outstretched hand. "I suppose you are surprised to see me here," began Mr. Talbot awkwardly. "I am surprised. How did you learn my address?" "Never mind that now, Robert. I came to see how you are getting along." "You ought to know. You got my letter, even if my mother didn't," answered Robert bitterly. "I got no letter, my lad, upon my honor I did not. I came out of pure friendliness to you." "Then let me tell you that I am doing very well." "I heard something about your being out of work on account of a fire." "Did Mr. Gray tell you?" "Never mind who told me." James Talbot cleared his throat. "As you are out of work I thought perhaps that you would like to come to work for me." "Work for you!" "Exactly. I don't mean for you to go back to Granville. I am going to open a real-estate office in Chicago, and I shall want a clerk. I understand that you take to that sort of thing." "I don't believe I'll take to clerking for you," returned Robert bluntly. "Ahem! That is rather harsh of you, Robert. I mean to do well by you. Why not take a fresh start? I am sure we shall get along very well together." "Are you going to give up the office you opened in Granville?" "Not just yet. But I may in the future--after the office here is in full blast. I expect to make a big thing of the business here." "A big business here means the investment of a lot of money," said the boy shrewdly. "Where is that to come from?" "Never mind about the money. It will be forthcoming as it is needed." "Is my mother going to let you have some of her money?" "If she did, it would be no more than right that she should depend upon her husband in her investments." "I wouldn't advise her to depend upon you. With your own money you can do as you please, but I don't think you ought to touch any of her funds." "You are decidedly plain-spoken, boy!" cried James Talbot, frowning. "Because one must speak plainly to such a man as you, Mr. Talbot. I don't know why my mother married you, but I think I know why you married my mother." "And why?" "To get hold of her money." James Talbot leaped from the chair upon which he had been sitting. He was enraged, but quickly calmed himself. "You are entirely mistaken, boy, entirely mistaken. Why, I have all the money I want." "I saw you borrow fifty dollars from my mother once." "Merely a bit of accommodation because I didn't have the cash handy. Why I can draw my check for twenty or thirty thousand dollars if I wish to." Robert did not believe the statement. Yet as he had no way to disprove it, he remained silent on the point. "Then you are going to use your own money entirely in this real estate venture in Chicago?" "Well--er--most likely. Of course I may become pushed for ready cash at times and will then look to your mother to help me out a little. Every man, no matter how well off, gets pushed at times, when he cannot turn his securities into ready cash, you know." "I shall advise my mother to keep her fortune in her own hands." "You will!" James Talbot became more enraged than ever. "Don't you dare to interfere between my wife and myself." "I will do all I can to keep her money out of your reach." "Perhaps you want it yourself?" sneered Talbot. "No, I want her to keep it and enjoy it as long as she lives. I don't believe you are any kind of a business manager, and if she put the money in your care she might be a beggar in a year or two." "Boy, boy, this to me! me, your father!" cried Talbot. "You are not my father, Mr. Talbot, and you need not call yourself such. My father was a far better man than you are, I can tell you that. He made his own way in the world, just as I am trying to do, and ask no favors from anybody." "You are impertinent--a thorough good-for-nothing!" howled James Talbot, hardly knowing what to say. "I want to do you a kindness, and this is the way you receive me. I will not speak to you longer. But don't you dare to set my wife against me, or there will be trouble, mind that--there will be trouble!" And thus talking he left the parlor, clapped his silk hat on his head, and dashed from the boarding house. CHAPTER XXVII. MR. TALBOT RECEIVES ANOTHER SET-BACK. "He's in a rage, it's easy to see that. I wonder what he will do next?" Such was the mental question Robert asked when he found himself once more alone. James Talbot had tried a little plan of his own, and it had failed and left him in a worse position than before. He had hoped by offering Robert a good salary--to be paid out of Mrs. Talbot's money--to get the youth under his thumb. But our hero had refused to have anything to do with him and had threatened to do all he could to induce Mrs. Talbot to keep her fortune in her own control. "He's a regular imp," muttered James Talbot, as he hurried down the street, so enraged that he scarcely knew where he was walking. "If he writes home to his mother it will be harder than ever to do anything with her. I wish he was at the bottom of the sea!" His soliloquy was brought to a sudden and unexpected termination when he passed around a corner and ran full tilt into another individual. Both went sprawling, and both were for the instant deprived of their wind. "Who--what--?" spluttered James Talbot, as he picked himself up. "You fool, you!" panted the other individual. "What do you mean by driving into me in this fashion?" "I--I didn't see you," answered Talbot. "You must be blind," stormed the party who had been knocked down. "I'm not blind. I--I--was in a tremendous hurry." James Talbot looked at the other man curiously. "I--er--I--think I've met you before." "I don't remember you." "Isn't your name Livingston Palmer?" "It is." "I saw you in Granville--at the theater, and later on at the railroad station." Palmer, for it was really he, flushed up. "Perhaps you belonged to that mob that assaulted our troupe," he sneered. "Your actions here are in the same line." "No, I had no fault to find with the theatrical company," returned James Talbot slowly. The meeting had surprised him greatly, and he began to wonder how he might turn it to account. "I wonder if you know who I am?" he added, after a pause. "I can't say that I do." "I am James Talbot, the husband of the lady upon whom you called." "Oh! Then you are Robert Frost's step-father," exclaimed Livingston Palmer. "I am. May I ask what induced you to call upon my wife?" Again Palmer flushed up. "I think, Mr. Talbot, that that was my affair." "Do you mean to say you refuse to tell?" "Well, if you must know, I will tell you--so that Mrs. Talbot may not get into trouble over it. Your townpeople treated me so shabbily that I called upon your wife for a small loan, so that I might get back to Chicago." "Humph! Then Robert didn't send you to see her?" "No, Robert knew nothing about my going to Granville." "I thought you and he were great friends?" "So we are, but he didn't know where I was going when we separated." "A likely story," sneered James Talbot. "I believe that boy sent you to my wife with a message." "You can think as you please," cried Palmer hotly. "I have told you the plain truth. But I guess Robert will have to send a private messenger, since his letters don't reach his mother." The shot told, and James Talbot grew pale for the moment. Then he recovered himself. "I won't stand any of your slurs, young man. I reckon you are no better than Robert." "I don't want to be any better than Robert. He's a first-rate fellow." "He is an impudent cub." "That is only your opinion." "I am his step-father, and in the eyes of the law I am as a real father to him. Yet instead of minding me he openly defies me." "I don't know but what I would do the same," answered Palmer coolly. "I want to do what is right by him--make something of him--but he won't let me do it." "He is able to take care of himself." "No, he is not. Sooner or later he'll be going to the dogs." "He told me all about how you had treated him. I don't blame him for leaving home, although it may be possible that he would have done better by sticking to his mother." "Do you mean to insinuate that his mother may need him?" "I don't wonder if she does, Mr. Talbot. As I understand the matter she is rich." "Well?" "It would be a great temptation for some husbands to try to get that money in their own hands." James Talbot grew crimson. "You insult me!" he ejaculated. Livingston Palmer shrugged his shoulders. "You can take it as you please. I didn't stop you. You ran into me and knocked me down." "Where are you going?" "That is my affair." "You are going to call upon Robert." "Perhaps I am." "If you do, let me warn you not to talk about me and my wife. Did she send the boy a message?" "If she did I shan't deliver it to you," answered Livingston Palmer, and proceeded on his way. James Talbot gazed after him in anger and disappointment. "Another who is against me," he muttered. "I must hurry my schemes, or it will be too late to put them through." Livingston Palmer had just reached Mrs. Gibbs' boarding house when he met Robert coming out, on his way to see Herman Wenrich about the map. "Robert!" cried the former clerk. "I'm glad I caught you." "Why, Livingston, I thought you were on the road," returned Robert, as he shook hands. "Not much! No more theatrical life for me," said Palmer. "What, have you had enough already?" "Yes, and got it in your native town, too." "In Granville?" "Exactly. We opened in Granville and we busted in Granville," said Palmer, and in such a dubious fashion that our hero could scarcely keep from laughing outright. "What, has the Dixon Combination Comedy Company gone to pieces?" "It has--at least so far as I am concerned. Dixon isn't going to show again until the performers have rehearsed for another couple of weeks." Palmer did not wish to go into the details of his bitter experience, so without delay he began to tell of his visit to Mrs. Talbot and of what she had done and said, and then before Robert could interrupt him he told of the meeting with James Talbot. "Yes, my step-father was here," said Robert. "I am satisfied that he is not to be trusted. I shall write my mother a long letter about him as soon as I can get the chance. But now I must be off, as I have some important business to attend to for Mr. Marden. What are you going to do?" "I am going to call upon Mr. Gray and see if he intends to open up again," answered Livingston Palmer. "After this office life will be good enough for me." CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CONSPIRATORS ARE DISGUSTED. Less than an hour later found Robert at Herman Wenrich's modest home. A ring at the door bell brought Nettie Wenrich, who smiled pleasantly upon seeing our hero. "My father is much better, thank you," said the girl, in reply to Robert's question concerning her parent's health. "I was afraid he would not get well before, but now I am sure he will." "I am glad to hear that," answered the boy. "Those men were here again," went on Nettie. "They are very anxious to get the map, and they offered my father fifty dollars for it." "They offered two hundred dollars," came from the bedchamber, for Robert and Nettie were ascending the stairs, and old Herman Wenrich had overheard the talk. "The fifty dollar offer was only their first." The old lumberman shook hands cordially. "But you have the map, haven't you?" questioned Robert eagerly. "To be sure I have, my lad. Herman Wenrich's word is as good as his bond." "You know I am authorized to give you a hundred dollars," went on Robert. "And didn't I say I didn't want a cent from Felix Amberton?" cried the old man. "All I want is that order, to make certain that I am not going astray--not but what you look honest enough." "Here is the order, just received by mail," and Robert handed it over. Herman Wenrich had his daughter bring spectacles and he perused the paper with great care. "That's all right--I know Amberton's signature well--saw it on many a check he gave me. You shall have the map. Nettie, bring me my tin box." "I will, father," answered the daughter, and left the room. "What did those men have to say when you told them that I had said they were not working for Felix Amberton's interest?" asked Robert while she was gone. "I didn't tell them anything about it. I merely told them to hold off for a day or two, and I would consider their offer." "They'll be mad when they learn the truth." "I shall show them this order for the map. They probably know Amberton's signature as well as I do." "Perhaps so." "I suppose you are going to send that to Timberville by the first mail." "I am going to take it up myself. Mr. Marden wants to come up." "You will find it a wild section of the country--a good bit different from around here." "I shan't mind that--in fact, I think I'll rather like the change." "It's a good place for a fellow who is strong and healthy. There are fortunes in the lumber business." "I've no doubt of it." "I went into the district a poor man, and worked at cutting lumber at a dollar and a half a day. Inside of fifteen years I came out something like twelve thousand dollars ahead. Of course that isn't a fortune, but you must remember that I lost about ten thousand dollars by two spring freshets which carried off nearly all I at those times possessed. If I had remained there I would have been better off. But I came to Chicago and speculated, and now my fortune amounts to very little, I can tell you that." By this time Nettie came back with a long tin box painted black. It was locked, and the key was in a pocketbook under the sick man's pillow. Soon the box was opened and Herman Wenrich took out a paper yellow with age. "This is the map," he said. "If I were you I would be very careful of how I handled it, or it may go to pieces. Nettie, haven't you a big envelope in which to place it?" "I think I have, father," she replied, and went off to hunt up the article. During her absence Robert looked over the document, and found that it contained not only a map but also a long written description of several lumber tracts, including that which Felix Amberton had once purchased from a man named Gregory Hammerditch. "This must be some relative to the Hammerditch I met," said our hero. "It was an uncle. The trouble started through this Gregory Hammerditch and the Canadian, Jean Le Fevre. They claimed the land was never paid for, I believe." At that moment came a ring at the front door bell. "It is those two men!" cried Nettie, who stood close to the window. "You mean the Canadian and the Englishman?" asked Robert. "Yes." "Do you wish to meet them?" questioned Herman Wenrich. "If so, I have no objection." "I would like to hear what they have to say, sir." "You can go into the back bedroom, if you wish." The idea struck Robert as a good one, and while Nettie went below to let the visitors in our hero entered the rear apartment, leaving the door open several inches. Soon he heard Hammerditch and Le Fevre ascending the stairs. "Good-morning," said both, as they came in and sat down close to Herman Wenrich's bedside. "Good-morning," replied the old lumberman shortly. "Well, I trust you have decided to sell us the map," continued the Englishman. "I have decided not to do so." "Indeed." The faces of both men fell. "The map is of no use to you, Mr. Wenrich," went on Hammerditch. "That may be true." "And it is no more than right that we should have it." "Dat is so," said the Canadian. "Ze map should be ours." "You said Mr. Amberton had sent you for the map," said Herman Wenrich. "So he did," answered Hammerditch, and Le Fevre nodded. "Did he give you a written order?" "He did not. He didn't think it was necessary." "I have received a written order--or rather, a written request, for it." At this both of the visitors were dumfounded. "A written order?" gasped Hammerditch. "Yes." "By mail?" "No, a young man brought it." "Ze order must be von forgery!" came from the French Canadian. "Certainly it must be a forgery," added his companion. "It is no forgery, gentlemen." The voice came from the rear doorway, and Robert confronted them. "Who are you?" demanded Hammerditch roughly. "My name is Robert Frost." "I never heard of you before." "I am a friend to Mr. Richard Marden, the nephew of Felix Amberton." "And you come for ze map?" queried Jean Le Fevre. "Yes." "It's an outrage!" burst out Hammerditch. "The map belongs to us." "No, it belongs to Mr. Wenrich." "What do you intend to do with it?" "I intend to turn it over to Mr. Amberton and Mr. Marden." "It will do them no good." "I think it will." "Amberton shall never have that timber land." "How will you stop him?" "Never mind, he shall never have it." "We haf ze other map," said Le Fevre. "There isn't any other map," put in Herman Wenrich. "Yes, there is," said Hammerditch. "Perhaps it's one you had made down to Cresson & Page," said Robert, mentioning the firm of mapmakers, to whom he had applied for a situation. Both Le Fevre and Hammerditch were amazed. "What do you know of that?" demanded the Englishman. "He haf played ze part of a spy!" hissed the French Canadian. "I have spied upon nobody. I was at Cresson & Page's place when you came there, and I couldn't help overhear what you said about the map." "Bah, he is a spy, sure enough," ejaculated Hammerditch, in disgust. "Jean, we have played into the hands of our enemies." "Zat is so, but it shall do zem no good," answered the Canadian. "We haf better git back to Timberville as soon as possible," he added, in a whisper. "I reckon you are about right," said Hammerditch. He bowed himself toward the door. "You are going?" asked Herman Wenrich. "Yes, we are going. You have played us for a pair of fools," replied the Englishman. He ran down the stairs, with Le Fevre at his heels. Soon both were outside and stalking up the street rapidly. Robert began to laugh. "They are a pair of rascals," he remarked. "I am awfully glad I outwitted them." "So am I glad," answered Herman Wenrich. "And I am glad, too," said Nettie, with a bright smile. "But if I were you I wouldn't lose any time in getting to Timberville with the map." "I will leave this afternoon," answered the boy. CHAPTER XXIX. A LUCKY CHANGE OF STATEROOMS. Robert found that the afternoon boat for Muskegon left at half past three, so there was still time left in which to get back to Mrs. Gibbs' house for a late dinner. At the boarding house he found a short note from Livingston Palmer. "Mr. Gray is going to go into business again," it read; "with one office here and another in New York. He is going to take me back and he says you can return too, if you desire." "That's nice," thought Robert. "But I'll have to see Dick Marden before I decide upon what's best to do next." While waiting for dinner he penned a hasty reply to the note, and also a letter to his mother. In the latter he mentioned that he had seen Palmer, and that his step-father had called upon him, and urged her to keep her financial affairs entirely under her own control. He was careful to send the letter in care of Mr. Blarcomb, for personal delivery only. "She'll get that, I know," he said to himself. "And I hope it does some good." At the proper time our hero went down to the dock and boarded the _Arrow_, as the steamer was named. He found about two hundred passengers besides himself bound for Muskegon and other points along the Michigan shore. Besides passengers the _Arrow_ carried a large quantity of baggage and freight. The distance from Chicago to Muskegon is about one hundred and twenty-five miles. The _Arrow_ was rather a slow boat and did not reach the latter point until some time in the early morning, so that Robert must spend a night on board. This being so, he lost no time in obtaining a berth. He had just turned away from the clerk's office when he saw two men approaching. They were Hammerditch and Le Fevre. "Hullo, they are going too," he thought, and was about to step out of sight, when the Englishman espied him. "Humph! so you are going with us," said the man, with a scowl. "Not with you," answered Robert quietly. "I believe this is a public boat." "You have been following us again." "Excuse me, Mr. Hammerditch, but I never followed you in my life." "Then why are you on this boat?" "Because I am going to take a trip in her." "To Muskegon?" "That is my affair." "I suppose if we get off at Muskegon you will get off too." "Perhaps I shall." "Don't you know that you may get into a good deal of trouble through following us, young man?" "As I said before, I am not following you. I have my own business to attend to and I am attending to it." "Bah, do you think we will believe zat," burst in Jean Le Fevre. "You are von spy. Perhaps you are von--vot you call heem?--von detective." At this Robert laughed. "No, I am no detective. Only a young fellow out for business." "Zen you are on ze way to Timberville, hey?" "If I am that is my business." At this the French Canadian began to dance around and shook his fist in Robert's face. "I know you!" he shouted. "But ve vill see who comes out best! Ha! ve vill see zat!" "Hush!" interrupted Hammerditch. "Don't raise a disturbance on the boat," and he led his companion away to the upper deck. "I shall have to keep my eye on them," thought Robert. "That Frenchmen wouldn't like anything better than to get into a fight. I might fight one of them, but I don't think I could get the best of both." Once on the upper deck and away from observation, Hammerditch began to talk earnestly to his companion. "We made a mistake by quarreling with him," he said. "I cannot see eet," muttered Le Fevre. "If we had made friends with him he might have shown us the map." "Ha! zat is so." "I would give a good lot to get hold of the map," continued the Englishman. "Our false map may help us some, but that real map ought to be out of the way." At this Le Fevre clutched his companion by the arm. "I haf an idee," he whispered. "Let us see if ze boy has got a stateroom." "We can find that out at the office." "And if he is to sleep alone." "All right." A little later they went to the office and looked over the register. "Here he is--Robert Frost, room 45," said Hammerditch. "Anybody else in zat room?" They looked over the register, but could find nobody else. "He will haf ze room all to himself," chuckled Jean Le Fevre. "Now if I can find a way to open ze door----" "You mean to search his valise for the map?" "To be sure." "A good idea. We must work the plan, by all means," replied Hammerditch. In the meantime Robert had gone to the bow of the boat and was enjoying the sea breeze. Presently the clerk of the boat came up, followed by two burly Germans. "I believe this is Mr. Robert Frost," said the clerk. "That's my name," answered Robert, wondering what was wanted. "These gentlemen are brothers and desire a stateroom together," explained the clerk. "If you do not mind I would like to put you in stateroom No. 50, along with a very nice gentleman named Porter, and give these gentlemen No. 45. Otherwise I will have to put one of them with you and one with Mr. Porter. They prefer to be together." "It vill pe a great favor," said one of the Germans politely. "All right, I would just as lief go in with the gentleman you mentioned," answered Robert. "Dank you very mooch," said the German. "You vos very kind," added his brother. "All right then, that's settled," said the clerk. "Mr. Frost, I will have your baggage transferred, if you will give me your key." "I will transfer the baggage myself and take a look at the other stateroom," rejoined Robert. Our hero and the clerk went below, and Robert took his bag to stateroom No. 50, which was better than the other. Mr. Porter sat outside of the door reading a newspaper, and the clerk introduced the pair. The stranger proved to be a Chicago hardware merchant on his way into Michigan on a business trip. "I am glad to know you," he said, smiling pleasantly. "I hate to travel alone when there is the chance of an agreeable companion." "Thank you! I think I can say the same," replied Robert, with a smile. The boy retired at ten o'clock, and Mr. Porter with him. Soon Robert was sound asleep. The Germans had gone to bed early, and both were in the land of dreams and snoring lustily when Jean Le Fevre and Hammerditch stole up to the door of stateroom 45. "This is the one," whispered the French Canadian. "I was lucky to get the pincers, hey?" "Hush, make no noise, the boy may be awake," said the Englishman, warningly. While Hammerditch stood on guard Le Fevre inserted a small pincers in the key-hole of the door and managed to turn the key, which was stuck in from the other side. Then the Frenchman opened the door several inches. "Ha! he is snoring loudly--he is fast asleep," he thought, not noticing that two persons were in the stateroom instead of one, for the German in the upper berth happened just then to be silent. In the dim light the French Canadian made out a valise standing on the floor and grabbed it hastily. Then he came away, shutting the door behind him. "I haf eet!" he whispered. "Come!" And he almost ran for the stateroom assigned to him and Hammerditch. Once inside, the pair secured the door and then turned up the light. "It's a mighty rusty-looking bag," was the Englishman's comment. "Have you got the key?" "It ees in ze lock," answered La Fevre. Soon the valise was opened, and out tumbled a few articles of dirty underwear and a pair of embroidered slippers. "I don't see any map!" exclaimed Hammerditch, in disgust. "'Tis ze wrong bag!" groaned the French Canadian. "See, ze clothing is too big for a boy, and so are ze slippers." "You've made a mess of it," answered his companion. "Better take that bag back or there'll be a jolly row all for nothing." Much crestfallen, Le Fevre took the bag back. On his second visit he saw both Germans, and he retreated even more speedily than he had on his first trip to the stateroom. "The cake is dough," announced Hammerditch. "But though we are foiled this time, we must get that map away from the boy, no matter at what cost." CHAPTER XXX. ANOTHER PLOT AGAINST ROBERT. Robert enjoyed his sleep, and did not awaken until after the _Arrow_ had tied up at the dock in Muskegon. He was just finishing his toilet when Mr. Porter opened his eyes. "Ah, so you are ahead of me!" cried the hardware dealer, springing up. "Have we arrived?" "I believe we have," answered Robert. "May I ask where you are bound?" "For the depot. I am going to take a train for Timberville." "I know the place and the route well. You cannot get a train for Timberville until eleven o'clock. Here is a time-table." And selecting one of several from his pocket, Mr. Porter passed it over. A short examination showed Robert that his friend was right. "It's a long wait," he said. "It will give you time for breakfast and a chance to look around. Supposing we dine together?" "Thank you! that will suit me first-rate." In less than half an hour they had left the boat, and were walking up the main street of Muskegon. The gentleman knew the place well, and led the way to a substantial restaurant where a good meal could be had at a reasonable figure. Hammerditch and Le Fevre had followed the youth, and now came to a halt outside of the eating resort. "He seems to have picked up a friend," said the Englishman. "That will make our task so much harder." "Perhaps ze man vill not remain wid heem," suggested Le Fevre. Satisfied that Robert and his companion would not come out immediately, the pair went to another restaurant and procured a hasty breakfast. Mr. Porter expected to do considerable business in Muskegon, and breakfast over, he shook Robert by the hand cordially. "We must part now," he said. "I am glad to have met you, and trust we shall meet again." "The same to you, Mr. Porter," replied our hero. "I wish you were going to Timberville with me." "I'm afraid I wouldn't do much there. There is only one small store and two or three sawmills. Of course, they use some hardware, but not a great deal." And thus they parted. By consulting a clock Robert found he had still two hours to wait before the departure of the train. Looking at the clock reminded him of his lost watch, and he had remembered how Andy Cross had said that Jim Huskin had left Chicago for Muskegon. "I would just like to land on that fellow," he said to himself. "He deserves to be in prison quite as much as Cross does." Walking around to the depot, Robert purchased a ticket for Timberville, made sure that he was right about the train, and had his valise checked straight through. Although he was not aware of it, his movements were shadowed by Hammerditch and Le Fevre. "He has checked the bag," said the Englishman. "I wonder if we can get at it through the baggage master?" "It ees not likely," said the French Canadian. "Za are verra particular here about baggage. If ve can get ze check ve be all right." "Let us follow him and see if anything turns up in our favor." So the two rascals followed Robert in his walk about the town. All unconscious of the nearness of his enemies, our hero sauntered from street to street. His eyes were wide open for some glimpse of Jim Huskin, and it must be confessed that he never gave a thought to being attacked from behind. Having traveled the main thoroughfares of Muskegon, the youth commenced a tour of the streets of lesser importance. One street, near the docks, was lined with saloons, and here the worst element of the town appeared to be congregated. "Set 'em up, lad," cried one 'longshoreman, as he bumped up against Robert. "Thanks, I don't drink," answered Robert, coolly. "Don't drink?" cried the man. "Wot yer doin' down here, then?" "That is my business." "Don't yer git uppish about it." "Make him treat, Mike," put in another man, whose nose showed that strong drink and he were no strangers. "Come on an' have jess one glass," went on the man who had first addressed Robert. As he spoke he caught Robert by the shoulder. Our hero shook him off. "Don't you dare to touch me," he said sharply. "If you do you will be laying up a good bit of trouble for yourself." "In fightin' trim, hey?" "I can defend myself, and more, if I am called upon to do it." The 'longshoreman leered at Robert for a moment. "Yer too soft," he sneered, and aimed a blow for Robert's head. As quick as a flash our hero ducked, and hit out in return. The blow caught the tippler on the chin, and made him stagger up against the saloon window. "Now I guess you'll leave me alone," remarked the boy. And then he walked on, but kept glancing behind him, to be prepared for another attack. "Phew, he's a fighter, Mike," said the second man. "Dat's wot he is," grumbled Mike, rubbing his chin, where the blow had landed. "He must be wot da call a scientific boxer, hey?" "Are yer goin' ter drop him?" "Wot shall I do?" "Make him treat or lick him." "Maybe you want ter lick him," suggested Mike. "I kin if I set out fer ter do it." "Then pitch in, Pat." But Pat hesitated about going ahead. Robert looked strong, and he felt that the youth could not be easily intimidated. "We kin do it tergether," he ventured. While the two roughs were conversing Hammerditch and Le Fevre drew near. They had seen the short encounter and saw how angry were the men who wanted to be treated. "Got the best of you, did he?" said Hammerditch. "You mind your own business," growled Mike, crossly. "Why didn't you pitch into him?" went on the Englishman. "I would have done so." "Dat's wot I'm a-tellin' him," put in Pat. "He's a boy zat wants taking down," said Le Fevre. The two roughs looked at the newcomers curiously. "Do yer know de boy?" demanded Mike. "Yes, I know him, and I would like to see him get a sound thrashing," answered Hammerditch. "Gif him what he deserves and ve vill pay you vell for eet," added the French Canadian. "Wot yer down on him fer?" questioned Pat. "He stole a baggage check from me," said Hammerditch, promptly. "Of course, he claims the check, but it is mine." "I see. Do yer want ter git the check away from him?" "I do." "Where is it?" "In his trousers' pocket." "An' if we git it fer yer, wot will yer give us?" asked Pat. "Five dollars," quickly answered Hammerditch. To these roughs, who had not done a full day's work for a long time, five dollars appeared quite a sum of money. "We'll go yer," said Pat promptly. "Aint dat right, Mike?" "If you'll work wid me," answered Mike. "All right; I'll follow you up for the check," said Hammerditch. "And here is the five dollars." And he showed the bill, so that they might know that he meant what he said. In a few minutes more the two roughs had laid their plans and were stealing after Robert. "We can git dat check an' his money too," said Mike, and Pat agreed with him. CHAPTER XXXI. THE MISSING BAGGAGE CHECK. All unconscious of the plot being hatched out against him, Robert walked on along the docks. At one point he saw a large lake steamer at anchor, and thought to walk out to the craft to inspect her. The way took him past a large quantity of merchandise piled high on the rear end of the dock. He was just passing around the merchandise when he found himself suddenly seized from behind. He tried to cry out, but before he could do so a dirty hand was clapped over his mouth. He struggled to free himself, but soon found that two men were holding him. At last he managed to turn partly around and saw that the men were the two roughs who had wanted him to treat. "Let me go!" he managed to say at last. "Hold him, Mike," cried Pat, and slipped his hand into Robert's trousers' pocket. Robert struggled, but before he could break away Pat had secured not only the baggage check, but also some loose change amounting to about a dollar. "Now his udder pockets, Pat," panted Mike heavily. "Hurry up, I can't hold him much longer." "You scoundrels!" exclaimed our hero, and breaking away at last, he dealt Mike a staggering blow in the chest. But as the rough tumbled he caught the boy by the arm, and both fell, Robert on top. "Help me, Pat!" roared Mike, seeing he was getting the worst of the encounter. Pat started to jump in, but then thought better of it. As Robert leaped up with fire in his clear eyes, the man began to run. "Stop, you thief!" yelled the boy, and made after him. Left to himself, Mike also got up and limped away, his nose bleeding, and suffering from a bruised rib, where Robert had stepped upon him. "Dat boy is a reg'lar lion," he murmured. "We was fools ter tackle him." Pat ran as he had never ran before, and coming to an alleyway, darted to the lower end and hid behind some empty barrels. Robert ran past and then Pat came out again. "Only a dollar," he said to himself, as he sized up his dishonest haul. "Well, wid that five I'm ter git fer de check it will be six. Dat aint bad." Pat was no particular friend to Mike, and speedily resolved to keep the haul for himself. "I'll tell Mike I didn't git no check and dat dere was only twenty cents in de pocket," he reasoned. He was willing to allow Mike ten cents for his share in the work, and no more. The roughs had agreed to meet Hammerditch on a certain corner, and to this spot Pat made his way with all possible speed. "Come in out of sight!" said the rough, and motioned the way to a nearby saloon. He was afraid Mike would come up before the transfer of the check could be made. They went inside and ordered some drinks, and then Pat turned the baggage check over to the Englishman, and received the five dollars reward. "I'll bet yer goin' ter make a fortune out of dat check," observed Pat. "Not at all," answered Hammerditch. "The check is of little value really. But I was bound to have it." Afraid that Robert would hurry to the railroad station as soon as the loss of the check was discovered, the Englishman did not remain in the drinking place long. At a hotel several squares away he met Le Fevre. "You haf eem?" queried the French Canadian anxiously. "I have, Jean. Come." "Ve vill haf von drink first," was the reply, and they went to the barroom. Here they met several lumbermen they knew, and in consequence it was some time before they could get away from the hotel. One of the lumbermen knew about the Amberton land claim, and thought that it would be a hard matter to dispossess the present incumbent. "Ve vill do eet," grinned Le Fevre. "Ve hold ze vinning cards--not so, Hammerditch?" "That is so," answered Hammerditch. The lumbermen wanted to know the particulars, but the others were not willing to disclose all of their secrets. In the meantime Robert was hunting around for the rough called Pat. Mike he did not care so much about, since it had been Pat who had made off with his belongings. "He didn't get much money," he mused. "But he got that baggage check, and I don't want to lose that." At first he thought to inform the police of what had occurred. He was making for a policeman when he saw Pat coming out of the saloon. The rough had had half a dozen glasses of liquor, and he was in consequence quite hazy in his mind. "You rascal!" cried our hero, catching him by the shoulder. "Give me back what you stole from me." "That's all right, boss--didn't steal nothin'," mumbled Pat. "I say you did--a baggage check and about a dollar in change. Give them up or I'll have you arrested." "Aint got no check," hiccoughed Pat. "An' the money is spent." "Then you come with me." At this the tough grew alarmed, and at last he broke down and confessed that he had got the check for another party who had given him five dollars for it. He had part of the five dollars left, and out of this he gave Robert a sum equal to that which had been stolen. "Who took that check?" demanded our hero, a sudden suspicion crossing his mind. As well as he was able Pat described Hammerditch. "He's goin' ter git sumthin' on de check," he added. "Not if I can prevent it," answered Robert. "He wants to steal my valise. You come with me." "I aint goin' ter!" roared Pat, and breaking away, he started on a clumsy run. Robert could readily have caught him, but concluded not to waste the time. "Hammerditch will be hot-footed after my bag," he thought. "He expects to get that map." He looked around, and espying a hack standing near, leaped in, and ordered the driver to get him to the depot with all possible speed. Pat ran for fully six blocks, and then sank down on a pile of lumber, panting for breath. "I'm in fer it," he groaned, expecting that Robert was at his heels. But the boy was nowhere to be seen, and at once his courage arose, and he concluded that Robert had given up the chase. He counted his money and found that he had exactly a dollar and ten cents left. The balance of the cash had been paid over to the saloon keeper and to Robert. "I guess I'll git anudder drink," he murmured, and rolled over to the nearest dive. Here in less than half an hour every cent that had been left was spent, and then Pat started for home. He could not walk straight, and frequently bumped up against those he passed. He had passed less than three blocks when he espied Mike coming toward him. "Bedad, I can't let him see me!" he reasoned, and tried to steer out of sight. But Mike was too quick for him, and the pair confronted each other at the entrance to a lumber yard. "Well, how much did yer git?" was Mike's first question. "Didn't git nuthin," answered Pat boldly. "Yer got a whole handful of money," retorted Mike. "I want half, do yer mind dat?" "I ain't got nuthin," was all Pat could answer. A wordy quarrel followed, and then the two roughs came to blows. They were encouraged to fight by the by-standers, who loved nothing better than to witness a "scrap," and it was not until a policeman came up that the encounter came to an end. Each contestant had a bloody nose, and their eyes were so swollen they could scarcely see out of them. "You're both good for sixty days in jail," said the officer of the law, and marched them to headquarters. Instead of sixty, each got ninety days, and I think my readers will agree with me that they richly deserved their sentences. CHAPTER XXXII. ROBERT DELIVERS THE PRECIOUS MAP. "There aint no train now, boss," said the hack driver, after receiving his directions from Robert. "I don't want to catch a train; I want to catch a couple of thieves who want to make off with my valise," answered our hero. "Did you forget the valise?" "No, they have stolen my baggage check." "Oh, that's it! Well, I'll get you to the depot in short order." Away went the hack at a rate of speed which was far from agreeable so far as riding was concerned. But, disagreeable as it was, it pleased Robert, and soon the railroad station came in sight. "There are the fellows who are after my bag!" cried our hero, as the hack came to a halt. He had espied Hammerditch and Le Fevre making their way to the baggage room. "You are certain they are after the valise? Perhaps you may be mistaken," went on the driver, who was a rather elderly man and cautious. "I'll watch them and make sure," said Robert. Taking his station behind the baggage room door, our hero saw the Englishman and the French Canadian approach the baggage master. "I am after my valise," said the Englishman, producing Robert's check. "My son left it here a few hours ago. I have concluded to remain in Muskegon over night." "All right, sir," answered the baggage master, taking the check. He glanced at the piles of baggage which littered the room. "What kind of a looking bag was it?" For the minute Hammerditch was nonplussed, as he did not remember Robert's bag very well. "It was--er--a tan-colored bag, not very large," he stammered. "I just bought it, so I don't remember it--er--very well." "I reckon this is it," said the baggage master, after a short hunt. "Check 432,--that's right." Hammerditch was about to take the valise when Robert came up and seized it. "No, you don't, you thief!" he exclaimed. "Your little game is nipped in the bud." The Englishman turned and his face fell, and Le Fevre was also discomfited. "What's the trouble?" asked the baggage master, in astonishment. "This rascal was about to steal my bag." "Your bag?" "Yes, my bag. Don't you remember my leaving it here a couple of hours ago?" "I do." "He got a tough to steal my check, and he would have had the bag if I hadn't got here just in time." "He said you were his son." "I wouldn't have him for a relative," cried Robert. "Mr. Hammerditch, you are a thorough-paced scoundrel," he went on, facing the Englishman. "What, this to me!" gasped the schemer. "Yes, that to you. You are a would-be thief, and I reckon your companion is little better." "Boy, boy! I vill haf ze law on you!" howled the French Canadian. "And I will have the law on you," retorted Robert. "You wanted to steal that map. You need not deny it." "The bag is mine," said Hammerditch boldly. "This is a plot to get me into trouble." "I reckon I can prove my property," said Robert. "Have you the key that will unlock the bag?" "Never mind about that." "I have the key," went on our hero. He produced it and opened the bag. "I wish you to bear witness that this bag contains my wearing apparel," he said to the baggage master. "Yes, that must be your stuff," was the answer. "Here are my initials, R.F. My name is Robert Frost, while his name is Oscar Hammerditch. There isn't a single thing here that belongs to him, or that would fit him." "What did you say about a map?" went on the baggage man. "I have a map that he wants to steal, in order to lay claim to certain lumber lands located near Timberville." "But I see no map." "The map is in my pocket, here," and Robert produced the document. If ever Hammerditch had looked sheepish it was now. He realized that even if he had obtained the valise he would have been outwitted. Plainly this American lad was too smart for him. "I'll see you about this later," he howled, and started to back out. "Wait a minute, I want to give you a bit of advice," said Robert, catching him by the arm. "If I wanted to I could have you arrested on the spot. But I am not going to take that trouble. But this baggage man is a witness to the fact that you tried to steal my valise, and if you or that Frenchman ever bother me again, I'll have you locked up on the charge, and I'll see that you go to prison for it. Now you can clear out." For the moment Hammerditch was speechless. He wanted to flare up, but the words would not come. He grated his teeth, turned on his heel and almost ran from the baggage room. With him went Jean Le Fevre; and it may be added right here that that was the last Robert ever saw of the dishonest pair. After the pair were gone Robert gave the baggage man the particulars of what had occurred, so that he might remember, in case the affair came up later. "I thought it was queer he couldn't remember how his bag looked," said the baggage master. "I reckon, however, they won't bother you again in a hurry." It was now nearly train time, and Robert remained in the depot. Presently the train came in and he got on board, and the journey to Timberville was continued. "I'll not forget my stop-off at Muskegon," he mused, as he sped on his way. The remainder of the journey passed without special incident. Hammerditch and Le Fevre had expected to take this same train, but could not screw up the necessary courage to do so. Timberville was reached about three o'clock, and our hero alighted at the depot, which was little better than a shed. As Mr. Porter had said the village was small and looked almost deserted. "I wish to get to Mr. Felix Amberton's place," he said to the station master. "How can I best reach it?" "It's several miles from here," was the reply. "Guess Joe Bandy will take you along in his rig." Joe Bandy proved to be the mail carrier, who drove a two horse wagon through the lumber region of the vicinity. He agreed to take Robert along for the usual fare, thirty-five cents. Soon they were on the way. "Come out to try your luck?" questioned the mail carrier, with a grin. "No, I came out on business." "Say, you can't be the lawyer Mr. Marden is expectin'," went on the mail carrier, with a look at the valise. "No, I'm no lawyer," laughed Robert. "But I am a friend to Mr. Marden. How is Mr. Amberton?" "Doin' poorly. Those land sharks are worrying him to death. They want to take his timber from him," answered Bandy. They passed over several hills and through a heavy forest, and then made a sharp turn to the left. Presently a well-built cabin came into sight. "There is Amberton's hang-out," said the driver, and drew up. "Hullo, Robert!" came a voice from behind some trees, and Dick Marden rushed forth. His face wore a broad smile and he almost broke the bones of Robert's fingers, so hearty was his hand shake. "How are you, lad--well? And did you get that map?" "Yes, I'm well, and the map is safe in my pocket," answered Robert, and then they walked to the cabin, while the mail carrier proceeded on his way. Once inside of the place Robert was introduced to Dick Marden's uncle, who sat in an old-fashioned easy chair by one of the little windows of which the cabin boasted. Mr. Amberton seemed weak and careworn. "Dick has been telling me about you," he said, in a low voice. "He felt sure you would manage to get the map." There was of course nothing for Robert to do but to tell his story from beginning to end, and this he did without delay, Dick Marden in the meantime ordering the negro servant to cook a good dinner for the youth. "Well, you outwitted Hammerditch and Le Fevre nicely," cried the miner. "I would like to have seen them at the railroad station. They must have felt cheap and no mistake." "They are rascals, and I always knew it," said Felix Amberton. "But now we have a hold upon them, for through Robert we can show up their true characters, if it becomes necessary." The map was examined with care, and Dick Marden announced that it was just what was wanted. "They can't go behind this," he said. "Robert, I think you have saved the estate for my uncle." "I think so myself," came from Felix Amberton. "But I am afraid I am in for a long lawsuit, nevertheless." Inside of an hour a hot dinner awaited our hero, to which he, as was usual with him, did full justice. The balance of the day passed quietly, and on the day following Dick Marden took the boy over the timber lands. "Would you like it out here?" asked the miner. "I don't believe I would," answered Robert promptly. "I much prefer city life." "Honestly spoken," cried Marden. "Now with me it is just the opposite. I can remain in the city a couple of weeks, or possibly a month, and then I feel that I must get somewhere where there is lots of elbow room." Two days later a lawyer arrived--the one sent for by Marden and Felix Amberton. "The claim is all right," said the legal gentleman. "This map is good proof, too. If they want to fight let them. You will surely come out on top." This was cheering news, and its effect upon Amberton was soon visible. "When it is settled I shall not forget you," he said to Robert. "Thank you," replied the boy, "but I am glad to have been of service to you and Mr. Marden, my best friend. He helped me, you know, when I actually did not know how to turn myself." On Monday of the week following Dick Marden announced his intention of going to Chicago on business, and as there was nothing to keep Robert in the lumber camp, he decided to accompany his friend back to the great city by the lakes. CHAPTER XXXIII. ROBERT VISITS HOME--CONCLUSION. "You have had lots of adventures since last we met in Chicago," remarked Dick Marden, while he and Robert were making the trip from Timberville to Muskegon. "That is true, and some adventures that I didn't care much about," returned our hero. "It's the way of the world, lad--you can't get through without some pretty hard knocks and dangerous brushes. But tell me frankly, what would you like to do next?" "I would like to obtain some good office situation. I like to keep books, write business letters, and handle money--especially if the business done is on a large scale." "I understand." Dick Marden mused for a moment. "I was thinking of offering you a place at Timberville, or in my mine in California; but I reckon you had best remain in Chicago. But I shan't forget to keep my eye on you, and you can be sure that my uncle won't forget you if he comes out on top, as that lawyer says." The run to Muskegon was without special incident, and once in the town bordering the lake they found they had several hours to wait until a steamer would leave for Chicago. "The wait will just suit me," said the miner. "I want to call on a man who deals in lumber and make an arrangement with him to handle some of my uncle's output." The office building in which the wholesale lumber dealer did business was situated several blocks from the depot and thither the pair made their way. As they entered the wide hallway Robert suddenly clutched Dick Marden by the arm. "There he is at last!" he whispered. "He? Who?" "That rascal who robbed me--Jim Huskin!" And our hero pointed to where Huskin stood, in conversation with an old gentleman in black. "You are certain he is the man?" asked the miner. "Yes; I would never forget that smooth face and those wicked eyes." "He seems to be playing some confidence game now," went on Dick Marden. The miner was right. Jim Huskin had the old man in black in an out of the way corner and was conversing with him in great earnestness. "You cannot lose on the venture, Mr. Price," he said, as our hero and Marden drew closer. "The shares will always be worth the money you put into them. Better let me have the check now, and I will buy them inside of the next hour." "Yes, yes, but are you quite sure it is safe?" asked the old man, in a trembling voice. "You see, I cannot afford to lose four hundred dollars." "You will not lose--I will guarantee the shares myself," answered the confidence man earnestly. "Very well, if you will guarantee them," said the old man, and drew out his pocketbook, which held several bankbills, and a filled in check for the amount Huskin desired. At that moment Robert placed his hand upon the confidence man's shoulder. "So we meet again, Jim Huskin," he said coldly. The rascal turned in amazement, and then his face fell. "Why--er--what--who are you?" he stammered, hardly being able to speak. "You know very well who I am," answered our hero. "I am the boy you robbed in Chicago." "Robbed!" gasped the old man in black. "Did you say robbed?" "I did, sir. This man is a rascal and a thief." "You are mistaken----" began Jim Huskin, but his manner showed how uncomfortable he felt. "A rascal and a thief!" murmured the old man, and looked as if he would faint. It did not take him long to place his pocketbook in his pocket again. Jim Huskin was a man who made up his mind quickly. He saw that Robert had the best of him, and that his only chance for safety lay in flight. Turning swiftly, he started to run from the building. But he had reckoned without Dick Marden, and he had scarcely taken two steps when the miner put out his foot and sent him sprawling in the hallway. At once a crowd began to collect. "What's the row here?" demanded the janitor of the building, as he rushed up. "We've collared a thief," answered Marden. "Call a policeman." "What! do you mean to have me arrested?" demanded Jim Huskin, as he got up, to find himself in the grasp of both Robert and his friend. "That's what," answered the miner coolly. Jim Huskin began to expostulate, but all to no purpose. Soon an officer came in, followed by another crowd. "What has he done?" demanded the policeman. "I charge him with robbing me," answered Robert. "His name is Jim Huskin." "My name isn't Huskin, it is Williams," put in the confidence man. "Jim Huskin?" repeated the officer. "I've heard that before." "He and another man named Andy Cross robbed me in Chicago. Cross was caught, but this fellow came to Muskegon." "Oh, yes, I remember the case now. So this is Huskin, eh? You were lucky to land on him." "This is all wrong," persisted Huskin. He turned to the old man in black. "Mr. Price, won't you testify that my name is Williams?" "I don't know as I will," was the slow answer. "You said it was, but I have no further proof of it." "He was going to get you to invest in some scheme, wasn't he?" asked Robert. "Yes, he wanted to sell me some unlisted mining shares. Said they were a good investment." "What were the shares?" asked Dick Marden. "I am an old miner and I know the mines pretty well." "They were shares of the Golden Bucket Mine, of California." "The Golden Bucket! Why, that mine gave out six years ago. It never paid back the money put into it. Why, it's dead, and so are the stocks. You had a lucky escape." "I believe you," returned the old man, and looked greatly relieved. Inside of quarter of an hour Jim Huskin was transferred to the local jail and his capture was telegraphed to Chicago. He was searched, and on him were found about forty dollars belonging to Robert and a pawn-ticket for the watch, showing that it had been pawned in Muskegon for six dollars. Before he left the town Robert got the watch back. Later on Jim Huskin was taken back to Chicago, and he and Andy Cross were tried together, and each received a sentence of two years in State's prison for his misdeeds. On getting back to Mrs. Gibbs' boarding house Robert found a telegram from his mother awaiting him. It read: "Come home at once. Your step-father is very ill." Without delay our hero started for Granville, arriving there late in the evening. His mother met him at the front door, and it was plain to see that she had been weeping. "Oh, Robert!" she cried, and embraced him. It was several minutes before she could say more. "Mr. Talbot is very sick then?" asked the boy. "Yes, very sick, and the doctor is afraid he will never get well," answered Mrs. Talbot. James Talbot was suffering from a sudden stroke of paralysis, which had affected his stomach and his left side. He was almost unconscious, and remained in that state for several days. During that time Mrs. Talbot was at his bedside constantly, and Robert did all he could for both. At the end of two weeks the physician pronounced James Talbot out of danger. The paralysis was gradually leaving him, and he could now take a little nourishment. His sickness seemed to have changed him wonderfully, and his harshness appeared to be a thing of the past. "I have had my eyes opened," he said to his wife and Robert. "I have done wrong in the past, but from now on you will find me a different man." These words pleased Mrs. Talbot greatly and removed a heavy load from her heart. Robert, however, said but little on the subject. "I hope he does turn over a new leaf," he thought. "But I want to test him for a while before I trust him." "Your step-father will be all right now, Robert," said his mother, hopefully. "I sincerely trust so," he answered gravely. "For your sake even more than for my own." * * * * * Here we will bring to a close the story of Robert Frost's adventures while "Out for Business." He had succeeded in taking several forward steps in life, and had brought to grief the enemies who had tried to drag him down and overcome him. As soon as Mr. Talbot was on the mend our hero returned to Chicago and called upon Mr. Gray. The cut-rate ticket broker had already opened both his Chicago and his New York offices, and he at once agreed to give the boy his position back, with two dollars per week added to his salary. The next day found Robert again working beside Livingston Palmer. "Right glad to see you!" cried Palmer. And he shook hands cordially. "I reckon we have both had adventures enough for the present." "I know I have," answered Robert. "I hope in the future I am left alone to buckle down to business." For the time being all went well. But there were still many adventures in store for Robert, which will be related in a companion volume to this, entitled: "Falling in with Fortune; or, The Experiences of a Young Secretary." In this book we will meet all of our old friends and some new ones, and also learn something more about James Talbot and his schemes for getting possession of the Frost fortune. And now, kind reader, good-by, in the hope that some day we will meet again. The Famous Rover Boys Series By ARTHUR W. WINFIELD Each volume is hailed with delight by boys and girls everywhere. 12mo. Cloth. Handsomely printed and illustrated. Price, 60 Cents per Volume. Postpaid. THE ROVER BOYS DOWN EAST Or, The Struggle for the Stanhope Fortune Old enemies try again to injure our friends. THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE Or, The Right Road and the Wrong Brimming over with good nature and excitement. THE ROVER BOYS ON TREASURE ISLE Or, The Strange Cruise of the Steam Yacht A search for treasure; a particularly fascinating volume. THE ROVER BOYS ON THE FARM Or, The Last Days at Putnam Hall The boys find a mysterious cave used by freight thieves. THE ROVER BOYS IN SOUTHERN WATERS Or, The Deserted Steam Yacht A trip to the coast of Florida. THE ROVER BOYS ON THE PLAINS Or, The Mystery of Red Rock Ranch Relates adventures on the mighty Mississippi River. THE ROVER BOYS ON THE RIVER Or, The Search for the Missing Houseboat The Ohio River is the theme of this spirited story. THE ROVER BOYS IN CAMP Or, The Rivals of Pine Island At the annual school encampment. THE ROVER BOYS ON LAND AND SEA Or, The Crusoes of Seven Islands Full of strange and surprising adventures. THE ROVER BOYS IN THE MOUNTAINS Or, A Hunt for Fame and Fortune The boys in the Adirondacks at a Winter camp. THE ROVER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES Or, The Secret of the Island Cave A story of a remarkable Summer outing; full of fun. THE ROVER BOYS OUT WEST Or, The Search for a Lost Mine A graphic description of the mines of the great Rockies. THE ROVER BOYS IN THE JUNGLE Or, Stirring Adventures in Africa The boys journey to the Dark Continent in search of their father. THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN Or, A Chase for a Fortune From school to the Atlantic Ocean. THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL Or, The Cadets of Putnam Hall The doings of Dick, Tom, and Sam Rover. GROSSET & DUNLAP----NEW YORK Transcribers Note: Some apparent misspellings have been left unchanged aint/ain't dumfounded/dumbfounded dumstruck/dumbstruck in the believe they are as the author intended.